"We went with our wives to Addis Ethiopian Restaurant in Shockhoe Bottom only three weeks ago. Have you been there? Excellent vegetarian." Ramesh kissed his fingers.
"I’ll bear that in mind." Ari took a deep breath and downshifted his tone. "Did Mustafa seem worried about anything before he dropped out of sight? Did you know he was doing a translating job at one of the state prisons?"
"It isn't a job, it's volunteer work, like what I do for the temple!" Ramesh protested.
"I worded it badly. Did he say anything to you about it?"
There were several layers to Ramesh's equanimity, and Ari had removed them one by one. The earnest caution with which he now regarded the visitor was painful, to both of them. "I must ask you to root out the matter for me, Mr. Bannout. I have answered all the questions I need should. What is this all about? I can't believe Mustafa is in trouble."
"I'm afraid he was. He and Akila were found murdered in their home yesterday. It's likely the killing took place two weeks ago."
Ramesh's upper lip drew back. "Whaaaaa...?"
"You'll hear the details on the news, eventually. I'd rather not tell you until the police issue an official cause of death."
With lips profoundly expressive, Ramesh silently told Ari of disbelief and remorse. Finally, he said: "There's no doubt?"
"None."
"You're not with the police?"
"No."
"Then perhaps I should ask you to leave." To say this took enormous effort and moral courage. Ari felt a little ashamed for duping him. But he had been ashamed many times, and had learned to shrug off the feeling.
"I am a friend of the family," he said. "They were concerned when Mustafa stopped calling them, which he did frequently thanks to the phone you so kindly set up for him. They asked me to check up on him."
"You found the body?"
"And called the police, yes."
For a moment, Ari thought the Tamil was going to hyperventilate. "I was there. Twice. And he was inside with Akila..."
"I wouldn't dwell on it," said Ari. "You couldn't have known. What we need to do now is find out why this happened."
"But the police—"
"I'm sure they'll catch whoever did this. But I think the family would feel better if someone they know is following the investigation."
"You're Egyptian?"
"Lebanese. We have close ties, though."
Ramesh pondered this for a moment. Fortunately, none of his phones disturbed his concentration.
"He was getting letters," he said finally. "Starting over a month ago."
"Did he show any of them to you?"
"No. In fact, he said he destroyed them so that Akila wouldn't find out."
Alas, Ari thought.
"Did he give you any details about them?"
"He said they were sick..." Ramesh hung his head. "He didn't say anything else about them, except for the eagle. I wish I had known. I wish he had spoken more about it to me."
Ari slowly ran his hand over the top of the conference table. His fingers looked blood red in the reflective cherrywood. "Eagle?"
"He said there was a graphic of an eagle head on the paper…on every letter. Right away, I thought of Garuda, the Vahana of Lord Vishnu. And Mustafa said it slightly reminded him of the Eagle of Saladin, which is the coat of arms of Egypt."
As well as the Palestine Authority, Ari thought.
"We decided it was the American eagle, and that a super patriot was telling Mustafa that he was not wanted here. That's only my guess, because Mustafa didn't give me any more details."
But Ari needed no more details. His inner self gave a flip of disgust.
"Fucking America," Ramesh said suddenly with heartfelt venom.
Ari nodded slowly. He noted his face in the table, a lurid reflected red, and turned away. He thought America was no worse than any place else. It was much better, in some respects. But at the moment he was not in the mood to defend it. He stood.
"I think I have enough for now."
Ramesh got up slowly, like a wounded man. "I'll take you to the door." But he didn't move.
"That's all right, I'll see myself out." Ari slid the company prospectus into his coat pocket. "And Ramesh, don't forget: 'truth alone triumphs.'”
The national motto of India.
CHAPTER SIX
Lynn Gillespie’s world was an almost perfect card catalog of calm organization. But, had index card catalogs still existed, Ari Ciminon’s record would have been stuck sideways when the drawer was closed, bending it permanently. Ari had come to the Tuckahoe Library to use one of its publicly accessible computers. He had needed to communicate with Abu Jasim without being monitored. Lynn had, in all innocence, helped him set up a new email account.
The librarian was furtively drawn to the tall, dark and handsome Ari (TDH in her imaginary catalog), although these attributes were mere subtexts to his humor and affability. From what she had observed in other couples, and in her own limited experience, she surmised that, outside of blind lust and foggy romance, people were attracted to ‘otherness’. There was a kind of pedagogical choice involved with real bonding. Having shared interests was the most common magnet, mountain climbers finding other mountain climbers alluring, readers finding other readers problematical (the result of all that reading) but also irresistible. These people already knew what they wanted to know, and their mates increased their knowledge. But many other people, like Lynn, did not know what they wanted to know. Ari was encompassed by ambiguity. He had boldly told her his name was not Ari Ciminon, without crossing the line to offer his real one. He was an Italian who had attended the University of Baghdad. He seemed profoundly innocuous, yet a kind of menace permeated his every movement. She could never love anything that could not be categorized, and therefore could never love Ari—until she learned everything humanly possible about him. And she saw now that this was something he would never allow. They went out to dinner occasionally, attended movies together, and he was infinitely charming. But there had been nothing beyond that, and she now accepted there would never be anything more. He had been reduced to a favored library patron.
Yet when she saw him descending the steps to the lower level of the library that afternoon, her heart went out to him. She sensed something horribly awry. The skin under Ari's eyes had darkened. His omnipresent suit, so carefully tailored, hung loose. And the gleam in his eye, while still abundant with humor, also betrayed one of the most peculiar expressions Lynn had ever seen: a mixture of fear and voracity. She could not know, of course, that he had just come from his interview with Ramesh Balasubramium, or that a suspicion that had been gnawing at him for several days had reached his vitals.
"You want to send an email?" she smiled with all the brightness she could muster.
He nodded. "If you would be so kind as to loan me one of your wonderful internet computers."
Ari was not a complete computer illiterate, but cyberspace seemed to hold him at arm's length.
"And you want me to set up another Gmail account under a new name?" she sighed. When he nodded again, she asked, "What home address do you want me to use, this time?"
Ari gave the street address of Brown and Stern.
"And the name?"
"Mustafa Zewail."
She shook her head, then checked the register for available computers. "Oh dear, I'm afraid you're going to be stuck next to your friend, again."
"He is most entertaining."
He followed her to the row of computers near the magazine racks. A young man sitting in the next to last booth looked up and scowled. As Lynn and Ari approached, they both noticed him quickly Alt+Tab to a different screen to hide what he had been looking at. While Lynn sat at the free computer to begin creating a new email account, Ari hovered behind the young man.
"Ah, Roger, and what is your name today?"
"My name's not Roger," the young man pouted.
"But since you refuse to tell me your name, I am free to create one for you." Ari
leaned closer to Roger's computer and saw he had pulled up a Wikipedia article. "You are studying the Iron Age! That is a fascinating topic. Did you know that the Assyrians were great users of iron?"
"It's really rude of you to be bothering me," Roger complained. He leaned in Lynn's direction and repeated, "Really rude."
"I think you should leave the young man to his studies," Lynn said without looking up from her screen.
"I'm only marveling at Roger's advancement," Ari said. "The last time I was here, Roger was observing female anatomy. From pudenda to the Iron Age is a great leap and bound."
Lynn rolled her eyes and hissed, "Keep your voice down!" Then, as an afterthought, added, "And leave Roger...I mean the young man...to his studies."
"Maybe he'll learn how to make an Assyrian sword," Ari nodded agreeably. "They wore their swords on the left side of the body, held by belt loops. Now that would be something. An Assyrian sword is much more profitable than ejaculating down one's boot."
"Ugh!" Lynn slapped the computer desk, then smiled apologetically at nearby patrons. She glared up at Ari. "Sir, if you don't behave, you'll have to be escorted off the premises."
"I have never required the services of an escort," he said airily. "And you, Roger, have you ever abandoned these sordid images for the real thing?"
"I'm not looking at sordid images," Roger grimaced. "I'm looking at...at..." He read the caption in front of him. "…an Iron Age tumulus."
"Mmm…tumulus." Ari stroked his chin. "From ‘tumescent’."
Knowing that Ari would refocus his attention and leave the young man alone once she finished, Lynn rushed to open his new account, filling in the required fields at breakneck speed.
"I am so pleased," said Ari, cocking his brow at Roger. "The female pudendum is all very well and good, but it's nothing compared to a good tumulus."
"There!" Lynn exclaimed in a low voice as she hopped up from her seat. "All ready. I've even opened a window on Google Translator for you, so you can send your message in Arabic."
"Thank you so much, Ms. Librarian." When Ari sat, Lynn brushed close to him and gave him a hard pinch on the shoulder.
"And leave the other patrons alone!" she whispered harshly.
As usual, within a few minutes the library computer filters imposed their will on Roger's viewing pleasure, locking him out of the internet. With a grunt of disgust, he shot a glare at Ari and departed.
Ari hurried his email to Abu Jasim. As a consequence, his English language message was riddled with misspellings and grammatical errors. The Google Translator struggled mightily and spat out Arabic that was just barely comprehensible. Abu Jasim could practically read Ari’s thoughts and would easily avoid any misunderstandings. Ari concluded the letter by admonishing him to intensify his French studies. Since he was living in Montreal, he should learn the language of the land. "And a little bit of English wouldn't hurt, either," he added at the end.
When he had finished, he swiveled around his chair, looking for Lynn. She was not at the reference desk. He swiveled some more and saw her watching him from one of the Fiction aisles. She summoned him with a flick of her index finger. When he reached her, she turned.
"Come back this way. I need to talk to you."
"Lynn—"
"Shhhh!" she hushed in her best librarian-stentorian. "Just follow me." When they reached the History section she glanced around and saw no one nearby. "Hardly anyone comes back here."
"’Those who cannot remember the past…’" Ari orated.
"Like you," said Lynn. "Just like you, condemned to repeatedly harass library patrons."
Ari hung his head, smiling. "You are as offended as I am by the images Roger summons forth."
"I’m pleased whenever the filters kick him out," Lynn admitted. "But it’s not for us to judge. The system is automated, totally objective."
"Those who programmed the filters were totally subjective," Ari observed.
"But at least my opinion is removed from the process."
"That sounds sad and inefficient," said Ari. "Good beatings produce good boys."
"That’s your culture speaking, I believe."
"Common sense speaking," Ari rejoined.
Lynn placed a hand on his arm. "Ari, please, this isn’t what I wanted to talk about."
Ari waited in a kind of polite droop.
"Here." Lynn handed him a slip of paper torn from a notepad. He took it and read: ‘Dr. Philip Hoffman, MD.’ This was followed by the doctor’s phone number and address.
Ari raised his eyes inquiringly.
"I want you to go in for a checkup," Lynn said with quiet intensity. "From the moment you walked in, I could see you were ill. It might be nothing. Maybe a vitamin deficiency. Has something depressed you very much, lately?"
Did Mustafa seem worried about anything before he dropped out of sight?
"My cat…" said Ari.
"You mean Sphinx? You told me about it."
"Him."
"Did he run away?" Lynn asked, amending the pronoun. "You don’t seem to be the type who would be very upset over a missing cat."
Ari lowered such soulful eyes upon her that Lynn considered revising her opinion.
"Whatever the problem is, I want you to promise me to see Dr. Hoffman. He’s a great GP. He doesn’t believe in over-prescribing or ‘better living through chemistry’."
"How amusing."
"Ari…"
"Yes?"
"That’s not a promising response."
Ari’s eyes drifted to a book about Arctic exploration. How strange, that men were testing their skills and wit against the polar regions, while the warmer masses seemed bent on extermination. The great white wasteland and the morbid desert of mutual destruction. There seemed to be a vast reaching out for universal emptiness.
"I won’t be coming to the library again for a while," he said.
"Wait. I’ve got some books by Iraqi writers that I ordered for you. Mushin al-Ramli…Ali Bader…"
"Saddam Hussein…he was a novelist, too, you know. You are assuming I am Iraqi?"
"You told me you went to the University of Baghdad. I just thought you might like…"
"I can’t tell you how very much I appreciate this gesture," said Ari. "I don’t have time to read, these days. I have pressing business. But I’ll come back for them."
"I’ll call," said Lynn.
"That would not be…please don’t."
She did not know him well enough to ask why. Was there a woman? Family troubles? A serious illness? A harsh sadness came over her. Her eyes unsettled Ari, who turned back to the Arctic. "I will come back. But perhaps not soon."
"You don’t want to tell me what’s wrong?" Lynn said, not plaintively, but without expectation in her voice.
"There is a great uncertainty."
It was a legitimate answer. There was even a category for it in the library’s Find It Fast! browser: The Unexplained.
On the way home Ari stopped at Walmart to buy fava beans to replace the ones he had burned the week before. He was pushing his shopping cart down the ethnic food aisle when a familiar voiced called out from behind him.
"Karen said she likes to bang you with her cart to get your attention. That’s not my style."
"Hello, Fred."
He was not in the uniform he wore while spreading mulch in Ari’s garden, a pair of overalls with ‘Ted’s Lawn Service’ emblazoned on the back, but a heavy jacket and jeans. There was a large bag of kitty litter in his basket.
"You have a cat?" Ari asked.
"Two."
"It’s the great American infestation."
"I love them," said Fred, whose jovial demeanor reminded Ari somewhat of Ramesh. "Care for a burger?" He nodded at the McDonald’s at the back of the store.
"I’m not hungry, but I would be agreeable to a chat."
He followed Fred to the restaurant. While Fred stood in line, Ari worked himself with difficulty into one of the narrow booths. His overcoat was bulky, but he
preferred to keep it on. Underneath it was a Walther P99 semi-automatic.
"I guess fish mush is healthier than meat mush," Fred said as he rested his Filet-O-Fish and Coke on the table and squeezed onto the seat across from Ari.
"This meeting is very convenient, Deputy Fred," said Ari, flashing a brief smile. "I have some things I want to discuss with the U.S. Marshals Service."
"Oh, I don’t know much," Fred cheerfully admitted, as though he found this arrangement to his liking. "They keep me pretty much in the dark about everything."
"I perfectly understand, Deputy," said Ari.
"Just ‘Fred’, okay?" Fred said with a mildly nervous glance to the side.
"I’m sorry. I realize we might be overheard, but I thought I was practicing your country’s laudable transparency." Ari stared down at his fingers and noted dirt under his nails. How could he have missed that? Hiding his dismay, he said, "But you go first, Mr. Donzetti. What did you wish to talk to me about?"
The ‘Mr. Donzetti’ warned Fred of trouble ahead. He nibbled at his sandwich.
"Well?" Ari prompted.
"It's about yesterday," said Fred.
"Ah."
"Yeah, 'ah'. The word his getting around that Karen blew it. The Henrico dispatcher said she was 'overly emotive'...I think that's the phrase she used. The supervisory deputy heard the recording and says she was just a little breathless after finding a headless body. He doesn’t see any need to pass it on to the chief deputy. But you combine that with you being there—"
"She told him I was there?" Ari asked.
"No, she told me you were there," said Fred, and Ari inwardly shook his head at the boy’s blunder. Fred reminded him of the children the U.S. State Department sent to the Green Zone to run Iraq after the invasion. Wide-eyed and quite clueless.
"She didn't tell her supervisor I was there?"
"Uh...no. I mean, you weren't supposed to be there, right?"
"And your…what did you call him, the ‘supervisory deputy’?...accepted the fact that Deputy Sylvester had just 'shown up' on Mustafa Zewail's doorstep?"
Fred took a bite out of his sandwich.
The Godless One Page 12
