In a new story, Colm Tóibínresponds to Article 13 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, as part of a series in association with Amnesty International to mark the 60th anniversary of the declaration
DURING THE DAY Malik made sure that the floor was swept at all times, he supplied fresh towels and he went on errands as he was told. And when the shop closed every night and the last customer was brushed clean, he was given lessons in how to cut hair. There were always willing victims who wanted a free haircut or some others who seemed to enjoy the company and the attention. The client watched in the mirror as Malik was shown how to change the head on an electric razor and how, once it was turned on, to apply the blade slowly, evenly, carefully, starting at the base of the hairline and then going in hard and close, and moving it upwards in a single gesture.
Confidence, that was the main thing, he was told, and he must not mind if he seemed to be hurting the client, "They can take it, the skull is hard," he was told. "Now get the razor right in. Right in. And then up."
But he could never manage to make it move, or if he did it was with a sudden jerk which caused the client to roar out in pain or shock or laughter. This, in turn, caused all the boys who were getting ready to leave to shout advice at Malik and warnings and gentle insults at whoever was sitting in the chair.
Sometimes he watched the barbers who had real experience working with paying customers. He noticed how they seemed to move easily from studied skill with the blade and the scissors to a sort of nonchalance as the client appeared to relax. He tried to seem confident himself but it never lasted long, he simply could not get the blade to move upwards; often it would grind against the back of the customer's head as though he was trying to cut an opening rather than give a haircut. And the more instruction he was given and the more attentive the audience, the more awkward Malik became.
At first he wondered if everyone had taken so long to learn but now he knew that all of them thought he was slow. And that made a difference to how they treated him during the day. He wondered if it was also beginning to affect how the boys in the room reacted to him at night.
Baldy, the boss who came each evening to collect the cash, seemed too busy and preoccupied to notice what was happening. But it would just be a matter of time, Malik thought, before Baldy stopped to watch the new boy. Malik was on half-pay with no tips while he was training and this barely paid for his food and his lodgings and his laundry. As the weeks went by he began to dread the torment at the end of the day, the fierce current of the electric razor in his hand, the resentful eyes in the mirror of the man who had come to have his hair cut by the novice.
He knew that some of the boys disliked his sullenness, his silence. He kept his eyes down as he worked at keeping the place clean during the day and tried to do everything he was asked quickly and perfectly without getting in the way. Even when they were not busy they did not notice him much, or talk to him. When the shop closed, however, and he was being given instructions, they noticed him too much, openly enjoying his ineptitude and his victims' consternation, or shaking their heads in exasperation and taking over from him before he did too much damage.
He did not move beyond the street and he liked how gradually he was becoming known as he made his way to the small supermarket on the next block to buy milk or soft drinks or tea. He enjoyed being greeted and saluted. And there were other things too which made him feel comfortable. Even though eight of them shared the room, for example, he learned that he would not need to lock his suitcase, he was assured that no one would touch it. And that had proved to be true. Even one night, when one of the others wanted to move it for a moment, he came and asked permission. Slowly, he learned that they all kept money and photographs and other private things in their cases, fully confident that no one would go near them.
He noticed too that each of them had something special, a camera, a walkman, a mobile phone, a DVD player, which set them apart and that they lent out as a special favour, or at particular times. Only Mahmood owned nothing. Mahmood worked hard and spent no money because he wanted desperately to go home. Some of the others, he told Malik, spent half their earnings on phone calls to Pakistan. He had never called his wife once, he said, not even for a second. He would not waste the money and it only made him sad.
Each morning, except Saturday and Sunday, Mahmood left early to deliver butano. He carried the heavy bottles of gas up narrow staircases. And then in the afternoons he took care of all the laundry in the house, leaving clothes clean and folded on each bed, never making a mistake. And in the evening he cooked, charging less than even the cheapest restaurant.
Malik liked Mahmood from the beginning and liked having his clothes washed by someone he knew, and laid on his bed as though he were equal to the others. He also liked the food Mahmood cooked. But more than anything he was intrigued at how single-minded Mahmood was, how determined he was to go home.
Malik looked forward to the quiet time when everyone was asleep and he was woken by some stray noise. He lay there listening to the rest of them breathing in the dark, or snoring softly. On nights like this he thought that, despite the trials of training to be a barber, he was glad to be in Barcelona, happy to be among strangers and away from everyone he knew.
Baldy had told him when he arrived that he would have one day a week free but he had not mentioned which day. Since he did not want to attract Baldy's attention, Malik had not, in the first weeks, approached him about it. It was only when Super, who ran the supermarket, asked him he began to consider what he should do. In his break, he often went and sat beside Super at the cash register, enjoying how much Super seemed to know about the street and its inhabitants.
It was Super who warned him not to wander in the city. The locals were not the problem, Super said, and not even the drunken tourists. It was the police you had to be careful of. In this street and the few around it, Super assured him, they would only stop blacks, but in other streets they could easily mistake you for a Moroccan.
One day as Malik and Super observed Mahmood banging a piece of metal against the butano cylinder to let the neighbours know he was in the street, Malik told Super how great it was that Mahmood would have plenty of money when he went home because he worked so hard. Super listened and said nothing for a moment.
"No, he won't have a penny when he goes home," Super said. "Not a penny. They did all the paperwork for him and got him his visa and paid his fare. He is saving to pay them back so he can go."
"Pay who back?"
"The same people who paid for you," Super said.
Super worked alone in the supermarket and he did not have a day off. It struck Malik that Super needed an assistant, someone he could trust, someone who knew the street too and would work long hours. As he was making little progress as a barber, Malik began to consider how he might mention to Super that he would be good at stacking the merchandise and keeping the supermarket clean, that he already knew how to use the cash register.
As soon as he spoke, however, Super told him to put the idea out of his mind and advised him not to mention it to Baldy.
"It was they who brought you here," Super said. "You can't just move because you want to."
At night as the others slept, Malik lay in the dark with his hands behind his head thinking of the vast city which lay around him, its night sounds seeping in. He had learned some words of the language and wondered how he might learn more. Even if he never became a barber, he thought, they would always need someone to sweep and clean. He would never go too far beyond these few streets, he was sure, but he relished the idea that other, different people lived in the city, people whom he would never meet or even see. Maybe in a while he would try just the next street. He imagined taking one street at a time, just as he imagined learning a few words every day. And maybe after a month or so, he would ask Baldy if he could have a day off, or perhaps he would ask to have two half days instead, then he would not be missed as much. It was not too bad, he thought, as he curled up in the warm bed and waited for sleep to return.
This is one of a series of 30 stories and essays by leading Irish writers marking the 60th anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The series was created by Sean Love of Amnesty International and continues next Saturday
Article 13
1) Everyone has the right to freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each state.
2) Everyone has the right to leave any country, including their own, and to return to their country