first narrow streets of the city. The sight of groups of kids at play and clusters of old men gathered in the shade of garden fences cheers him up. He’s glad to be going home. “That sure was a hell of a trip,” he remarks, waving at an acquaintance in the crowd. “We spent hours jolting our vertebrae loose on bad roads, and we ate all sorts of horrible food.”
“Stop whining,” Qassim growls.
“After I turn off the engine, and not before,” the driver says stubbornly, pulling a comical face. “What are we going to do? Shall I drop you off at home?”
“Not just yet. I need to take my mind off things. Since you won’t stop griping about how I’m starving you, what do you say we go to Khorsan’s and nibble on some kabob? My treat.”
“I warn you, I can eat enough for four.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You’re a prince, boss. Thanks to you, I’m going to stuff myself until I’m sick.”
Khorsan’s eating place stands at one corner of a ravaged public garden, across from a bus stop. In the little square, the fumes of barbecued meat compete for the rare breezes with the clouds of smoke raised by the passing vehicles. A few customers—among them the jailer, Atiq—are sitting at the crude tables squeezed against one another under a wicker canopy. Indifferent to the sun and the squadrons of flies, the diners bestir themselves only to drive away the hungry street urchins. These children have been overexcited by the aromas coming from the grill, where Khorsan himself, his belly hanging to his knees and his beard to his navel, waves a fan to revive his coals. With the other hand, he turns the slabs of meat; when he determines that they’re done, he licks his chops. The 4 × 4 that squeals to a stop ten feet away does nothing to disconcert him. Without taking his eye off the sizzling cutlets, he merely turns his fan toward the cloud of dust that begins to envelop his person. Qassim shows him four fingers and takes a seat on a worm-eaten wooden bench; Khorsan acknowledges the order with a movement of his head and continues his ritual with renewed application.
Atiq looks at his watch. He’s clearly impatient; Qassim’s arrival has driven his nervousness to new heights. What’s Qassim going to think when he sees him there, eating dinner in a greasy spoon not twenty steps from his house? He hunches his shoulders and screens his face with his hand until a waiter brings him a huge sandwich bundled in wrapping paper. Atiq slips it into a plastic bag, places a few banknotes on the table, and beats a hasty retreat, without waiting for his change. Just when he thinks he’s free and clear, Qassim’s hand lays hold of him. “Is it me you’re running from, Atiq?”
The jailer acts the part of the man who just can’t believe his eyes. “Are you back already?”
“Why are you sneaking out like this? Have I given you some cause for complaint?”
“I don’t follow you.”
Qassim, disappointed, slowly nods his head. “Do you know what I think, Atiq? I think what you’re doing is wrong. No, please, don’t put on a show. It’s not necessary, I assure you. I’m not going to give you a lecture. It’s just that—look, I think you’ve changed a lot recently, and I don’t like it. Normally, I wouldn’t give a damn about such things, but I can’t be indifferent in your case. Maybe it’s because of the long years we’ve spent together. Sometimes we’ve had fun, but more often we’ve had to struggle against adversity. I don’t like meddling in something that’s not my business, but I have no qualms about telling you this: if you barricade yourself inside your worries, you’re going to wind up stuck there, unable to get out.”
“It’s not a big deal. Sometimes I get a little depressed, that’s all.”
Qassim doesn’t believe him and makes no attempt to hide his incredulity. He leans toward Atiq. “Do you need money?”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
The militiaman scratches his
“Stop whining,” Qassim growls.
“After I turn off the engine, and not before,” the driver says stubbornly, pulling a comical face. “What are we going to do? Shall I drop you off at home?”
“Not just yet. I need to take my mind off things. Since you won’t stop griping about how I’m starving you, what do you say we go to Khorsan’s and nibble on some kabob? My treat.”
“I warn you, I can eat enough for four.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You’re a prince, boss. Thanks to you, I’m going to stuff myself until I’m sick.”
Khorsan’s eating place stands at one corner of a ravaged public garden, across from a bus stop. In the little square, the fumes of barbecued meat compete for the rare breezes with the clouds of smoke raised by the passing vehicles. A few customers—among them the jailer, Atiq—are sitting at the crude tables squeezed against one another under a wicker canopy. Indifferent to the sun and the squadrons of flies, the diners bestir themselves only to drive away the hungry street urchins. These children have been overexcited by the aromas coming from the grill, where Khorsan himself, his belly hanging to his knees and his beard to his navel, waves a fan to revive his coals. With the other hand, he turns the slabs of meat; when he determines that they’re done, he licks his chops. The 4 × 4 that squeals to a stop ten feet away does nothing to disconcert him. Without taking his eye off the sizzling cutlets, he merely turns his fan toward the cloud of dust that begins to envelop his person. Qassim shows him four fingers and takes a seat on a worm-eaten wooden bench; Khorsan acknowledges the order with a movement of his head and continues his ritual with renewed application.
Atiq looks at his watch. He’s clearly impatient; Qassim’s arrival has driven his nervousness to new heights. What’s Qassim going to think when he sees him there, eating dinner in a greasy spoon not twenty steps from his house? He hunches his shoulders and screens his face with his hand until a waiter brings him a huge sandwich bundled in wrapping paper. Atiq slips it into a plastic bag, places a few banknotes on the table, and beats a hasty retreat, without waiting for his change. Just when he thinks he’s free and clear, Qassim’s hand lays hold of him. “Is it me you’re running from, Atiq?”
The jailer acts the part of the man who just can’t believe his eyes. “Are you back already?”
“Why are you sneaking out like this? Have I given you some cause for complaint?”
“I don’t follow you.”
Qassim, disappointed, slowly nods his head. “Do you know what I think, Atiq? I think what you’re doing is wrong. No, please, don’t put on a show. It’s not necessary, I assure you. I’m not going to give you a lecture. It’s just that—look, I think you’ve changed a lot recently, and I don’t like it. Normally, I wouldn’t give a damn about such things, but I can’t be indifferent in your case. Maybe it’s because of the long years we’ve spent together. Sometimes we’ve had fun, but more often we’ve had to struggle against adversity. I don’t like meddling in something that’s not my business, but I have no qualms about telling you this: if you barricade yourself inside your worries, you’re going to wind up stuck there, unable to get out.”
“It’s not a big deal. Sometimes I get a little depressed, that’s all.”
Qassim doesn’t believe him and makes no attempt to hide his incredulity. He leans toward Atiq. “Do you need money?”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
The militiaman scratches his
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