“I don’t believe you.” Her mind whirled with memories. Falling down, being carried, she did so much of that at the end. The push, the people, the screams.
“Yeah, there were screams, Moosh.” He finished her thoughts. “When they found you. Maybe that’s what you remember. And that push in the back well, probably they were sloppy carrying you. Had to be ex-BTs. No one active would violate their oath. They paid a few people who were light on their ethics to swear they saw you jump, fall.”
Hazel gestured several times. Liars.
She gestured back, jutting out her chin. You too.
John shrugged. “Those are the facts as I know them, Moosh. I don’t get why you’re surprised. You’ve come here, what, five, six times since you returned, trying to piece it together. Unless you think you came back to solve this mystery.”
Mooshie smiled coldly. “You got a theory about that, too, pretty news guy?”
“I do. You wouldn’t believe me. But I have a couple people who might persuade you. Couple people who hate Grandma, too.”
“No one hates her like I do,” she rasped.
“You’d be surprised.”
She listened for footsteps.
“I’m alone.” Hazel shrugged.
“And if I refuse this offer.”
He sighed wearily. “Why would you, Moosh?”
34
Azhar scratched his freshly shaven face and sniffed at the faint yellow air lingering obstinately around the entrance to the massive building.
“The line’s over there,” Abdullah said, pointing to about ten people patiently waiting outside a thick door. “Best if we don’t loiter like we’re strangers.”
Mustafa grunted. He disliked everything about this plan since they’d docked hours ago at a secluded spot in the lower half of the strange semi-populated city where people pressed forward grimly with few smiles or even eye contact. Buses and cars crept along reluctantly, sometimes empty. Abruptly, like a mistake, lights blazed out of a skyscraper, receding futilely into wide swatches of dark streets in some weird checkerboard of life and not life.
Death, Azhar rubbed at his unfamiliar bare cheek. A place between Heaven and Hell where millions die and don’t know where to go, and those left behind aren’t certain how to continue. If he believed in ghosts he would swear he had seen many. But he’d already wasted his share of complaining on being forced to shave.
The Son seemed genuinely fascinated, as if inside a living museum. He’d stopped Azhar’s heart a few times already with his recklessness before wandering off to visit the Wall Street area.
“They must satisfy their greed.” Abdullah had sneered. “That is what they offer most. Turning dirt into gold.”
By craning his head and walking back and forth in front of a large building with the letters NYSE, he’d attracted the stares of black-uniformed soldiers behind thick brick walls, tank turrets peeking out menacingly. Azhar had tugged him away, but a soldier in a reflective black face mask intercepted them.
“Papers.” The soldier held out a gloved hand.
While Azhar silently prayed, Abdullah happily produced their forged documents. “This is our first time, my brother and I.”
Please be quiet, Azhar pleaded.
“It is so wonderful to see the vibrancy still alive.”
The Black Top silently returned the papers and studied Azhar’s.
“We have an engagement to the north. Which would be the most convenient path?”
The Black Top ignored Abdullah, instead staring at Azhar. “Where are you from?”
Oh Mohammed, I beg you allow me to borrow the Son’s tongue for a moment.
“It says there.” Azhar smiled respectfully. “Geeohja.”
The Black Top grunted.
“So many wonderful accents in our wonderful country.” Abdullah bowed slightly. “And what of you, young man? From what part of this great nation do you originate?”
“Woman,” the voice lashed out, her head tilting left and right before she returned Azhar’s papers, disappointed she had no reason to beat them. Azhar’s knees wobbled.
Abdullah had talked about that experience all morning, adding to it with thoughts concerning the bus system while engaging a couple of indifferent passengers about the woes of mass transit back in Geeohja, wretched compared to Manhattan. Boring the middle of the bus, Abdullah went to the rear and asked an older woman with stringy gray hair to point out some of the sights.
Delighted to fill her day with something other than riding the bus, the woman, who introduced herself as Blanche, pleased to meet you Mr. Tekka and Mr. Shymal, described the Greenwich Village as a center of poets and musicians, the Fifth Avenue as a repository of wealthy residences and the Madison Avenue as a hotbed of commerce. Once, she added bitterly. She recalled her youth, which Azhar estimated a hundred years or so ago, and the vitality of the city, especially her succession of female admirers; Azhar was disgusted by the proud perversions.
How did these people ever lead anyone?
Somehow they made it here to the famous Empire State Building. The line moved inside, Abdullah admitting goosebumps at this latest American adventure. Azhar again tugged him to the back of the elevator; he would’ve had more luck persuading his eldest son to wear a cross. Abdullah continued on and on about the historic building, annoying everyone who hurried away when they got to the 108th floor.
The Son grinned; Azhar nodded respect at his ploy. They wandered, unsure which was north. Mustafa leaned on the icy railing, peering at the twinkling distant lights splayed between black pockets, as if giants had set up immense black curtains. He squinted down onto the tiny figures dotting the streets. Once so many millions and now, so few. That is why we are here, to feel guilt. For what? The
