by Doug Langille
Inhumas is a tiny Brazilian city and forever humid, but it’s the only home Davi Sebba has ever known. Even in May, he’d rather take siesta in the Meia Ponte with his sisters. The river water always managed to cool them.
Today was different; the park beach stood empty despite an already blistering sun. Davi revelled in the quiet, albeit fleeting. He’d have to be at city centre soon. The Olympic Torch would be his to carry and the pomp of the orchestration weighed heavily. Everyone wanted to see the Syrian– a symbol of tolerance. Identity was a strange thing; he was born here and lived his whole life Brazilian. It never occurred to him to feel otherwise. The government had other plans.
The burden threatened to consume him and he placed his head in his hands, seated at the smallish bench. An opportunist chicken pecked the ground at his feet.
“Davi?” asked a man behind him. Arabic. The accent was wrong. Another reporter? Al Jazeera, maybe?
The boy didn’t look up. “Let me be. You’ll have your spectacle soon enough.”
“My name is Gideon,” said the man as he sat on the bench beside him. “We have to talk, and as you know, time is short.”
Davi flushed with anger and rose. “That’s what the last guy said.”
“I’m not a reporter and I’m not from any government you know. Listen.” Gideon gripped his arm firmly and pulled the boy to his seat. “You’re going to die today, Davi. Unless you do as I say.”
The boy’s lip trembled involuntarily. He remembered his mother’s tone as she told Davi about his father’s accident at the packing plant. Make a life for yourself here, she said. Honour your father’s sacrifice.
“I don’t believe you, Mister Gideon.” The boy fought tears. Too much. His mother died last year, making the teenager an orphan. The media made much of this irresistible factoid. That’s all he was to them– an assemblage of facts to form an icon. Whatever kept the masses quiet.
Gideon’s voice kept an even tone, even as he switched to Portuguese. “You don’t have to. What I do need is a little trust.”
“Let me go.” Davi shrugged off the older man’s hand. The government promised him UEG tuition. Veterinary Medicine, an honourable profession. They said to trust them too.
“The torch contains an explosive. It’s set to go off at the pavillion in Belarmino Essado Square, two hours from now during your leg of the relay. That’s where the cameras will be. The biggest crowds. President Rousseff– she’ll be there.”
Davi’s eyes grew wide. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Gideon waited patiently. Finally, Davi asked “Why?”
The man nodded. “That’s complicated. Three hundred and seventy-four people will die in the blast, including you and Rousseff. The story will be about Davi Sebba, a Syrian terrorist. Protests, outrage and riots across the country. Even more than now. The Olympics will first be boycotted, then cancelled. Borders closed and inevitably, war.”
“I’m not even Muslim.”
“Doesn’t matter. It never did.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Not much. Take the torch. Smile for the crowd. Run. You’ll enter the Square. Drop the torch in the fountain.”