Uncle Jihad noticed Istez Camil standing up. “I’m sorry,” he said, putting me down. “I didn’t know you had guests. How rude of me.” He walked over to shake Istez Camil’s hand, but stopped midway. “My God. What an honor.” He gestured wildly, looked toward my mother. “Layla, do you know who this man is? This man is a master.”
“You exaggerate, sir,” Istez Camil said. He remained standing.
“Exaggerate? Let me shake your hand, please. Layla, this man has played with Umm Kalthoum!”
They flew higher and higher, Fatima with the wind in her hair and the imps beside her, three carpets with three passengers each. North they went. “Was the healer helpful?” Jacob yelled, to be heard above the whooshing of air. “I could not tell.”
“It is always riddles,” Job replied. “I hate riddles. I do not test well.”
“She was very helpful,” Noah said. “She gave us mud.”
Elijah groaned. The air grew cooler and clearer, the sun subtler.
“We are about to find out how helpful,” Fatima said. “Look ahead.”
Before them, a distance away, a band of white eagles appeared from behind a snowy mountain peak, and more eagles, and more. “A thousand,” said Ezra.
“Coming for us,” said Elijah.
“A pox upon the son of a whore King Kade,” said Adam. “Our first trial.”
“Do not say that,” moaned Job. “I hate trials more than I hate riddles.”
“How insulting,” Isaac said. “We travel all this way for this. A magician of his stature, and he sends us feathered trifles? I expected so much more. I am grievously disappointed.”
“The magician means to try us with symbols,” said Ishmael. “How childish.”
Job put his hand on his brow and shook his head. “Allow me.” Still cross-legged on the carpet, he raised his arms to the sky and announced, “Try this.” And between Job’s arms formed a cloud from which countless mosquitoes shot out. “A thousand for each of your birds,” he announced. “A thousand upon each of your thousand. A million for you.”
“Mosquitoes?” asked Fatima.
“Hush,” answered Job. “You think me a beginner. Just watch.”
It seemed to Fatima that the mosquitoes traveled faster than any insects she had encountered before, a rushing, rolling, buzzing wave of beige. The white eagles headed directly into the cloud of pests. “I hope they are all females,” Fatima said.
“Please,” he replied. “They are lesbians.”
“Ouch,” exclaimed Ezra.
The mosquitoes did not slow the flight of the eagles instantaneously. It took the predatory birds a minute to reduce their speed, after which they began to fly in circles. Beaks snapped on air, and feathers ruffled. The eagles seemed agitated and confused.
“Not enough,” said Isaac. “The birds are too pristine. Let them suffer.”
Job pointed his hand, and fleas rocketed toward the eagles. Then he sent gnats, mites, and ticks. The lice he saved for last. Splotches of red bubbled on the eagles’ white. “A much better color,” said Isaac. The eagles were overwhelmed and vanquished. Feathers were released from bodies and floated toward the ground. Within a short time, no eagle remained aloft.
Fatima looked below at the carnage. “Sad,” she said.
“Why?” asked Elijah. “They were too pretty.”
“I hate white,” said Isaac. “It is drab and colorless.”
Elie watched the burgeoning yellow-and-blue flames of the bonfire he’d built in an empty lot far from our building, hoping to lure Israeli fighter planes to waste their bombs there. The pop of the burning wood interrupted the eerie silence. The side of my sister’s face was lit by the fire, a flicker in her eye as she stared at Elie. I watched the passing cars, all their headlights painted blue, with only a tiny sliver of a cross to allow white light through. Elie yelled at the sky, a war cry. The hollow at the base of his throat expanded. The ridge of his collarbone vibrated. Lina opened her mouth, but didn’t scream. She was staring at Elie, as if in a rapture.
That night, the Egyptian army downed forty-four Israeli planes over the Sinai. Gamal Abd al-Nasser’s boys are fighting for their motherland, the radio intoned. I sat by the window, illuminated by the soft light of the morning sun. “That’s all lies,” Uncle Jihad said. He switched to BBC Radio: The Israelis are advancing easily. Jerusalem is theirs.
The concierge, Elie’s father, yelled at Madame Daoud on the third floor. “Talk to my husband when he comes in,” she yelled back. “I’m not going to stand here and listen to this.”
“Traitors,” he shouted. “You want the Israelis to destroy our homes.”
“Eat shit.” She slammed the door.
My father bent over the banister and bellowed, “What’s all the shouting about?”
“They haven’t painted their windows,” the concierge said, his voice quieter, meeker. “They want the Israelis to kill us.”
“Don’t be stupid,” my father chided. “You think they want to die? Probably no one told them to until you just started yelling. I don’t appreciate you pestering the tenants. Now, go back downstairs and I’ll talk to them about painting their windows.” He returned to our apartment, muttering, “Nobody knows his place anymore.”
The Daouds were strange in that they rarely opened a window in their apartment. At first, I assumed it was because they were Jewish, but my mother, who was a friend of Madame Daoud’s, told me otherwise. She said that many Jewish families opened their windows. She thought the Daouds kept theirs closed because they had lived for a time in Bologna and everyone knew that Italians were terrified of drafts.
• • •
“It’s those fucking Americans,” Elie said. He lit a Marlboro, flicked the match with middle finger and thumb. “We can crush the Israelis, but we can’t fight the Americans. All the planes are being flown by American pilots.” He took a long drag, banged the worn leather seat of the motorcycle. “Fuck all of them. All the damn American imperialists.”
“Are we losing?” I asked.
He turned, shoved me. I stepped backward, frantically trying to keep my balance. “We’ll never lose. We’ll win the war. God is on our side.” Elie turned back to the motorcycle. I ran out of the garage, up to the apartment, and hoped he wouldn’t notice I was gone.
Behind the first mountain peak stood a huge palace of majestic silver splendor. Three tall towers stabbed virginal white clouds. From above, the palace shone with unearthly brilliance, its silver reflecting the sun’s glory. A large, glittering pool was centered in the courtyard.
“Look at the beautiful women,” Elijah said when they landed in the courtyard. “They have such perfectly formed breasts.”
Seventy-two virgins, beauties with big round eyes and hair of various shades of blond, appeared perplexed at the sight of the colorful imps. As did twenty-eight strikingly white prepubescent boys. “Welcome, travelers,” said one of the girls.
“I think they were expecting only one warrior,” Fatima said. One large divan faced one hundred couches arranged in rows. The surrounding verdant garden soothed the senses. “This must be someone’s idea of paradise.”
“Come,” another houri said. The women and boys wore dresses of sheer silver silk that revealed more than if they were naked. “Join us. Let us ease the weariness of your journey. Allow us to rejuvenate you.” Ten of the seminude and smiling boys carried large jugs of wine. Each resident of the garden carried a cup filled with the burgundy liquid. “Come,” said a boy. “Relax. We can sing tales for you and entertain you.”