*
DAWN broke before Ali's gaze in a steel-grey sheen on the River Tigris. He felt stiff. All the bruises and cuts he had suffered the day before as well as his still-tender ankle and shoulder had locked into place in the damp night air. Add to that the chill that had crept into his flesh during the night and Ali did not really feel fit for anything except a long hot bath. His grumbling stomach reminded him he had not eaten anything since the gluey rice and mushy lentils at the Sisters of Mercy some thirty-six hours earlier. He had to find a job, but first he had to find food.
He went to a supermarket on Rashid Street. Not inside, obviously. He had no money. He went to the bins behind the shop, dug out some stale bread, shrivelled cucumbers, wrinkled tomatoes and bruised, blackened bananas and, crouching among the damp, discarded cardboard boxes, ate like a jackal, ripping the food with his teeth and hands until his belly felt full.
Many shopkeepers were sympathetic. Some made him tea. Some let him sit and warm up. Some even gave him advice and addresses but none gave him a job. A friendly barber told him he already had his own kids to sweep the floor and did not need any more help.
''But you don't need to pay me,'' said Ali, ''Just let me sleep here.''
''What will you eat?'' said the barber.
''Whatever you leave,'' said Ali. ''I can live on leftovers.''
''Leftovers?'' said the barber, ''With six children? You gotta be joking.''
The owner of a phone shop was more direct. '''I can't let you sleep here,'' he said. ''You might rob me.''
''I won't,'' said Ali.
''I don't know that, do I?'' said the man. ''I don't know anything about you.''
Ali entered a small café full of men reading newspapers and smoking water-pipes. He thought he would go round all the tables and ask each man in turn but the manager appeared and chased him away.
''I'm not begging!'' Ali protested. ''I want a job!''
The men laughed and returned to their papers.
''Times are hard,'' explained a sweet-seller. ''Everyone's broke and working two jobs.''
''I don't need much,'' said Ali. ''A dollar a day and somewhere to sleep.''
''Sorry, son,'' the man explained. ''No-one's going to let you sleep in their shops. They can't trust you. They don't know you. I'm sure you're a nice kid but you're a street-kid.''
''My sister's sick,'' Ali said, ''My parents are dead. What shall I do?''
''Go to an orphanage,'' suggested the man helpfully.
At the midday Call to Prayer, Ali went to a blue-domed mosque. Several black-clad women squatted on the pavement. They were not begging but selling things, combs and hair-brushes in plastic wrappers, incense sticks in flimsy cardboard packets and bunches of mint. They were widows trying to scrape together some money to feed and clothe their children. He asked one where she got the stuff. She told him to get lost.
He watched men removing their shoes before they entered the mosque and had an idea.
''Fifty dinars to mind your shoes,'' he cried, ''Fifty dinars to mind your shoes.''
An elderly man in a dirty galabeya rounded on him.
''No-one steals shoes from a mosque,'' he said indignantly.
''I'll make sure they don't,'' said Ali. ''Fifty dinars to mind your shoes.''
''Get out of it,'' scowled the old man.
Maybe he could sell some stuff from his bag. Maybe he could sell a couple of T-shirts to some kids or even his Manchester United shirt. That might fetch a thousand dinars. He pulled them out and spread them on the pavement.
''Clothes for sale!'' he cried. ''Clothes for sale! Thousand dinars a piece.''
''Hey,'' screamed one of the widows, ''Clear off and find your own mosque.''
Ali ignored her. ''Clothes for sale! All good quality, going cheap!''
The widow threw a bunch of mint at him.
''Ha,'' cried Ali, waving it in the air. ''Mint for sale! Bunch of mint! One hundred dinars!''
The widows lurched to their feet. The old man emerged from the mosque. Two policemen were making their way across the grass towards him.
''Yikes,'' he yelped, cramming the clothes back inside his bag.
''And don't come back!'' yelled the old man, shaking his fist at Ali's fleeing back. ''You look out for him,'' he told the policemen. ''Bloody beggars. Ruining this country, they are.''
Ali scooted past the pillars of the Rashid Street shopping arcade, rucksack bouncing on his shoulder, until he was out of sight and out of breath. He leaned on a wall, hands on his knees, and gasped. Getting a job and earning money had not been as easy as he had hoped. Everyone had their patch and viewed him as a threat or were so strapped for cash themselves that they couldn't spare anything for anyone else. He had to find his own patch or continue clashing with widows, fighting with pensioners and dodging the cops.
He drifted back towards the bridge, his stomach telling him it was lunchtime. What would the bin contain this afternoon? Yoghurt? Fruit? More bread? Unfortunately it contained nothing but cardboard and plastic. In despair, Ali stared into the sea of discarded packaging and then another idea came to him. He could sell garbage.
Dragging damp cardboard boxes from the bin, he folded them into rectangles. Pulling out plastic bags, he smoothed them into squares. Carrying cans to the corner, he crushed them under his shoe. Then he realised he had nowhere to put these treasures. They would not fit in his rucksack unless he emptied everything else out so he looked around for something else. A discarded supermarket trolley lay rotting on its side near the cylindrical bin. It had a broken wheel and several broken spines but he could resurrect it from its rusty grave and put it to work. He laid all his treasures inside the cart and wheeled it up onto the street, pushing it back to the friendly barber.
''Take it to Rafik the Recycler in Palestine Street,'' said the friendly barber. ''He'll buy it. And well done, kid, on your enterprise. You'll go far.''
Rafik the Recycler was smoking hash when Ali arrived and tapping a rhythmical accompaniment to Nancy Ajram's 'Shakhbat shakabit' which hissed from a tiny transistor radio behind his head.
''Hey kid,'' he drawled. ''You're not the usual guy.''
''He's sick,'' said Ali.
''You want a puff?'' Rafik, a chunky guy in a Chelsea shirt, swayed in the plastic chair behind his cheap Formica desk, settled his gold chain round his neck and offered Ali the joint.
''No thanks,'' said Ali. ''I don't.''
''Should,'' said Rafik. ''Loosen you up. Where're the usual guys?''
''Sick,'' said Ali impatiently. ''Look, you want this stuff or not?''
Rafik heaved himself from the chair and ambled to the shopping cart where he poked indifferently among the sheets of card, neatly folded newspapers, piled up plastic and crushed cans. Ash flaked away from the burning Rizla and drifted lazily to the concrete floor.
''Hey, kid,'' he remarked, ''You bring this shit to me in better condition than the other schmucks. I can sell this on right enough. Bring me more tomorrow. If you can get glass bottles, wash 'em out first. It'll save me a job and be easier to shift.''
''Right,'' said Ali.
''Give you a dollar now and another for each delivery,'' said Rafik. Ali tucked two bank-notes into his back pocket. ''Sure you don't want some blow?''
Excited and satisfied, Ali wheeled the empty trolley back to the bridge. Although he was tempted to go blow it on a juicy burger, he decided to spend it on cheap but nutritional food that would last for several days like bread, apples, water, nuts, dates, carrots and biscuits. He also decided he would not sleep under the bridge again. It was too cold. He would look for a bomb-site or a building-site. Both were easy to find in downtown Baghdad.
He chose a bomb-site, a heap of rubble with a couple of unstable-looking brick walls still just about standing. He could shelter behind the rubble and maybe light a fire without drawing too much attention to himself. Using his hands, he dug a hole for a toilet in the dusty sand behind a smaller rubble-heap then a larger hole several metres
away for a bed. He thought that sleeping in the ground might be warmer than sleeping on it.
Pulling out the bank-notes, he studied them carefully. The blue 250 dinar note bore the picture of an astrolabe on the front and the spiral minaret of the Great Mosque of Samarra on the back. The brown 1000 dinar note showed a gold dinar coin on the front and Al-Mustansiriya School, one of the oldest in the Islamic world, on the back. Maybe when he became King of Baghdad Garbage Recycling, his own school might be drawn on a bank-note.
He had liked his school. It had been small compared to others, just forty to a class, and he had not really known all the boys' name but the teachers had been nice. Then a mortar shell had fallen on the school. Five teachers and twelve children had died. The school had been closed. The Principal, a kind, elderly man named Thabit, had closed the gates and wept as he wished them good luck and the protection of God.
Ali missed his lessons, learning English and French, the beautiful challenge of Arabic calligraphy, the colours of Art, the strange, evocative sounds of the oud his music teacher had played. He enjoyed playing football and become quite good at tennis, playing matches and winning games, until someone from Al-Qaeda bombed the court and left a crater where the net had been. Staying at home, sheltering in the dark of yet another power-cut, listening to the muted crump of bombs and the high-pitched, rapid rattle of gunfire was dull compared with school.
Dusk was drawing in as the call for Maghreb prayers resounded through the increasingly indigo sky. Pushing the money into his pocket, Ali headed for the mosque. He had decided to spend around 500 dinars and keep the rest but first he would get a wash and thank Allah for His blessing. He splashed water over his face and up his nose then rinsed his arms and neck. Removing his shoes and socks, he washed his feet. He needed a change of socks. His denim jacket and blue jeans were grubby. His green sweater smelled of damp and garbage. He needed clean underwear. Now he had money he would find a launderette and freshen everything up. Fate was finally turning his way.
Feeling almost happy, he entered the Prayer Hall and prostrated himself with the others.