Ruthi waves her hands before the flames and then presses them to her eyes for the blessing. It is in this window where a mother’s wishes are made.
She first prays for her son’s good health and good fortune. Then she prays for the General. Let him find his way back. Let him finish what he started. Let him return to lead this country to safety and final borders, and a peace that will usher them into the future, even as the countries around them burn. She adds a prayer for the poor children of those countries, and one for the parents who shield them. On and on her wishing goes, until she stops herself, circling back to her son, so as not to over-wish her weekly allowance while welcoming the Sabbath into her home.
It may be the first time in his life that the General can sit in his den and read the paper in peace and quiet, but for that shot, like the player’s needle endlessly spinning.
That sound, it never seems to go away.
The General heaves himself up, as if the air raid sirens were suddenly screaming, dumping the bowls in his lap to the floor. The General runs outside, taking the path behind the burn barrel, his dogs darting after him in a lather.
He runs the dusty track to the front gate, hanging ajar, and races out into the road. He stands in its center, not yet sweating in the heat, his system still catching up with the mad dash he has made. The General cries out, screaming his son’s name. He calls to the boy, though the boy is right there. His son, his legacy, the one for whom he fights all his battles, the one for whom he fought them, even before this child was born.
Here he lies with a bullet to the head, and next to him the General’s prized rifle.
The ivory stock is covered in dust and wet with blood, and still the General can see, it’s a treasure. Two treasures, he thinks, as he scoops up—and runs off with—his wounded and dying and already dead son.
He knows, right then, for a father to survive this is unthinkable. For him to live even one second after gathering up what cannot be, something is not right. The General holds the boy’s bloody body close and he looks, carefully, around. Yes. Something in his universe has gone awry.
2002, Berlin
Farid takes the last tie and finishes flaking the mainsail. It is a beautiful evening, and he is in no rush at all.
Joshua waits for him on the dock.
“I liked that a lot, today,” Joshua says. “I’m feeling more confident, if that counts for anything.”
“That’s a big part of it. Also, you sail better late in the day.”
“Maybe it’s you noticing fewer mistakes when it’s darker.”
“Or it could be that.”
When all is trim and neat, Farid accepts a hand from Joshua and hops out of the boat. “I do think some people do better at certain times of day—in all things. If you’re a night person, you should recognize that and do what’s most important when you’re most at ease.”
“Life lessons and sailing lessons,” Joshua says.
“I’m not kidding. It took me a long time to learn that.”
Joshua nods and, already holding his keys, starts to walk off. He stops when Farid doesn’t follow.
“I’m going to stay,” Farid says.
“I figured you might.” And, as if it needs explaining, Joshua says, “I mean, that first week, I saw you here. Just, you know, watching.” When Farid says nothing in reply, Joshua waves goodbye, keys jangling, and heads toward the path to the street.
Farid watches him, calculating, trying to get a read.
Surprising himself, he calls to Joshua, feeling as he does so that he’s speaking way too loudly. Then, though he’d really thought he’d wait on a different opportunity, he says, “I wanted to ask you. What if Egypt wasn’t your worry anymore?”
“What if what?” Joshua says.
Farid’s question pulls him right back.
“I reached out to some people about your Cairo deal. If you’re interested, I know a person who can solve your problem at port.”
Joshua raises his hands in surrender.
“Honestly, I wasn’t trying to involve you. I’m still embarrassed I brought it up. It’s been bothering me ever since,” Joshua says. “Anyway, it’s way too big a favor to ask.”
“I wasn’t offering a favor. I was making a pitch.”
Joshua keeps trying to wave the whole thing away. “I couldn’t bear dragging you into this mess. Even if you helped clear Customs, they’ll shut us out of the market. It’s a nightmare, no matter what.”
“Which is, again, why I want to discuss it. What if Egypt wasn’t your nightmare anymore? If your figures are anywhere near what you say—”
“They are,” Joshua says.
“Then let me be your representative for merchandising there. You won’t have to bear the cost of inventory. I’ll pay based on the volumes you move.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Exactly,” Farid says. “You don’t understand. But I do. I have connections, powerful people, who really like the terms I brought them. Also, it’s not about Egypt for me. I want Gaza as a territory too.”
“That sounds like even more of a nightmare than Egypt,” Joshua says. “No offense! Or, if it’s too late for that, what I’m trying to say is, I thought there’s a blockade on?”
“Which is why my offer is so good. I’m making it so that these aren’t your worries. And if it works with the small stuff, then you and I can discuss going big. The utilities in Gaza, the sewage treatment, the power grid, it’s all been knocked out by the Israelis. We could do servers. There is no limit once we start.”
“That is big.”
“There is a lot at stake, for a lot of people.”
“Does that mean I’ll be breaking Israeli law?”
“Israel’s laws aren’t the world’s. And they definitely aren’t Palestine’s.”
Again, Joshua concedes defeat. “Let’s not go there. I’m asking, how will you get merchandise through if the borders are closed?”
Farid shakes his head, disappointed in Joshua’s ignorance.
He points down, and Joshua looks down.
“Underneath,” Farid says. “The same way everything gets into Gaza. Through the tunnels.”
Joshua does some nervous foot tapping and, finally, wipes his nose on the back of his hand.
“It does sound like you’ve got it covered,” he says. “And I need it covered.”
“Is that a deal?”
“It could be. Only, it’s not how I do business.”
“Obviously, we’ll set written conditions. I’m not asking to do it on a handshake.”
“It’s not your end I’m worried about. It’s mine. If we’re going to do this,” Joshua says, “I want you to send someone to my guy in Cairo. He has a couple of laptops and a whole mess of phones. I want to know that you really can get things into Gaza. And, before we start, I want you to know that everything is as tip-top as I’m promising.”
“Even better,” Farid says.
“Listen, I’ll get you the info before I fly to Mumbai on Wednesday. I’m back the Wednesday after. Talk to me then,” Joshua says, and puts a hand on Farid’s arm. “If it all still sounds good, we can draft some contracts. But first, I want to hear that you’re happy. It’s important that when you look at me you see the face of a man you can trust.”