“And she left it at that. She thought that was as much as Claire had understood. So Lynne went on driving, Claire watching out the window as she turned the corner into our neighborhood, and onto our street. And just before she pulled into the drive, Claire said, ‘Mama. Someday I’m gonna die, aren’t I?’”
He heard the last words resonate off the walls, and swallowed down hard again, and felt his skin prickle at Josephine’s observation of him, and then a flush of anger at his helplessness.
“I can’t keep talking this way. Hog-tied and blindfolded like this.”
“I’m sorry, Marc.”
He pulled hard at the knots.
“Don’t be angry,” she said.
He threw his head back and laughed. “Don’t be angry? Are you fucking kidding me? I feel like I’m in a zoo. Like I’m a lab specimen.”
“We’re only talking.”
At this he strained hard at the ropes, his feet set against the floor for ballast, and his muscles taut. He let out a low cry at the effort, but he felt something inside coming loose, and he was afraid of it, so he stopped. He was breathing heavily.
“I’d give anything to get out of here right now. Sell the house, the car. The whole fucking Pepsi corporation. You can have it. Use the money for rocket launchers.”
His wrists burned from the ropes. He felt defeated, and then laughed, as if there were any other way to feel since the moment he was captured.
“Something funny?”
“Oh, yes. There’s a ton that’s funny. This zoo. You as my zookeeper. Training me to jump through hoops. You could sell tickets. Pathetic little penny-ante carnival.”
“You need to settle down. Saabir will be back soon.”
“Maybe he’ll do me the favor of lopping off my head.”
Josephine stood up then, and walked around behind him. He heard her kneel to the floor, and she unknotted the ropes so that, for a brief instant, he could have pulled away, and then she re-knotted them again tight against his wrists.
“It won’t do for others to see that you were fighting against these restraints,” she said. She stood up again, but instead of sitting back down, she put her hand on his shoulder and her mouth near his ear.
“You chose that story to tell, Marc. Don’t be angry with me for making that choice.”
“Don’t be angry?” he said again. “For Christ’s sake, Josephine, look at me. You just retied my arms behind my back while I sit here blindfolded. I’m your fucking hostage.”
Someone knocked at the door, and after she opened it, she said something to probably Saabir in Urdu. He recognized Azhar’s name in a sentence, and after the door latched, Saabir untied the ropes and removed the blindfold, and Marc saw Azhar standing in front of him. Saabir held the blindfold up by a corner; it was nearly soaked through, and he said something to Azhar while grinning. In the narrow light of the room still lit by a lantern, Azhar’s face looked grim, and he seemed to favor the shoulder that wasn’t bearing the weight of his rifle.
“Walk,” Azhar said weakly, almost at a whisper. Saabir gestured with his hand, as if Marc should get up and join Azhar. Marc’s chest tightened.
The night was clear, with no moon, but the lights from the city dimmed the stars. In the air there was still the persistent smell of smoke, and more distantly sewage, but also a coolness that seemed familiar. He tried not to think of Claire. Of Lynne. Azhar led him once around the perimeter, and this time, when they passed the window of the house next door with the tables and chairs, it, too, was lit by a lantern, and a young, thin man with a beard was sitting over a cup of tea. He didn’t raise his head as they passed.
A quarter of the way back around, Azhar put his hand on Marc’s shoulder, but when Marc started to turn to face him, Azhar stopped him. Marc heard the click of the safety being released on the rifle. A few seconds passed as he listened to Azhar breathing with some difficulty as he shifted his weight, and then Marc felt the end of the barrel of the gun at the base of his neck. His feet and hands tingled with the rush of adrenaline, and after this first flush he turned cold.
“Azhar,” he said quietly.
The gun barrel was steady on his spine, though Azhar seemed to be holding it up with effort. He said something to him in Urdu. Then he said. “Sorry. You want live? You want?”
Azhar pulled the gun away from Marc’s head, and he heard him latch the safety. He grabbed Marc’s shoulder, and turned him around. Marc was sweating hard under his arms and along his inner thighs. The gun was back on Azhar’s shoulder, and with Azhar’s back to the night sky, Marc could barely make out his face. But he looked like he was in pain.
Azhar raised his hand palm down as he had before to indicate his children.