“Who goes?” Mundhir asked.
“We all go,” Hani answered. I was tempted to argue, just for the sake of it. Just to frustrate him. But I could not. He was right.
“Yes,” I said. “We all go. On the count of three.”
Mundhir stepped from the car and closed his door without waiting for the count.
“Or now,” I said as Hani and I followed him.
“Hello?” Mundhir called out, fearless. “Are you selling petrol?”
“We have money,” Hani echoed, his voice too high. A voice that sought to appease. I wanted to choke him.
I heard movement in a building nearby. Footsteps on broken glass. Men whispering to each other. Then the sound that made my stomach turn. A Kalashnikov bolt snapping rounds into a chamber. Then another, and another.
“We are not armed,” I called out in a panic. “We only wish to buy petrol!”
Men emerged from the darkness carrying rifles. Men with new beards. Shia men. Men of a militia looking to kill Sunni boys just like us.
I put up my hands. “Just looking to trade, cousins. Please.”
A fat man with the thickest beard among them stepped forward and pointed his rifle at me. “Your papers, dog.”
“We left them in the car.” I said. “Apologies. We did not know this was a checkpoint, commander. Please, let me go and get them.” I turned around and pointed at the car. Mundhir and Hani had their hands up, too. “Mundhir,” I said, as calmly as I could, “go and get our papers.” So calm. So innocent and harmless that it would not occur to me that I should not talk to my Shia friend.
Maybe, in the darkness of the car, he could sneak the Shia papers from his pants.
“Shut your filthy mouth. And you.” The fat man pointed his rifle at Mundhir. “Remain still.” The militia leader did not believe. He turned his rifle back to me. “You. Talker. Tell me where you are coming from and where you go.”
Mundhir’s face held a look of despair only I would recognize, his eyes grown a little wider, his shoulders uncharacteristically sloped. He neither moved nor spoke. Meanwhile, Hani shook with fear, his jaw hanging slack.
I heard a man laugh like a demon in the shadows. “Mansour, I bet. Rich Baathist kids.”
So this was it, then. And we had only just started to run. All our plans snuffed out. I considered sprinting into the desert if only to receive a quick death from the bullets and thereby avoid the pliers, the nail guns. But with Mundhir and Hani standing there, I could not. I swallowed hard and resolved not to say another word.
Then I heard chickens, and the sound of cages bouncing on a rickety cart as it turned from the pavement onto the dirt.
“Ali?” an old man’s voice called out.
Though I sensed he was speaking to me, I did not turn around.
“What are you doing?” he continued. “I told you come directly to my house on the lake. No stopping. Why did you stop here?” The old man walked up behind me and patted my back. “Foolish nephew,” he spoke into my cheek. “And I’ll bet you ran out of petrol, too.”
The militia leader lowered his rifle. “You know these boys, Haji Fasil?”
“Yes, commander. This is my nephew, Ali. From Sadr City. He is coming to visit me on the lake. And these are his friends. Very convenient for us. Their car saves Abu Abdul and me the dark walk home. Still, foolish of you, Nephew.”
I took a chance and lowered my arms. The man with the rifle did not object, so I took another chance and turned my head. I saw the old man for the first time. Shorter than me, with cheeks shaved close. He wore the clean white robes of a bedouin. An elder, judging from his checkered kaffiyeh, a man who had made the hajj. He planted a hand in the small of my back, speaking to me with the pressure of his palm. Play along, boy, he told me with his fingertips. Save your life.
“I am sorry, Uncle,” I said. “So foolish. Yes, I ran out of petrol.”
He smiled warmly and nodded.
Another old man, older and shorter with an unkempt beard, shuffled past us, carrying two live chickens, wings tightly bound. He handed the chickens to the militia leader, who slung his rifle over his shoulder to accept them.
“Thank you, Abu Abdul,” the militia leader said to the old man in a loud, slow voice, raising the chickens up with one hand while placing the other hand over his heart in thanks.
The little man, Abu Abdul, grinned, bowed his head, waving his palms as if to say, Take them, take them; you are my friend. I understood from this Abu Abdul’s silence, from his grin and the motion of his hands, that he could not speak. Just as surely, I understood from the militia leader’s oddly abiding patience with Abu Abdul that he was simple, or at least widely considered so.
“We have your rice, as well,” Haji Fasil said, removing his hand from my back and walking over to his cart. He took two corners of a rice sack. “Nephew”—he laughed—“what is wrong with you? Come here and help me.”
I walked over to Haji Fasil’s cart, floating. My legs had disappeared. I grabbed two corners of the heavy sack and lifted.
Abu Abdul walked over to Mundhir and hugged him, like he had known the great big youngster forever. Mundhir hugged back, game if stiff. Hani let his hands drop, but kept his mouth shut.
Haji Fasil pulled me along at the other end of the rice sack. We stopped at the militia leader’s feet.
“Well,” Haji Fasil asked, “where should we put this?”
“You can drop it there. Your nephew needs petrol?”
“Yes,” I said as we dropped the rice. “Just enough to get to the lake.” The words tumbled over my dry tongue. Haji Fasil took my hand, like an uncle would his nephew’s.
“Five liters for the taxi,” the militia leader shouted to one of his company.
“We will be back next week,” Haji Fasil said cheerfully, pulling me by the hand toward our taxi. Time to go, he told me with his grip.
“Good. Next week then, God willing,” the militia leader replied, stepping back into the shadows. Two of his men bounded over to take the rice.
Meanwhile, Abu Abdul dragged Mundhir by the arm and motioned for him to lift the pushcart. Mundhir lifted it easily and followed Abu Abdul around to the trunk. Mundhir gave me a pleading look with his eyes. Open the trunk. Hurry.
A militiaman with a jerrican casually poured the precious fuel into the tank, yawning.
I opened the driver’s door and groped for the trunk release. Then, not knowing what to do next, I stepped in and closed the door behind me. I put my hands on the wheel.
The passenger door opened and Haji Fasil got in. “Home then, Nephew?”
I nodded while looking straight ahead.
“You remember the way—half a kilometer to the empty farmhouse and then a right turn on the dirt road.”
Mundhir and Hani piled into the backseat, with tiny, old Abu Abdul peaking out from between them, looking amused. I studied his face in the rearview mirror. A thick, ugly scar ran from his right ear, down his neck and boiled to a stop just above his sternum. He had few teeth left.
I had only driven a few times before. I pressed the clutch and turned the key.
“Easy left foot,” Mundhir said. “First gear is the most difficult.”
A force occupied me. A champion race-car driver from Germany. A taxidriver from Dora. I sent dirt and gravel flying as we bounced onto the road, free and alive.
Haji Fasil wasted no time. “You boys are very stupid.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” Hani echoed. The words carried from him like leaves on a stream.
“Just drive normal,” Haji Fasil said.
“Thank God for you,” Hani said, suddenly religious. “God bless you. May the peace of the Prophet be upon you.” A good Muslim boy.
I glanced again into the rearview, wondering why Mundhir, always so polite, had remained quiet. It was because he was looking at Abu Abdul, trying to understand the old man’s gestures. Abu Abdul patted Mundhir’s cheek and opened his tooth
less mouth in a silent laugh. He poked at Mundhir’s arms and, pantomiming a strongman, scrunched his face tight. Mundhir smiled.
“We can give you money, Haji,” I said. “We have a little.”
Haji Fasil chuckled. “No. It is not your money we wanted. Had they killed you, you see, they would have left that safe house. We would have lost a customer. So no need to thank us. Just good business.”
“You sell them rice and chickens?”
“And cooking oil when we get it.”
“To Sadrists?”
“Of course. And to Ansar al-Sunna. And to Al Qaeda. That little market changes hands quite often.”
I remembered my Matthew Arnold and smiled. Where ignorant armies clash by night. Then I considered questions for a time before deciding on the simplest: “Who are you?”
“Turn here,” Haji Fasil said suddenly. After I did, he sighed. “We are two old men whose families live elsewhere. We have a house on the lake. We fish. We sell. We rescue stupid children from the blade.”
“Can we stay with you tonight?” Hani said, reaching up to the front with a fistful of dinar.
“Yes,” Haji Fasil said. “You are welcome. But put your money away.”
At their little farm by the lake, we arranged fallen eucalyptus logs around a fire pit and ate dinner by lantern light. Lamb, rice, and flat bread. We studied the stars as boys from hazy Baghdad are wont to do. We listened to the gentle lake waves lapping the shore just a few meters away on their little beach.
Abu Abdul pulled Mundhir by the arm and pointed to heavy things he wanted Mundhir to lift. Sometimes these things needed lifting. A valid farmer’s purpose. Other times Abu Abdul just wanted to clap and admire his new friend’s strength. After a time, he did not need to pull Mundhir’s arm. They walked together, shoulders close.
Hani stomped about the grounds alone and reported back from the darkness every few minutes to ask after Haji Fasil’s business. How much land did they have here? How many buildings? A well for water? A cistern? How close were they to the highway? Why did they bother to bring supplies to the markets? Why not make this place a market of their own?
Haji Fasil gave simple answers and feigned laziness.
He and I sat by the fire pit and waited for the others to tire.
“How did Abu Abdul lose his voice?” I asked.
“Cancer. Many years ago.”
“Ah. I saw the scar.”
“Yes.”
Cancer had taken my mother, so I knew he was lying. But I decided not to dig for the truth.
Mundhir and Abu Abdul went into the little mud shack with a lantern and emerged with Mundhir carrying a big stack of rugs and blankets. We spread them on the beach and readied for sleep while the old men retired to the house.
“Look at this beach,” Hani kept saying, the idea growing. “This could be great.”
I fell asleep thinking of ways to dislodge an idea I knew would kill us all. I wanted to crush it before it had a chance to mature. But I drifted into a dream before my thoughts, my heavy club of persuasion, could take form to do battle with his.
It was the best night of sleep I can remember.
sir it was good to see you this weekend and hope it wont be the last time also im sorry about how shit went down in that bar and i hate that i embarrassed you like that and i want you to know that im working on that shit and also like i said you should get in touch with doc pleasant i asked around and he lives down by some place named houma about 40 mls south of you maybe get a cup of coffee with the guy sir might be good for you too
cpl zahn
Cure
Only a year older than me, the senior account manager already has a corner office on the twenty-fifth floor and a client list longer than my arm. I drop by late on Friday afternoon to tell him that I’m leaving and find him sprawled out across his leather sofa, half-asleep. Caught like a mischievous golden retriever, he scrambles to his feet and smoothes his tailored wool slacks, smiling.
“Bro,” he says, “get in here. Gotta talk to you. Close the door. Sit down.”
I close the door, and he slaps me on the back as he makes his way over to the desk. An e-mail catches his attention. He coughs and starts to read, clearly forgetting about me. I sit quietly, waiting for him to remember.
Everyone calls him Stall, my boss. I forget his real name. Something like Tradd Poche, or Duplessis Poche, or Tradd Duplessis-Poche. A name fermented and bottled on Prytania Street, aged three hundred years. Nothing even remotely like Stall. I didn’t give it a second thought at first hearing, but after a week in the office one of the other account managers let slip that Stall is short for “Bro-sev Stalin.” A nickname he picked up in college, I gather.
Raised at the Mardi Gras balls, taken as a legacy by his fraternity at Ole Miss, and destined for some grand, old mansion on the Avenue, my boss sits behind a mahogany desk and calls his father’s friends for business. Soon, he’ll be calling his fraternity brothers.
Yet, he seems frail to me, Stall. Like some inbred Hapsburg monarch. He’s short, and his black hair sits limp and thin across his pale scalp. His acne scars look fresh, and his teeth, though perfectly aligned, stand out against his warped jaw as the obvious work of a high-priced repairman.
“Sullivan have you doing analytics all day?” he suddenly asks, looking up as if surprised to find me here after just a moment ago asking me in.
“Yes, Euro bonds, mostly.”
Stall scoffs. “Bro, Sullivan’s a wonk. Blow that shit off next time.”
“Really?”
“Who’s your mentor, bro? Huh? Who’s the big-swinging dick around here?”
“You?” I answer, after hesitating just a moment to join in the reference.
“Damn right, bro!” He slaps his desk. “Here’s what you gotta understand. What Sullivan doesn’t get. You listening?”
“I am.”
“So, they call this the wealth-management business, right? But really, it’s the Wealthy People Management Business. It’s not about the analytics. Fuck that shit. We bill as a percentage of total funds under management, not as a percentage of return on investment. About a trillion dollars got yanked from the market during the crash. But with confidence building now? There’s about to be a mad dash by all those lizard brains to put that trillion dollars back. The business is about getting to that money first. Crunch analytics all day and you end up doing maybe half a percentage point better than a monkey picking a portfolio at random. It’s about pressing palms, bro. Getting the funds under management. Money into the market. After that, the shit’s on autopilot.”
“Right, I understand. But, Stall, and please don’t take this the wrong way, I’m from central Alabama, okay? I don’t know wealthy people. My dad is a good high school football coach and a pretty bad farmer. Plus, I’m not great at pressing palms. Research, on the other hand . . . I don’t mind it. I find it relaxing, honestly.”
Stall leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head and grins. “You know why I volunteered to mentor you?” he says with an odd glow of satisfaction. “Over the holidays, even? After I had a list in front of me of, like, a hundred names?”
“No,” I say honestly.
A serious look falls across Stall’s face. “Because you’re a war hero.”
My cheeks burn and the hair stands up on my neck.
Stall doesn’t appear to notice. “You know what wealthy people like? You know what impresses them more than other wealthy people? Fucking war heroes.”
“Stall. Listen.”
He interrupts, “The Hero of Profane Twenty-four? Didn’t I read that on the Internet?”
“Profane Two-Four,” I correct him instinctively.
“Was that not, like, the first thing that popped up when I googled your ass? You already have a major leg up and you don’t even know it.”
“That article got some things wrong.” Then, trying to move the conversation onto another topic, I add with a fake laugh, “I sure haven’t met any wealthy peo
ple because of it, I can tell you that right now.”
Stall smiles. “Well, you’re going to! Tonight, bro!” He stands and slips on a dark sports coat, clearly tailored to hide his sloping shoulders. Subtle gray stitching pops against his light pants and pale-blue shirt.
“Yeah, I sort of have . . . plans,” I lie. Plans that involved going home to watch television, read about the heavy-weather handling qualities of the Pearson Triton, maybe drink a beer or six by myself, and fall asleep.
“So? Cancel them.” He smiles. “You’re working tonight, bro.”
I throw out a few more lame excuses as we walk down the dark hall to the elevator, but before I know what’s what, we’re in his BMW convertible. It’s cold out, but he keeps the top down as we speed through the central business district, turning without signaling, weaving and accelerating without cause, then cutting off a city bus to make a sudden right turn onto Tchoupitoulas. I get the odd sense he’s trying to impress me with all the reckless driving.
We cross into the Garden District and snap to a violent stop at a red light. Stall sighs, annoyed by all these traffic rules, and lights a Dunhill cigarette from a wide, blue pack.
“Where are we going, again?” I ask.
“Called Cure. Brand-new place. Really cool. Real nice. Like a gourmet cocktail bar. They make specialty drinks with hand-cut ice cubes and, like, bitters and essence of orange from eyedroppers and shit.”
“And—sorry—who are we meeting?”
“Just some friends from school.”
“Ole Miss?”
He laughs. “High school, bro.”
He parks on Freret Street, in front of a shuttered tuxedo-rental shop, just across the street from this Cure place. The tuxedo shop has obviously been closed since Katrina. The whole neighborhood still carries the faint scent of mold, of sun-dried debris. The bar is about the only sign of life for three blocks. Still, it’s progress, a sign of serious investment. The owners, I can see, gutted the old brick storefront and rebuilt the bar from scratch. Warm, recessed lighting glows out through new plate-glass windows, and shelves of upscale liquor climb the walls behind the bar, up to a twenty-foot ceiling of pressed tin. I watch a bartender in a bow tie climb a ladder on wheels, like the kind you’d see in an elegant library, and grab one of the expensive bottles up top. There’s a strangely etymological motif, too, I notice, with framed extracts from Victorian texts on long wires, and exotic beetles preserved in mid-dissection behind glass.
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