by Curt Colbert
“I have two child—”
She whipped the gun across his head. “I said QUIET! Now look, your turban’s all ruined.”
“Ku… faya.”
“What?”
“Not t-turban.” Abdelaziz thought his voice was broken—he hardly recognized it. “Kufaya. It is called kufaya.”
“Well, it looks like a turban.”
“But it is not—”
“It doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?”
“Why?” he asked.
“That’s what I want to know—why? He was so young! Ay, mi’jo. He was on foot, just walking across a street…”
Abdelaziz groaned and felt at the side of his head.
“Don’t even think about moving!” She squeezed his throat harder, her grip lifting his eyes to the rearview mirror.
“Look at me,” she said. “Does my face look strong?”
Abdelaziz stared into the mirror as Dolores pulled back the hood of her parka, gasping at the sight of her sunken, bloodshot eyes, faded teardrop tattoo, disheveled cinnamon hair curling across the ash smudged on her forehead. He blinked and envisioned a card from the special deck another driver had spread across the hood of his cab one night. The card showed a woman in white sitting up in bed, face buried in her hands, nine swords hanging on the wall. A greater sadness the world has never known. That’s what Abdelaziz remembered the driver saying; that the cards predict the future and he’d better drive safe, he could die behind the wheel. No, no, Abdelaziz had responded, they’re from Shaitan, the Great Deceiver.
Abdelaziz squirmed. He had to urinate so badly. He wanted to reach down, pinch his member, ease the discomfort, the shame, in front of this woman who overpowered him and dared to call herself a messenger from God! Mocking the Prophet (peace and blessing be upon him). As if Allah would ever choose a woman as messenger!
A gull wheeled across the water, pale sliver against the gray marble Olympics. He thought of Mogadishu, endless golden sand, surf all the way from India, pounding the weary shoulder of East Africa. He thought of his mother and wept, tears falling on his captor’s hand and wrist.
The woman was mad, caring not that he was no Arab or Iraqi, or even from that part of the world. If only he could explain…
“Is that a prayer you’re mumbling?” asked Dolores. She had been lost in a waking dream, adrift above Baghdad on a magic carpet, searching for her son. But what she found was the glorious city of an age forgotten. The great Golden Gate Palace… an emerald dome… minaret voices across the Tigris, calling the faithful to morning prayer… a causeway with horsemen and their lances… dissolving into an American platoon on a potholed street two blocks from the Green Zone, Roberto’s desert camouflage boot descending onto the trigger of a homemade bomb. A blinding flash, bloody and terrible, quartering his body like God’s avenging sword.
“Are you praying, Abdelaziz?”
“I pray, yes.”
“That’s good,” she whispered. “Even to a different God.”
“But our God is the—oow!”
Dolores hit him again, then wiped the gun on his shoulder. “It’s good to pray,” she said softly. “That’s all I’ve been doing. Got out in December, eight years locked up in Purdy. The doctor said the malignancy’s too advanced, I have less than six months. I couldn’t bear to tell Roberto, I’m all he had. I was going to wait till June, he had leave then…”
Was she was possessed by a djinn, Abdelaziz wondered, or could she even be one herself, a creature of smokeless fire, created by Allah? If she was a djinn, could she not, then, be bound to an object, as Süleyman once did, binding a great djinn to an oil lamp? But bind her how, and to what?
He could feel wind through the back window she’d cracked open. He should have known that no woman would be alone on this night, vigil of the resurrection of the last prophet before Mohammed (peace and blessing be upon him). But business had been slow, and he’d thought little of the hooded emptiness in her eyes when she’d asked to be taken to Golden Gardens. It wasn’t far from where he’d picked her up, the restaurant whose name someone once told him meant The Way in the language of Mexico.
“You’re mumbling again,” Dolores said. “No matter, the sun’s rising, it’s time for you to choose. You understand?”
“N-no.”
“What I mean, Mr. Farah, is that you choose when to pull the trigger. And, yes, you will pull it, not me. Now do you understand?”
“No.”
“Give me your right hand… Ah-ah, slowly.”
Abdelaziz felt her fingers tighten on his throat as she placed the gun in his right hand, wrapping her hand around his. Her iron grip made him wonder if the teardrop tattoo conferred power from Shaitan, the Great Adversary. She moved their hands till the pistol pressed against his right temple.
“Yes, like that,” he heard her say. “Now, you choose when,” she said. “Just calm your thoughts. Relax, and when you’re ready, just slowly make a fist.”
“Suicide is s-sin,” he said. “Only Allah may t-take life. I will have to repeat this on Ju-Judgment Day. Please, no.”
“Don’t be afraid, this is God’s will. I’ll help you. We’ll do it together.”
“No.” Abdelaziz watched a discarded holiday balloon bounce along the beach in the gathering light, the Easter bunny cartwheeling across tendrils of seaweed. The blasphemy of suicide! But no, she forces me… doesn’t she? Did I not struggle? Was I not beaten senseless? And does not the Qur’an say that if we kill, unless it be for murder or a just… NO! She sees this as a just killing, for the death of her son!
“So-Somali,” he said.
“Shh. No more talk.”
“I-I am shamed, I have soiled…”
“It’s all right. Anyone can have an accident…”
“Will it hurt?”
“You’ll see light,” she said.
“Light?” He was floating high above the cab; looking down, he could see right through himself. The cards were right, he was going to die behind the wheel.
Then across golden sand, streaking through the pale dawn, a rainbow rush of flashing lights. Abdelaziz felt ushered to the Garden gates.
“Do you know the Bible?” Dolores whispered.
“I know that which was written before Jesus.”
“Then you understand an eye for an eye.”
“Yes—”
“And a vengeful God.”
“Please!”
Dolores saw red and blue lights strobe in the mirror. She heard a door opening, frantic shouts, footsteps stumbling in the sand as their hands closed, voices joining, blasted apart by the gunshot, “God forgive me.”
THE CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE
BY ROBERT LOPRESTI
Fremont
Let me do the talking, says Petey.
Who’s asking? says Fox.
Nobody yet. But they will. We gotta be ready.
No offense, dear boy, says Strabo. But you are the worst possible spokesperson. You’re like Cassandra, of ancient legend. He warned and warned, but no one believed a word he said.
Was he crazy too? asks Fox.
Shut up, says Petey. Just shut up.
It’s barely morning, the sun peeking from behind the clouds over Wallingford. Too early to be up, but the playground on Linden wasn’t all that cozy, especially when the mist turned to drizzle.
Besides, fresh memories made sleep impossible.
I was up all freaking night, says Fox. Waiting for the Gestapo to show up and drag us away.
I’m too old to dodge federales, says Strabo.
But nobody found us, says Petey. Now it’s an easy walk down the hill and out of enemy territory.
People were already leaving their houses and apartment buildings, getting into cars, or strolling toward the neighborhood center.
See all the worker ants, says Strabo. Starting their pleasant peasant days, serving their futile lords.
A bell jingles and Petey dodges as a bicyclist charges down the hill.
<
br /> Bastard, says Fox. Don’t pedestrians have the right of way on the freaking sidewalk anymore?
He’s a wheeler-dealer, says Strabo. Hurrying to fuel himself on lattes and sushi before making his million-dollar deals. We, on the other hand, contribute nothing. We do not toil, neither do we sin. Society wouldn’t care if we were wiped off the face of the earth by our bicycling betters.
Don’t say that, says Petey, thinking of last night.
The biker parks his flashy white hybrid in front of a coffee shop.
See that? asks Fox.
Yeah, says Petey. Starbucks. Typical.
Get over that, will you? I meant Lance Armstrong there didn’t lock up.
I didn’t see that, says Petey.
You saw, lad, but you didn’t observe, says Strabo. The lock dangles helpless from the rear rack. The ship is unanchored, gentlemen. Shall we be pirates?
I dunno, says Petey.
I do, says Fox. I know a shop near Pioneer Square where they’d pay cash for that bike, no questions asked.
That’s the point, says Petey, shivering. We’re out of our territory.
Out of this city is where we need to be, says Strabo. With the sugar from Sugarman and the ransom from the bicycle we could journey to Everett or Tacoma. Stay incognito until this blows over.
It’s not gonna blow over, says Petey. That woman is dead. The cops won’t stop looking till they pin a tail on somebody.
There’s a cop by the Greek joint, says Fox. Let’s hang a left.
Thirty-Fifth Street is quieter.
Condos everywhere, says Fox. When did this neighborhood fill up with freaking condos?
Why can’t you swear like a normal person? asks Strabo.
Cause I was raised right.
Oh please, Foxy. You were raised by wolves, like Romulus and Rebus.
All these people going by, says Petey. They don’t even see us.
If they did, they’d call the fuzz.
And why not? asks Strabo. What purpose does the constabulary serve if not to protect good citizens from homeless riffraff?
They didn’t protect the girl last night, says Petey.
Something we have in common, dear boy.
We couldn’t stop them, says Petey. By the time we knew what was going on, it was too late.
You said they were up to no good, lad. You could have done something.
You didn’t either.
I’m not the hero, says Strabo. Just an old, old man.
You were scared, says Fox.
Damn right I was, says Petey. You saw Widmark’s face.
Widmark?
The blond one. He looked like Richard Widmark used to. And the dark one with the big puppy eyes looked like Sal Mineo.
You and your cinema worship, says Strabo. What a waste of brain cells.
Sounds like you’re queer for the shortie, says Fox.
I’m not… Damn! We gotta turn around. I’m not going under that bridge.
You’re a real head case, says Fox. Scared of cops, scared of bridges, scared of Starbucks.
I’m not scared of them. I just hate them.
A red PT Cruiser squeezes into a parking space, and a family of tourists pops out, covering their cameras with raincoats and umbrellas, all talking at once.
The daddy comes up, smiling.
Excuse me, is this where they keep the troll?
No, says Strabo. It’s where they keep the minotaur.
Shut up, mutters Petey. The troll’s under the black bridge over there.
That’s why he turned around, says Fox. Scared of the big bad troll.
The daddy frowns. I thought it was the Fremont troll. With a real Volkswagen in its hand?
That’s the one, says Petey.
But that’s the Aurora Bridge. Why isn’t it under the Fremont Bridge over there?
What do we look like, asks Fox, the freaking road department?
Daddy jerks back, as if he just got a better look—or smell. Let’s go, kids. The troll’s over here.
I hate this place, says Petey. What kind of sick mind would put a giant troll statue under a bridge?
Someone who doesn’t have much experience with monsters, says Strabo. There are enough real ones around without encouraging them with monuments.
Widmark and Mineo, says Petey. They were real ones.
Yeah, says Fox. You oughta tell the tourists what the movie stars did to their sister.
That girl was no tourist.
A deduction! How can you tell, maestro?
Fox picked up her address book, remember? All local names and numbers.
But she didn’t put her own name in it, says Fox. That was dumb.
I guess she knew where she lived.
Har har, says Fox. Petey the comic.
We should have helped her, says Strabo.
We couldn’t, says Petey.
In the long eye of the law, dear boy, silence breeds consent.
Now you’re a freaking attorney, says Fox. Oh crap. Look what’s around the corner.
Cops have gathered in force, surrounding the traffic island on 34th Street.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear, says Strabo. All the king’s prowl cars and all the king’s men.
They found her, says Petey.
She wasn’t exactly hidden, says Fox. Just lying behind the gray zombies.
Don’t be ignorant, says Strabo. That’s another of Fremont’s fine artworks. Waiting for the Interurban.
The six gray plaster figures are wearing T-shirts today. FREMONT MOISTURE FESTIVAL, reads one.
How did they get the shirts on with the cops around? asks Fox.
They couldn’t, says Petey. The shirts must have been there last night. But we were behind the statues and didn’t see them.
Another deduction, says Strabo.
Uniforms hustle around the statues and a small crowd has gathered on either side of 34th to stand in the drizzle and watch.
Are they looking at us? asks Petey.
It’s okay to watch the cops, says Fox. Everybody’s doing it.
A cat may look at a king, says Strabo. But curiosity kills them both. What killed Abby?
Nobody killed Abby, says Petey.
The young woman lying over there.
That’s not Abby, says Petey. You’re crazy.
I never met your dream girl, says Fox. But you said the chick last night looked like her. That’s why you had us chasing her all over Queen Anne.
Marching after her like a parade, agrees Strabo. But no one was there to help when the beasts attacked.
What are you looking at? Fox asks a sidewalk gawker. The show’s over there, jerk. Don’t look at me.
Now you’ve done it, says Petey. Let’s go.
Across the bridge of sighs?
Too visible, says Fox. Back up the avenue.
I want to get out of Fremont, mutters Petey. This is no place for us.
For Christ’s sake, don’t run, says Fox. In tourist land the three of us running is probable cause.
I used to live here, says Petey.
In the center of the universe, says Strabo. So says the sign, at any rate.
Hear the sirens? asks Fox. They’re taking her away. Finally.
Whoever she is, says Strabo, she’ll be a star now. Just like your cinematic friends.
Let’s get something to eat, suggests Fox. How about this bakery?
Look what’s in the window, says Petey.
Someone had put up photos from the Solstice Parade: giant puppets and naked bicyclists.
No wonder I went crazy. How could anybody stay sane in this place?
Abby did, says Strabo. That’s why she left.
All the food here is too goddamn healthy, says Fox. Let’s go to Starbucks.
Never, says Petey. I’m not giving those bastards one of my hard-earned dollars.
Hard-begged, says Strabo.
Same thing.
You’re not being rational, dear boy.
Har har.
Coffee king, says Fox. Java general.
The bastard stole Abby from me, says Petey.
She married him—
Brew guru.
Hush. She married him after you went to bedlam, lad. Did you expect her to wait until you achieved compus mentus?
Stuff it.
So what do you want? asks Fox. Starbucks, this bakery, or starve to death? Your choice.
What else’ve you got? asks Petey.
Speaking of destinations, says Strabo, why were Bogart and De Niro—
Widmark and Mineo.
Why were they hanging around Queen Anne in the middle of the night?
To get to the other side, says Fox.
How would I know?
You were just playing detective, dear boy.
Petey sighs. Okay. They weren’t bums like us. Somewhere between yuppies and punks. Looking for drugs, maybe?
Bull, says Fox. They were looking for exactly what they found. A chick walking alone. Somebody to mess up. Two homeless broads got offed last year.
I didn’t know that, says Petey.
Neither one looked like Abby, says Strabo. So you didn’t notice.
They didn’t exactly make the front page.
I wish last night never happened, says Petey.
It wouldn’t have, if they hadn’t been so far off their turf. Usually they stayed near Pioneer Square, where nobody complained much about grubbies and crazies.
But the previous morning they had run into Sugarman, a contractor Petey knew in better days, and he was looking for cheap labor.
Anybody with a green card. You a citizen? Even better. Hop on the truck and you can spend the day digging a trench for bamboo in Queen Anne.