City of the Plague God

by Sarwat Chadda

  “I need to get back in to see my parents,” I said, “but the moment I set foot in Manhattan General, they’ll lock me up in a lab.”

  “I could help,” said Daoud. “We actors know how to change our appearance.”

  “You mean go in disguise?”

  He nodded. “You’d be surprised at what I can do with my makeup kit.”

  “That’s what you salvaged from home? Your portfolio and makeup kit?”

  “Hey!” complained Daoud. “They’re important! Remember what they said on the Titanic? Models and children first!”

  “Women and children, Daoud.”

  “Ya salam, Sik. That’s pretty sexist of you. I’m surprised. And a bit disappointed.”

  Why did I bother? I’d forgotten Daoud lived on planet Daoud in the galaxy of Daoud in the universe of Daoud, of which he was the absolute center.

  I stared at him. “What. Are. You. Doing?”

  He held up a bag of apples. “Making a smoothie? The pancakes are for you.”

  “No. With your face. Stop it. It’s freaking me out.”

  He gestured at his eyebrows, which he was raising one at a time while simultaneously puckering his lips. “It’s the latest thing out of Beverly Hills—Face Pilates. Gwyneth swears by it.”

  “Face Pilates is not a thing, Daoud.”

  He started in on cheek lifts. Really. “It is. How do you think they all look so good after thirty?”

  “Plastic surgery?”

  He sighed. “You’re way too young to be so cynical. Try it. It’ll stop those frown lines from getting deeper.”

  “I do not have frown lines!”

  Daoud moved on to nostril flares. “Mo always said you worried too much. Told me I needed to make sure you didn’t go gray before high school.”

  “Mo said that? To you?” I don’t know why I was so surprised. Mo and Daoud had always hung out together. “What else did he say about me?”

  “What do you think? He wanted me to make sure you were okay. Why d’you think I moved in with you? You think I like working at the deli? Promises were made, cuz.”

  “To Mo?”

  He took a deep breath. “Wow. First set done. Back to the eyebrows.”

  “Daoud! Tell me about Mo and these promises!”

  “Check this out, Sik.” He pinched the skin on his waist. “Less than ten percent body fat. That’s not easy with your mom’s cooking all around me, and your dad grilling up all those delicious kebabs. You don’t understand the sacrifices I’ve made to look this amazing.” He put the pancakes on a plate and handed it to me with a wistful expression. “So long, carbs.”

  “You could always give yourself the weekends off. You could have the odd baklava. What damage could that really do?”

  “A single zit could destroy my career, Sik. I only have one shot to get noticed.”

  This was the longest conversation we’d ever had. I couldn’t believe he was only working at the deli because of a promise he’d made to Mo.

  I sat down to eat my pancakes while Daoud poured his fruit sludge into a tumbler. “So, where do you think Ishtar’s money came from? Daddy an oil sheikh? Maybe an arms dealer? War’s good business.”

  “You have no idea.”

  The door crashed open, and Ishtar gazed around, stunned. “You were right, Belet. We do have a kitchen.” She smiled when she saw us. Belet, coming in behind her, didn’t. “And the boys are already making themselves at home. How wonderful.”

  How could these two be mother and daughter? Ishtar stood there in silver high heels and a dress that shimmered as if made of starlight. And Belet? Well, she looked like she was about to overthrow a dictatorship in her black T-shirt, combat pants, and boots.

  Daoud held out his portfolio to Ishtar. “You said you would take a look. There are some stills from a play I did, off-0ff-Broadway, called The Wife, the Thief, and the Hijacker. There’s a review from—”

  She gently pushed the portfolio aside. “Which I’m sure is fabulous. But you and I have an appointment with Monsieur Bertrand at ten.”

  “Designer to the stars?” Daoud bowed. “Your whim is my command, goddess.”

  Belet glared at me accusingly.

  What? I hadn’t said anything to him! How did he know?

  Then Daoud tapped his nose. “Goddess. It’s the new perfume from Versace. It suits you.”

  We all breathed a sigh of relief. He was as oblivious as always.

  “Why, Daoud, you are full of surprises,” said Ishtar, her eyes sparkling. “Now hurry. Bertrand has to be back in Paris tonight.”

  Daoud bowed again and, with a wink to me, left.

  Ishtar sniffed her coffee, grimaced, and poured it down the sink. “Well, now that he’s gone, perhaps we can get down to business.”

  “And save my parents,” I stated.

  Ishtar smiled gently. “Dearest Sikander, to do that, first we must find Nergal. He is the key to all this.”

  “Okay. And what happens when we find him?” I asked. “Just ask him to heal everyone and go home? Somehow I don’t think he’s going to play along.”

  Belet flipped a knife and chopped up a banana into neat slivers. “We destroy him, once and for all. With his presence gone, life will return to normal.”

  I looked between them. It might have been my imagination, but I thought Ishtar looked uneasy. “You can do that? Kill a god? How?”

  Ishtar sighed. “It’s easier than you’d think. Gods die in so many ways. They lose worshippers and they just fade away, or they can become…irrelevant. There was once a god of wild donkeys and…I can’t even remember his name myself.”

  Belet dissected an apple with two swift knife strokes. “And, of course, a god can be slain by another god, or by a weapon like Kasusu. It was forged for that very reason.”

  “Where do gods go?” I asked. “When they die?”

  Ishtar smiled wistfully. “Some dwell in Kurnugi now, but not many. Nergal’s doomed, though. He broke out of Kurnugi once too often. He faces utter annihilation.”

  That wasn’t the best news. “So he’s got nothing to lose.”

  Belet looked over at her mom. “We need to find Nergal fast.”

  “I have people looking for him,” said Ishtar.

  “What people? Gods?” I asked. “You have Gilgamesh on speed dial?”

  Ishtar grimaced. “Gilgamesh was only part god, on his mother’s side, though he pretended otherwise.”

  Belet laughed. “It’s been four thousand years, Mother. Get over it.”

  I looked between them. “Get over what?”

  Belet put a fist on either side of her head, her forefingers up to look like horns. “Gilgamesh killed Mother’s cow.”

  Ishtar glared at her daughter. “It was the Bull of Heaven, and you know it.”

  Belet shrugged. “Anyway, Gilgamesh is long gone.”

  “Too bad. With his strength, he could have solved all our problems,” I said.

  How many versions of The Epic of Gilgamesh had I read over the years? Probably every one there was. It was the world’s oldest story, and I’d grown up with it, first with Mo reading me big-and-bright picture books. Then I’d found it in comic book form. More recently I’d read translations and modern adaptations.

  “Mo was a big fan,” I told them. “He once dressed up as Gilgamesh for Halloween. I was his sidekick, Enkidu—no surprise there.”

  They were the original dynamic duo: Gilgamesh the demigod warrior king, and Enkidu, the wild man with hair down to his knees and kin to the animals. While Mo had dressed in gold lamé and gotten to wield a huge plastic ax, I’d been stuck with itchy fake fur, a wig that had boiled my head, and no weapon, just my cuddly lion. Hey, I’d only been five at the time.

  Before Mo got too old for it, we used to pretend Central Park was the dreaded Cedar Forest, home to all the great demons. In the subway, we imagined we were delving into the netherworld to fight monsters and to commune with the spirits of our ancestors. Mo got the glory, of course. But I didn�
��t care. I would have followed him anywhere, just like Enkidu had happily trailed Gilgamesh. And I got to end each day with a grand, tragic death. Who could’ve asked for more?

  Yeah, we could have used an epic hero about now. “So how long will we have to wait? Mama and Baba are in intensive care, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  Belet looked irritated. “You need to understand the scale of the problem, Sik. We’re dealing with a renegade god.”

  “Nergal.” Like I could forget. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. “The rotting god.”

  Ishtar sighed. “He was once much more than he is now, Sikander. He was a war god. You should have seen him in his glory days. There was rarely a sight more splendid. I suppose that was when Erishkigal fell in love with him. She and I would visit the battlefields together, and Nergal would be there, covered in gore.”

  “Erishkigal?” I asked. I should have listened more closely to Mo when he’d rambled on about Mesopotamian mythology. I’d never imagined it would become such a matter of life and death.

  “My older sister, the goddess of death. She and Nergal rule Kurnugi, the netherworld.”

  “I suppose it makes sense that the goddesses of war and death would be sisters,” I said. “But how can you be the goddess of love, too? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “The goddess of passion would be a more accurate term, and what generates more passion than love and war?” Ishtar raised her eyebrows. “If you look even slightly into the ancient past, you’ll see how love has driven many a war. Just ask Helen.”

  “As in Helen of Troy?”

  “Not quite as attractive as you’d imagine, but she tried so very hard,” continued Ishtar. “I knew them all. Alexander and Hephaestion. Antony and Cleopatra, Napoleon and Josephine, who had such terrible teeth. I used to tell her—”

  “Mother…” said Belet.

  Ishtar waved her hand dismissively. “So love and war overlap more than you think. Thus I took dominion over that aspect of war, while Nergal took mastery and power from the disease that follows. He—”

  Belet interrupted. “After World War I, more people died of the Spanish flu than in the entire war. All those infected soldiers, shipped home to all corners of the world, not realizing they were bringing death with them. Millions perished.”

  “That was Nergal’s doing?”

  “He likes to play his cruel little games,” said Ishtar.

  A dreadful thought crept into my head. “And we’re only getting over the last pandemic. You think he was behind that, too?”

  “Who knows? But you understand why we need to stop him fast, before this goes global.”

  I shuddered, then shook my head. “All this talk about gods and goddesses—it’s hard to take in. Y’know, I was brought up as a Muslim, to believe in the Shahada.” I closed my eyes. “La ilaha illah muhammadun rasulu llah.”

  “There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is His messenger,” said Ishtar.

  “Muhammad, peace be upon him,” I added. “So what are you, Ishtar?”

  Ishtar’s expression changed, going from her usual playful, slightly not-too-serious to deep and thoughtful. “I am very old, Sikander. Old and powerful, but not all-powerful. When humanity first encountered me and my kin, they called us gods, and gods we were back then. Nowadays, we might well be called something different.”

  Belet handed over a slice of apple. “I call it the Thor Conundrum. What is he, a god or a superhero?”

  Ishtar laughed. “That is one way of looking at it.”

  I got it, sort of. But it still didn’t help me get over the fact that there was a supernatural being sitting opposite me.

  Ishtar must have seen my confusion, because she continued. “People worshipped us, and we drew power from that. But there are mysteries, wonders far greater that even I don’t understand. I am not omniscient, nor omnipotent. Those are attributes of this greater power. After all, someone created me.”

  “And does this power have a name?” I asked.

  “In the culture I once belonged to, we called it Ea. But each culture has given the power a name that suits it best. The name you use is as good, and as profound, as any I have ever known.”

  “My imam is gonna love meeting you,” I said. “It’s a lot to take in.”

  “The universe is a complex place,” said Ishtar. “I don’t pretend to understand even a fraction of it.”

  “And speaking of things I don’t understand”—I gestured to the portfolio—“what about Daoud? What’s his part in all this?”

  “Simply to be fabulous.” Ishtar glanced at her watch. “Which reminds me. Bertrand does not like to be left waiting.”

  I frowned. “How is taking Daoud shopping gonna help us find Nergal?”

  Ishtar collected her purse. “We gods have our ways. Most of them mysterious.”

  “Why can’t I come?” said Belet. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have said she was almost pleading.

  But Ishtar wagged her finger. “Remember Paris?”

  Belet turned pale. “I honestly thought she was a demon! She was so skeletal!”

  “She was a supermodel! They’re all like that!” snapped Ishtar. “To be banned, and by Chanel of all people! Let me remind you, it was I who—”

  “Who gave Coco Chanel the idea for the little black dress. I know, Mother,” said Belet, rolling her eyes. “Your great contribution to civilization.”

  Ishtar’s gaze went cold. “Ah, that famous teen sarcasm. No parent’s life is complete without it.”

  “Mother…”

  “No. I must be firm. This is going to require tact, charm, and subtlety, Belet.”

  I stifled a laugh, but not very well. Belet glared at me before turning back to her mother. “I can be those things.”

  Now I laughed out loud. “C’mon, Belet. Your talents are extreme violence, being rude, and, er, more violence.”

  She swiveled so fast I flinched, expecting her to give me a personal demonstration of her first and third talents, but she only narrowed her eyes at me. “Rude? Only to idiots who don’t stay out of our business.”

  I spread out my hands. “Aaand I rest my case.”

  “I’m not spending my day babysitting Sik, Mother. Why can’t I at least—”

  I finished off the last mango in the fruit bowl. “She’s already gone, Belet.”

  Her spirits seemed to drop a hundred feet.

  “She’s always pushing me away,” Belet said to herself. Then she remembered she wasn’t alone. “Not that I care. I’m perfectly good at looking after myself. At least I knew we had a kitchen.”

  For the first time, it struck me that Belet had to be very lonely. Then why did she push everyone away? “It must be weird having a goddess as a mom.”

  Belet blinked rapidly. Like you would if you were trying to hold back tears. But that couldn’t be the case, right? Not with Belet.

  “I don’t blame you for wanting to go with her instead of being stuck here with me,” I said. “I’d rather be with my parents, too. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

  She let down her shoulders, as if melting a little. “I know. I just…want to be useful.”

  I heard that. I didn’t want to sit around waiting, either. I stood and zipped up my hoodie. “C’mon. Let’s go find Nergal on our own.”

  Belet arched her eyebrow, which was clearly talent number four. “And how exactly are you going to find him when my mother hasn’t?”

  “You don’t know New York like I do,” I said. “You and your mom are uptown girls living in your uptown worlds. You won’t find Nergal at Tiffany’s, or Chanel’s, or wherever it is that beautiful people hang out.”

  “Is this wealth shaming? If so, it won’t work. I’m not embarrassed by being fabulously rich.” Then she looked at me quizzically. “You really know how to find Nergal?”

  “Actually, yeah.” Why hadn’t I come up with this right away? I’d been too busy worrying about Mama and Baba, that’s why. “You remember Saddam Hussein, the old
Iraqi dictator?”

  “Where is this going, Sik?” asked Belet.

  “The guy had a hundred palaces and solid-gold toilets. Statues on every street corner. He lived the life of an emperor. Or a god.” Slaving away in a deli six days a week, I had learned a few things. Okay, nothing as cool as how to deliver kicks to the head, but I learned how people worked. “Then the war hits, and he’s overthrown. Saddam goes into hiding, and when he’s eventually found, months later, he’s filthy, dressed in rags, and living in a hole in the ground.”

  “And this relates to Nergal how?”

  More than she could imagine. “Grab your coat, Belet.”

  “WELCOME TO LITTLE EGYPT!” I SAID. “MAKES YOU FEEL right at home, doesn’t it?”

  Manhattan was only a few miles west, but each of the boroughs had its own unique identity, and none more so than Steinway Street in Queens.

  Middle Eastern restaurants lined both sides. There were tables outside them with men playing backgammon, and long-necked shishas bubbled and puffed out rose-scented smoke. Arabic street signs could be seen everywhere, and Arab newspapers and magazines covered the stands. El-Mizan, Mama’s favorite Egyptian show, blared from one of the cafés.

  “I left Iraq when I was a week old, Sik,” said Belet.

  “But heritage, right?”

  “You don’t strike me as someone who cares much about your heritage.”

  “I started caring a lot when it came crashing through my back door,” I replied. “We’re heading to the Dar al-Islam masjid off Thirty-First. It’s running the kebab kitchen tonight.”

  “Kebab kitchen?” she asked.

  “It’s like a soup kitchen, but spicier.” We made our way down Steinway. Instead of English, we heard a babble of accents from every corner of the Middle East: slang from Egypt, Lebanon, and Syria, as well as some in Farsi—the music store was run by Iranians.

  Belet took out her fancy phone and started taking photos. “Mother would love it here.”

  “Did Tim Cook really give you that? As in the head of Apple?”

  She handed it to me so I could have a better look. It was very sleek, exactly the sort of phone the daughter of a goddess would have. “Mother knew Steve Jobs. He was of Mesopotamian descent—his father was Syrian. Heritage, right?”