“I went to sleep stimulated about the party,” I said. “My father came into my and my sister’s bedroom that morning when it was still dark. Zahira was asleep. He said, ‘Karim, come with me, please.’ It was February and we did not have heating, so I was vibrating when I followed my father out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Then he told me, ‘I am sorry, but we will not be having your birthday party tonight. We will be having a funeral.’”
Mr. Schrub was looking directly at me while I spoke, which typically would make me nervous, but now I was concentrating on the story and I forgot about his presence.
“I was quiet for a long time,” I said. “And then I do not know why I did it, but I smiled. That is what I mean by unpredictable behavior, because of course I was not happy. My father asked, ‘Why are you smiling?’ and I did not know and did not answer, but he kept asking me and it kept making me smile more, and finally he slapped me on the left side of my face. Then I think I said, ‘I do not want a birthday party anyway,’ and ran away from him. I exited our apartment, even though I was in my nightwear and it was still dark, and ran through our courtyard to a big date tree behind the apartment complex that was there when we moved in. I sat underneath the date tree for a few minutes, but its skin hurt my back, and I turned around and punched it. It pained me, and because the tree did not move I punched it again and continued punching it for several minutes.”
I paused. It was strange how I was remembering all these details I thought I had forgotten by talking about them for the first time.
“I was upset about many things,” I said. “I think what upset me the most was that I never said good-bye to my mother, even though that might have been more painful to do. I do not even remember what our last conversation was. It was probably something insignificant.” I tried to remember it at that moment, but as I always did, I failed.
“In a few minutes my father found me,” I said. “He pulled me away and I tried punching him instead but he restricted my arms and I finally gave up. It was foolish to do, and sometimes my right hand still pains me, e.g., when I play racquetball for too long. But I came back inside with my father because I considered that someone had to tell my sister what happened in a way that would protect at least some of her feelings.”
I stopped. It was the most I had said nonstop to anyone since I arrived in the U.S. I felt slightly humiliated for revealing so much, but I also felt partially enhanced.
Mr. Schrub didn’t say anything. He only nodded. I valued that.
He picked up a glass of golden alcohol that looked even more golden from his desk lamp and drank from it, then held his hand under the lamp. “He had these hands, these huge hands. Johnny Bench hands. Skin like a deer hide, calluses everywhere. I always wondered when my hands would get to be that size, feel that rough. And they never did. Dainty little things.” He inspected his hand more closely and laughed quietly. “I get a manicure every two weeks.”
I understood, because I remembered looking at my father’s hands the same way when I was young, but now my hands are of equal size, although his skin is rougher.
“It’s funny,” he said. “You act a certain way, and you think you’re an absolutist, but every day there are these little shifts. They’re so small you don’t even notice them. And one day you look at yourself and aren’t sure how you got there.”
I said, “That is usually how change occurs. It is like physical growth. You cannot detect it on a daily basis.”
“Like a physical growth,” he said, although I had merely said “physical growth” and did not include the indefinite article. “Exactly. Like a tumor.”
I didn’t want to correct him, so I said nothing, and he looked at me and said, “I know listening to a drunken old man ramble on isn’t your idea of a wild Saturday night. I’ll let you hit the hay.”
As I exited the office, he said, “Thanks for the talk.”
I said, “You are welcome, Mr. Schrub,” and then I felt even worse about spying.
I went to my room. Now I would have to return in the middle of the night for the voice recorder. I considered his statement about the little shifts and what Mrs. Schrub said about being different now from what she was at age 16. My mother always told me the best jobs helped others, but my skill set does not make me a good teacher, and although I am strong at memorizing, I had difficulty with biology and therefore would not be an efficient doctor, and I am not very interested in the legal system because it is man-made and elastic to different countries and not universal the way math or programming is. Of course I am creating and distributing wealth through Kapitoil, but I am only indirectly helping others. To reroute my brain I read The Grapes of Wrath, and I stayed awake until I completed it.
I initially became angry at Steinbeck when the character Rose of Sharon gives birth to a baby that is dead. It was as if he didn’t want to write a happy ending, so he selected the unhappiest ending. But then she fed the dying man she didn’t know at the true ending with the milk that she initially reserved for her baby, and I appreciated the previous negative charge. It was possibly the first time a book made me think differently about a subject not because of a logical argument. I felt like calling Zahira to tell her about it, but I didn’t want to contact my father.
In addition, it was 2:30 a.m. and an optimal time to retrieve the voice recorder. If someone detected me, I would say I was making myself at home in the fridge.
I descended the stairs slowly. The house was muted, and the light under Mr. Schrub’s office door was out. As I walked down the hallway, I heard voices outside the front door. If I stayed near his office I would be caught, and if I ran back upstairs it would look suspicious, so I quickly entered the kitchen.
The sounds were (1) the front door opening with difficulty; (2) Jeromy and Wilson whispering loudly; and (3) a female voice laughing with them.
Mr. Schrub’s sons entered the kitchen with a female approximately their age. She was very tall and thin with blonde hair and a face that was slightly like a horse’s and a white scarf tied around her neck. I wished I wasn’t in my nightwear.
“Hey, what’s going on, Karim?” Wilson said. He sniffed and rubbed his nose several times and said, “Karim works for my dad. This is George.” I was surprised a female had the name George, but I didn’t say anything. “What are you doing up, man? A little midnight snackage?”
“I already ate some baklava,” I said.
“He already ate some baklava,” Wilson said, and he laughed and again sniffed his nose, and George laughed also, even though there was nothing humorous or original in his statement. Then he said, “What, you don’t like our country’s cuisine?”
“I very much like American food,” I said.
He asked, “And how do you like our house here?”
“I like it very much as well.”
“So if I go to — where the fuck are you from, again?” he asked. I told him. “Qatar,” he said. “Qatar. Qatar.”
He got up and ran to a drawer and pulled out a knife and put it behind his back. Then he said, “Cut her, cut her,” and returned to the table and grabbed George’s arms behind her back and commanded me, “Cut her, Karim, cut her,” and deposited the knife in my hand as he held her.