The Singer's Gun by Emily St. John Mandel Page B

hundred stories above the surface of the earth with the air on fire all around him. He went back out into the Russian Café and completed the transaction as quickly as possible. Outside in the sunlight he stood still on the sidewalk, watching Catina depart with the magazine rolled up in her hand, and then he walked away slowly in the opposite direction. He locked eyes with everyone he saw on the sidewalk. Some stared back at him, some ignored him, others glanced quickly and then looked away. At dinner with his parents a few hours later he pushed food around his plate and didn’t eat until his mother put her fork down and asked what was wrong with her spaghetti.
    “No, the food’s good. I’m sorry. I’ve just been thinking a lot about the business.”
    “What about it?” his father asked.
    “Not your business. This thing with Aria.”
    “Really,” Aria said.
    “Oh,” his mother said, visibly relieved. She preferred not to discuss the family business in any great detail, but her niece’s forged-documents venture was fair game. “What about it?”
    “I was thinking about this earlier in the day. Do you mind if I ask a hypothetical question?”
    “I love hypothetical questions,” his mother said.
    “How would a terrorist get into the country?”
    “Well, he’d come in on a tourist visa, I imagine.”
    “Or he’d get a friend in the country to come to me and Aria and get him a passport, and then he’d enter as an American citizen. Or if he were already here on his tourist visa, he’d buy a Social Security card directly from us and use it to get a job. You know, guarding a seaport. Or driving a truck that he could then pack with explosives. Or whatever.”
    His father shrugged.
    “So then what are we doing? What are we doing here? We—”
    “Think of your aunt,” his mother said. “Don’t get worked up, sweetie. You’re helping people like your aunt.”
    “Yes,” Aria said, “my dear departed mother.” She liked to say departed instead of deported , which was disconcerting, because as far as anyone knew her mother was alive and well and living in Ecuador.
    “Yeah, I am. Hardworking illegal aliens who have no chance of getting citizenship, I know, I get it, but who else? Who else besides them?”
    His parents were quiet. Aria watched him silently over the table.
    “It was just something I was thinking about today. Actually, not just today, it’s been . . . it weighs on me,” Anton said.
    “You have to do things that are a little questionable sometimes,” his father said. “It’s all part of making a living.”
    “Yeah, but maybe it doesn’t have to be. I keep thinking there’s maybe something else I could be doing. I’ve been putting my résumé together.”
    “Your résumé,” Aria said. “Your résumé ? Really? You’ve only ever had two jobs in your life: selling stolen goods in your parents’ store and selling fake documents to illegal aliens.” His father’s jaw was tensing again; he didn’t like the word stolen. Anton’s mother was immune to accusations of theft, but disliked any suggestion of disloyalty; she was sipping water, watching Anton, her eyes cool over the top of her glass. Aria pressed onward: “Are your jobs on your résumé, Anton?”
    “My education’s on my résumé.”
    “Our high school’s on your résumé? Are you serious? If it weren’t for social promotion, you’d have been the only student in your graduating class.”
    Anton extracted his wallet from his jeans. Folded behind the bills was a newspaper clipping; he had been carrying it around for months and it almost fell apart when he unfolded it. He passed it to his mother, who looked at it and frowned.
    “A story about an alumni association meeting, Anton? You wanted me to read this?”
    “Look at the end. There’s a quote from an Anton Waker, who just graduated Harvard. I was surprised, I mean, the name can’t be that common. And I was looking at it and thinking, you know, what if I’d