Free Don't Tell Me You're Afraid by Giuseppe Catozzella Page A

one-and-a-half-liter bottles, and two-liter ones. All filled with sand from the beach.
    For my legs he’d instead used four pieces of wood to build a kind of small scaffold on which he hung different weights, depending on the exercise I had to perform. He made me sit on a chair and put that contraption on my thigh, asking me to lift it. Or, with me standing, he placed it on my ankle, which I had to raise to my thigh. The weights were very heavy. My scrawny little legs had to make a tremendous effort. We went on like that until I begged for mercy and he, moved to compassion, let me stop.
    That we did all this when we were thirteen years old seems incredible. Yet that’s what we did.
    In spite of this, even though we were so close, on one of the worst days of my life I betrayed Alì.
    I did it out of fear, but I still betrayed him.
    That day Alì hadn’t kept time for me, because he’d had to go help his father at work. His brother Nassir, who usually went with Aabe Yassin, wasn’t around that day.
    I stealthily slipped out and ran a little lap around the block. I was on my way back home, in a narrow street with three abandoned houses, when—right about halfway—I spotted a guy with his back against the wall, staring at the ground.
    He wore dark glasses and one of those black shirts the extremists wear, but he was unarmed: no machine gun, no rifle.
    I tried to act like it was nothing.
    When I passed him, he called to me in a soft, almost alluring voice. Maybe I was tired of running, but that’s how that voice sounded to me.
    â€œSamia.”
    I turned around and looked at him. I didn’t know him.
    How did he know my name? I turned around again and kept going.
    â€œSamia, stop! Don’t worry, I’m a friend.”
    Never trust anyone: Aabe had taught us that the very day we were born. I tried to continue, but the guy spoke again.
    â€œStop. I just need to ask you something.”
    He was tall and thin, with broad shoulders. Dark skin. A mass of tangled black hair and the fundamentalists’ long beard covering his face.
    He moved away from the wall and took a step toward me.
    â€œWhere’s your friend?” Now the tone was sharp, peremptory.
    â€œWhat friend?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
    â€œThe one who’s always with you, day and night.”
    I was scared. He’d picked that time and place because he knew that at that hour it was unlikely that anyone would come by; those who worked were at work, and the alley was deserted.
    â€œI don’t have a friend. I’m always with my sister,” I replied after a slight hesitation.
    â€œDon’t pull my leg. I know very well that Alì is your friend. I know everything. I just want to know where he is,” he said in a harsh voice as he moved toward me.
    â€œI don’t know. . . .”
    â€œYou’re an athlete, Samia, right? You like running, don’t you?” His tone had turned threatening. He was just a few steps away now. Up close he was even taller than he’d seemed before, his shoulders even broader and more powerful. The sun reflected off the dark glasses in two luminous points.
    â€œYes, I’m an athlete,” I replied in a trembling voice.
    The guy stuck his right hand behind his back, under his belt, and suddenly pulled out a long knife.
    I took a step back, ending up with my heels against the wall behind me. I glanced around but saw nobody; the doorways of the houses were deserted.
    He reached out his arm, pointing the blade at my left leg, then came even closer. He was way too big for me to be able to do anything.
    I was petrified. Even if I’d wanted to move, my limbs did not respond to my commands.
    â€œAnd an athlete needs both legs to run, right?”
    I was shaking, terrified; I didn’t know what to say. “Yes, both of them . . .” I stammered.
    â€œSo if you don’t want to lose one, tell me