with him?”
“She doesn't have ‘a thing’ with anyone. Believe me, we've all tried. Besides, Morrow's married.”
“So?”
“So, nothing. Just trying to save you some trouble.”
Harry nodded. He could see Susan through the car's window, her face dark, half hidden by the reflection of the hotel's façade. She turned to Morrow and said something, her bare shoulders curving intimately toward him. Then she reached over and rolled down her window.
“Welcome to Vietnam,” she called out, still laughing at whatever joke she and Morrow had just shared.
T HE FIRST OF HOW MANY HUMILIATIONS , Harry wondered as he rolled over in bed, dragging his insufficient allotment of covers with him. In the grainy, predawn light, he could just make out Char's shape beside him: hips and shoulders and shadowed face, mouth parted slightly like a child's in sleep. He should have seen everything coming that night at the Caravelle, he told himself, should have taken Janson's advice for the gift it was, but of course he hadn't. For a moment, the part of himself he dared not acknowledge was wretchedly gleeful at the thought of Susan's death.
Down in the pasture, the cattle were voicing their complaints. Life in paradise, Harry thought, and what more could they want? Another day of balmy sunshine? Yet more of that plush grass? If only they knew how bad most beasts had it.
Moving carefully so as not to disturb Char, Harry pushed the covers aside, swung his legs slowly off the bed, and reached for his worn copy of Harmonies of the World on the nightstand. My Koran, he could hear himself tell Jamal. It had been a foolish thing to say, as foolish as his final gesture had been. The torn page not just the sum of all his regrets but the worst of them as well. The final triumph of nostalgia over reason. Though even now Harry could think of no better vehicle for his failure than the work of Kepler, who had sacrificed so much in the futile service of longing, who had spent his entire life trying to reconcile the irreconcilable, who had believed he could somehow resolve science and God.
If you're ever in real trouble. He winced now, remembering the words. And what he should have said: If you're ever in real trouble, for God's sake, don't call me.
“Can't sleep?” Char reached out and touched Harry's back.
He shook his head, then turned to look at her. She had pulled the sheets aside, revealing her nakedness. Not Susan's body, he thought, looking at her, and not Irene's, but a body scarred by everything it had ever nurtured. Breasts and belly and thighs irrevocably changed.
She patted the bed in a gesture of invitation, not to sex but to sleep, and Harry thought, Yes, here is the sweet forgetting, absolution for the taking.
“Come back to bed,” she said impatiently, reaching out for him, pulling him down beside her, until there was nothing left for Harry to do but acquiesce.
T WO HOURS , Manar thought as she climbed down from the back of the bus and watched the housekeeper cross the street. That's how long it had taken to get from her mother's house in the leafy northern suburbs to this rambling slum on the southern edge of the city. Two hours each way and another eight scrubbing shit from their toilets. And for what? Manar didn't know exactly what her mother paid these women, but she was certain it wasn't enough.
She paused and glanced over her shoulder before trailing Asiya down into the sewer of the bidonville. The chances of her having been followed were slim; she'd been careful leaving the house. But still, the last thing she wanted was for anyone to know she had come. She had not yet invented a story to explain her disappearance, but there would be time for that on the ride home. For now, all her energy was focused on keeping track of Asiya's saffron-colored djellaba and matching scarf.
The sun had just set, turning the smog-choked sky a wild magenta. From the crest of the hill there was an unearthly beauty to the slum, the tin roofs
“She doesn't have ‘a thing’ with anyone. Believe me, we've all tried. Besides, Morrow's married.”
“So?”
“So, nothing. Just trying to save you some trouble.”
Harry nodded. He could see Susan through the car's window, her face dark, half hidden by the reflection of the hotel's façade. She turned to Morrow and said something, her bare shoulders curving intimately toward him. Then she reached over and rolled down her window.
“Welcome to Vietnam,” she called out, still laughing at whatever joke she and Morrow had just shared.
T HE FIRST OF HOW MANY HUMILIATIONS , Harry wondered as he rolled over in bed, dragging his insufficient allotment of covers with him. In the grainy, predawn light, he could just make out Char's shape beside him: hips and shoulders and shadowed face, mouth parted slightly like a child's in sleep. He should have seen everything coming that night at the Caravelle, he told himself, should have taken Janson's advice for the gift it was, but of course he hadn't. For a moment, the part of himself he dared not acknowledge was wretchedly gleeful at the thought of Susan's death.
Down in the pasture, the cattle were voicing their complaints. Life in paradise, Harry thought, and what more could they want? Another day of balmy sunshine? Yet more of that plush grass? If only they knew how bad most beasts had it.
Moving carefully so as not to disturb Char, Harry pushed the covers aside, swung his legs slowly off the bed, and reached for his worn copy of Harmonies of the World on the nightstand. My Koran, he could hear himself tell Jamal. It had been a foolish thing to say, as foolish as his final gesture had been. The torn page not just the sum of all his regrets but the worst of them as well. The final triumph of nostalgia over reason. Though even now Harry could think of no better vehicle for his failure than the work of Kepler, who had sacrificed so much in the futile service of longing, who had spent his entire life trying to reconcile the irreconcilable, who had believed he could somehow resolve science and God.
If you're ever in real trouble. He winced now, remembering the words. And what he should have said: If you're ever in real trouble, for God's sake, don't call me.
“Can't sleep?” Char reached out and touched Harry's back.
He shook his head, then turned to look at her. She had pulled the sheets aside, revealing her nakedness. Not Susan's body, he thought, looking at her, and not Irene's, but a body scarred by everything it had ever nurtured. Breasts and belly and thighs irrevocably changed.
She patted the bed in a gesture of invitation, not to sex but to sleep, and Harry thought, Yes, here is the sweet forgetting, absolution for the taking.
“Come back to bed,” she said impatiently, reaching out for him, pulling him down beside her, until there was nothing left for Harry to do but acquiesce.
T WO HOURS , Manar thought as she climbed down from the back of the bus and watched the housekeeper cross the street. That's how long it had taken to get from her mother's house in the leafy northern suburbs to this rambling slum on the southern edge of the city. Two hours each way and another eight scrubbing shit from their toilets. And for what? Manar didn't know exactly what her mother paid these women, but she was certain it wasn't enough.
She paused and glanced over her shoulder before trailing Asiya down into the sewer of the bidonville. The chances of her having been followed were slim; she'd been careful leaving the house. But still, the last thing she wanted was for anyone to know she had come. She had not yet invented a story to explain her disappearance, but there would be time for that on the ride home. For now, all her energy was focused on keeping track of Asiya's saffron-colored djellaba and matching scarf.
The sun had just set, turning the smog-choked sky a wild magenta. From the crest of the hill there was an unearthly beauty to the slum, the tin roofs
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