Near Enemy (16 page)

Salem? That means peace, right?

He looks over his shoulder.

Yes. Though in English it’s often spelled Salaam. However, I chose to spell my name in English with an
E
. You know, like the witch-hunt.

Then he nods toward the staircase.

Shall we?

His office above the store looks like it’s out of some old movie. Huge wooden desk covered with a weathered leather deskpad, with a vintage pen-and-pencil set stuck like antennae in a small round paperweight. Wooden swivel chair, wooden blinds, tilted just-so. Cast thin bars of light, like a jail-cell window, across the
surface of the desk. Everything’s antique, all older than Shaban by a century or so. Same goes for the large dusty globe that sits on a round wooden stand by the desk. I inspect it while Shaban takes his seat. The globe must be plenty old because so much of the world is left blank.

I spin the globe. Stop it with my finger. Land on a continent labeled Terra Incognita. Sounds like a good place to take my next vacation.

Shaban settles into the chair behind the desk and offers me a hardback chair facing him. Hundreds of hand-addressed letters, piled in collapsing stacks, are splayed out messily over the surface of his desk. More stacks are lined up on top of his filing cabinets. More stacks along the floorboards too. His desktop’s a mess of letters and loose stamps and long lists of handwritten addresses. Names on the lists are all Muslim names from the looks of it, all el-this and al-that. Office looks like a political campaign in the final frantic days before the vote.

You mailing out your Christmas cards, Shaban?

He smiles.

Just spreading the word.

Seems pretty inefficient. Using the Pony Express, I mean.

You pick your targets. Then wait. Word gets around.

He points to the biggest pile on his desk.

Funny, isn’t it? Hand-addressed mail is the most secure way to send out a message these days. They listen to your phone calls, read your email, collect your texts, tail you in the limn, watch you dream, record every thought you’ve ever had. Yet no one can be arsed enough to steam open an old-fashioned letter. So tell me, what can I help you with, Mr Spademan?

You knew Jonathan Lesser?

Of course. You know that, or you wouldn’t be here. You say he’s gone missing?

Yes. Since last weekend.

I’m sorry to hear that. Not so easy to do in our modern world. So many eyes watching us all the time.

Well, he managed to slip away. Or be slipped away. By someone.

Jonathan’s smart. And slippery. And he runs with a bad crowd. I know, because I used to be part of it.

Then you discovered religion.

Rediscovered, but yes.

Shaban opens a desk drawer. Pulls out a Ziploc stuffed full of something. Looks like twigs and leaves.

These days, I haven’t even touched a keyboard in years. Feels good. To be free of all that.

Shaban opens the Ziploc. Takes a pinch. Holds it out to me.

Do you indulge?

In twigs? No, thanks.

I figured as much. But it’s rude not to offer.

Salem sticks the plug into his cheek, then zips the baggie closed. Holds it up for me to see.

Khat. Very bad habit. I picked it up in Yemen but never really got hooked until I moved here. During the long hours of coding, with Lesser, actually. It’s supposed to help with your concentration, but I could never get Lesser to try it. Hopping was always a sufficient high for him.

Salem sticks the baggie back in the drawer. Slides it shut.

You were asking about Jonathan.

Before he died, he saw something. While he was hopping. Peeping on your old headmaster, Langland.

And what’s that?

Woman in a burqa. Suicide bomber. In the limn.

Well, that’s certainly a strange fantasy for someone to be indulging. Even Langland.

It wasn’t a fantasy. It was an incursion. An attack.

And that’s why you’re here talking to me? I assume it’s not because you consider me a general expert on the topic of Islam.

I heard about your newfound interest in politics. From another old friend of yours. Joseph Boonce.

Shaban laughs.

I should have known that name would come up eventually. How is Mr Boonce? We didn’t part on good terms, exactly.

So he tells me. He says you gave up government work to take up political agitation.

Agitation? Is that what they’re calling it now? If you mean encouraging people to come back and live on Atlantic Avenue, then yes, he’s correct. Of course, I’m sure he knows exactly what I’m up to.

Shaban gestures to the walls. Then stage-whispers.

Eyes everywhere.

So what you’re doing isn’t political?

I certainly don’t think of it as agitation, Mr Spademan. More like urban renewal. This city could use some of that, don’t you think?

Sure. But tell me this. Who fucked up this city in the first place?

I don’t know, Mr Spademan. Seems to me the city’s been on shaky ground for a long time.

How about your dad? What did he think about agitation?

My father’s dead, as I’m sure you know. He was a passionate, dangerous man. And he was killed many years back in an American drone strike in Egypt. Which is when I came here, to New York. Have you ever been to Egypt, Mr Spademan?

No. I hear it’s not doing too well.

Leave not a stone standing on a stone, is how the biblical imperative puts it. We all seem to be intent on following it to the letter.

To be honest, Shaban, I’m not too torn up about what’s happening in some faraway desert.

Shaban smiles wearily.

People never are.

Shaban looks bored, like he’s had this argument many times before, and knows it well. Too bad. He’s going to have it again. I didn’t expect to get into it with Shaban. But now that we’re here, we’re getting into it.

You don’t think you people started this?

You people?

Your people.

Shaban absentmindedly traces his fingertips over the contours of his burn. Gnarled skin that never healed right. Says to me in his sandpaper croak.

Extremists. Drones. Attacks. Counterattacks. Your god. My god. At the end of it all, you’re just left with rubble. To my mind, there’s not much point in sifting through it afterward, trying to find fingerprints so you can figure out who is responsible. It’s still just rubble.

He turns to the window shade. Parts two blinds with his fingers.

Look out there, Mr Spademan. You want to fight with me over these streets? These blocks are poisonous. Toxic. We’re all just squabbling over rubble.

Lets the blinds close. Faces me again.

But that’s the whole story of history, isn’t it?

There’s no rubble in the world that’s worse than what you people unleashed here.

Isn’t there?

I’m sorry, but did we nuke your country?

He traces that burn again.

Nuke? No. Not if we’re being technical. But we’re all responsible for our fair share of rubble in the world.

Maybe so. Maybe not. One crucial difference, though, Shaban. My wife is buried under your rubble.

I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr Spademan.

So maybe you can understand why I’m personally not too excited about your plans for urban renewal.

I don’t say this in any way to minimize your loss, but we’ve all lost loved ones.

Like your sister?

Yes. Like my sister. For starters.

That’s funny, because they say you murdered her.

Shaban eyes me for a moment. Stills his tongue. Then speaks.

Who says that? Joseph Boonce?

An honor killing—that’s what you call it? You killed her and then you tracked down the men who raped her and killed them too. For starters.

Whoever told you that is wrong. My sister died in the same drone strike as my father and mother did. You can look it up.

Yet somehow you escaped.

Yes. You sound disappointed.

Just trying to straighten out the details.

Shaban shifts in his chair. Adjusts the baggy tweed suit jacket. No way to make it fit right. Says to me.

Mr Langland brought me here to America. People used to be able to do that, you know. Come here freely. To America. Even Egyptians. Shocking, I know.

Well, money like Langland’s will clear a lot of red tape.

Yes, it will. At times I worry that’s all we have left now, really.

What’s that?

Money and rubble. And the will to fight endlessly over both.

Well, Langland’s done fighting. He’s dead, by the way. That attack on him in the limn? Looks like it worked.

Shaban looks surprised, or very good at pretending.

Really?

Yes.

Salem pauses. Thinks for a moment.

In the limn? But that’s not possible.

Isn’t it? Isn’t that what you and Lesser were working on for Boonce?

He stays silent. Ponders his options. Then says.

Near Enemy was a total failure. And completely in opposition to my sense of ethics. Once I realized that, I left. Boonce knows all this—

You do any hopping these days, Shaban? Because I hear you were very talented.

I don’t indulge in the limn, Mr Spademan. If you’d asked me that straightaway, I could have saved us both a lot of time.

But I heard you were some hotshot hopper. Could really bend the limn to your will.

I was. A real slick motherfucker, as we used to like to say back at Langland’s school. But then I rededicated myself to my faith. The day I reopened my Quran, I closed down my bed, and I never went back. Do you know what the Prophet said, Mr Spademan? Angels of mercy do not enter a house wherein there are pictures. I’ve interpreted that to mean that I am forbidden to go into the limn. Which is, after all, nothing more than a house of pictures. An illusion, which you can live inside. That’s how most devout Muslims interpret it, truthfully. So if you’re worried about Islamic extremists ruining your escapist fantasies, I can assure you, your limn is likely very safe from them.

Pulls the khat from his cheek and drops the wad in the trash.

As I said, Mr Spademan. This is my only indulgence now.

Then he hesitates. Seems like he’s deciding whether to say whatever it is he’s about to say. He takes his rimless glasses off and pulls a cloth from his pocket to polish them. Without his glasses, Shaban looks even younger. Even less threatening. He looks at me and says.

Before you go, Mr Spademan, there is one thing—

What’s that?

I know Jonathan Lesser, perhaps better than anyone. So wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, whoever’s got him, you need to find him.

I’ll be sure to pass along your concern.

No, I—what I mean is, Lesser is brilliant. He was the smartest of all of us, and that’s no small thing for me to admit. There’s no limit to what he’s capable of, do you understand?

So I’ve heard.

Mr Spademan, the things in this world that we believe are not possible are not rules. They’re not laws. They’re only problems to be solved.

Funny. Your old boss Boonce was just telling me the same thing.

It was kind of our mantra back at Near Enemy.

So what’s your solution these days, Shaban?

I send out invitations to a slightly better world. See who accepts.

He wipes the lenses of his glasses, then puts the glasses back on, looping the wire arms around each ear in turn. One ear, his right, is barely a remnant, eroded away by burns. Like the ear of a sand-blasted statue left for eons in the desert.

I just mean that you need to find Lesser, Mr Spademan. Find out what he knows. Before anyone else does. Including Mr Boonce.

I’m sure you’d love to know what Lesser knows, right, Shaban?

Mr Spademan, you mistake my tone. I’m not curious. I’m frightened. You should be too.

Of what? Of you?

He smiles politely.

It was a pleasure to meet you and to have this conversation. Now if you don’t mind—

He gestures to a toppled pile of envelopes waiting for addresses.

I have many more invitations to send out before I’m done.

Part of me wants to invite Shaban somewhere private to continue our conversation. I’ve never been one for debate-club banter, but his manner got under my skin, more than it should. Something about the cool confidence of someone who’s had the same argument a million times, and has never once come close to changing his mind.

Maybe I could change his mind.

Given time.

Instead I leave him to his twigs and leaves and head back out to Atlantic Avenue.

On the street outside, my pocket buzzes. I pull my phone out, though I’m almost too worked up to answer. But it could be Persephone. Or Boonce.

I flip it open.

It’s neither.

Call from:

Lesser.

Interesting.

So I answer.

Turns out it’s not Lesser calling, it’s Moore. The skinny kid. Using Lesser’s phone. At first I don’t recognize his name even when he tells me. So he repeats it.

You know—Moore. Lesser’s pal? From Stuyvesant Town? We met last Saturday. I bought you that sandwich from the deli.

Wait. I bought that sandwich.

I needed to get in touch with you, Spademan. I found your number in Lesser’s phone. I’m at Lesser’s apartment right now and I need to see you.

Why?

Because I found Lesser.

Really? Where is he?

I don’t know.

I thought you said you found him.

More like he found me. Come here and I’ll explain everything.

Okay. Give me half an hour.

I’ll be here. And Spademan, there’s one more thing you should know.

What’s that, Moore?

It happened again.

When I get to Lesser’s apartment, front door’s still hanging limp off busted hinges. Inside, Moore’s waiting, curled up on that same bare mattress, with his knees pulled up to his chest. Looks spooked and somehow skinnier. Draped in that same Army coat.

Otherwise, apartment’s vacant.

Okay, Moore. Where’s Lesser?

He’s not here.

So I noticed.

But I heard from him.

Okay. Where is he?

He didn’t say.

Right about now, I’m losing patience with Moore.