“Are you going to stare at old photos all hour?”
“That’s why they’re there.”
Annette grimaced, clearly sharing the oxygen with him a painful burden. “Well I have news.” She played with her gold bracelet. “I met someone.”
“Again?”
“Yes, Puppy. Again. I do want to be happy because unlike you, I want a real relationship.”
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Someone very accomplished,” she said with a mysterious air. “A name you would know.”
“Is it Grandma?”
“Fuck you, Puppy.”
“Sorry. I’m very happy for you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Then I’m not.”
“Because I’m very happy.” She paused. “Elias and I are in love.”
“I hope so.” Puppy frowned. “Otherwise it is mere illicit lust.” He wagged his finger.
“We want to get engaged.”
Puppy felt an unwelcome twinge. “Oh. Great.”
“Engaged means marriage is next, Puppy.”
That was the final tripwire. You couldn’t get remarried until your ex found someone, otherwise the Family had a resentful, angry, embittered sibling running around. It was much better to have two resentful, angry, embittered siblings running around.
“What do you want me to say, Annette? In another six months, we’re done with the attempts and free.” Even Grandma admitted that it wasn’t fair, when all had been exhausted, for bitterness to triumph over love. But it was firmly noted in the permanent files.
“I don’t want failure on my record,” Annette said. “You’re used to that.”
Puppy gripped the edge of the table; the guard stirred. He had read the reports on these two.
“I want to do this right. I find someone. You find someone.” Annette took off one of her dangling Grandma-like earrings, staring at the purplish stone as if it would somehow undo the huge mistake she’d made marrying him. “Are you at least dating?”
“I don’t have time.”
“Why, Puppy, why? You don’t have a real job. You should have time for countless dates. Every night, someone new.”
“Since I don’t have a real job, how could I afford such merriment?”
Annette unzipped her purse. The guard rose out of his seat until he was sure she wasn’t pulling a weapon. She showed everyone her wallet. “I will pay for your dates. Some of them. Drinks, an occasional meal if it seems promising. Anything. Please, Puppy. I want to be married. Have babies. Lots of babies. And be happy.”
The muted wedding video showed them dancing. He could hear the band, a terrible three-piece group with the awful singer who Pablo hired, wailing it out and yet somehow, the worst singer in the West Bronx made their special dance, their song, their wedding song, “The Beatles’ I Want to Hold Your Hand sound good. Sound right. Sound happy.
He took Annette’s money out of spite.
• • • •
AZHAR MUSTAFA COUNTED yet another cloud formation. Eleven puffs. Second highest number of puffs in the past few hours. There were no other clouds drifting past the tiny island. The birds had fled at the sound of the helicopters. He squinted through the ponderous sunshine for some animals to count, observe, play a game in his head to pass the time, but none scampered past.
He checked downstairs in the tiny ship that rocked gently, moored to the makeshift dock. Everything in order. Two rifles mounted on the rack. All the first aid supplies full; even a few syringes of penicillin. Five tins of canned beef and a loaf of bread waited on the table. He hadn’t known what else to bring because all he’d been told was to be prepared. For what?
Mustafa sat on the edge of a chair and guiltily ate the leftover lamb his wife Jalak had slipped into his pocket. I can’t bring food, he’d insisted. You can’t turn on your mobile, how else will I know you’re okay? You’ll know if I eat? I will feel my lamb melting in your mouth. She’d smiled and he fell in love with her yet again. It often happened several times a week, when she wasn’t nagging about something.
Azhar saved a chunk of lamb and returned on deck. A faint noise skipped through the trees. He looked up, expecting more helicopters, but just another white cloud lazily headed his way. The noise deepened into an engine. A gray truck bounced along the poor excuse for a road, stopping abruptly at the gangway.
Two men in plain work clothes dragged a hooded prisoner, hands and feet bound, up the rickety bridge and onto his ship. One sliced the rope around the prisoner’s ankles, leaving his wrists still tied. The prisoner stood tall, defiant.
One of the men yanked up the anchor, Mustafa knew better than to protest, and together they tied the prisoner to the outside of the cabin. The hooded figure sat obediently, still with the stiff back; Azhar could see his chin lifted challengingly under the black cloth.
The tall one handed Azhar coordinates and the guards hurried down the gangplank. In a matter of moments, the truck disappeared.
Mustafa stared at the waiting prisoner.
“Are we leaving or not?” the man suddenly barked as if he were in command. Azhar grumbled, fired up the engines and steered northwest, careful eyes on the prisoner.
What have you done, infidel? he wondered. But you do not seem in pain after torture. Mustafa noticed the dark skin on the hands and the legs where the pants pulled up slightly. From the accent, the skin color, an American African Crusader. How did you get here? Thousands of miles past the Surrender Line. Think not such thoughts, Azhar, so you return in one piece to your Jalak and her lamb, however dried out and tasteless. Your pockets will be heavier and you will have done a service for the Imam.
The prisoner’s head bobbed slightly. Asleep. Perhaps unconscious. Wonder not. Steer. Abdul’s soccer game is tomorrow and he would welcome his father to show up with his head, otherwise you will not know what is going on.
Mustafa grunted at himself, swearing slightly and putting the steering on automatic. He knelt by the prisoner, who tensed, immediately
