Then the vision of his father vanished. Nothing remained but colors, shades of yellow and red.
Eyes still closed, Jonas reached up and touched his parted lips with the fingers of his right hand. Lips were so important. He hoped he’d done enough with his. Said enough. Laughed enough. Meant enough. Kissed enough.
He pressed his hands together, yoga-style, in front of his chest, and bowed his head, eyes still closed. He needed, again, to release his shoulders. He pulled them down, feeling his neck lengthen. He retained all his tension in his shoulders. He probably always would, he thought, and then smiled at the thought. Of course he always would. There wasn’t that much always left.
He rose. It was time. He knew it without looking at the wristwatch he’d put on the floor next to the bed. He put the Qur’an in the front pocket of his shirt. He stuck one arm, then the other, into the sleeves of his coat, put the letters in his pocket. The detonator was already there. He pulled his hat onto his head.
He opened the door and then remembered: the nails. The nails were to slip into his coat pocket so he could be as effective as possible when the moment came. They were in a pile on the floor in the corner. Large nails that would be used not to build a chair but to build a house. Two handfuls. One for each coat pocket. He touched the steel point of one to the palm of his hand, imagining for a second a crucifixion. It felt startlingly sharp, an unnecessary insult. No. No, he decided, without more thought than that, and released the nails back into the corner.
Before he left, he took one final searching glance around the studio apartment. A used tea bag and the chipped mug sat on the counter. His skiing pictures remained taped to the wall. The bed cover was rumpled; the prayer rug lay in the corner. Masoud would come claim it, roll it up, perhaps use it himself this very night for evening prayers—a sign of the ongoing connection between the two men.
There were many issues to care about in the world. The environment, education, legal rights for transgendered people. What Jonas cared about was violence, man against man, the imbalance it had created between the powerful and the weak, and the need for somebody who recognized it to even the scale because otherwise the world risked spontaneous combustion, an energy so angry it would engulf itself fully, leaving only ashes behind. One man ending his family name so that others could, eventually, thrive.
Jonas closed the door. He didn’t lock it.
On the street, he headed downtown, away from the subway station, opposite the direction that he needed to go. He strode quickly. Carefully, though, because of the vest. He didn’t want anyone bumping into him, and the streets were crowded. The streets were crowded, but he couldn’t hear anyone talking. He heard only two birds, though he couldn’t see them. He imagined them chatting from their perches on neighboring buildings far above his head. And then he passed them, and he heard nothing, as though he’d become Charlie Chaplin skipping through a silent film. “The Tramp” without the hair. He thought of those others who had floated above the world before carrying out their mission, and how the land and people below must have seemed small and even unreal. To be among, instead of above, was after all a braver act.
Three blocks from the Avenue of the Finest, he stopped at a mailbox on the corner he’d spotted the previous day and fished the letters and postcard from his pocket. This box was far enough away that it would not be damaged. He was taking the number 6 up to Grand Central, but downtown, everything would remain intact. His notes would eventually settle in the hands for which they were meant, even if it took an extra day or so because of the ensuing confusion.
Then he turned and walked back the way he’d come. He touched his waist once or twice. He’d begun to hear again, but selectively. Odd combinations of words that slipped from passing mouths. They pulsed through him like blood, but between each phrase fell silence.
As desirable as.
She buried her face in.
Possibly drugged, though I can’t say.
My gold bikini and the best shampoo.
He loved it. Jonas loved it all. He knew his breathing had grown even more shallow, and maybe it was making him light-headed, but to him it seemed that the voices and street noises were music, the passersby long-lost neighbors. Some stared at him long enough to discern his kindness and understand his motivation, and then they smiled. He was judged and not found wanting.
At the edge of the steps that led down into the subway, Jonas paused. He raised his head, nose skyward like a hunting dog sniffing the air. He touched his fingers to his waist again and then gripped the cold metal of the handrail with his right hand. It was as if he’d taken hold of a talisman. He felt the metal’s worn but dependable sturdiness seep into his muscles, all the way up to his shoulders. He was strong. Stronger than fear.
He pulled his MetroCard from his back pocket and took another shallow breath of the mortal earth’s air. And then he stepped into the steady stream of people, was carried with them, by them, down, deep into the subway.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Deepest thanks to: my tireless and generous-hearted agent, Marly Rusoff, and her amazing team, including Julie Mosow and the poetic Michael Radulescu. Fred Ramey for his unmatched wise editing eye, as well as Greg Michalson, Caitlin Hamilton Summie and the entire inspiring Unbridled gang. Blue Mountain Center, as my month ensconced there got me through the first draft. Many early readers, including the very first reader, Susan Ito, and also Arra Hamilton, Caroline Leavitt, Ericka Lutz, Briana Orr, Cheney Orr, Nancy Wall, Amanda Eyre Ward. David Orr for his patient and unwavering support, and Bri, Che and Daylon for more gifts than I can name.
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