Soldier was reclining against the wall as he bit on the last chunk of flesh on
the mostly bony portion of chicken he was served by Iya Roy. He washed it down
with whatever was left in a cup of jedi that
Deckor had left unfinished. “Cigar”, he managed to utter and Smith promptly took
out a stick of creased Cigarette from his pocket, lit it and handed it over to
“But Azeez isn’t insignificant”, responded Smithereen to Deckor.
“In fact”, he continued, “he is more than many people think he is.” Deckor
signaled Iya Roy to give him one more bottle of her jedi, which was soon placed in the midst of two empty others. He
was nodding at Smithereen’s talk while eyeing Iya Roy.
Few days ago, a boy who lived on the streets had arrived Iya Roy’s common house o’ commons bearing a piece of paper in his hands. In spite of his odd appearance, with tattered clothes and eyes bulging as if they were going to fall out, he was unnoticed. Iya Roy kept busy filling orders while her patrons ordered without a rhythm. Old Soldier, whose head has been bowed by the merciless hands of heavy drinking, lifted his head and was begging Smithereen (as Smith was called) to give him the remaining of the London he was smoking. He hurriedly inserted the butt in his mouth, dragged it and his eyes widened to notice the boy, leaning against their table, with the letter in his hand. Smithereen beat him to it, collected the letter and attempted to read it. It was written in Arabic or something entirely incomprehensible to those drinkards who tried to read the letter. It was important to understand its content, as apart from the words, there were images of guns and fire drawn around the words, which made understanding what it said more of an emergency. They passed it around, as if by chance it will fall in the hands of someone who understood the language. No one understood the contents.