KITE RUNNER 16 страница

sleeves retracted and I saw marks on his forearm--I’d seen those same tracks on homeless people living in grimy alleys in San Francisco.

His skin was much paler than the other two men’s, almost sallow, and a crop of tiny sweat beads gleamed on his forehead just below the edge of his black turban. His beard, chest-length like the others,

was lighter in color too.

“Salaam alaykum, ” he said.

“Salaam. ”

“You can do away with that now, you know, ” he said.

“Pardon? ”

He turned his palm to one of the armed men and motioned. Rrrriiiip. Suddenly my cheeks were stinging and the guard was tossing my beard up and down in his hand, giggling. The Talib grinned. “One

of the better ones I’ve seen in a while. But it really is so much better this way, I think. Don’t you? ” He twirled his fingers, snapped them, fist opening and closing. “So, ‘Inshallah’, you enjoyed the show

today? ”

“Was that what it was? ” I said, rubbing my cheeks, hoping my voice didn’t betray the explosion of terror I felt inside.

“Public justice is the greatest kind of show, my brother. Drama. Suspense. And, best of all, education en masse. ” He snapped his fingers. The younger of the two guards lit him a cigarette. The Talib

laughed. Mumbled to himself. His hands were shaking and he almost dropped the cigarette. “But you want a real show, you should have been with me in Mazar. August 1998, that was. ”

“I’m sorry? ”

“We left them out for the dogs, you know. ”

I saw what he was getting at.

He stood up, paced around the sofa once, twice. Sat down again. He spoke rapidly. “Door to door we went, calling for the men and the boys. We’d shoot them right there in front of their families. Let

them see. Let them remember who they were, where they belonged. ” He was almost panting now. “Sometimes, we broke down their doors and went inside their homes. And... I’d... I’d sweep the barrel of my machine gun around the room and fire and fire until the smoke blinded me. ” He leaned toward me, like a man about to share a great secret. “You don’t know the meaning of the word ‘liberating’ until

you’ve done that, stood in a roomful of targets, let the bullets fly, free of guilt and remorse, knowing you are virtuous, good, and decent. Knowing you’re doing God’s work. It’s breathtaking. ” He kissed the

prayer beads, tilted his head. “You remember that, Javid? ”

“Yes, Agha sahib, ” the younger of the guards replied. “How could I forget? ”

I had read about the Hazara massacre in Mazar-i-Sharif in the papers. It had happened just after the Taliban took over Mazar, one of the last cities to fall. I remembered Soraya handing me the article

over breakfast, her face bloodless.

“Door-to-door. We only rested for food and prayer, ” the Talib said. He said it fondly, like a man telling of a great party he’d attended. “We left the bodies in the streets, and if their families tried to sneak

out to drag them back into their homes, we’d shoot them too. We left them in the streets for days. We left them for the dogs. Dog meat for dogs. ” He crushed his cigarette. Rubbed his eyes with tremulous

hands. “You come from America? ”

“Yes. ”

“How is that whore these days? ”

I had a sudden urge to urinate. I prayed it would pass. “I’m looking for a boy. ”

“Isn’t everyone? ” he said. The men with the Kalashnikovs laughed. Their teeth were stained green with naswar.

“I understand he is here, with you, ” I said. “His name is Sohrab. ”

“I’ll ask you something: What are you doing with that whore? Why aren’t you here, with your Muslim brothers, serving your country? ”

“I’ve been away a long time, ” was all I could think of saying. My head felt so hot. I pressed my knees together, held my bladder.

The Talib turned to the two men standing by the door. “That’s an answer? ” he asked them.

“Nay, Agha sahib, ” they said in unison, smiling.

He turned his eyes to me. Shrugged. “Not an answer, they say. ” He took a drag of his cigarette. “There are those in my circle who believe that abandoning watan when it needs you the most is the same

as treason. I could have you arrested for treason, have you shot for it even. Does that frighten you? ”

“I’m only here for the boy. ”

“Does that frighten you? ”

“Yes. ”

“It should, ” he said. He leaned back in the sofa. Crushed the cigarette.

I thought about Soraya. It calmed me. I thought of her sickleshaped birthmark, the elegant curve of her neck, her luminous eyes. I thought of our wedding night, gazing at each other’s reflection in the

mirror under the green veil, and how her cheeks blushed when I whispered that I loved her. I remembered the two of us dancing to an old Afghan song, round and round, everyone watching and clapping,

the world a blur of flowers, dresses, tuxedos, and smiling faces.

The Talib was saying something.

“Pardon? ”

“I said would you like to see him? Would you like to see my boy? ” His upper lip curled up in a sneer when he said those last two words.

“Yes. ”

The guard left the room. I heard the creak of a door swinging open. Heard the guard say something in Pashtu, in a hard voice. Then, footfalls, and the jingle of bells with each step. It reminded me of the

Monkey Man Hassan and I used to chase down in Shar e-Nau. We used to pay him a rupia of our allowance for a dance. The bell around his monkey’s neck had made that same jingling sound.

Then the door opened and the guard walked in. He carried a stereo--a boom box--on his shoulder. Behind him, a boy dressed in a loose, sapphire blue pirhan-tumban followed.

The resemblance was breathtaking. Disorienting. Rahim Khan’s Polaroid hadn’t done justice to it.

The boy had his father’s round moon face, his pointy stub of a chin, his twisted, seashell ears, and the same slight frame. It was the Chinese doll face of my childhood, the face peering above fanned-out

playing cards all those winter days, the face behind the mosquito net when we slept on the roof of my father’s house in the summer. His head was shaved, his eyes darkened with mascara, and his cheeks

glowed with an unnatural red. When he stopped in the middle of the room, the bells strapped around his anklets stopped jingling. His eyes fell on me. Lingered. Then he looked away. Looked down at his

naked feet.

One of the guards pressed a button and Pashtu music filled the room. Tabla, harmonium, the whine of a dil-roba. I guessed music wasn’t sinful as long as it played to Taliban ears. The three men began

to clap.

“Wah wah! ‘Mashallah’! ” they cheered.

Sohrab raised his arms and turned slowly. He stood on tiptoes, spun gracefully, dipped to his knees, straightened, and spun again. His little hands swiveled at the wrists, his fingers snapped, and his

head swung side to side like a pendulum. His feet pounded the floor, the bells jingling in perfect harmony with the beat of the tabla. He kept his eyes closed.

“‘Mashallah’! ” they cheered. “Shahbas! Bravo! ” The two guards whistled and laughed. The Talib in white was tilting his head back and forth with the music, his mouth half-open in a leer.

Sohrab danced in a circle, eyes closed, danced until the music stopped. The bells jingled one final time when he stomped his foot with the song’s last note. He froze in midspin.

“Bia, bia, my boy, ” the Talib said, calling Sohrab to him. Sohrab went to him, head down, stood between his thighs. The Talib wrapped his arms around the boy. “How talented he is, nay, my Hazara

boy! ” he said. His hands slid down the child’s back, then up, felt under his armpits. One of the guards elbowed the other and snickered. The Talib told them to leave us alone.

“Yes, Agha sahib, ” they said as they exited.

The Talib spun the boy around so he faced me. He locked his arms around Sohrab’s belly, rested his chin on the boy’s shoulder. Sohrab looked down at his feet, but kept stealing shy, furtive glances at

me. The man’s hand slid up and down the boy’s belly. Up and down, slowly, gently.

“I’ve been wondering, ” the Talib said, his bloodshot eyes peering at me over Sohrab’s shoulder. “Whatever happened to old Babalu, anyway? ”

The question hit me like a hammer between the eyes. I felt the color drain from my face. My legs went cold. Numb.

He laughed. “What did you think? That you’d put on a fake beard and I wouldn’t recognize you? Here’s something I’ll bet you never knew about me: I never forget a face. Not ever. ” He brushed his lips

against Sohrab’s ear, kept his eye on me. “I heard your father died. Tsk-tsk. I always did want to take him on. Looks like I’ll have to settle for his weakling of a son. ” Then he took off his sunglasses and

locked his bloodshot blue eyes on mine.

I tried to take a breath and couldn’t. I tried to blink and couldn’t. The moment felt surreal--no, not surreal, absurd--it had knocked the breath out of me, brought the world around me to a standstill. My face

was burning. What was the old saying about the bad penny? My past was like that, always turning up. His name rose from the deep and I didn’t want to say it, as if uttering it might conjure him. But he was

already here, in the flesh, sitting less than ten feet from me, after all these years. His name escaped my lips: “Assef. ”

“Ainir jan. ”

“What are you doing here? ” I said, knowing how utterly foolish the question sounded, yet unable to think of anything else to say.

“Me? ” Assef arched an eyebrow “I’m in my element. The question is what are you doing here? ”

“I already told you, ” I said. My voice was trembling. I wished it wouldn’t do that, wished my flesh wasn’t shrinking against my bones.

“The boy? ”

“Yes. ”

“Why? ”

“I’ll pay you for him, ” I said. “I can have money wired. ”

“Money? ” Assef said. He tittered. “Have you ever heard of Rockingham? Western Australia, a slice of heaven. You should see it, miles and miles of beach. Green water, blue skies. My parents live

there, in a beachfront villa. There’s a golf course behind the villa and a little lake. Father plays golf every day. Mother, she prefers tennis--Father says she has a wicked backhand. They own an Afghan

restaurant and two jewelry stores; both businesses are doing spectacularly. ” He plucked a red grape. Put it, lovingly, in Sohrab’s mouth. “So if I need money, I’ll have them wire it to me. ” He kissed the side

of Sohrab’s neck. The boy flinched a little, closed his eyes again. “Besides, I didn’t fight the Shorawi for money. Didn’t join the Taliban for money either. Do you want to know why I joined them? ”

My lips had gone dry. I licked them and found my tongue had dried too.

“Are you thirsty? ” Assef said, smirking.

“I think you’re thirsty. ”

“I’m fine, ” I said. The truth was, the room felt too hot suddenly--sweat was bursting from my pores, prickling my skin. And was this really happening? Was I really sitting across from Assef?

“As you wish, ” he said. “Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, how I joined the Taliban. Well, as you may remember, I wasn’t much of a religious type. But one day I had an epiphany. I had it in jail. Do you want

to hear? ”

I said nothing.

“Good. I’ll tell you, ” he said. “I spent some time in jail, at Poleh-Charkhi, just after Babrak Karmal took over in 1980. I ended up there one night, when a group of Parc hami soldiers marched into our

house and ordered my father and me at gun point to follow them. The bastards didn’t give a reason, and they wouldn’t answer my mother’s questions. Not that it was a mys tery; everyone knew the

communists had no class. They came from poor families with no name. The same dogs who weren’t fit to lick my shoes before the Shorawi came were now ordering me at gunpoint, Parchami flag on their

lapels, making their little point about the fall of the bourgeoisie and acting like they were the ones with class. It was happening all over: Round up the rich, throw them in jail, make an example for the

comrades.

“Anyway, we were crammed in groups of six in these tiny cells each the size of a refrigerator. Every night the commandant, a haif-Hazara, half-Uzbek thing who smelled like a rotting donkey, would have

one of the prisoners dragged out of the cell and he’d beat him until sweat poured from his fat face. Then he’d light a cigarette, crack his joints, and leave. The next night, he’d pick someone else. One night,

he picked me. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. I’d been peeing blood for three days. Kidney stones. And if you’ve never had one, believe me when I say it’s the worst imaginable pain. My mother

used to get them too, and I remember she told me once she’d rather give birth than pass a kidney stone. Anyway, what could I do? They dragged me out and he started kick ing me. He had knee-high

boots with steel toes that he wore every night for his little kicking game, and he used them on me. I was screaming and screaming and he kept kicking me and then, suddenly, he kicked me on the left

kidney and the stone passed. Just like that! Oh, the relief! ” Assef laughed. “And I yelled ‘Allah-u akbar’ and he kicked me even harder and I started laughing. He got mad and hit me harder, and the harder

he kicked me, the harder I laughed. They threw me back in the cell laughing. I kept laughing and laughing because suddenly I knew that had been a message from God: He was on my side. He wanted me

to live for a reason.

“You know, I ran into that commandant on the battlefield a few years later--funny how God works. I found him in a trench just outside Meymanah, bleeding from a piece of shrapnel in his chest. He was still

wearing those same boots. I asked him if he remembered me. He said no. I told him the same thing I just told you, that I never forget a face. Then I shot him in the balls. I’ve been on a mission since. ”

“What mission is that? ” I heard myself say. “Stoning adulterers? Raping children? Flogging women for wearing high heels? Massacring Hazaras? All in the name of Islam? ” The words spilled suddenly

and unexpectedly, came out before I could yank the leash. I wished I could take them back. Swallow them. But they were out. I had crossed a line, and whatever little hope I had of getting out alive had

vanished with those words.

A look of surprise passed across Assef’s face, briefly, and disappeared. “I see this may turn out to be enjoyable after all, ” he said, snickering. “But there are things traitors like you don’t understand. ”

“Like what? ”

Assef’s brow twitched. “Like pride in your people, your customs, your language. Afghanistan is like a beautiful mansion littered with garbage, and someone has to take out the garbage. ”

“That’s what you were doing in Mazar, going door-to-door? Taking out the garbage? ”

“Precisely. ”

“In the west, they have an expression for that, ” I said. “They call it ethnic cleansing. ”

“Do they? ” Assef’s face brightened. “Ethnic cleansing. I like it. I like the sound of it. ”

“All I want is the boy. ”

“Ethnic cleansing, ” Assef murmured, tasting the words.

“I want the boy, ” I said again. Sohrab’s eyes flicked to me. They were slaughter sheep’s eyes. They even had the mascara--I remembered how, on the day of Eid of qorban, the mullah in our backyard

used to apply mascara to the eyes of the sheep and feed it a cube of sugar before slicing its throat. I thought I saw pleading in Sohrab’s eyes.

“Tell me why, ” Assef said. He pinched Sohrab’s earlobe between his teeth. Let go. Sweat beads rolled down his brow.

“That’s my business. ”

“What do you want to do with him? ” he said. Then a coy smile. “Or to him. ”

“That’s disgusting, ” I said.

“How would you know? Have you tried it? ”

“I want to take him to a better place. ”

“Tell me why. ”

“That’s my business, ” I said. I didn’t know what had emboldened me to be so curt, maybe the fact that I thought I was going to die anyway.

“I wonder, ” Assef said. “I wonder why you’ve come all this way, Amir, come all this way for a Hazara? Why are you here? Why are you really here? ”

“I have my reasons, ” I said.

“Very well then, ” Assef said, sneering. He shoved Sohrab in the back, pushed him right into the table. Sohrab’s hips struck the table, knocking it upside down and spilling the grapes. He fell on them,

face first, and stained his shirt purple with grape juice. The

table’s legs, crossing through the ring of brass balls, were now pointing to the ceiling.

“Take him, then, ” Assef said. I helped Sohrab to his feet, swat ted the bits of crushed grape that had stuck to his pants like bar nacles to a pier.

“Go, take him, ” Assef said, pointing to the door.

I took Sohrab’s hand. It was small, the skin dry and calloused. His fingers moved, laced themselves with mine. I saw Sohrab in that Polaroid again, the way his arm was wrapped around Hassan’s leg,

his head resting against his father’s hip. They’d both been smiling. The bells jingled as we crossed the room.

We made it as far as the door.

“Of course, ” Assef said behind us, “I didn’t say you could take him for free. ”

I turned. “What do you want? ”

“You have to earn him. ”

“What do you want? ”

“We have some unfinished business, you and I, ” Assef said. “You remember, don’t you? ”

He needn’t have worried. I would never forget the day after Daoud Khan overthrew the king. My entire adult life, whenever I heard Daoud Khan’s name, what I saw was Hassan with his sling shot pointed

at Assef’s face, Hassan saying that they’d have to start calling him One-Eyed Assef. instead of Assef Goshkhor. I remember how envious I’d been of Hassan’s bravery. Assef had backed down, promised

that in the end he’d get us both. He’d kept that promise with Hassan. Now it was my turn.

“All right, ” I said, not knowing what else there was to say. I wasn’t about to beg; that would have only sweetened the moment for him.

Assef called the guards back into the room. “I want you to listen to me, ” he said to them. “In a moment, I’m going to close the door. Then he and I are going to finish an old bit of business. No matter what

you hear, don’t come in! Do you hear me? Don’t come in.

The guards nodded. Looked from Assef to me. “Yes, Agha sahib. ”

“When it’s all done, only one of us will walk out of this room alive, ” Assef said. “If it’s him, then he’s earned his freedom and you let him pass, do you understand? ”

The older guard shifted on his feet. “But Agha sahib--”

“If it’s him, you let him pass! ” Assef screamed. The two men flinched but nodded again. They turned to go. One of them reached for Sohrab.

“Let him stay, ” Assef said. He grinned. “Let him watch. Lessons are good things for boys. ”

The guards left. Assef put down his prayer beads. Reached in the breast pocket of his black vest. What he fished out of that pocket didn’t surprise me one bit: stainless-steel brass knuckles.

HE HAS GEL IN HIS HAIR and a Clark Gable mustache above his thick lips. The gel has soaked through the green paper surgical cap, made a dark stain the shape of Africa. I remember that about

him. That, and the gold Allah chain around his dark neck. He is peering down at me, speaking rapidly in a language I don’t understand, Urdu, I think. My eyes keep going to his Adam’s apple bob bing up

and down, up and down, and I want to ask him how old he is anyway--he looks far too young, like an actor from some foreign soap opera--but all I can mutter is, I think I gave him a good fight. I think I gave

him a good fight.

I DON’T KNOW if I gave Assef a good fight. I don’t think I did. How could I have? That was the first time I’d fought anyone. I had never so much as thrown a punch in my entire life.

My memory of the fight with Assef is amazingly vivid in stretches: I remember Assef turning on the music before slipping on his brass knuckles. The prayer rug, the one with the oblong, woven Mecca,

came loose from the wall at one point and landed on my head; the dust from it made me sneeze. I remember Assef shoving grapes in my face, his snarl all spit-shining teeth, his bloodshot eyes rolling. His

turban fell at some point, let loose curls of shoulder-length blond hair.

And the end, of course. That, I still see with perfect clarity. I always will.

Mostly, I remember this: His brass knuckles flashing in the afternoon light; how cold they felt with the first few blows and how quickly they warmed with my blood. Getting thrown against the wall, a nail

where a framed picture may have hung once jabbing at my back. Sohrab screaming. Tabla, harmonium, a dil-roba. Getting hurled against the wall. The knuckles shattering my jaw. Choking on my own

teeth, swallowing them, thinking about all the countless hours I’d spent flossing and brushing. Getting hurled against the wall. Lying on the floor, blood from my split upper lip staining the mauve carpet, pain

ripping through my belly, and wondering when I’d be able to breathe again. The sound of my ribs snapping like the tree branches Hassan and I used to break to swordfight like Sinbad in those old movies.

Sohrab screaming. The side of my face slamming against the corner of the television stand. That snapping sound again, this time just under my left eye. Music. Sohrab screaming. Fingers grasping my hair, pulling my head back, the twinkle of stainless steel. Here they ë ome. That snapping sound yet again, now my nose. Biting down in pain, noticing how my teeth didn’t align like they used to. Getting

kicked. Sohrab screaming.

I don’t know at what point I started laughing, but I did. It hurt to laugh, hurt my jaws, my ribs, my throat. But I was laughing and laughing. And the harder I laughed, the harder he kicked me, punched me,

scratched me.

“WHAT’S SO FUNNY? ” Assef kept roaring with each blow. His spittle landed in my eye. Sohrab screamed.

“WHAT’S SO FUNNY? ” Assef bellowed. Another rib snapped, this time left lower. What was so funny was that, for the first time since the winter of 1975, I felt at peace. I laughed because I saw that, in

some hidden nook in a corner of my mind, I’d even been looking forward to this. I remembered the day on the hill I had pelted Hassan with pomegranates and tried to provoke him. He’d just stood there,

doing nothing, red juice soaking through his shirt like blood. Then he’d taken the pomegranate from my hand, crushed it against his forehead. Are you satisfied now? he’d hissed. Do you feel better? I

hadn’t been happy and I hadn’t felt better, not at all. But I did now. My body was broken--just how badly I wouldn’t find out until later--but I felt healed. Healed at last. I laughed.

Then the end. That, I’ll take to my grave:

I was on the ground laughing, Assef straddling my chest, his face a mask of lunacy, framed by snarls of his hair swaying inches from my face. His free hand was locked around my throat. The other, the

one with the brass knuckles, cocked above his shoulder. He raised his fist higher, raised it for another blow.

Then: “Bas. ”A thin voice.

We both looked.

“Please, no more. ”

I remembered something the orphanage director had said when he’d opened the door to me and Farid. What had been his name? Zaman? He’s inseparable from that thing, he had said. He tucks it in

the waist of his pants everywhere he goes.

“No more. ”

Twin trails of black mascara, mixed with tears, had rolled down his cheeks, smeared the rouge. His lower lip trembled. Mucus seeped from his nose. “Bas, ” he croaked.

His hand was cocked above his shoulder, holding the cup of the slingshot at the end of the elastic band which was pulled all the way back. There was something in the cup, something shiny and yellow. I

blinked the blood from my eyes and saw it was one of the brass balls from the ring in the table base. Sohrab had the slingshot pointed to Assef’s face.

“No more, Agha. Please, ” he said, his voice husky and trembling. “Stop hurting him. ”

Assef’s mouth moved wordlessly. He began to say something, stopped. “What do you think you’re you doing? ” he finally said.

“Please stop, ” Sohrab said, fresh tears pooling in his green eyes, mixing with mascara.

“Put it down, Hazara, ” Assef hissed. “Put it down or what I’m doing to him will be a gentle ear twisting compared to what I’ll do to you. ”

The tears broke free. Sohrab shook his head. “Please, Agha, ” he said. “Stop. ”

“Put it down. ”

“Don’t hurt him anymore. ”

“Put it down. ”

“Please. ”

“PUT IT DOWN! ”

“PUT IT DOWN! ” Assef let go of my throat. Lunged at Sohrab.

The slingshot made a thwiiiiit sound when Sohrab released the cup. Then Assef was screaming. He put his hand where his left eye had been just a moment ago. Blood oozed between his fingers. Blood

and something else, something white and gel-like. That’s called vitreous fluid, I thought with clarity. I’ve read that somewhere. Vitreous fluid.

Assef rolled on the carpet. Rolled side to side, shrieking, his hand still cupped over the bloody socket.

“Let’s go! ” Sohrab said. He took my hand. Helped me to my feet. Every inch of my battered body wailed with pain. Behind us, Assef kept shrieking.

“OUT! GET IT OUT! ” he screamed.

Teetering, I opened the door. The guards’ eyes widened when they saw me and I wondered what I looked like. My stomach hurt with each breath. One of the guards said something in Pashtu and then

they blew past us, running into the room where Assef was still screaming. “OUT! ”

“Bia, ” Sohrab said, pulling my hand. “Let’s go! ”

I stumbled down the hallway, Sohrab’s little hand in mine. I took a final look over my shoulder. The guards were huddled over Assef, doing something to his face. Then I understood: The brass ball was

still stuck in his empty eye socket.

The whole world rocking up and down, swooping side to side, I hobbled down the steps, leaning on Sohrab. From above, Assef’s screams went on and on, the cries of a wounded animal. We made it

outside, into daylight, my arm around Sohrab’s shoulder, and I saw Farid running toward us.

“Bismillah! Bismillah! ” he said, eyes bulging at the sight of me.

He slung my arm around his shoulder and lifted me. Carried me to the truck, running. I think I screamed. I watched the way his sandals pounded the pavement, slapped his black, calloused heels. It hurt

to breathe. Then I was looking up at the roof of the Land Cruiser, in the backseat, the upholstery beige and ripped, listen ing to the ding-ding-ding signaling an open door. Running foot steps around the

truck. Farid and Sohrab exchanging quick words. The truck’s doors slammed shut and the engine roared to life. The car jerked forward and I felt a tiny hand on my forehead. I heard voices on the street,

some shouting, and saw trees blurring past in the window Sohrab was sobbing. Farid was still repeating, “Bis millah! Bismillak! ”

It was about then that I passed out.

TWENTY-THREE

Faces poke through the haze, linger, fade away. They peer down, ask me questions. They all ask questions. Do I know who I am? Do I hurt anywhere? I know who I am and I hurt everywhere. I want to tell

them this but talking hurts. I know this because some time ago, maybe a year ago, maybe two, maybe ten, I tried to talk to a child with rouge on his cheeks and eyes smeared black. The child. Yes, I see

him now. We are in a car of sorts, the child and I, and I don’t think Soraya’s driving because Soraya never drives this fast. I want to say something to this child--it seems very impor tant that I do. But I don’t

remember what I want to say, or why it might have been important. Maybe I want to tell him to stop cry ing, that everything will be all right now. Maybe not. For some reason I can’t think of, I want to thank the

child.

Faces. They’re all wearing green hats. They slip in and out of view They talk rapidly, use words I don’t understand. I hear other voices, other noises, beeps and alarms. And always more faces. Peering

down. I don’t remember any of them, except for the one with the gel in his hair and the Clark Gable mustache, the one’ with the Africa stain on his cap. Mister Soap Opera Star. That’s funny. I want to laugh

now. But laughing hurts too.

I fade out.

SHE SAYS HER NAME IS AISHA, “like the prophet’s wife. ” Her graying hair is parted in the middle and tied in a ponytail, her nose pierced with a stud shaped like the sun. She wears bifocals that make

her eyes bug out. She wears green too and her hands are soft. She sees me looking at her and smiles. Says something in English. Something is jabbing at the side of my chest.

I fade out.

A MAN IS STANDING at my bedside. I know him. He is dark and lanky, has a long beard. He wears a hat--what are those hats called? Pakols? Wears it tilted to one side like a famous person whose

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