I recently entered a short story contest and said to myself that if I did not win, well, at least I would post the story here. At some point, I may work on this story some more and submit it some place else (as there are several ways in which I could make it better), which might mean that it suddenly disappears from the blog. But it is here for now. A couple caveats: it is rather long and, well, it has some language in it that some may find offensive.
Without further adieu, here is “Before the Towers Fell.”

“Before the Towers Fell”
The fan moved as if it, too, felt the oppression of the heat. It creaked a weary cadence which only accentuated the slow passing of time, and seemed to do nothing to stir the heavy air. The room was generally hot for the better part of the year, but today especially so as the junior officers stood guard at the shuttered windows, occasionally casting nervous glances through the louvers.
The room was the captain�s office of a small police station in Karachi. One entire wall was a set of recessed shelves with wood and glass doors holding in a forest of files. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a row of chairs lining the wall by the door and a large wooden desk stacked with folders in perpetual danger of avalanching across the floor.
In addition to the closed windows, there were other differences in the office today as well. There were almost no people in the room and the chair behind the desk, where the captain normally sat was empty, its occupant pacing the room. And only one of the two chairs facing the desk, which normally would be seating guests who would be sipping tea and casually chatting, was occupied. A young man sat slumped over with hands on his head with long hair covering his face. He was an American.
�Get me out of this fucking hole,� he shouted suddenly, sitting up and bringing his fists down on the desk in front of him, before retuning behind the sullen tent of hands and hair and bent over posture.
The words were spit out like a kettle that was past the boiling point. But there was more than one person in the room who had had more than he could bear. The desk was suddenly an earthquake zone. A mountain of files at its corner collapsed onto the floor. Another spread out across the desktop. At the center of the desk, a tiny teacup jumped several times in its saucer, spilling milky tea leaves onto the newspaper and losing its delicate handle, as the captain brought down his baton again and again and again on the edge of the desk.
Stopping, he bent toward the boy and shouted in his face.
�You must not be using such filthy language or, by God, I will use this lahti on your back,� he said in a thick accent. �Now, please be silent as I think of what to do.�
The boy slumped back into the chair. The junior officers scrambled to tidy the desk. And the captain returned to his pacing.
Muhammad Quereshi had the rumpled dignity of a man who had a job that required him to wear a uniform but did not pay him enough to keep a set of clean ones to rotate daily. It certainly did not pay him enough for the day he was having that day. Large rings of sweat rippled out from his armpits toward the center of his grey police shirt. His black beret had long since been taken off as he perpetually wiped his forehead with a large handkerchief. And the hearty laugh that was unusual for a police captain but often bellowed from his rather large torso had not been heard since the morning, before his young charge had enflamed the neighborhood.
A sharp knock on the door jolted all the officers. The one posted at the door called out an inquiry in Urdu, and upon hearing the answer opened the door carefully. The man who walked through the doorway was completely different from anyone in the room. He wore a simple white summer shalwar kameez, the baggy shirt and pant outfit of Pakistanis, which covered his solid, well fed frame. But there were hints that this was not his customary attire. Beneath the cuff of his shirt, a golden Rolex gleamed. This, along with the smell of his Aramis cologne and his impeccable grooming, indicated that he would be equally comfortable in a Brooks Brothers three piece.
The distinction was in more than his clothing, however. He was the sort of man who also wore any situation with ease, exuding calmness and strength. As, indeed, he did now as he listened to an animated Mr. Quereshi, occasionally putting an arm on his shoulder as if to anchor him.
The boy had not looked up since his outburst and did not do so now as the man in white walked over and addressed him. �Hello, young man. I am Mr. Anjum. Could you be so kind as to tell me your name?� His accent was the much smoother accent of a Pakistani who had received all his education in English and had studied abroad.
The boy did not move. Mr. Anjum tried again, �Look, you may not care to talk to me, but I really must know your name if I am to help you at all.�
The fan creaked on in the long silence that followed. Mr. Anjum was about to speak again when the boy finally answered, �My name is Todd Dyer.�
�Thank you. And what are you doing in Pakistan, Mr. Dyer?� Mr. Anjum asked.
�I�m here with my soccer team,� Todd answered, �on this shitty goodwill tour.�
�Ah, yes, you must be on the team that played the American school yesterday and are to play Karachi Polytechnic tomorrow,� Mr. Anjum answered, disregarding Todd�s negativity. �And you are staying at the Intercontinental, if I am not mistaken?�
�Yeah, that�s right.�
�Well, Mr. Dyer. We cannot simply take you back there because the entire bazaar is in an uproar. We are waiting for a return call from your consulate to see if they can come collect you. In the meantime, would you like to have a Coca Cola?�
�Yeah, now we�re talking,� said Todd finally standing up. �I have been waiting for two hours to get out of this shit-hole and that guy just keeps offering me fucking cups of tea. Yeah, I�ll have a Coke.�
It was the second time that day when Todd�s words did not have the effect he was expecting. Mr. Anjum, who had been several steps away, closed the gap between himself and Todd and, grabbing him, pushed him against the bookcase, their faces inches apart. Even now Mr. Anjum did not stray from the calmness he had brought to the room. His anger was contained in the firm grip and words that he spoke but went no further.
�Look, I do not know how you got to this bazaar in the first place. And I do not understand how even you did not know better than to come in these flimsy shorts. And your actions are inexcusable. But before your Mr. Reagan, no I suppose it is Mr. Bush now, sends his men to rescue you, you should know that you owe your very life to Mr. Quereshi. You are very fortunate not to be a bloody mess on the street or in little pieces feeding the crabs in the harbor. So, you should at least try to feel some gratitude. Now sit down.�
Mr. Anjum released Todd, who sat down in his chair with slightly less of a slump. After a few orders in Urdu to one of the officers who then left the room, Mr. Anjum took the telephone from the desk and used its long cord to take it to the far end of the room. After some more consultation with Quereshi, he began to dial.
Todd could not hear any of the conversation even though it was in English. He was more attentive of his surroundings now, however, and could hear a new sound. It was the murmur of a crowd outside the windows, punctuated with occasional shouts, which had been growing in intensity over the past several minutes. And so he was somewhat startled when the door opened again for the returning junior officer who was obviously agitated and holding something in his hands. Todd wiped a cold sweat from his forehead and returned his hands to his head, but this time his posture spoke not of indifference but of fear.
The junior officer was saying something to him. �Take it, sir,� he said in English with even a heavier accent than Mr. Quereshi�s. Todd looked up to see a bottle of Coca Cola being held out to him by the straightened arm of the officer, whose thin face with its trim mustache and dark unblinking eyes was a mixture of disdain and pity. For a moment Todd just stared, first at the face of the officer, then at the bottle. The dense air of the room was colliding against its coolness causing thick beads of condensation to roll down the bottle�s trademark curve. A straw with one end of its paper wrapper still on its tip bobbed in dark bubbles.
Finally, he reached to take the bottle and mumbled a �Thank you.� And then for one moment, despite the worsening situation around him, he relaxed, slowly rubbed the wet bottle across his face and gulped down its contents. The situation was almost like a bizarre and ironic commercial. Only Madison Avenue would have had the officers and Mr. Anjum doing a chorus line, and Todd singing �I�d like to buy the world a Coke.�
However, the world outside of the window was not buying. What had once been a muted murmur had changed to loud and persistent call and response shouts in Urdu. Mr. Anjum walked back towards Todd and sat down in the chair across from him. His tone was serious, but no longer unkind.
�Look, Todd. I have called your consulate, but there is no way in which they can collect you here,� he said. �Mr. Quereshi has men outside to placate the crowd, but there is no telling how long they will be able to do that. Currently the people are actually uncertain as to whether you are in this station or another one, and that is to our advantage.�
Todd�s left leg began to shake.
�No, Todd, don�t be afraid,� Mr. Anjum continued, �I have called a friend to come and collect you and you will be able to be picked up at his house, but not until tonight I am afraid. When he comes we will take you out through the back way and we should have no problems.�
Todd did not actually have to wonder long how any friend of Anjum�s could help him when the United States consulate could not, but every minute that passed seemed like ten. The crowd became louder all the time. Occasionally the thud of a rock could be heard hitting against the building. It only took about fifteen minutes before there was another knock on the door.
And once again the newcomer was surprising. Todd could not see his face at first when he came in as his head was down, but he had a thin body and a dark beard and wore a brown shalwar kameez and some old looking sandals. When he raised his head, though, even though well tanned, his skin showed clearly that he was a foreigner. And as he spoke to Mr. Anjum, Todd knew that he was an American.
�Hello, Anjum, going native, I see,� he said smiling, just before embracing him. �No starched shirt and tie today?�
�Well, you know, my friend, Friday prayers,� Mr. Anjum replied.
�Another surprise. Have you begun practicing then, since I saw you last?� the American teased.
�Ah, one must bend the knee in thanks from time to time. Surely you know that, Keith,� Mr. Anjum replied smiling.
Mr. Anjum introduced Keith and Todd, and then turned to discuss the plan for Todd�s removal with Mr. Quereshi, who seemed eager to be free of him. They were interrupted from an outburst from behind them.
�There is no way in Hell that I am wearing that,� Todd said, indicating the shalwar kameez that Keith had pulled from his bag.
�Look, it is really the safest option,� Keith replied. �You don�t even have to change. Just put these on over your clothes. And it will only be for about a half an hour anyway.�
�Yes,� Mr. Quereshi added, �and that will cover your nakedness.�
Mr. Anjum and Keith smiled at this and Todd was perplexed. He finally submitted to being covered, removing his Adidas soccer sandals for a moment to slip on the baggy pants over his Umbro shorts. The addition of the kameez, along with his scraggly brown hair almost made him pass for one of the street children of Karachi, albeit one that was inordinately tall and with pasty skin.
Everyone gathered at the door in preparation. The moment was not one for speeches or goodbyes. Mr. Quereshi was preparing to exit the room and then go out of the front door to address the crowd, hoping that the focus on him would buy some time. Mr. Anjum looked seriously at Todd, but did not articulate any of admonitions that were filling his mind. He simply said, �Best of luck, young man.� And then to Keith, �Do give my regards to Mary please.�
Mr. Quereshi opened the door and watched as Keith and Todd walked toward the back entrance and then turned in the opposite direction.
The back door of the police station opened out onto a courtyard enclosed on all four sides. The half closest to the station was partially paved with bricks and had a table and set of wicker chairs. An old man was squatting in the door way of a small kitchen smoking a hookah but seemed to pay no attention to Keith and Todd. The other half of the courtyard was overgrown with weeds and bushes save for a hard beaten path down its center.
As they entered the weeds, the roar from the front of the building died down to a murmur. Mr. Quereshi must have been talking to the crowd. The building they were approaching was an abandoned Hindu temple that had been simply left to crumble ever since India and Pakistan had separated over forty years earlier.
A breeze off the ocean cooled the late afternoon air somewhat and bent down the grass. The ruin of the temple and the silence and the dust made everything seem like a scene from Forster�s A Passage to India. The two figures walked silently through the temple and got into a small blue Toyota waiting in a quiet bazaar and drove off.
* * * * *
Keith Scott swung the blue Toyota Corona through the open gate of a compound with a low wall around it. On the pillars of the gate, the words �St. Michael�s Church� with a date of 1892 were carved in well worn letters. A small road of paved bricks curved through rows of tall, ancient palm trees with whitewash on the base of their trunks up to about 4 feet high. The remainder of the compound was filled with leafier trees. There was more vegetation in the compound than anywhere along the route that he and Todd had taken from the restless bazaar, down the ocean front boulevard, through more bazaars, restless only with heat and industry, to the small community of Farishtaghar, which was fast being swallowed by the ever hungry metropolis of Karachi. The air was cooler under the trees, but still the heat was oppressive. The leaves did soften the cacophony of horns from the street outside.
A surprisingly large church of tan stone with a white washed base matching the trees stood in the middle of the compound, its steeple peaking above the trees. The brick drive made a large circle in front its entrance. To the left of the church, the driveway had an offshooting, daughter loop, lined with hedges, which circled in front of a tall house with a large verandah. Keith pulled the car into a little parking space at the right of the house, set the parking brake out of habit, and turned to Todd.
�Well, this is it. It�s not the Intercon. No pool. Very little air conditioning,� he said, �But then on the plus side, no angry mob.�
On the ride over, Keith�s attempts at communication with Todd had not been much more successful than those of Mr. Anjum. But this elicited a grudging snort and an expression that approached a smile.
Keith smiled broadly in return.
�Ah, it�s aliiive,� he said jokingly. Then, opening the door, �Come on, let�s go inside.�
To the left of the house and beyond a dry lawn, underneath the shade of many trees, headstones of varying degrees of ornateness and height poked their heads above weeds. To the right of the house, a brick path led past an old set of stables to a row of small houses at the back of the compound. They walked through the pillared verandah and went into a tall, dark foyer with a cool concrete floor. A large dog bounded up skidding on the rug and then jumped up on Keith. It was about to turn to Todd, when a woman�s voice called to him as she entered the room.
�Down, Duke, down,� she said authoritatively while grabbing the dog by the collar. �You�re such a naughty boy.�
Her accent declared she was English, but she too was wearing a white shalwar kameez of light cloth and with a pattern of tiny flowers. Long before her accent could betray her foreignness, though, her white skin and shockingly red hair, today put up in a pony tail, would normally do the job. Even more tellingly, her eyes with their intense greenness shone a twinkle and challenge which alone would have sufficed.
�Ah, so you must be Todd then,� she said, holding out her hand. �Hello, Todd, I�m Mary Scott.�
Todd shook her hand and, seeming to relax a bit said, �Hey. So, is that Mary Scott like that one queen?�
�Well, no, that would be Mary, Queen of Scots, sworn enemy of the English. But that�s still impressive, for an American,� she said, smiling at her husband. �So, come in then. And I�ll put the kettle on for some tea.�
Keith�s laughter kept Todd from the need to answer, and once again elicited the snort and smile from Todd.
�Oh, so you don�t like tea then. Ah, that is bad,� said Mary smiling. �But come away in and we�ll manage something. Now, dog, go sit yourself down. Sit!� she said, raising her voice emphatically on the last word.
The German Shepherd led them into the adjoining room and circling a large dining table, obediently lay down in the corner, albeit with a loud snuff through his nostrils and a pitiful injured expression on his face which only rebuffed canines can pull off with sincerity.
�Well how about some of that Kool-Aid then, Keith?� she asked, and turning to Todd, added, �He treats that stuff as if it were gold dust. And what is it really but some chemicals and food coloring, that costs, how much is it now, dear, 10 cents a packet?�
�You try growing up in the middle of the desert, without a soft drink for a hundred miles, and then we�ll talk� Keith replied, smiling. Then after a pause added, �I am just going to go talk to Sardar and tell him about the consulate car coming. Todd, will you be OK here for a while?�
Todd nodded, and Keith went back out the front door while Mary went to the kitchen, giving Todd time to inspect his surroundings. A new ceiling fan was slicing the air and pushing gusts of it down rather more successfully than the one in Mr. Quereshi�s office. Only a few pictures hung on the white plaster walls, and seemed to be ones that came with the house. There were a series of photographs of groups standing in front of the church. The older ones consisted entirely of white people with men in military outfits and women in long, white dresses. In latter ones, the faces were almost entirely the dark faces of the people of Sind. In the final picture, which was in color, Keith and Mary, stood on the edge of a small group of Pakistanis, including a minister in white robes and a purple stole. Above the pictures and near one of the curiously high windows in the wall, which were opened and closed with a long string, a small gecko hung lazily on the wall.
The far end of the dining room table was covered with pieces of brightly colored crepe paper, a jar of glue and poster board, and a small piece of knitting with needles and multicolored yarn. Amidst the clutter, there was a tea cup and a tape player. Todd was about to walk over to look at a cassette album cover which had a lot of bright photographs on it and was laid open, when Mary returned holding a tray.
�Ah, please excuse the mess,� she said, �I was just getting ready for a fair we are having for the church in a few weeks.�
She poured what looked to be Black Cherry Kool-Aid into a glass that had only two ice cubes in it. Todd took it and drank. If he had any complaints about the flavor or the meager number of ice cubes, he kept them to himself.
�So then,� he said after finishing his drink, �I suppose you�re going to want to know how the Hell I got here, just like everybody else?�
The sharp edge of the question was because Todd was confused. He really did not understand Keith or Mary at all, who had taken him into their home with no questions. He could not understand why they were treating him well.
�Well,� she replied, �I thought you would tell me, if you wanted too. I do know a bit about it already. But, sure, go ahead and tell me your side. There�s always another side, isn�t there?�
“OK, so I was trying to buy some pot. I guess you know that,” Todd began. “But that wasn’t even what set the people off. The guy I met said to follow him. And I was already way the Hell away from the hotel. And then the fucker just kept walking. So I told him to stop, and then we were both shouting. And then I just kicked some shoes.”
“Ah, but they happened to be shoes that were lined up outside of a mosque, weren�t they?” Mary said. “Do you know what that means? And then evidently grabbing your crouch at that point didn’t help matters.”
“What? They were fucking shoes,” Todd said “And pretty shitty ones at that.”
“Well, I don’t know what sort of religious background you have, but have you ever seen holy water in a in a church or perhaps in a movie?”
“Yeah, I think I have, in some vampire movie or something,” Todd answered.
“Well, in its regular, non-Vampire use, it is considered to be holy, set apart, you know. And you don’t just go splashing it about.” Mary began. “Well, with Muslims the whole mosque is holy, that is why they take their shoes of in the first place, and then they become holy too.”
“Yeah, well a priest isn’t going to fucking tear your head off, is he?” Todd replied.
“You do have a point there, but that is simply the way that Islam works out here. And I�m not really sure if it will ever change.�
At that moment, Keith came back in the room.
�Well, I�ve just called the consulate again, and they said they will be here at 8:00. They want to wait until the evening,�
�Eight o�clock?� Todd replied incredulously. �What time is it now?�
�It�s just past five,� said Keith. �Todd, you�re welcome to have supper with us. We generally eat at about 7:00.�
Todd answered only with a shrug.
�Or, if you like, you can take a nap,� Keith continued. �Our guest room even has an air conditioner, which I�m sure you�d appreciate.�
�Yeah, maybe later.� said Todd. Despite his alarm at having to stay there so long, it seemed he was actually enjoying the company a little.
�Well, in the meantime, I�ve put the kettle on, and I for one am going to have some tea,� Keith said. �Mary, would you like some?�
�Yes, love, that would be wonderful,� she replied, as her husband walked toward the kitchen. �Now there�s a sight you won�t see too often in Pakistan, Todd, a man who makes the tea. I am a lucky girl, I am,� she said laughing.
Todd gave the trademark snort and grudging smile again, which he did evidently when he was amused by something but didn�t really want to show it.
�Good deal, I guess, if you like tea,� he said. �But what I really want to know is how does someone like you get to a place like this anyway? I mean Keith I get. He could almost sneeze and be a Pakistani.�
�Ah, yes, it�s the highly fashionable beard that does it,� Mary answered. �But what are you saying, that I�m a little too punk rock for Pakistan?�
�Well, hardly punk rock,� he said, smiling with softer face than any he had worn all day.
�Well, that�s a shame,� she said, �because I rather fancy myself that.�
�OK, maybe punk rock for Pakistan,� he said, �but that doesn�t seem to take too much.�
Keith returned carrying a tray with a tea cozy which just barely covered a fat little tea pot on it, as well as three stacked saucers with three cups lying on their sides and interlocking on top of them, and milk and sugar and a plate of cookies.
�So, is she telling you her �clubbing for Christ� conversion story then?� Keith said. �Oh, and I brought you a cup too, Todd, just in case. Force of habit, really.�
�No, I wasn�t telling him my conversion story,� Mary smiled, shaking her head.
�Well, I am not too interested in the conversion part,� Todd began, �But it if it has to do with clubbing, yeah, that�d be interesting. I assume you mean clubbing as in dancing and not clubbing seals. That would make a pretty cool band name, though.�
�Oh, leave the seals alone,� Mary said. Then after a pause added, �Well, you know, it was dancing that brought me to God, or at least that�s the way I like to tell it.�
�Sure, shoot,� Todd said, �I sure as Hell have the time for it.�
Mary started in a quieter voice, �So, I grew up in a rather nice home and my parents were lovely, until somewhere along the way they stopped being lovely to one another. And then, sorry Keith, but it really all went to shit then.�
Despite his wife�s apology, Keith did not seem to be offended by her mild profanity, but simply waited and watched as Mary paused for a moment, her hand on her mouth.
�Well, I got a bit hard then, and, funnily enough, as we were just joking about it earlier, I got very punk rock indeed,� she said. �There was all this energy and rage inside me and I just wanted to thrash it out of myself.�
�So, that�s the reason for the red hair, then?� Todd asked, �And you�re still dyeing it?�
�Well, I had no need to do that,� she said, �It�s just proof that God�s got a little punk rock in him too. No, but it did take on some amazing shapes during that time in my life.�
�So, no offense, but it�s still really hard to picture you hitting the mosh floor,� Todd said.
�Well, that�s probably because I am different now, but that part of my life is not all gone,� she said. �There�s still times when I just need to go into the bedroom, put on the headphones, and thrash about again.�
�Why, the headphones?�
�Well, I think I rather frightened the woman who helps me around the house last week.� Mary said. �I was so I excited that I had just gotten U2�s new cassette, Achtung Baby, that I had it up rather loud. I can only imagine what she would do with Minor Threat.�
�I think they�d stop being a only minor threat at that point,� Keith added, smiling. �At least for Mumtaz.�
�No, Todd, I just grew out it, I suppose� Mary continued. �I mean either you just get so angry and hopeless that you crash out or you move on to something else. It�s like Keith teaching me to drive the car, rather bravely I might add. In our little compound here, there is really only room to get up to third gear, and the car is roaring at that point. But if I ever manage to get out on the road, well, I�ll have to move on to some other gears.�
�So, you changed your gears through Jesus, I suppose,� Todd said.
�Well, yes, Mr. Sarcasm, but that doesn�t come till later,� Mary said. �First there was the dancing, remember. The dancing�s really important.�
�Oh, yeah, clubbing for Christ.�
�Well, it wasn�t for Christ I was clubbing,� she began. �I don�t really do things by halves, and a one point I�d go out four nights a week. And I don�t think Christ would have cared much for some of my outfits, nor some of my actions back then. Not for his sake, mind you, but for mine. But I do know that he gave me the dancing.�
�He gave you the dancing?� Todd asked.
�Yeah, it was like finding freedom.�
�But, isn�t punk like the ultimate freedom?� Todd responded.
�Well, this was freedom in completely different ways, in ways that weren�t just angry,� she said. �And then I met Shanti, who was sowing some of her own wild oats at the time. And we became friends and she took me home. And then there was beautiful Indian dancing. And then church and Jesus. And, finally, there was this shy, sweet, witty American.�
�Well, shy at least,� said Keith, smiling broadly.
�So you turned the corner then,� Todd began, in a voice that was regaining some of its previous edge. �And it is been fucking wholesomeness from there on out, I suppose? And now you�re serving God in this hot as Hell country full of religious maniacs?�
�Well, we�re here, Todd,� Mary began, �because I met Keith and he grew up in the desert about a hundred miles north of here and he loves Pakistan. And our church in London is this crazy place with Indians and Pakistanis and British folk and I came to love the culture too. And then his old Pakistani pastor called and asked for some help, and here we are. And, sure, the culture is not as lovely when wrapped up in a totally Islamic society, but the people still are.�
�Yeah, I saw some of their loveliness earlier today,� Todd said.
Keith, who had been sitting silently during this time, spoke, �Well, the intolerance is not such a pleasant side of the religion, even if you should have been more careful. But the people are incredibly hospitable and under different circumstances would have given you anything you needed. And they like to laugh and have fun too. The women and girls come and sit with Mary and drink tea. And one of them teaches her knitting. And they all laugh at her attempts at Urdu. And she teaches them English and songs.�
�Yeah, I think knitting is going to be really big one of these days,� Mary added, excitedly. �I just need to get up to the hills so I can actually wear one of my scarves. Though I might have to wait till England since their colors might rather scare the other missionaries.�
Todd was having a difficult time figuring out the Scotts. He had no category for them. Their winsomeness and honesty presented him with a choice between softness and engagement on one hand and cynicism on the other.
�So, I guess it�s just like little house in the desert here then,� he said, having made his choice. �There�s the neighbors, the crafts, the knitting, the baking. You just need some kids to make the picture complete. Yeah, and since you like U2 so much, you could name one of them Bono, and they second one, Sid, you know, as a throwback to your past.�
As Todd rattled on with his cleverness, he did not notice the change that had come across Mary�s face. At the mention of children, it was as if the light that lit up her green eyes had gone behind a cloud. She, indeed, did not do things by halves, and was desperately struggling to quell the sorrow that had washed all the animation out of her body. She placed her hands on her mouth to steady her quivering lips. But a pair of tears declared that all her attempts were futile.
�Excuse me for a moment,� she said, and got up and left the room.
The dog in the corner picked up his head and gave a plaintive yelp, almost as if in sympathy. And then picked himself up and, loping quickly, followed her out, his nails clicking on the concrete floor. Keith, too, rose and was leaving the room, but turned for a moment toward Todd.
�Look, that wasn�t entirely your fault. We were all kind of joking around a bit,� he said, �But just so you know, Mary was about two months pregnant and then we lost the baby. And that was only just a month ago.� He paused. �You can stay here till I come back or I can show you where the guest room is.�
�Yeah, man, show me the room. I feel like just crashing,� Todd said. �How the fuck was I supposed to know?�
* * * * *
The room was pitch black except for a tiny strip of dull light about seven feet high where the curtains hung from small loops. A window air conditioner filled the air with its loud rushing noise and a deep coolness. A bed with crisp cotton sheets and a thin blanket made it a perfect room for summer slumber, as dark and comfortable as a womb.
�Todd, Todd,� said a voice at the door.
Todd swirled up from oblivion and for a moment didn�t know where he was. The door opened and figure came over to the side of the bed. It was Keith.
�Hey, Todd, wake up. The people from the consulate are finally here. It�s 9:30. You�ll need to hurry, but you can wash up a bit in the bathroom.�
Todd got up and walked to the bathroom where Keith had turned on the light. He did not really care what he looked like, but still poured water over his head and ran his hair back with his fingers, and then walked out of the room.
It was still hot.
�Shit,� he thought, �doesn�t it ever cool down here?�
He walked into the dining room and there was Mary sitting alone at the table. She was wearing a dark blue shalwar kameez with pale blue embroidery in a pattern around the neck. Her hair had been washed and hung straight against her head, with a few curls awakening and blowing in the breeze from the fan as they dried. She was drinking a cup of tea, and an empty soup bowl lay on the table in front of her. Beside her Duke sat upright with his head held high to where it was being stroked by Mary�s hand.
She rose from the table and came across to Todd.
�Hello, Todd, I�m sorry we woke you up so late, but the consulate had called and said they wouldn�t be here until ten, so we thought we�d just let you sleep until just before they came.�
�Thanks,� Todd said, not knowing what else to say.
The air was filled with silence until Mary spoke again.
�Well, Keith is outside on the verandah with several Marines who are waiting for you. So, you had better go and rescue him.� And then after a pause added in a softer voice, �Look, don�t worry about earlier. I am still a bit tender is all, but God�s going to take care of me. It was nice to meet you, and I really wish you all the best.�
She reached out her hand and he shook it silently. He turned and walked through the foyer and then outside.
The heat was even more oppressive. The verandah light flickered from a thick cloud of moths and insects which surrounded it. And from the entire compound, a high pitched, steady creak of a multitude of hidden insects filled the night air.
Under the arch of the verandah a massive white Suburban idled, like a massive yacht at its moorings, with a Marine standing by the front door. Keith met Todd at the top step of the verandah. He, too, was freshly washed and wore a light short sleeved shirt with khaki pants, but still wore the simple pair of sandals he had on earlier.
�Well, this heat�s amazing,� Keith offered. �Normally it�s not like this at this time of night, but the monsoon hasn�t come and that keeps it hot.�
Todd simply looked at him without saying anything.
�Hey, I�m glad you got some rest,� Keith continued. �The Marine said that they will debrief you at the consulate. And your coach is waiting there too.�
At the mention of his soccer coach, Todd suddenly remembered that he was still wearing the shalwar kameez Keith had given him. He had even forgotten to take it off when he went to sleep.
�Hey, I better give these back to you,� he said, as he stripped them off.
He handed them to Keith and stood in the dim light looking more boyish in his t-shirt and soccer shorts, but somehow harder too.
Keith reached out and briefly touched Todd on the shoulder, but sensing his discomfort pulled his hand back,� Hey, I know it�s been a pretty bad day, but I am glad I got to meet you. And Mary likes you. And, though you may not really feel like you got a good deal at the police station, Mr. Quereshi and Mr. Anjum really took care of you. I guess what I am trying to say is that hopefully that out of the difficulty of it all you still got something good.�
The marine opened the large door of the Suburban and a cool current of air rushed out into the night. Inside a barely perceptible tune could be heard over the roar of the air vents.
Keith and Todd stood facing each other, a silence hanging between them, as the air vents roared loudly on. For a moment Todd�s face seemed to show a struggle with some emotion, as he looked downward with a furrowed brow. But the face he finally raised was completely expressionless.
�Yeah, whatever,� he said, and climbed inside.
* * * * *
Epilog
The wall on the western side of Chandni Street was a curious one. A lower wall with a rounded top had been added to with a nearly foot thick rectangular wall of bricks that rose up to 10 feet. On its top, there was not the traditional poor man�s security system of broken bottles set in concrete, but a sinister roll of razor wire, which was softened a bit by the thick layer of dust that encased it and the hundreds of shreds of bleached plastic of various hues from littered grocery bags. The wall itself was almost entirely indecipherable from a heavy iron gate, as both were plastered with posters, with politicians competing with movie stars for top billing. Almost no one used the gate anymore, and even the vendors who set up their carts in front of the wall every day did not seem to know what was beyond it. Or at least they were not telling.
Inside the gate, a brick drive choked with weeds curved away between a row of overgrown and dying palm trees. The lawns on each side were completely overgrown. The road made a loop in front of a church which seemed old and small despite its impressive steeple. Whitewash peeled from its lower half and its vestry seemed to have been completely rebuilt of concrete which did not hold paint as well as the older surface of the church. The door of the church was of solid metal, unadorned and locked with a heavy padlock.
To the left of the church, a sad looking house peered from behind its overgrown yard, its windows encased in metal. The entire compound seemed old and dusty and sad. The ancient mango tree, whose fruit once almost never hit the ground, as it was obligingly pruned by neighborhood boys who jumped the wall for a quick snack, now stood in a little forest of mango trees encircling it, as the mangoes now only fell silently into the tall grass.
Only one area in the entire compound showed any signs of tending, and it, in sharp contrast, was immaculate. At the corner of the old cemetery where British officers slept next to coolies and fishmongers, there was a small monument. It was just on the edge of the road, and a little semicircle of the road radiating out from it was completely pulled of weeds.
The monument was a simple brick rectangle with an inset slab of white marble. At the top of the slab a simple cross was deeply etched into the marble. On each side of the cross, a faint suggestion of an angel�s wing was delicately etched. Below, an inscription read:
In loving memory of
Our sisters and brothers in Christ
Of St. Michael�s Church
Rev. John Masih, Bilquis, Qadir, Patrus,
Candy, Shiela, Khalid, Amer,
Keith, Mary, Paul, and Lucy
Who went to be with our Lord
On 17 March 2002
In the Farishtahghar Massacre,
The largest of a series of attacks
On Christians on this day
Throughout the nation of Pakistan.
________________
�He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.�
Psalm 91