Nelson Lowhim's Blog, page 130

My Best books read this year

So far I've had a pretty good reading session as I've found a lot of amazing books to crack open. Below is a list of the books I liked (not published in 2013, merely read in 2013) along with links to buy them or further check them out.

These books I found to be deep books worth all the time put into them. The kind that open up new worlds for this reader/writer:




The Leopard: A Novel This Sicilian Masterpiece is nothing short of legendary. I cracked it open and was immediately immersed in this rich world, as Lampedusa showed a prince dealing with a change in epochs. His descriptions are as rich as the palaces he describes, and he shows how rules are changed as the world changes and prepares for a new time.
 The Master and Margarita Russian. Written during one of Stalin's purges. Bulgakov has the devil visit Moscow with dark, yet sometimes funny results. At the same time he speaks of that moment known in the west from ~2000 years ago (surprisingly these descriptions were more vivid than the ones on Moscow). Still it is a ludicrous book for what can only be called a ludicrous time.
 The Dream of the Celt: A Novel Historical fiction is Llosa's forte, IMHO. Here he deals with Casement, an Irishman with the most interesting background. Born at a time of British Empire, he serves the crown well in exposing the crimes committed in the Congo and the Amazon. When he returns he moves towards Irish Nationalism and is hanged for these sins against the crown. What a fall from grace—or so papers of his times said. Once Llosa is through, though, you will see more than just that.
 Ficciones (English Translation) Borges has the imagination of the world. Pure and simple. I read this, traveling from one story to the next, believing it all, and marveling at how Borges is able to have such an imagination to tell such stories. As a reader I loved the mind warp that takes place to realize these stories (all fantasy and mysteries and... rolled into one). As a writer I loved the way it inspires me to take my fiction elsewhere.
 The Iraqi Christ Shorts from one of the best writers of today. These are bold and brutal stories for a bold and brutal era. Read them, some might make you wince, but here Blasim has managed to contain all the heartache the Iraqis have been through in the near past.
 I'jaam: An Iraqi Rhapsody Another Iraqi book. This one is the Iraqi 1984. It even includes that novel inside its pages. This short novella manages to capture the time of Iraq during the war with Iran and the Saddam dictatorship. He shows the horrors, but also the humor.
 Homage to Catalonia Orwell's at his best here, bringing light (and dare I say truth) to subjects people would rather see as black and white. Think the Spanish Civil war was Communists against Fascists in the form of Franco? Think again.
 That Smell and Notes from Prison A short compelling book, if sometimes dry. It touches on a feeling that this great man felt after being released from prison. I'd like to read more from him.
 Breath: A Novel Great coming of age. It's mainly about surfing, and growing up in a small town. It would be worth it alone for the surfing descriptions (which had me holding my breath). But it goes on and describes the thrills that young men can aspire to and sometimes fail, while still allowing whatever created that to destroy other parts of their life. The Good Earth (Oprah's Book Club) Old school classic about China, pre revolution. Written in a very biblical manner, as if fitting for such an immense book.  The War of the End of the World Might be one of the best books of the year, for me. Llosa once again shows his talent in taking such a massive subject and (with a myriad of characters) showing the world what happened. Based on a Christian uprising (well, not until they were bothered by the Army of a young nation trying to stake it's claim to history). When right meets might...

Should Mention

I should mention this blog that's reviewing all bestsellers of the past 100 years (of each year)! Interesting! Check it out.

Delays with the edits, but soon dear Reader, soon.

And here I am, digging out a piece (rough), that won't be out until Spring 2014. So bear with me as I prepare the final book of the year and have the edits done before Christmas shopping is over.

Thanks all for your patience.
Read the story after the break:


[Booms in the background]
You hear that? Artillery. Used to be that they would hold back on such things near civilians, but that was only for a short while anyways.
[He sniffles, wipes his face and nose with his sleeve]
Man. One really gets misty eyed just remembering the past, don’t they? Used to watch my grandma watch the tree in front of our house in Dublin, and man was she a statue. I always wondered how that was. But you get old, young one. You get old and suddenly memories are as strong as the real thing. And the real thing is your body falling apart, your eyesight useless, your hearing nothing but a whine. You stop experiencing, and you need memories to keep you sane. And you look back with fondness. No matter what you’ve done. It’s the way of the human. You try and form memories, and suddenly you’ve done just that. Of course, I ain’t going to boast, but I’m sure I’ve done more than most. Hell, I did more than most by the age of 10. You see, we have family in Dublin, most of them left Northern Ireland. But my mom and I, and my older sister, were left to fight it out in Belfast. Well, my mother wasn’t leaving. And she warned both me and my sister that we were to do good in school and not make trouble. You know the type. I love my mother, but she was working class assured that moving up to middle class was the only way to make happiness in life. Basically she’d bought in on all that tripe and propaganda made by types who wish to see no violence on their manicured lawns. Not that I blame her. It wasn’t all just her believing tripe on the TV and on shows. No, it was also the loss of our pa. Died when we were 5. I would always see ma staring at his crumpled picture. Only evidence, besides us, that he ever lived.
[Sniffles, bites lip and taps metallic hand on his chin]
Our pa, Christ I haven’t the faintest memory of him any more, he was shot up by some SAS types. Murdered, I’d say, but I’m not sure about the circumstances behind his death so I won’t speculate. Though given what those British bastards were capable of, it’s fair to side on murder. SAS especially. Always doing something outside the realm of human. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. Well, memories of my dad are limited. Especially now. Hell, I’m not even sure that there’s much in here.
[He taps his temple]
But there are shadows of a gruff man talking to my ma, of a man yelling at my ma, and her giving it back. But that could all have been made up. It could also have been that she was talking to his friends. Left overs from the cell that got blasted. Or maybe all my memories of him were merely tales whispered to me about him from my ma. This was only when she was drinking. When she was sober, she hardly spoke of him. As if mentioning him would lead us, me, down the same path… All I have of him is this.
[He leans over, the popping of his joints loud and apparent—he raises his eyebrows when others flinch to this noise—and pulls from his pocket a photograph. It’s a color photograph of a young man and woman. The man seems grim, and the woman shining in smiles]
This is it. Funny looking at your pa and seeing him as always younger than you. That’s how he stays. Makes me wonder about the only the good die young saying. Don’t it?
[Looks up, his eyes misting over, then looks down at the photograph]
I mean, I used to think that it was a matter of only the good people being taken down by the evil and more treacherous people of this world. Or, to give you a wartime situation: when one faces the guns of an enemy only the ones with kind hearts will sacrifice themselves for their friends. The cowards will survive and live on in the world. But nowadays I wonder about this, and I think that maybe this isn’t what the saying means. Perhaps it means that those who die young are filtered through the prism of time by those who survive and that with that prism of nostalgia the image of those who died young will be more and more glorified. Or maybe it’s just that the young don’t have time to sell out their ideals and they are indeed deserving of their accolades when they die young.
[Coughs, shifts in seat, holds his side and grimaces in pain]
I’m rambling now. You tend to do that when you get old. Not much time left, so I suppose one tends to spew all the thoughts in the mind, trying to beat death. But back to my pa. My ma, when sober, never told us a word about him. So who’s to say her drunk words were any more truthful. You could tell she loved him. Pained her to realize that whatever future she had imagined with him was gone forever. That he had left her in this world alone. And you could see that anger thrown at us at times. Especially when either of us acted in the slightest like him.
[Shakes his head]
Not that I blame her. With kids in the neighborhood getting caught up with the fight against the British, there wasn’t much else to do for her but try and purge that. I know she didn’t want to lose us too. But even then… why tell us nothing about our father? Like that’s going to push away fate? For me, all it made me do is want to be more like him, and the less I knew, the harder I wanted to be something I didn’t know.
But she tried. God bless her soul. In those times, though, every single boy becoming a teen ended up helping out the rebels. When those old friends of my father came about there was always a tension. And as soon as any of them talked to me or my sister, my ma would be yelling in full volume and beating their chests and pushing them out the door. She had a temper on her, my ma.
[Leans his head back and smiles with his eyes closed]
Can’t help swallowing a little shit when you’re swimming in it, though. When I was eight, I remember waking up in our little basement apartment. It was spring, and raining outside, and that building of ours was moldy and dripping. You could hear the bangs of the pipes as people tried their luck with the running water. I stood up in my bed. My sister slept in the same room, though my mother had finally found me a separate army cot to sleep in. My sis had been crying about having to sleep with her brother even though she was a woman. I crept out of bed. I remember it like it was yesterday. That metal cot threatening to creak, and me trying my hardest to not make a sound. Breathing only when it was necessary.
I could hear the distant throttling of trucks. Then the sound of tracks grinding up the road into gravel. We always had soldiers patrolling in our neighborhood, but we’d been spared most of the fighting and the sound of raids. No, our apartment was mainly women and children, and that spared us.
Then I heard boots sprinkling themselves across the road. I had to see. I was out of our room. In the hallway I pressed my ear against my ma’s door. Nothing. I made my way to the living room window. It was one of those half windows with a slit to see the feet of the world passing by. I could see the trucks and soldiers across the street. There were search lights too, and barrels of guns, and they were all pointed at our building. I was little, and youth like that means no fear of knowledge. I ran into the hallway. I could see some shadows outside the door.
I froze. Part of me wanted to stay there and watch. Another part of me—the one that had heard about how the Brits, cause this is who was about to attack our apartment building, loved killing kids then planting guns on them, or telling the world that the terrorists did it—said to hide. Thank God the latter won out. There was a crawlspace with an entrance underneath the stairs. I may have been the only one to know about its existence. And I kept it well hidden with a handful of boxes in front of it. I ran under the stairs, shifted the boxes and crawled in. I almost screamed with a furry creature ran over my foot—I was barefoot, mind you—but that was nothing.
The bang was absolute. I have no idea why they would go and blow up our front door, it was the only thing that kept our building relatively safe from the thieves of the neighborhood, and we would have gladly opened it for them. But no. They blew it up.
[Shakes head and nods at a glass of water on a table across. Once he has it, he sips it and sighs]
Shook me to my core. Always heard explosions before. Even the big car bombs that shook the earth. But it’s quite another thing to be near one. My ears popped and instinctively, I started to climb up that space. Couldn’t see anything. But I could feel those cold, dripping pipes. And up I went. I could hear boots from through the wall. But it wasn’t much.
Then, below me, a light shone around blindly. Thank good I moved. I heard some mumbles, then the light went out. They must have figured it was too small to hide anyone. But I was scared now. I knew something bad was happening. Funny how you can tell. I climbed higher. My heart was bouncing around, and by now my arms were hurting. I wanted to cry, I wanted to hold my ma, but fear only kept me crying.
At this point, I was hearing the sound of doors being kicked in. Some far, some near. And the gruff yells of men. I was sure that was the Brits, at this point, just being the bullies we’ve always known them to be.
[Shakes his head]
I should say that even at that point, knowing my pa had been killed by Brits and all, didn’t necessarily mean that I hated them through and through. My ma wanted me to work hard at school and head out to London to get a job. So her reply to any of my questions on the Brits was to be measured about them. Like I said, middle class ethics. She was hoping to mimic the middle class and by some sense of fairness on the part of occupiers she hoped that I would be as British as I could be. As long as it gave me some level of comfort in life. You get it? So I knew the stories, but I also knew that they might have had a tough time of being there. That they had nothing but bad and worse choices. I was a smart lad, I was able to see that. So remember that.
I finally came to a wall that had a wide crack in it. I peered in. It was an unlit room. I strained my eyes to see any figures, but there was nothing. Yet those little hairs on my skin told me to watch.
[Shifts again in his seat. Stares blankly at a space in front of him. His jaw pops as he grinds his teeth]
Horrid thing for a little boy to see. For as much as I wanted to be a man then, and I was a strong little bastard, smart too, smarter than all my teachers, male or otherwise, seeing that kind of thing always turns you a little off. And then I just took it. Thought that was how a man took it. But man was I wrong. This wasn’t for a kid like me. A kid. That’s what I was.
[Breathes in heavily. Closes his eyes]
I remember the grip on my bladder and balls. I was staring at a black room, with maybe the occasional scurries of rats across the floor, and in the distance, echoing up the crawlspace were the shouts and yells, screams of women. Gruff replies of men. It was like a nightmare. Though to be fair, the screams didn’t last. If that means anything. Any kid with sense would have gone back home. But how little sense I had. Then there was a loud explosion right in front of me. That flash almost blinded me. The dark room had an open door, and a hallway beyond that. I could only see the flashlights occasionally hit the wall of the hallway. Shadows grew. I thought I saw a shape move in the room.
But that didn’t matter. There was a loud shriek. A woman screaming. You could tell she was being pushed around. Where is he? Asked a man. He didn’t sound like he wanted to hear screaming. She continued to scream, then a slap silenced her. There were some gruff voices, then furniture, pots and pans being thrown about. Then the screams started back up. Suddenly the boots grew louder. I pulled back from the crack as the lights flashed into the room.
I leaned back in; the screams were right in front of me. Man, did I want to pee. I was leaning against a pipe and the wall, pretty comfortable, but I felt my legs shaking, my wrists too. Like there was no more energy in my mind, and thus no more in my muscles. And I wanted to drink as much water as possible, my throat too dry to even swallow. And as little as I knew then, I knew that leaning forward wouldn’t be something I would ever recover from… That I would no longer see anything in the world in the same way… So I leaned forward.
[Shrugs, acts sheepish]
What else can you expect from a kid? Christ. The stupidity that a child must be. I never understood that. You know? I mean how did our species survive this long by allowing our men to be such sons of bitches? Stupid… Ah, there I go again.
I leaned forward. I saw the room’s light on, now. The woman was being held with one long arm by a soldier. These weren’t the normal soldiers, they were dressed in black, and they had rolled up their sleeves. I could see tattoos on all of them. Skulls. They were evil, I knew it. The hand holding down the woman, occasionally shaking her, was full of these skulls. All the soldiers wore face masks. Shaped like skeletons, they were.
[Shifts when there seems to be an unbelieving cough]
Christ, you kids. You don’t believe me, do you?
[Laughs. Sucks in saliva in a loud and rude manner]
That’s life for you. You live too much of a real life and most people will never believe you. It was true. They wore these masks, most of them. And the woman in a corner, the other soldiers, about ten of them, were around a man. He wore a white shirt and black undershorts. He had green eyes, this man, and they gleamed with pure hatred for the men. His hair, that half reddish-brown clomp on his head was being held by one. His arms tied behind him, he was at their mercy. They had him on his knees, and every time he shifted they punched him.
They were asking him questions, but he, a mouthful of blood by this point, he only spit and cursed at them. I was watching, and I felt an immense sadness for the man. He was caught, wild eyed. And in that I could see a something about honor in him. Something about an undying spirit, but I also was certain that it was hopeless. That the soldiers, with their laughs and taunts, were only questioning him to see him fight back. And they too knew that his fight was hopeless.
What does a child do with that sort of scene in front of him? Does he accept it for what it is? How can he? How could I? Think about it for a second. And christ, why did I watch?
The woman was reduced to whimpering, her night dress torn now, and she used one hand to keep her breasts out of sight of the soldiers. There was something of a pack of wolves about them, and though I was a kid, I knew that if she let the night gown down, let her breasts be seen, that they would have devoured her. In a worse way than the man.
And they taunted him, punched him. Over and over. Kicks. Barrels to his chest. One barrel thrust broke his teeth. I remember the blood on the floor. Red, mixed with that dusty concrete that made up the apartment building. Small cracks that spit up powder and ants. But here it was filled with red. A veritable river. Sad, really. I stared at the river whenever that man’s spits grew too panful to watch. I have seen such things. Not so bad. Without the sense that there wouldn’t be an ending. Kids in school would do this, surround a kid and taunt him until he cried. But that never lasted more than a few minutes. The tears weren’t meant to be his last.
And the man broke. I don’t know how long I had been in that position, my muscles cramping up, my joints full of pain, but he broke. The shouts of determination quieted. And the woman said something. The soldiers laughed. Punched the woman, and the man. And the man broke. Hard thing to watch a man break. Never one to like it. Even now. Even in my most prolific days I never cared too much for such things. And as a kid it was a horrendous mixture of things. I mean, at the end of the day, the worst things we’ve been through, isn’t about the things themselves, but what they do to us, how they crawl or blast through our skin and bones and mind and leave you nothing but an animal, reacting to a subconscious that’s screaming that you’ve gone too far, that this isn’t the best thing to watch.
I stared, and the man almost whimpered. The soldiers laughed. Though I’m certain I saw at least one who shifted like he didn’t like it either, but what does it matter? He was one of them. The man started to shake after this. Uncontrollable tremors. I wanted to scream through the wall. I wished I had a gun. I wanted to kill them all.
The soldiers were really digging this. They laughed and brought the man to his feet. They taunted his woman with barrels threatening to tear off her nightgown. And my heart, bleeding in my mouth by this point, froze. The man was next to his woman and she held him. Then he pushed her away.
Screams.
I looked away. I had to. Shots. More shots. Then the men said something mean. I heard whimpering, though I’m not sure, because the drips of the pipes seemed ever louder. And the boots of the soldiers herded out of the room. Then silence. Beautiful silence. Only the taste of blood in my mouth. My heart beating so loud that I was sure it was echoing through the crawlspace. There was the light of the crack. I moved my head. There was only a red floor and an outstretch arm. My head was too tight to comprehend what was going on. And it were as if my skull was tightening around it.
I made my way down. The sound of tracks and trucks in the distance didn’t concern me. Being found didn’t concern me either. I wanted to be shot. It would have been a relief. I crawled back into my apartment. And lay back to bed.
“Where did you go?” my sister asked.
I closed my eyes. I didn’t, couldn’t tell her. And that’s how it starts to weigh on you, isn’t it? One secret from someone you love, and the world starts to shear in places you never thought possible.
Even that morning, I woke up, having slept, but that troublesome sleep, and that was the first time I experienced that. But I heard whispers, my ma and my sister were conferring. They rarely did that. I tried to hear. All I heard was my sister telling her that I had gone missing for a long time. When I walked into the kitchen, I could feel their eyes. Pity. I’d been expecting anger of some sort, but all I got was pity. That hurt more than anything else. And it only strengthened my resolve to hold my secret. So my mother asked, and I lied. Said I never left the apartment. Mind you, up until that point lying turned me red, made me squirm. But then and there I was full of verve. I was trying not to think about the previous night, and in fact I had managed to hide the images from myself. Christ. What a kid. To think one can forget. If only. Well, now it’s easier. But not for a kid. That’s how it goes. And I thought then I had it beat. But I didn’t think that being able to lie without all the other actions that normally came with it was an issue. My mother stared at me, then let it be.
[He opens his eyes. They seem wet but dry as well. He points at a bottle. A young boy, out of the shadows hands it to him. He drinks from it. The smell of alcohol drifts around. He closes his eyes, then holds his back. Then grimaces]
The neighborhood was alight with rumors. No one really knew what was going on. It was almost funny. And that was another thing that died. Until that point I’d believed every word that came out of any adult’s mouth. But then and there I knew how little they knew. First some people didn’t even know that someone had died. They speculated that it was just to scare them. Some of them argued that the police, like the newspapers said, had found a cache of weapons. There were pictures of artillery shells. Most people were horrified with this. After all, now our idyllic neighborhood would be targeted, and there would be a reason. Wouldn’t there? That was the worst of it. And that made me rethink my entire view of these people I once held in esteem. And there I was, near the bus stop, and I asked them what if it was to kill someone. And they laughed and called me a kid. Pity again. And I felt like I’d crossed into another realm.
Even at school there was hardly a peep of truth. Some kids raised their hands and asked our teacher what it was all for. And he just hemmed and hawed like there wasn’t anything worse to talk about. In the end he mumbled something about the police and military needing to go in and do something to clean up the neighborhood. The city. The country. I bit my tongue hard enough to draw blood. Some of the kids were all for the military. The others said that they were more than happy that the military was there, while others said that they were merely angry that they had been disturbed. Something about working people needing sleep. And the teacher hummed and nodded his head and stroked his chin, and I knew then that there was nothing that I could learn from him. Not in this realm (and at that point was there another realm that mattered. Not to that little boy I was, and not to even me when I grew older). I bit my tongue even harder. And I also noticed then that the kids who parroted the adults—those who knew so little—tried to sound the most knowledgeable and they were the ones the teacher tried to listen to the most.
I let this sit at the bottom of my heart as I watched the neighborhood slowly forget that anything happened. And soon they were talking about something else, and the kids at school were soon on to the next story, in this case a kid in third grade was eating dirt.
I went back up to that room. After everyone had forgotten. It was the top floor, and the door had been recently fixed. Unlocked. I walked inside. Not a thing. I made my way to the room. Empty. Clean. I saw the crack where I’d spied on the pitiful couple. And as clean as the place was, there was still the ghosts of what had happened. I could smell it, and I could feel it pry into my mind and my muscles. I knew that this was something evil. That ground on which blood spills is ground fertile for spirits. Yeah, laugh at me now. And maybe I should be laughed at. But you need to see such places. Especially in silence. The things that are whispered in your ear. Of course there’re ghosts.
[Shivers and slowly rubs his arms. Boy brings him a blanket. He grips it with his teeth and pulls it over his body]
This will also happen to you when you’re old.
I left that apartment. There were two other people on that floor. I knocked on both doors. One was an old couple. Old as me now, I suppose. And they said they hadn’t heard anything. I believed them. They could barely see me. And the next door. Well, they had seen something. But they shrugged, then watched me as if I was some sort of abhorrent creature who had nothing but trouble to make. Guess they were right, in the end. But what’s so wrong about trying to remember those who had passed?
And then I realized. Yes even at that age. I realized that was what power, empire, what have you, can do. It can make you disappear and make it hard for anyone to talk about you, and soon you will be forgotten. That was what happened. Over and over. And it was that simple. That realization knocked the air out of my lungs. Almost fell down the stairs. But I managed, and I survived. Nothing worse than for a kid to realize everything is a crystallized lie, and that if he lets anyone know he knows, then he’s done for.
So I pushed my head into books. Books from school, of course, but also books that weren’t allowed. I had to learn everything about the world that there was to learn. There was no stopping me. My ma didn’t seem too concerned, as she was proud of my academic achievements. And what child wouldn’t be? But I needed to learn. So after school, I would sneak off. I knew where the people who didn’t talk nicely about the British lived. They were in the alleys, and in the basements of bars. They were the men I’d seen evicted from my apartment. They were the link to my father.

Reading

So people with feeds know, I won't be able to make it to the reading today.

Sorry for the inconvenience.

A reading

Update: I won't be able to make it. But people should get still go and check this Veterans' reading out!



Hi all. Will be reading here where veterans will get a chance to read some of their work. Check it out! There will be some very talented veteran writers there.

And if you can't make it... you should check out the 9-11 Tribute Center whenever you get a chance.

Another blog

With some articles on veterans and their return home. Over all it's an interesting blog with very well thought out articles. Check out the blog: here.

A book to read

Just so you know read a great book, The Leopard by Lampedusa, and I think that everyone should check this book out. Beautiful story and prose.

On the law of appearing composed

With all the scientific advancements in our time one thing that still seems to hold sway (in our society as well as many others) is the ability not so much to talk in some high-class language, but to put together a cool calm appearance when arguing. Now I'm not saying this is bad in itself, but rather that when it takes precedence over the content of what is being said (and even more important the content of the context in which it's being said—I'm speaking of history here) then we can say that appearance becomes a hindrance. But these things do seem to matter. And it matters that there is no proper way of getting beyond this because we do need to see beyond heuristics and see the things that matter and in this way better understand our world and be able to work out solutions better.

Some people may say that content matters in the end, but this 'progress always works' view of the world seems fanciful.



And so the saying (worked into a novella that I've been working on): "The man who's drowning has less eloquence than the man on the boat"

Thoughts?

Editing

The new novel will be done, but for now here's a picture of my time in Washington.

Cheers all

Back from a short break

The radio silence was me out in the Northwest enjoying some time away from the city (and amazed at how every town had at least a drive thru espresso shack...). Readers will have to be patient as the next novel is being edited, though I'm extremely proud with what I have here, and I'm sure that readers will find it exciting as well.



To tide you over, I have pasted the start of the novel (nope, not the final edited one). Enjoy it:




























The
man walked to the street and looked down at the cafe, rustling awake in the
morning sun. He could feel his muscles wrapped tight around his bones. And he
could smell coffee in the air. But this was no time to think of his one
addiction. He nodded at the young man beside him. The young man, Abdul, was
sweating, his eyes darting back and forth.

“Don’t
worry. I’m going to be here with you the whole way,” said the man. He stroked a
scar on his jawline. It went deep. Old wounds from a war on the other side of
these desert sands. In the mornings his jaw bone would hurt like nothing else.

He
walked first, to scout the cafe, which was now filled with Western tourists. No
one seemed alert. All had that vapid look the man had come to associate with
the hated Westerners. He scowled at a handful of women with skirts on.

As
he walked past, he pulled his cellphone out. “Abdul, it’s clear. Get a coffee
and do it.”

He
didn’t look over his back. When he turned a corner he jumped into the passenger
seat of the car. The street here was busier. That gave them more cover. Horns
honked, and the pollution wafted into his head. He waited. A few minutes later
Abdul came around the corner. He smiled. Abdul jumped into the back.

The
man pulled out a remote control. He had done this hundreds of times, and it
never got any easier. He handed it to Abdul.

“Your
turn,” said the man. “When I say so, press the button.”

The
young man nodded and grabbed the remote, a little too easily for the man’s
tastes.

The
car drove forward and the cafe came into view. The man saw some kids playing
soccer in front of the cafe.

“Not
yet,” he said. He placed a hand on the driver’s forearm. “When he presses the button
you move away slowly, like there’s nothing wrong. Got it? No driving fast.”

The
man watched as the cafe owner drove away the kids with a broom. He noticed the
red skin of a tourist who seemed to see him.

“Now.”

The
flash and corresponding shock wave traveled through the man, and he felt the
warmth of the explosion. Then the car alarms and screams. Smoke and mangled
debris was all that remained of the cafe. They drove slowly around the corner.
A few streets over people were going about their business. None of them seemed
to know what was going on only a few blocks away. Near a pile of garbage Abdul
threw the remote.

Soon
they were on a highway out of the city. They stopped when they finally came to
a mountain side house. It was their safe house. The government didn’t have much
control out here.

But
the man knew that his day wasn’t over. There was a meeting with some of the
local tribal leaders in the evening. But first he was gong to have to talk to
his bosses.

He
told Abdul to relax and drink some water.

He
walked into his office and saw his two bosses. The head of Al Qaeda in Magreb,
and the liaison from Al Qaeda in Afghanistan. The man didn’t much like either
of them. They were too grand, and never liked to hear about the minutiae of the
local political movement. But they brought in recruits and money, so the man
didn’t have a choice.

“Please
to sit down,” said the man. “Drinks?”

The
two men shook their heads. The liaison was a tall and lanky man. He claimed to
have fought the infidels in Afghanistan. But the man didn’t believe that since
the lanky man, Mohammad looked too good, with skin too smooth to have seen a
battle. The man in charge of the Maghreb, Laith, was a short and stout man. He
had blue eyes and red hair, though he was born in the sands of Algeria.

“How
can I help you?” the man said, sitting back in his chair.

“How
did the operation go, Ali?” Laith asked, his eyes gleaming.

“Let’s
see,” Ali said, massaging his jaw bone again. It was always aggravated when
these two came here. He switched on the TV and turned to the news channel.
There was the cafe, with emergency services pulling people out of the rubble.

Laith
and Mohammad giggled with glee. Ali forced a smile, though he didn’t like the
way these two men seemed to love the sight of destruction. It only served to
highlight how much they hadn’t done anything on the ground. How they hadn’t had
actual blood on their hands and clothes and how that blood hadn’t infiltrated
their dreams.

“It
says ten dead, twenty injured, good job,” Mohammad said.

“Thank
Abdul,” Ali said. “He was the one who carried it out. His first.”

“He’s
a soldier,” Laith said.

Ali
didn’t say anything. It was also the desk men who would dismiss a soldier’s
job. “What do you two want?”

“Just
wanted a discussion of where your team was going. The next few missions,” Laith
said.

Ali
let out some air and filled them in on the next few attacks planned, and the
local political situation. The two men’s eyes glazed over. Ali dived further
into the situation. Finally, Laith raised his hand.

“We
also wanted your opinion on something.”

“Please,”
Ali said, suppressing a smirk and preparing himself for a grandiose idea that
he’d have to shoot down.

“You
know the great Dr. Khan?” Mohammad asked.

“Of
course, who doesn’t?”

“Well
we have been in correspondence with him,” said Mohammad.

“Really?”
Ali said and leaned forward. He never imagined these two to be that competent.

“Yes.
We may have convinced him to finally come out and help us.”

“Come
out?” Ali said. “The ISI watches him like a hawk. How can he come out? And even
if he did, the Americans and the Israelis would have him killed in a
heartbeat.”

“You
think too small,” Mohammad said. “To risk-averse. We have good word that he’ll
soon be with us, and that when he is, we’ll finally have what we always
wanted.”

“Is
that so?” Ali said. This still seemed ludicrous to him. “And what amazing
nuclear facility will he be working at?” He leaned back. He did not like these
two, and he especially hated their foreign accents. It only proved that they
didn’t care for the local situation and would forever be grasping at magical
solutions to mundane problems.

His
comment shut the two of them up, but after a few glances they seemed to regain
their composure.

“You
think too small,” Laith said, shaking his head. “The doctor will soon be
helping us. And then we shall be unstoppable.”

“Well,
I must,” Ali said. “What did you say to him that brought him on board?”

“We
explained how he could help the cause.”

“And
what did he say?” Ali asked.

“At
first he claimed we had no cause. But we think our last letter convinced him.”

“Why?”
Ali asked.

“We
told him to think of the bigger picture.”

“Ah,
ingenious,” Ali said, wondering how long before he could kick them out of his
office. He wanted to drink some chai. Then he wanted to talk to the local
leaders about money for some water.

“It
is,” said Laith. “We want to draft one more letter, though.”

“And
you want me to?” Ali said, not hiding his annoyance.

“Yes.
We need you. You can tell him some stories of the ground and help convince him
about our cause.”

“All
right. I will,” Ali said.

When
the two men left he shook his head and wondered what letter he could possibly
write to someone as smart as the good Dr. Khan. He would finish it later.

And
as he walked out of the building, he felt a prickle on his skin. He looked up
at the sky. The distant sound of an jet engine hummed. Just like any other day.
As he watched the motorcade with Laith and Mohammad leave, he suddenly knew
what was going on.

A
few other men were milling about, and Ali yelled: “Missile!”

Most
of the men stared at him like they thought he was mad. But Ali knew what the
drill was and ran to the rocks a few hundred meters from the building. He dove
into them as the sky was filled with a horrid swooshing sound. And in the
middle of his dive Ali felt himself twisted in the air, a warm shocking push,
as his world went black.







Dr.
Khan leaned back on his window ledge when a loud series of horns, odd even for
Karachi, forced his eyes over to the street. He was on the outskirts of the
city, and the tree lined streets here were filled with hawkers of all wares.
Outside his house, in two black cars, were a handful of men in aviator glasses
and gray suits. They occasionally glanced up at him and nodded.

They
were there, according to the Pakistani government, for his protection. But he
also knew that they were there in place of his prison bars. Protection, in Dr.
Khan’s life, had always meant less freedom. He sighed as he lit up a cigarette.
He had started ever since stooges in his government and the American government
collaborated to make his life a living hell.

In
his other hand he held a crumpled piece of paper. He knew its contents by
heart. And he knew no one else could ever read it. Using his matches, he set it
on fire, opened the window and watched as the paper turned to ashes and smoke.

The
men in suits glanced at him, but they didn’t seem to react. The air outside was
cool and refreshing, and Dr. Khan admonished himself for picking up the
disgusting habit of tobacco. But he couldn’t stop from inhaling another hit of
nicotine.

And
what was he going to do about the request in the letter? He could feel his
intestines crawl up to his heart, and his heart pushed blood to his brain, and
he felt overwhelmed. He took in another drag. The sun was setting fast, and
swallows came out in the relief to pick at the insects rising in turn for
relief. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He stared at the men. They
would see him the moment he left. Or was there another way?

Dr.
Khan threw out his cigarette and pondered his choices.

Soon
dinner would be ready and he would go downstairs and eat with his wife and her
relatives. He didn’t mind them, really, their deferential respect towards him
always allowed him some room to breathe. But none of them would be willing to
help him with this. In fact, it would be better if they didn’t know about this
at all.

But
the boy who brought him the letter. He would be able to help, wouldn’t he? How
to reach out to him, though?

His
wife’s voice sounded off the marble floors and Dr. Khan slowly made his way
down the stairs and to the dinner table where everyone stared at him. He raised
his hand and everyone dived in to eat. He chewed his food, not tasting the
lamb, though the clove curry spices that hit his nose made him wonder why not.
No, his thoughts were with the letter he’d just burned. The more he dwelt on it
the more it seemed that these people in front of him were strangers.

His
wife placed her hand on his wrist, a concerned look on her face. He forced a
smile to tell her that he was all right. But inside he was annoyed. He just
wanted to lay with his thoughts, the letter, and the emotions it stirred up
inside him.

This
thought made him immediately feel bad and he placed his other hand in his wife’s
and smiled again, staring into her big brown eyes. She had, after all, been the
one to stand behind him. Especially when he had been arrested, forced to live
in a house, never to see the light of day. He tilted his head at her. She
nodded and went back to eating. He returned his eyes to his own plate, feeling
that if he concentrated on the food in front of him no one else would notice
his cogitation, and perhaps he could even forget the damn letter.

It
didn’t work. He focused on each grain of rice embedded in the pilaf. A piece of
clove. And still the letter’s contents wouldn’t leave his mind be. He pushed
his food aside, half-finished and left the table. He could feel everyone’s eyes
piercing his back. He walked around the corner and opened the bathroom door,
shutting it loudly. He could hear a few murmurs from the dinner table. It
didn’t matter. The sweat on his forehead, and the feeling of a vice on his
heart. He had to leave. There was no other choice. He headed to the servants’
room. There was still one who stayed after dinner.

The
servant, Karim, looked at him like he didn’t care for the intrusion.

“Can
I help you?”

Dr.
Khan stopped to take in this servant. The newest of the lot, and the most
rebellious. Normally the doctor’s wife would have said something, but even she
seemed to know better. There was something about Karim that didn’t seem to
brook authority, and whatever had led him to become a servant, it didn’t seem
strong enough to make him a loyal dog.

“I
know this is your dinner time, but I wanted to talk to you,” Dr. Khan said. He
tried to keep his eyes on Karim’s almost black eyes. He failed and his eyes
darted to the scar that ran across Karim’s dark forehead, denting the nose,
then across the lower jaw and touching off his neck.

Karim
put down his plate of food and pointed at his bed. It was a small room, with a
jail-like window, a three-legged stool that Karim was sitting on, and an army
cot with a blanket on it. The whole room stunk of dirty feet and a hint of
perfume. Dr. Khan knew the house rules didn’t allow the servants to have any
guests of their own, but Karim seemed impervious to such rules. That it was s
woman Karim was violating the rules for, made the doctor like him.

Dr.
Khan sat down, the cot creaking to greet him. He stared at his hands because
staring at Karim’s eyes, those incisive things, would make his inner turmoil
worse.

“Well?”
Karim said, casting a glance at his unfinished plate.

“You
know the young boy who came by the front door today?” Dr. Khan said. He could
smell the perfume rises off the sheets. He suppressed a smile. And for the
first time in hours he truly relaxed.

“Abdullah?
The one with the message for you?” Karim said.

“Yes,”
Dr. Khan replied. He took a second to hold Karim’s stare, but those
vacant-yet-sharp black eyes forced him to look elsewhere. He settled for the
wall behind Karim. Paint peeling, and a cockroach running into a crack. What
was it about Karim’s eyes that seemed so scary? After all he, Dr. Khan, had
dined with plenty of military men with time in and around Kashmir. Men who had
fought battles at twenty thousand feet. What was it about Karim’s eyes that
seemed harder?

“What
about him?” asked Karim.

The
doctor wasn’t certain what to ask. Instead, happy to not think about the
message, he was thinking that Karim, even with the suited men outside, was the
kind of person to take a slight and murder an entire family. The doctor had
heard stories like that and thought it possible. Not with the kind of servants
he’d had before. But with Karim… “He’s a street child, isn’t he?”

Karim
stood up a little taller. “So am I.”

“You’re
no longer a child.”

Karim
half-grinned, showcasing his browned teeth.

Dr.
Khan let out a sigh of relief. For a second he thought his last sentence went
too far. “Do you know him well?”

“I
knew him before I had this job. He’s smart…” Karim trailed off. Something about
his demeanor suddenly seemed unconfident.

“I
know he is.” The doctor had only talked to the boy a handful of times, but it
was easy to see his intelligence. Dr. Khan had seen that in a smart remark that
had all the suited men laughing at him. That was a few weeks ago. Little by
little he had let the young boy buy things for him. Abdullah always knew how to
evade the men in suits, and that was also something Dr. Khan liked.

“And
you want to talk about Abdullah, why?” Karim asked. His face had contorted into
a snarl.

The
doctor was confused for a second before he realized what Karim was insinuating.

“No.
No,” Dr. Khan said. “I am not like that.”

Karim
nodded, but his face remained hard.

“Do
you know how he got the message he gave me?”

Karim
shook his head. “I can ask him, if you want.”

The
doctor paused to think. Would including Karim in his scheme be foolish? Perhaps
the hard man only saw him as a way to get money. Perhaps the first chance he
got he would stick his master and take his wallet. But the doctor knew he was
going to have to risk it. He picked up the blanket and smelled it. “A woman of
yours?”

Karim
clenched his jaw.

“I
don’t mean anything. I also think having a woman is important. The greatest
thing in the world.”

“What
I do is my business,” Karim said.

“Of
course it is. And if you don’t want to talk, fine. But I just want to make sure
I understand a little about you.”

“Why?
You pay me to wait and serve you. What do you care what I do?” Karim said.

The
doctor glanced at the door. He got up, checked the hallway, and shut it. He
stood in front of Karim. He could see the young man’s fists balling up.

“I
too have a secret,” Dr. Khan said. “That’s what the message was about.”

Karim’s
forehead furrowed, his head tilted like he was confused, then his face lit up
and he grinned. “Oh?”

“Can
you help me keep them?”

Karim
leaned back and smiled. A waft of an unbrushed tongue hit the doctor and made
him hold his breath. Dr. Khan had not thought it possible to see the young
man’s face and eyes go soft, but they did.

“I
will tell no one,” Karim said and pointed at his blankets. “The servant girl
from across the street comes in at night. I leave my window open and she comes
in almost every night.”

Dr.
Khan smiled. “It’s good to have a woman,” he repeated.

“Yes.
And secrets,” Karim said, holding up his finger. “Nothing is more important
than being able to share secrets with someone.”

Dr.
Khan nodded his head, though he was in no mood to share what was in the
message. “I need to leave. And I need to do it without any one else knowing.
Abdullah seems to know how to avoid them. I think he can help.”

“That
boy has the magic touch. He can sneak in and out of anyplace without a
problem.”

“Will
he be able to get me out without someone noticing?” the doctor asked.

“You
will be hard. But we can manage.”

The
doctor wasn’t certain how the poor young man in front of him was so confident,
but he liked it and didn’t want to burst the elated feeling that gave him.

“And
where do you want to go?” Karim asked.

“I
want to get out of the country.”

Karim
chuckled, then looked at the doctor with narrowed eyes. “Out of the country?
This will not be easy. You know this?”

“I’ll
pay,” said the doctor. “But it must be done right away and no one—“

“I
know. No one must know.”

“Right,”
Dr. Khan said. Now that doubt had crept across Karim’s face he felt like his
hopes were crashing. “This can be done, right?”

“It
can.”

“You
ever done something like this?” the doctor asked.

Karim’s
eyes glanced around the room. “Yes. On the border to Afghanistan. But that’s
easy if you want to be in Afghanistan.”

So
the young man was fighter on top of being a street kid. Dr. Khan could feel his
throat tightening. “And further than that?”

“It
can be done. I will talk to Abdullah tomorrow about getting you out of the
house. Then—“

“No.
Tonight. Get him tonight. I want to be gone as soon as possible.”

“Okay,
okay,” Karim said, smiling. “It will happen.”

The
doctor stared at Karim for another half second before he turned to the door.
“Let me know if you need anything from me.”

“I
will,” Karim said, his smile almost too nice now.

As
Dr. Khan made it up the stairs to his room, he saw that his hands were shaking.
How foolish could he have been to place his trust in someone like Karim? The
young man was a street kid. He would turn the doctor in, or kill him for his
money the moment he had a chance. But the doctor knew he had to take the risk.
His stomach rumbled and he pulled out a bottle of whiskey. It was a gift from
decades ago during his time in Germany. He had barely touched it, but tonight
he needed something. He made sure his door was locked before he took a sip.




The
doctor awoke, lurching up and staring at darkness. His heart was beating fast
and he wasn’t certain why. After a few seconds he made out a from beside his
bed.

“You’re
awake,” Karim said.

It
took a few seconds for Dr. Khan to remember what he had talked about with the
young man only a few hours ago. He rubbed his eyes, picked them with his
fingers and rubbed the crust between them. That helped to calm him down. He was
Dr. Khan. The great doctor, and he knew what he had to do. And even though his
bed called him, made him want to sleep and forget this ever happened, he pulled
his feet out of bed and waited for Karim to say something.

When
nothing was said. When in fact all he could hear was Karim breathing, he
wondered if Karim had in fact woken him up. Or was he just sitting here
watching the doctor sleep? If so, with such a tough young man, the doctor felt
that perhaps he had made a mistake. But as the young man’s chai-infused breath
infiltrated the doctor’s olfactory senses and made him feel warm, he decided
that the young man was here to help.

“Did
you find Abdullah?” asked the doctor.

“I
did,” said Karim.

“I’ll
be meeting with him now?”

“We
leave now. Pack what you need and let’s go.”

That
jolted the doctor hard. He instinctively looked to see if his wife was in bed,
but they had stopped sleeping in the same room ever since she claimed that he
snored ten years ago.

“Wait,”
the doctor said. He had, in fact, packed. But that had been when this wasn’t a
reality. He walked to his dresser in the dark and pulled out the bag. He tried
to remember what was in it. He put on a fresh change of clothes, then his
shoes. He made sure his wallet was full and in his pocket.

Karim
grabbed his hand. “We have to go now.”

Before
he could protest, the young man had pulled him out to the hallway. They went
down the steps so fast that the doctor felt sure that they would fall and be
found out. But the young man was sure footed, and even though the doctor
tripped twice, and pushed on the young man’s back, he didn’t fall.

Dr.
Khan found himself in Karim’s room. The window was open, and Dr. Khan felt
certain that there was someone on the bed. The smell of saffron was strong. He
didn’t say anything when that form stirred. Karim pushed him to the window.

The
doctor pulled himself up and over the window and into a small section of the
garden he’d never seen before. There was a high wall with glass scattered in
the cement on top. Karim, now beside him pointed at the wall. “I hope you can
climb,” whispered the young man.

Karim
looked around. There were no windows facing this part of the house. He wondered
how big of a security threat that was. He walked over to the wall and looked at
Karim. Now that he had to climb it, it seemed impossible.

Karim
grinned, a garlic smell now spewed from his mouth. Dr. Khan wondered how it
changed so quickly. But before he could think of that, Karim got down on all
fours and indicated that the doctor should climb on his back. At the same time
Karim handed him a piece of cloth. He indicated to the doctor to wrap his hands
in it. The doctor did so and stood up on Karim’s back. It was less stable than
he thought and he fell down. The second time he secured his balance with the
wall and reached up over the wall. Even with the cloth to protect his hands, he
could feel the glass pushing into his skin.

And
he used all his might to pull himself up. But his muscles weren’t used to this
sort of exertion. He pulled himself high enough that his chin rested on the
top, and he could see the small street that greeted him. For some reason it
didn’t seem familiar.

He
felt a push on his ass and he used it to pull himself over. He could hear his
pants ripping on the glass shards. Some screeched past his skin. But when he
fell, feet then ass, on the other side, there was a momentary pang of relief.
That was soon replaced when Karim didn’t come over.

Lying
there on his back, he stared at the cloud cover and wondered why he was doing
this now. He could sense the freedom that leaving the house afforded him. The
air was almost lighter. It was as if he knew the men in suits could no longer
touch him.

But
the longer it took for Karim to come over—where was he?—the lighter the air
felt until the doctor couldn’t breath any more. And then the warnings the ISI
and their men in suits gave him tickled his brain and increased in volume until
they were yells in the silence of the night. He thought about the warnings they
had given him. That in fact there were trained American and Israeli assassins
in the streets who were after him. And now he had given up protection, for
what? To trust a street kid who may well have still been a terrorist?

He
could feel his chest tighten.

“Doctor?”

The
doctor opened his eyes. “Where were you?” he asked. He felt helpless. He knew
that trusting Karim with his life was foolish. But what else could he do?

“Sorry,
I heard some noise inside the house and I had to make sure no one suspected you
were gone. Not until later.”

“Where
to now?” the doctor asked as he got up and brushed himself. There was a white
korean van near them on the street that Karim pointed at.

 “In there,” Karim said and handed him a
passport.”

The
doctor looked inside. There was a picture of him. Again his mind started to
run, and his chest tightened. How could a street child get such good forgeries?
In so short a notice? It could very well be that Karim was working for the
Americans or someone else…

“I’m
not a normal street kid, but I work for no one but myself… and you,” Karim
said, patting the doctor on the back.

The
doctor decided to believe that. They drove in the van for a few minutes, pulling
further and further away from the city. Dr. Khan wanted to ask Karim what the
plan was, but with his thoughts in such a jumble, he didn’t.

Arriving
in at a corrugated tin shack by the side of the highway, Karim hid the van in
plastic siding then pointed to a car. The air out here was clean, crisp, and
crickets chirped in the distance. Dr. Khan felt better about trusting Karim.

Then
the young man opened the trunk.

“No,”
said the doctor, he hated closed spaces.

“You
have to,” Karim said. “There will be checkpoints up. You have to get inside.”

The
doctor felt like peeing, but in the end he decided that there was no choice and
climbed in. The trunk shut tight, inches from his face. He looked for an air
hole, or a crack, but couldn’t find anything. The car started up and started to
toss and turn through a bumpy road. What bumpy road? They were next to a
highway.

Dr.
Khan’s heart started to race. The darkness of the trunk seeped into his mind.
He never wanted to be back at home as badly as he did now. He pushed at the
trunk and yelled. The trunk wouldn’t budge. This was a mistake, and he could
feel it through his bones. He yelled again.

In
response loud music was turned on. Dr. Khan knew that Karim wasn’t what he
pretended to be. How he wished he was with the men in suits. He could smell
something sweet in the trunk, and realized that it was blood. He kicked again
and his whole world, nothing but black, fell in on him.