Musa’s soul was struck as if his son had kicked him. It flew out of the café and out of Cairo, and back into his body where it sat by the road.
Musa prayed that his son would not be swept away by hatred and bitterness. As he prayed, his heart galloped like a horse, and he was aware of the thousands of bottles of Pepsi sitting in their crates in his truck, and he prayed that his son would not despise him.
At the sound of a car stopping, Musa opened his eyes. There, in the glare of the desert sun beyond the shadow of the truck, was the King of the Jinn getting out of a Jeep.
Musa got quickly to his feet. He bowed deeply in greeting.
The King of the Jinn walked into the shadow of the truck and bowed back. He was wearing a European-style suit and carrying a briefcase. Beneath his calm smile Musa could feel a great, empty yearning.
“It is good to see you,” Musa said as they shook hands. He resisted the urge to embrace the King of the Jinn.
“And you.”
Musa’s heart was still thundering from his encounter with his son, and he was dizzy and sweating from the heat. He looked at the smile of the creature in the suit, and all of a sudden he found himself asking the question that was always on his tongue, but which he had told himself he would never ask. And so stupidly-he had not inquired as to the health of the other, had not offered him water or coffee or apologized for his inability to provide proper hospitality, had not told or heard any stories, had exchanged neither compliments nor proverbs. His stupid tongue simply jumped up and asked rudely: “are you a Jinn?” Then he clapped his hands to his mouth in horror.
Gil grinned. As if he approved of the question, was proud of Musa for asking it. He squinted and pursed his lips as if deciding how to answer.
“I don’t know what I am,” he said finally. “But that is the best proposal I have heard so far.”
Musa stood transfixed with embarrassment. He coughed and tried to think of what to say to return the conversation to its proper course.
“And since I am, for lack of a better word, a Jinn,” said Gil, “I should offer you wishes.”
“Oh no!” said Musa. “I could not accept!”
“Musa,” said Gil, “our encounters have been valuable to me over the years. You deserve at least one wish. Would you like it for yourself, or for your son?”
“For my son!” gulped Musa. Old fool!, he shouted at himself silently. You did not even refuse three times! And yet he was so worried about Jamal.
“Very well,” said Gil, smiling and handing Musa the briefcase. “Here is what your son wants most in the world.”
A chill went through Musa’s hands. He set the briefcase down in the sand and looked at the latches. They were shiny and brass.
“Well?” said Gil.
Musa reached out with shaking hands to open the latches.
Most of the contents of the briefcase were covered with a cloth of fine dark silk. But on top of the silk was a blue plastic booklet with a picture of an eagle, and western letters on it. An American passport. Musa opened it. There was his son’s picture. He looked up at Gil, confused. Was this what Jamal wanted? To go to America? Musa did not know what to think. There would be dangers, temptations-but at the same time Jamal would learn much, and perhaps-
Gil’s eyes were sad-though Musa thought, again, that the sadness was on the surface, like a mask; that beneath it was emptiness-and he gestured back to the briefcase.
Musa looked down again. He moved aside the black cloth.
The rest of the briefcase was filled with thick yellow cylinders of something that looked like clay, connected with electrical tape and wires.
“No!” shouted Musa. “No!”
With that passport, Jamal could go through the border at Taba, into Israel. He could go to the busiest cafe, the most crowded corner in Tel Aviv, and murder himself and a hundred Zionists-Zionists in baby carriages, Zionists in bridal gowns, Zionists with canes and false teeth-and join the Palestinian martyrs in their struggle.
But surely Jamal would never get through! He would be searched at the border. They would find the bomb, they would punish him! But the stillness in Gil’s eyes told Musa that the King of the Jinn had granted far greater wishes, and that Jamal would not fail.
Musa prostrated himself at Gil’s feet, burying his face in his hands. “No!” he cried. “Please! Please, sir-Gil-whatever you are-do not do this!”
“Musa, you have become complacent,” Gil said. “You have a special gift, a special connection to God. But it is too easy for you. You drive your truck and have visions and take it for granted that it is enough. But God requires more. Sometimes God requires sacrifice.”
Musa struggled to his feet, looked wildly around. “This isn’t what God wants! Don’t tell me God wants my only child martyred! To murder innocents along with the guilty, as the oppressors themselves do! Is that how the Prophet fought?”
“Musa,” said Gil, and in his voice was an ancient, ancient cold, with ten thousand years of emptiness behind it, “there is nothing you can do about that. Here is what you can do.”
Musa waited, watching Gil’s bottomless, glittering eyes.
“Write an amulet,” Gil said. “For the protection and redemption of your son’s soul. If you think he is going into sin-write an amulet to protect him.”
Musa wanted to protest more, to plead. But he found himself going to the cab of his truck and getting in, and taking his parchment and pens and ink out of the dashboard compartment. His tears mixed with the ink as he wrote the declaration of faith and he prayed, fervently, fervently. He no longer felt God’s grace in every grain of sand. He felt as though God’s grace was hidden at the end of a very long tunnel.
Gil came and took the amulet from him. “Thank you, Musa,” he said, and walked to his Jeep and got in.
Musa started his motor. He would rush to Cairo, too, and talk to Jamal. He would persuade him of the wrongness of his actions. He released the clutch and eased onto the road as the Jeep pulled out ahead of him.
But Jamal would not listen. Musa could hear his arguments now. How else to strike at the powerful oppressor, he would say, but the only way we can? Could Musa say for certain he was wrong? But not my son!, Musa’s heart shouted. God, God, not my only son! Jamal would look at him with contempt. Driver of sodas.
The road began a long, steep downgrade. Musa took his foot off the gas, lightly tapped the brake as he followed. The Jeep sped on ahead.
Jamal would not listen. He would be gone, and Musa’s life would be empty. If Jamal could only get through this period of youth and fiery blood, if he could only learn patience and humility, learn to trust God and endure injustice… but he would not have time. The briefcase in the Jeep ahead would see to that.
Help me, God, help me, Musa prayed, with all his heart.
Was it God? Or was it His Adversary? Or simply desperation? Something took Musa’s foot off the brake and slammed it down onto the gas and held it there.
The truck groaned and shuddered as it surged down the downgrade. It gained on the Jeep.
The distance closed.
Gil looked back over his shoulder, and in that instant Musa realized he loved the King of the Jinn as a dog loves his master, and he slammed on the brake. But the inertia of a ton of Pepsi would not entertain such indecision. The wheels of the cab locked and skidded, the trailer behind slammed it forward, and the nose of the semi smashed into the Jeep, flipping it into the air. Musa was thrown into the wheel; his jaw snapped and blood fountained across the windshield. He felt the truck fishtail off the road, and then roll; he heard the sound of ten thousand shattering Pepsi bottles fill the desert.
Then it stopped.
Then came the sound of ten thousand bottles slowly reassembling themselves.
The droplets of blood swam slowly back through the air into Musa’s veins.