His father and mother stopped arguing after that, though when Pablo was accepted to Bronx University with a pre-dental major, a pretty damn impressive leap from the DV with both undergraduate and graduate school guaranteed, his dear old Dad had insisted the only reason Pablo made it was because his sister’s name was on the wall of victims at the black-marbled memorial at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Otherwise you’d be shit like me, his dear old Dad had said, the same dear old Dad who burnt down his own bakery a few months later.
Pablo, deep in thought by a traffic light, aimlessly turned down a clammy street scabbed with old buildings and into Needleman’s Coffee Shop. Proudly Serving Since 2036.
Three greasy men with spines bowed by irritation picked at the remains of breakfast at a front table. Scuffed, grimy tiles continued up the walls, giving the long, rectangular restaurant a cylindrical, tunnel-like feeling.
Pablo sat in a booth across from the empty counter at the rear. Two glass cases held piles of pastries and cakes. A blackboard told everyone that today’s special was split pea soup. Yum-delicious.
An old guy with a tuft of hair like a solitary wing handed Pablo a menu.
“What’ll it be?” he asked gruffly.
“I haven’t looked yet, sir.”
“Then look already,” the waiter said peevishly, retreating behind the counter. He folded his arms impatiently.
Pablo sniffed at the discolored fork and wiped it clean with his handkerchief. “Coffee and a cup of the split pea soup.”
“That it?” The waiter was stunned. “We got fine Reuben sandwiches. Fries that’ll make you piss down both legs. And you only want the goddamn soup?”
Pablo tried placing the waiter’s accent a moment, and smiled. “Bring me the soup, then the sandwich and fries.”
“It’s on marble rye. But save room for dessert. Black-and-white cookies come in fresh daily.”
“I can’t wait.”
The waiter shuffled off, pleased. European, Pablo finally placed the phrasing. Probably one of the Last Exodus, the few Jews who had made it out of ME, where they’d been slaughtered on the spot, and the final bits of CE territory, where they returned to ghettos and suffered blame for the war; Israel was the first victim of the Islamic Empire.
Pablo munched on the best pickle he ever had as the waiter beamed and refilled his cup.
“I’ve never been here,” Pablo said, curious about the way the waiter’s shoulders raised up slightly to the left as he laid the soup down.
“Now you are.” The waiter was offended “Eat.” A bell rang and an A18 in a tall cook’s hat dropped the sandwich onto the counter, making the fries dance. The waiter scowled and the A18 ducked back by his stove. The waiter trudged over apologetically.
“Goddamn robots. I say, two courses. Soup, then sandwich. Not soup-sandwich. You want me to keep it warm.”
“No, looks good.” Pablo took a bite and his eyes lolled dreamily.
The waiter brightened, proudly pointing around the restaurant. “Since 2036. Ten years of making people happy.”
Pablo didn’t correct the man’s mistake. He was quite old; the Alzheimer’s cure didn’t work on everyone. And Pablo was enjoying disappearing into the Reuben sandwich.
“What kind of meat is this, sir?”
“Corned beef. What else do you make a Reuben out of?” the waiter barked, muttering about the ignorance of the young.
Pablo placed his thin spiral notebook on the table, munching on another sour tomato which was becoming addictive. Disappearing into himself meant finding order to face chaos. He understood it was always temporary, but structure reassured him.
What happened? He wrote across the top of the page.
Testing resolve.
Testing ethics.
Testing reactions.
What else? He added below.
Sex drive. He quickly crossed that out, then scribbled it back in. Cousins should have children, he thought.
What about the soap and shampoo? How does he handle irritation? Water too hot? A metaphor? What if the water was just too damn hot? An old building, seemingly abandoned.
Cousins face problems of all kinds, he circled this phrase, pleased; he rewarded himself with another sour tomato, prompting the waiter to happily refill the bowl and remind Pablo about dessert.
How did you do, Pablo? He wrote this out carefully as if inscribing a holy tablet.
Lost temper.
Bickered with girl.
Never asked her name.
Got hard-on.
Looked stupid looking for cameras and source of steam.
Looked like fool sitting in socks.
Had no answers for anything.
Pablo leaned back wearily and bit into the cookie, half chocolate, half vanilla icing. One of the best things ever. If this cookie had been in the shower, his entire mood would’ve been different.
He grinned and wrote, How to act like someone eating a black-and-white cookie when you’re not?
• • • •
AZHAR RAMMED THE car backwards into the crowded garage, flattening Omar’s bicycle. Clary bolted up as if electrocuted, hands out like talons, teeth bared.
“It’s okay.” He closed the garage door, not moving until they were concealed in darkness. “It’s Azhar.” Clary’s lower lips trembled in relief. Mustafa wrapped the blanket around the girl’s shivering body and carried her through the kitchen and up the steps.
Jalak stared, stunned, the vacuum still hoovering away on the landing.
“Get the first aid,” he shouted, laying Clary gently on their bed. It took a few seconds to persuade her to let go of the blanket. He brushed at her hair, but she snapped her jaws. “I would never hurt you. Let go, little one.”
Her eyes brimmed warily: the beard, the nose, the scent of a man like the scent of all those men. But this was the nice one. He had fed her. He had sung her songs. He had smiled; not just afterwards.
Clary’s bleeding fingers fell away. Azhar opened the blanket.
“What is this?” Jalak hovered, almost as terrified as Clary.
Mustafa grabbed the first aid
