Preview: Prologue to a novel I've been working on...

Prologue 

Baghdad, Iraq. October 9th 1988.
 It had never occurred to Mahmoud Zaki that the baby would actually make noise. “Ya Allah,” he thought. “Why won’t it just shut the hell up?”
 “Because he’s a baby! Babies cry, Mahmoud, you cried too when you were a baby!” his wife Sameera exclaimed.
 Mahmoud was startled by the sound of his wife’s voice. He hadn’t realised that he had been thinking aloud. He remained silent for a minute. The infant’s cries echoed around their tiny bedroom. The midwife had delivered the young boy only a few hours earlier and he wasn’t ready to sleep just yet.
“Well, maybe,” he admitted, finally. “But surely not as much as this, this is ridiculous! Its two forty-five in the morning, how does it expect us to sleep?”
The wailing child’s mother didn’t bother replying to her husband’s foolish outrage. “Shush, tefal, shhh...” she said, softly pursing her lips as she embraced the tiny infant. Like a piece of my heart, she thought. How fragile he is. She wrapped the family’s only blanket around the crying child. Her firstborn. She thought about how surprised the midwife had looked when she told her they would not be going to a hospital. Rooms at Al-Noor hospital certainly weren’t cheap. With Mahmoud having lost his job recently, there was no way they could afford to pay a doctor. Besides, Mahmoud didn’t believe in doctors. “Arrogant bastards,” he called them. “Just because they have a PhD certificate stuck up on their walls, they think they know more than the rest of us!” He would say this grudgingly and with a hint of regret in his voice. It was probably because Mahmoud had wanted to be a doctor too, in his youth. He had told her about these dreams soon after they were married. When he was a young child, he even forced his father to buy him a toy stethoscope and would wear it all day long, playing doctor to friends, family and whoever would pay him any attention. The numerous wars, poor choices and no money had meant that he could not pursue his dreams. Sameera swore, at that moment, that she was going to let her son fulfil his dreams, no matter what. She was aware that this would be difficult given their lack of resources. She knew though, that one resource definitely wouldn’t be insufficient and that was love. As she watched her baby drift into a reluctant sleep, she felt such a deep sense of affection toward those eight-pounds worth of human, more than any mother has ever loved her child before, she thought, adoringly. Such grey eyes he has. She kissed his forehead gently and said, “He deserves a name as beautiful as he is. We’ll call him Mahir.” Mahmoud grunted something in reply which Sameera understood as an approval. With that she fell asleep, with the child’s petite fingers reaching out for his mother’s nose, sound asleep now, blissfully unaware of the life that lay ahead.

 London, England. 9th October, 1988.
 The staff at the maternity wing of West London’s Royal Hospital had been eagerly anticipating this day for several weeks now and this morning, charge d’affairs Dr. Philip Montgomery confirmed that the day had finally arrived. Vivian McAlister-Jones, the pop singer, was due to give birth to her second child on this day and rumours that her footballer stroke movie-star husband Adrian McAlister had tipped each staff-member an outrageous £300 at the birth of his first child spread like wildfire around the hospital.
“He’s an eccentric man,” a dreamy-eyed nurse said, eagerly. “Who knows what he has in store for us this time?”
 At exactly 5pm, a representative of the McAlister family addressed a large crowd of reporters representing numerous national newspapers and television channels, who had gathered below the grand staircase at the entrance of the Royal Hospital. He was smartly dressed in a black pinstriped suit and a radiant ultramarine tie. His face had the look of a man greatly pleased with the responsibility bestowed upon him and he seemed keen to make the most of his time in the limelight. “It gives me immense pleasure...” he began haughtily, speaking with his face much too close to the microphone causing a static boom which automatically silenced his audience. “It gives me immense pleasure...” he continued. “To announce the birth...of a young boy, the son of Mrs. and Mr. Adrian McAlister, a healthy young child who was born earlier this afternoon.” He spoke slowly and carefully, pausing after every three or four words. “The doctors were pleased with the child’s condition... Earlier, I was delighted to congratulate the proud parents on behalf of the nation.” He cleared his throat and studied the faces of his audience.
They look hungry for information and I have it. Oh, yes. Pleased as punch, I must be looking. I wonder if I should wind ‘em up a little bit?
"Now, in response to the speculation about Mr. McAlister’s England future, he would like to convey...his deep regret at the false accusations of a rift between himself and the national coach, Mr. Bernstein. The facts are: they share a professional relationship and Mr. McAlister will be re-joining the squad for training at Ashburton Grove this Friday...after he completes the compassionate leave he was granted due to the birth of his second child.” He looked down at his notes and shuffled them about unnecessarily before continuing. “On behalf of the family, I would request the Press to respect their privacy at this joyous, yet private occasion.” He paused to adjust his tie and drink a sip of the sparkling water provided to him in a glass on his podium, looking around smugly at the gathered reporters- all the time, soaking in the atmosphere. It isn’t very often you get the eyes of the nation on you, might as well make the most of it. The standing reporters were growing impatient at the man’s peculiar behaviour and started firing questions at random.
“Get on with it!” someone shouted.
 “Is it true that they’re getting a divorce?”
“Why didn’t Mr. Bernstein answer questions regarding Adrian McAlister at yesterday’s press conference?” “Has Vivian had her nose-job yet?”
 “What’s McAlister naming the lad?”
 “Tell us the name, won’t you?”
 Lenny Brighton suddenly remembered the strict instructions he had been sent to follow. The media was starting to get out of control. Get out. Create a scene, and get out! He raised his hand in the air to call for calm and spoke once the crowd fell silent again. “Zeus” he said, finally. “Zeus McAlister is the name.” Saying this, he somewhat triumphantly turned around, climbed up the grand staircase and disappeared behind a wall of security personnel leaving behind him a thoroughly baffled group of reporters.

****** 

Inside VIP Room 101 of the Royal Hospital, Adrian McAlister and his wife Vivian were following proceedings on BBC News. Vivian said, “That was quite a performance. Lenny’s rather good at this whole PR business. You might want to consider giving him a raise.” Adrian was opening a bottle of Cuvée des Enchanteleurs, champagne specially flown in from Paris for this very occasion. He briefly took his eyes off the champagne to look at his wife before replying. “The man was just following my instructions. If anything, I should be the one commended here. The mysterious pause, the immediate exit after announcing the name ‘Zeus’. Brilliant. We ought to make the front page of The Sun, what do you think? They’ll definitely come up with an ingenious headline including the name.” “Are you absolutely certain you want to name our son Zeus?” “Absolutely. It’s perfect.” Adrian was swaying. He was drinking champagne is if it were Gatorade after a football game. “I want our boy to be unique, love. Someone special. He can be whatever the hell he wants to be. Hell, I’ll pay for it. Might as well get famous doing it. ‘The couple who gave birth to a God’. Where is the little fella anyways?” “The nurse took him away to run some routine tests. I told her to keep him for a couple of hours. I have a meeting with Anna, my new trainer. We need to start working on my figure! With the European tour coming up next month, I can’t be carrying mommy weight around with me!” “Super. Make sure Lenny arranges some gifts or some cash for the hospital staff. I’m heading out now. I’m meeting some of me old Arsenal mates down at Aura in Mayfair. See you later, love. Man, our boy is going to be a real star! I can sense it. Zeus McAlister. You lucky little bugger.”

NOTE: The story is about two people, born on the same day, in different worlds. One Mahir Zaki, born in war-torn Iraq, orphaned and poor. The other, Zeus McAlister, born in the lap of luxury. It goes on to show how sometimes, your character doesn't have to be decided by your nationality or surroundings. Its a book about dreams, terror, friendship, football and life. So far, I've written only 5 chapters, it's still very much 'Work in Progress.' Depending on the feedback the above prologue receives, I'll decide whether or not I'll post each chapter on this blog. Leave a comment on what you think of the story!