Mustafa sighed. Yes. That is why we are here.
He realized he was alone and panicked, hurrying around the far corner where the Son leaned against the railing, engaged in another conversation with a stranger.
Azhar joined him. The small elderly woman pulled back her shawl and extended her hand, smiling.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Lenora.”
Azhar’s mouth went dry. He bowed deeply at the waist; Grandma chuckled.
“Perhaps we should keep this casual,” she said.
Abdullah clasped his shoulder. “He lost his equilibrium along with his beard.”
Grandma’s eyes twinkled and Azhar felt as if he were luxuriating in a warm bath.
She winked, her smile slowly fading. “Lovely view, isn’t it? Well, it was more beautiful once, but we’re working on that. Over there is New Jersey. You’ve been downtown and there, across the East River, is Brooklyn and Queens. Both have boisterous work forces. New businesses opening daily.”
“Manhattan remains behind.”
“Yes,” Lenora admitted. “But compared to what it was, growing. Sometimes that’s the only useful metric.”
Abdullah pointed at a cluster of lights. “That is your Bronx?”
“My Bronx.” Grandma beamed. “It had always been the, well, there’s an old saying, red-haired stepchild.” She smiled at their puzzled frowns. “That means neglected. The murderers didn’t think it was important enough to attack a poor, less educated community.”
They stared at the Bronx as if expecting the lights to join the conversation.
“The trip went well?” she finally asked, edging away from the passing tourists.
“Your sea chart was perfect. Docking codes worked and no one has questioned our papers.”
Grandma nodded, pleased.
“But how do you say where we’re from? I pronounced it Geeohja and got a few curious looks.”
She chuckled again; Azhar felt as if she were scrubbing his scalp with scented shampoo.
“Close enough. We still don’t get enough visitors from other states for anyone to distinguish accents. But it’s increasing. If you’d gone uptown, north, to 50th Street in the midtown area, you would’ve seen we’re re-opening the famous Radio City Music Hall.”
Abdullah did a dainty little kick of both legs. Grandma did her own kicks, putting her arm on his shoulder. Azhar was embarrassed.
“Azhar isn’t sure about our dancing.” Grandma nudged him.
“He has many virtues,” Abdullah said over his protests, “but artistic insights isn’t one of them.”
“My dear friend Tomas is like that, too. Shall we?” Grandma tucked the shawl back on and slipped her hands through the crook of their arms.
The glow of the restaurant sign, Schulmann’s, guided them down a long black street. An old waiter with uncombed white hair warmly greeted Grandma, warily nodding at Azhar and Abdullah as he led them past a few old men by the front door and into a red plastic booth at the rear.
“The usual, Lenora?”
“I’m not sure yet, Nathan. But definitely a Cel-Ray for everyone.” She winked knowingly at Abdullah and Azhar, who were peering suspiciously at the bowl of pickles and sour tomatoes on the scuffed black-and-white table.
“You eat them,” growled Nathan, shoving the bowl into the center and reluctantly laying the menus down.
“Have I ever brought you bad customers?” Lenora took Nathan’s wrist. “Since 2036, right?”
“2035.”
“You sure?”
“You ordered a cream soda, pastrami on rye and then I nearly kicked you out because you dumped half a bottle of ketchup on it.”
She leaned forward with a girlish grin. “And why didn’t you?”
Nathan blushed. “Because you were hot.”
“Wasn’t I?” Grandma sighed. “We’ll order eventually.”
“Meaning to leave you alone.”
“Please.”
Abdullah tentatively bit the end of a pickle, pleasantly surprised. “I’m not familiar with this food.”
Mustafa desperately searched the menu for something familiar.
“Nathan won’t let you leave without trying the matzo ball soup.”
The Son flinched. “Jew food?”
“And very good.”
“They’re my enemy.”
“So am I.”
Abdullah smiled slowly. “A lesson contained in a bowl of condiments?”
“Just a meal.”
“I don’t believe the word ‘just’ is ever appropriate for you, Grandma.”
“I’m having the pastrami.” She closed the menu and waved over the impatient Nathan, ordering meat sandwiches and soups all around.
They sat silently for a moment, sipping Cel-Rays.
“I’ve never made peace before.” Abdullah finished his drink with relish.
“Nor have I,” she said dryly.
“Our terms were fair the first time. You lost.”
“Now both of us are losing.” She waited for the Son to nod. “I’ll offer you food.”
“Not this, I hope.”
“You should only be so fortunate. Bio-agra.”
“We already have that.”
She smiled sweetly. “Is that why your people are starving?”
Abdullah stiffened. “Only where the work is below par.”
“It’s hard to work when you’re dying of malnutrition. Bio-agra techniques,” she repeated. “Otherwise you’ll never feed the populations. My scientists say the fallout has permanently disfigured the atmosphere flow. Whatever natural foods we grow are a miracle.”
“We have scientists, too.” Abdullah shrugged, conceding. “And they say the same thing. Fine. All the food we need.”
“In stages, of course.” She nodded briskly. “The Armistice naval lines must be twenty-five mile territorial waters, the rest, neutral.”
“You want us surrendering the seas?”
“We’re talking about free trade.”
Azhar felt Abdullah tense. “Too soon for that.”
“As a goal then.”
“Let’s keep it vague.”
“Within three years.”
“Five.”
“Four,” she said.
“Four and we keep fifteen mile territorial waters.”
“Four and twenty miles.”
They exchanged nods. The Son rolled a sour tomato. “Anything else?”
Grandma waited for Nathan to serve the three soups. He wouldn’t leave until he was satisfied by their response.
“It’s good.” Azhar beamed.
“Why would you think it wasn’t?” The waiter grumbled his way behind the counter.
“Dear, trying eating the matzo ball along with the soup.” Grandma demonstrated, leaving Azhar to practice slicing the monstrous ball without spilling the broth. “You allow any non-Muslims to leave. We’ll take them in.”
Abdullah pulled a face. “There’s tens of millions.”
“Hopefully more,” Grandma said angrily. “The camps were closed, as your father promised, correct?”
“I cannot speak for my father’s promises,” he said harshly. “But I have no information that any Crusader…Christian executions continued. The Jews, well, they are gone.”
Grandma’s eyes fluttered around the restaurant. “Then there should be hundreds of millions of Christians in Europe and Africa, as well as South America.”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “But probably.”
Azhar caught Abdullah’s hesitation, but remained silent. This was not his
