72

72

CHAPTER ONE

Yasmin and the Athletic Socks

Mahmoud al-Bakri did not so much remember dying as remember being suddenly – there was no other word for it – distributed.

He had been in a small fibreglass boat off the coast of Yemen, the bow weighed down with what his cousin Tariq had assured him was a more than sufficient quantity of explosive material, the prow pointed at a destroyer he had not yet identified by class, when the A-10 had come from somewhere west of him producing a noise like God ripping a long sheet of canvas down the spine of the world. The thirty-millimetre rotary cannon – Mahmoud, who had only ever heard fifty cal in films, would later be patiently corrected on this point by the angel at reception – had divided his suicide boat into two roughly equal halves and Mahmoud himself into approximately fourteen unequal sections, the largest of which was his left foot, still in its sandal.

And now he was here. Here, brother, was – and this was, in fairness, the first surprise of the afterlife – Khartoum.

He recognised the dust. He recognised the architecture. He recognised the colour of the sky, which was not, in fairness, a colour any reasonable theologian would have predicted for paradise. The sky was Khartoum sky – pale, hot, slightly tan, the colour of an old hadith printed on cheap paper. Through the small window above the reception desk he could see the wide brown ribbon of the Blue Nile, a row of donkey carts on a distant road, the small white silhouette of the Mahdi’s Tomb across in Omdurman, and a billboard advertising a brand of seasoning he had, on Earth, bought at a corner shop in Sana’a. The smell that drifted in through the window was unmistakably Khartoum in the dry season: dust, diesel, frying onions, hibiscus tea, and the faint distant whiff of the river.

He looked at the angel.

The angel did not look up. The angel pushed across the desk a slip of paper that read GUEST 4,187,221 and gestured down a long fluorescent-lit corridor. The angel was wearing, brother, a beige polo shirt. The polo shirt had, on its left breast, a small embroidered logo that read PARADISE – A SUBSIDIARY.

“Excuse me, brother,” said Mahmoud. “Is this – is paradise – “

“Down the hall.”

“But – Khartoum – “

“Yes.”

“I had been led to expect – gardens – “

“Yes.” The angel, brother, still did not look up. “We get this. There is, on the back of your slip, an FAQ. Please consult.”

Mahmoud turned the slip. The English text in fine print read:

Welcome to the eternal abode. Heaven, in actual fact, has always been laid out exactly like Khartoum. The garden description was metaphorical, brother. We apologise for the inconvenience.

Beneath, in Arabic, was a single line: ????? ?? ??????? – paradise is Khartoum – followed by, in smaller font, please do not, in fairness, raise this with senior management.

He folded the slip. He put it in his pocket. He thought, briefly, I died for the wrong city. He walked down the corridor.

Door one had a small brass numeral. Beyond door one – Mahmoud could hear, faintly through the wood – was the slightly tinny sound of recorded music with a strong backbeat.

He paused for some considerable time in front of door one.

He thought about his mother, who had not wanted him to do any of this and to whom he had told he was going to Riyadh for an electrician’s apprenticeship. He thought about Tariq, who he was now reasonably certain was still alive, drinking tea, possibly even at this very moment, and who had loaded the boat, which suggested certain things about the explosive material and Tariq’s commitment level that Mahmoud now had eternity to consider. He thought about the fact that he was, technically, twenty-one years old, and had, in fairness, never been alone in a room with an unmarried woman in his life, including his cousins. He thought about the fact that the brochure had said gardens and he had received Khartoum. He thought, briefly, that Khartoum was perhaps not, in fairness, the worst possible substitution – he had been to Khartoum once with his uncle in 2017 and had, in fairness, enjoyed the hibiscus tea – but he could not shake the small administrative anxiety that something fundamental had been swapped on him at the loading dock.

He opened door one.

The room behind door one was, strictly speaking, not really a room. It was a small carpeted stage. There was a brass pole. There were small round tables. There was a smell of beer, of industrial disinfectant, and of carpet that had had alcohol spilled on it for many consecutive years. At the back of the stage there was a small window, cracked open perhaps three inches, through which came the sound of a Khartoum traffic policeman’s whistle. The policeman appeared, by the sound, to be sorting out a small dispute between two donkey carts. The dispute was, brother, escalating.

There was a woman on the stage.

She was perhaps thirty. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and a small mole at the corner of her mouth. She was wearing – Mahmoud was processing several things at once, including the urgent question of where to look – a small sequinned outfit that left, in fairness, very little to the religious imagination. She was, additionally, missing both arms at approximately the level of the upper bicep. And on each of her residual limbs – the nubs, brother, was the only word Mahmoud could find, and he was, in fairness, embarrassed by the word the moment it formed – she was wearing a clean white cotton athletic sock pulled snugly upward. The kind of sock, brother, one bought in a multipack of six at a discount retailer.

She was dancing.

That is, she was performing what was clearly intended to be a dance routine. The hips moved rhythmically. The pole was not, in any traditional sense, being used. The pole, brother, required hands, and the hands were not, in fairness, on the menu. The athletic socks bobbed in a confident counter-rhythm to her hips, with the small precise bounce of a person who had, brother, practised the bounce specifically.

There was, at this moment, no music.

On a small folding table beside the stage sat a cassette player. The cassette door was open. A small dark frizzy heap of chewed tape spilled from it like, brother, the contents of a deflated thought.

She saw him. She stopped dancing. The socks, brother, hung at her sides.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, brother, you’re him. You’re the one. Finally. The Walkman’s been eating side B since 2014. Give me a second.”

She walked, with the practised economy of a woman who had been operating without arms since the age of thirteen, off the stage. She bent over the cassette player. She pressed eject with her chin. She blew, gently, into the cassette door. She inserted, somehow – with her chin, brother, which Mahmoud was forced to admit was, in fairness, the work of considerable training – a pencil into the spool. She rewound the chewed portion.

“There. Right. Welcome, brother. Yasmin al-Khalidi. Wichita Falls, Texas. By way of Beirut. Welcome to the room.”

She returned to the stage. She pressed play, again, with her chin. The opening bars of Cherry Pie, by the band Warrant, began at slightly the wrong speed and stabilised over four seconds. She resumed dancing.

Mahmoud stood in the doorway. He understood that he was supposed to enter the room. The room contained, brother, small round tables, and small round tables were for sitting at. Sitting at one of them was, however, a moral commitment he was not, in fairness, prepared to make.

He thought, with a clarity that surprised him: I have never sat at a small round table in any setting in my life. The men of my village sit on the floor, on cushions, around a low common cloth. The small round table is a Western seating arrangement I have only seen in television shows, where it is invariably associated with bars, and bars are haram, and so I have, in fairness, no available cultural reference for what to do here.

He stood in the doorway. There was, brother, sweat on the back of his neck. The cassette played. Yasmin danced.

“I – Mahmoud al-Bakri,” he managed in Arabic. “Peace be upon you, ukhti. I – “

“Khalidi. Don’t worry about the table, brother. Stand if you like – most of you stand. The first ones I tried to get to sit, and it was, in fairness, uncomfortable for everyone. Also: the brass pole is not, in fairness, structural. A guy two visitors ago leaned on it and it leaned back. The maintenance angel had to come out. He was, brother, annoyed.”

“I will not lean on the brass pole,” said Mahmoud, who had, in fairness, no plans involving the brass pole at any point in any of his available eternities.

He stood, brother, very still in the doorway. The small open window admitted, very faintly, the sound of a Khartoum afternoon: a vendor calling out the price of mangoes, a child laughing, the distant honk of a microbus. He clung, internally, to these sounds. They were, in fairness, the only things in this room he had any cultural foothold in.

“I’ll do the bio,” said Yasmin, dancing. “I worked at a place in Wichita Falls called Bombshells. Lower-tier club. I did the act for fourteen years. I lost the arms at thirteen – combine harvester, school field trip, agricultural mishap. The farmer cried so hard at my hospital bedside that my mother had to bring him a glass of water, which is, in fairness, ironic. Don’t worry about the gory parts, brother. They’re not the point. The point is, I’m a virgin. I’m certified. I worked in a strip club for fourteen years and I’m, in fairness, one hundred percent certified. The men at Bombshells tipped – they tipped generously, brother, out of what I will call horrified sympathy – but they did not, in fairness, take it to the next level. Not one of them. Not in fourteen years.”

Mahmoud, brother, was unable to look directly at her. He had selected, instead, a small water stain on the wall just above her left shoulder, and was looking, brother, very intently at the water stain. The water stain was, brother, the safest object in the room.

“And outside of work?” he asked, weakly.

“Wichita Falls, Texas. Five-foot-three. Ninety-eight pounds. Two stumps. A brother named Hisham who soldered me chin-controls for a Hyundai out of a salvaged Nintendo accessory. The pool of available men, brother, was limited. The pool, in fairness, was a puddle. The puddle had evaporated by the time I was twenty-six. And then I died. Aneurysm. In my sleep. Forty-one years old. Praying five times a day, hijabi until the moment I clocked in, then – the costume – then back into hijab for the drive home in the Hyundai. Brother. I am the real deal. I am, in fairness, exactly what was advertised.”

Mahmoud, brother, was not entirely sure what had been advertised. The advertised thing, by his recruiter’s slideshow in the back room of the small grocery in Aden, had been a being of exceptional and unblemished beauty whose glance inspired in the martyr a transcendent joy. The being on the stage in front of him was, in fairness, a thirty-something Texan amputee in a sequinned bikini and white athletic socks, dancing on a chewed cassette tape, in a strip club whose back window opened onto a side street in Omdurman.

He could not, in fairness, reconcile these.

Internally, brother, he was panicking. He felt – and he would not, brother, ever say this aloud – that there had been, in his recruiter’s brochure, some really quite serious editorial liberties. He thought, additionally, of a beer Tariq had once given him in the back of a pickup truck in 2019, claiming it was non-alcoholic, and Mahmoud was, in fairness, suddenly extremely certain that the beer had not, in fact, been non-alcoholic. He thought: many things in my life have not, in fairness, been what they were advertised as. He thought, additionally: I am, in this moment, having a small theological crisis in a Wichita Falls strip club in central Khartoum, and I am, in fairness, completely alone with it.

What he said was: “Ukhti, you are – you have been – most generous with your time.”

The cassette had moved into Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard. Yasmin adjusted, mid-dance, to the new tempo. She was, in fairness, an excellent dancer. The donkey-cart dispute outside had now, by the sound, attracted a third party. The traffic policeman was now blowing his whistle in increasingly irritated short bursts.

Somewhere distant, the Asr call to prayer began.

Mahmoud, brother, was deeply relieved at this. The Asr was, in fairness, the first culturally familiar thing he had heard in several minutes. He turned, almost involuntarily, toward the small window.

“Yeah,” said Yasmin, dancing. “We get the calls. Five times a day, on schedule. The room has, in fairness, its own small prayer rug under the table by the back wall. I keep it clean. I pray when I can – well, I roll for it. Anyway, brother. So. What now.”

“I – I do not know.”

“There’s a lot of you, I think. And a lot of us. Logistical. I’ve been here since 2009. Fifteen years, brother. Fifteen years dancing to side A of a cassette gone bad on side B. The last guy paused outside this door – I heard him pause through the wood – and then he walked on to door two. I don’t know what happened at door two. I have, frankly, considered.”

“I see.”

“Yeah.”

There was a long silence. The Def Leppard played on. Yasmin al-Khalidi continued, gamely, to dance. Outside the window, the policeman had now, by the sound of him, brought the dispute under control by threatening to fine all parties equally.

Mahmoud, brother, who was Yemeni and had been raised by a careful mother and had, in fairness, not been kissed, found that he could form, in this moment, only one clear thought:

This was not, in fairness, what I had been promised. And even if it had been, I would not, in fairness, know what to do with it.

He bowed, very low.

“Ukhti – with great respect – I think I should proceed to door two. I will pray for you.”

“That’s nice, brother. Pray for what?”

“That – that – “

“Just go to door two, brother. It’s fine. Be polite to her. Be polite to all of them. We’ve all been here a while. And tell the angel at the desk that the cassette eats side B. He’ll know what I mean. He’s been, in fairness, avoiding the issue.”

“I will tell him.”

She did not bow back. She could not, brother, have bowed back. She inclined her head, in the small dignified nod of a woman who had been dancing, in fairness, alone for fifteen years.

He closed the door of room one carefully behind him.

He stood in the corridor. Through the door, he could hear the cassette click and rewind, and the opening bars of Cherry Pie begin again. From the small reception window at the end of the corridor came, over the city, the Asr call to prayer from a minaret somewhere in Omdurman.

He looked down the corridor. There were, brother, a great many doors.

He walked to door two.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWO

Farah and the Saluki Dynasty

Mahmoud al-Bakri was, brother, dead. He kept needing to remind himself.

He had been dead, by his own count, perhaps an hour. He had spent the first portion of that hour being aerosolised over the Gulf of Aden by a thirty-millimetre rotary cannon, the second portion being processed at a reception desk by a bored angel in a beige polo shirt, and the third portion in a Wichita Falls strip club, transplanted, in some bureaucratically inscrutable way, into the heart of central Omdurman. He was now standing in the corridor between door one and door two, in a paradise that was, visibly through the small reception window at the far end of the corridor, the city of Khartoum in the dry season in what looked very much like mid-afternoon.

He was, brother, adjusting.

The corridor itself was, in fairness, a corridor – fluorescent lights, institutional carpet, white walls, numbered doors. But when he leaned slightly to the left, brother, he could see through the window at the corridor’s far end, past the angel’s beige polo shirt, the unmistakable Mahdi’s Tomb, the bright green dome of the small Tuti Island mosque, and what he was now reasonably sure was the eastern bank of the Blue Nile. A small wisp of haboob dust – the fine yellow dust that comes off the desert in the warm season – was drifting under the doorframe of door one and into the corridor. The dust, brother, was settling on his sandals.

He thought: paradise has, in fairness, dust. He thought: paradise has, in fairness, donkey carts. He thought: paradise has, on the back of one’s reception slip, an FAQ politely asking that one not raise the question of why this is so with senior management.

He approached door two.

Door two had, brother, a small smell of dog.

Now, Mahmoud al-Bakri was, in fairness, a Yemeni man of small-town conservative upbringing whose engagement with the canine species had been, throughout his life, strictly observational and from a respectful distance. He had been taught, by his mother, that dogs were – and the technical religious term, brother, was najis – ritually problematic. He had been taught that if a dog’s saliva touched your hand or your garment, the affected area was to be washed seven times, the first of which was, by the more observant tradition, with earth. He had not, in twenty-one years on Earth, ever been licked by a dog. He had not, in fairness, ever intended to be. He had, in addition to the religious concern, a small private, secular concern about teeth, which he had kept to himself in his life because the other young men of his village had not, in fairness, seemed to share it.

The smell of dog through door two was, brother, substantial.

He opened it.

He was – and he registered this with a small involuntary noise – facing a long line of eleven Salukis.

The Salukis were arranged on a low wooden bench, in descending order of height, like a small canine choir at the beginning of a recital. They were, brother, gorgeous. Tall, slender, long-muzzled, with the small almond-shaped eyes and silky feathered ears of the breed. They were of varying colours – fawn, cream, golden, a single pale grizzle – and they were, brother, all of them, looking at him with the calm, patient, slightly aristocratic attention of a hereditary nobility being introduced to a guest of unclear provenance. Each Saluki had a small thin red leather collar with a brass nameplate. The brass nameplates, brother, caught the light.

Behind the Salukis, on the wall, hung a series of framed champion-of-show ribbons in English. There were perhaps thirty of them. The ribbons were blue.

The room itself, brother, was Khartoum.

The walls were whitewashed mud-brick of the kind one saw in older Khartoum compounds. There were two open doors leading to a small shaded courtyard. In the courtyard Mahmoud could see a date palm, a small stone trough of water, a corner of a flat-roofed neighbour’s house, and the high pale tan sky. The courtyard floor was swept earth. Dust drifted, very faintly, over the threshold. Somewhere distant, a vendor was calling out the price of fresh karkadeh.

A woman stood beside the Salukis. She was perhaps fifty. She wore a long pale linen dress, a soft cream cardigan despite the heat, and flat sensible English walking shoes. Her dark hair was tucked into a loose knot. She held in her right hand a small silver bell. She rang it, very gently, once. The Salukis, in unison, sat in the down position. She rang it twice. The Salukis, in unison, placed their long elegant heads on their forepaws.

The senior Saluki, the largest of the eleven, did not, in fairness, take her eyes off Mahmoud.

“Hello,” said the woman. Her accent was, brother, immaculate British received pronunciation with a very slight Persian undertone. “Farah Esfahani. Welcome. The kennel is, in fairness, settled. They will not approach you. You may come in. Mind the threshold – the dust does, in fairness, gather at the door.”

“Mahmoud al-Bakri,” he managed.

“Yes. Come in. Sit on the small chair by the courtyard. Tea is on the side table – karkadeh, you’ll like it, it’s the local variety. It’s very cold. Help yourself.”

He came in, very carefully avoiding the line of sight of the senior Saluki, who was still observing him. He poured himself a glass of cold karkadeh. The karkadeh was, in fairness, excellent. It tasted, brother, exactly like the karkadeh his uncle had bought him at a roadside vendor in Khartoum North in 2017.

“Tea is good?”

“Tea is – yes, ukhti, very good.”

“The angel at reception sources the karkadeh from a specific vendor on Sharia Al Qasr. I do not, in fairness, know how he arranges this. I do not, brother, ask. The vendor is, by my count, seventy-four years old on Earth, still operating, and currently has no idea his hibiscus is being routed through the afterlife reception. I find this, in fairness, charming.”

“It is – it is delicious, ukhti.”

She rang the small silver bell three times. The Salukis, in unison, closed their eyes.

“Right. They will sleep now. They are, brother, on a strict schedule. You will not, in fairness, be licked. I will explain the operation.”

Mahmoud, brother, was grateful for the explicit reassurance about the licking. He had been, in fairness, carrying it in the front of his mind since the door had opened.

“I will do the bio quick,” said Farah. “Born Tehran 1962. We came to England in 1979 – my father had been a senior employee at the Iranian National Library, and the move was, in fairness, a sudden one. We settled in Surrey. I attended Cambridge. I read history. I worked, for a brief period, in a museum. Then in 1989 – and I want you to understand, brother, that this is the entire shape of the rest of my life – I attended Crufts dog show with a school friend. Crufts is, brother, the British dog show. The show, that year, had a Saluki ring. I had not, in fairness, ever encountered a Saluki in person. I went into the ring viewing area. I sat down. I watched the breed parade. I, brother, did not leave.”

“You – became a breeder, ukhti.”

“I became, brother, the second-most-respected female Saluki breeder in the United Kingdom, over the course of thirty-five years. There is, in fairness, only one who is more respected than me, and she is, brother, a viscountess in Yorkshire whose family has been in Salukis since 1903. I have, by Crufts standards, won Best of Breed in my ring eleven times. I have been Reserve Best in Group three times. I have, in fairness, not won Best in Show, which, brother, gnaws. I have shown my dogs at Westminster, in New York, twice. I have written, brother, the standard reference work on the Saluki coat type, which is one hundred and forty pages long and is presently in its third edition.”

“That is – that is extraordinary, sister.”

“It is what the breed asks. Now – the men.”

She paused. The senior Saluki, brother, opened one eye, very slightly, in his direction, then closed it again.

“There were two.”

“In 1995, a man named Rupert. English country gentleman. Three years. The relationship ended at his estate near Cirencester, when Rupert – a kind man, brother – brought a labrador puppy into the kennel area without consulting me. The labrador, brother, was unvaccinated. The labrador was six weeks old. The labrador, in fairness, was adorable. The labrador, however, exposed my entire bloodline, including a whelping bitch with three-day-old puppies, to the risk of an unvaccinated juvenile of unverified provenance. I was, brother, furious. The fury was, in fairness, not, in any sense, expressed proportionately. I told Rupert, in front of his housekeeper, that he had no professional understanding of the responsibilities of a breeding kennel and that his casual approach to canine biosecurity was the reason England had had a series of distemper outbreaks in the late nineteenth century. The housekeeper, brother, was moved. Rupert, brother, was not. We separated within the month. He has remarried, to a woman who keeps Persian cats. Persian cats, brother. The irony has not, in fairness, been lost on me.

“In 2007, a man named Hassan, an Iranian-British accountant my mother had introduced me to. We dated, brother, six years. Hassan was patient. Hassan was, in fairness, kennel-tolerant. The relationship ended, however, in 2013, when Hassan – on the question of which of us would, in our potential cohabitation, cede certain household areas – proposed, with great care, that the smaller of my two kennel buildings be converted into a small art studio for his amateur watercolour practice. I considered the proposal. I told him, truthfully, that the smaller kennel building housed the whelping facility, and that the whelping facility was, in fairness, the operational heart of the kennel, and that whelping bitches did not, in fairness, share a building with watercolours. He told me, with great kindness, Farah, I have realised that the Salukis have a building, and your watercolour-painting husband would have, in fairness, no building. I respected the position. We separated, gently. He has, today, married. The new wife, I am told, is allergic to dogs. Hassan paints, in fairness, every weekend.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, in October. In the kennel. From a kick. No, brother, not from a Saluki – Salukis do not, in fairness, kick – but from a stallion belonging to a neighbour, who had come over the back fence in pursuit of a particularly attractive doe rabbit who had, on her own initiative, entered my courtyard. The stallion came over. The Salukis, brother, being Salukis, did the right thing – they herded together, formed a defensive semi-circle around the kennel building, and barked, in unison, at the stallion in a manner that any sensible horse would have respected. The stallion, brother, was not sensible. The stallion charged. I had, brother, perhaps three seconds. I used them, brother, to step between the stallion and Beatrice – the senior bitch, brother, on whom the bloodline depended. The hoof, brother, did not, in fairness, miss me. I died, brother, in the kennel courtyard, on the swept gravel, with Beatrice unharmed at my back. The eleven Salukis, brother, were beside me when I went. They had, in fairness, closed in around me in a small protective circle. Beatrice, by the eulogy of my niece, had, in fairness, barked at the ambulance when it arrived. The ambulance personnel, brother, were not, in fairness, breeders. They had not, in fairness, understood. Beatrice was, by my niece, picked up gently and carried out of the way. The kennel was inherited, by my will, by my niece, who is, in fairness, the only person in the family with the temperament. The bloodline, brother, is intact. Beatrice, brother, whelped a litter of six in March of 2025. The litter, by my niece’s last update, includes a young dog who has, in fairness, taken Best of Breed at Crufts in 2026. The young dog is, brother, named Mahmoud.”

She paused.

“That is, brother, in fairness, a coincidence. I had, in fairness, no foreknowledge.”

Mahmoud, brother, was extremely sure that there were, in fact, no coincidences in this corridor. He chose, however, not to interrogate the matter further.

“And here, sister – “

“And here, brother, I have the eleven. They came, in fairness, all eleven, on the day I arrived. They are, in this room, exactly themselves. They are, brother, better behaved here than they were on Earth, because the room is small and the schedule, brother, is strict. They sleep, they wake, they walk in the courtyard, they eat the small portions of dried meat the angel delivers, they sleep again. There is, in fairness, no quarry to chase. There is, brother, no rabbit, no gazelle, no field mouse, no hare. The breed was, you understand, bred for the chase. A Saluki without a chase is, brother, a Saluki at rest. They have, in eighteen months, been at rest. They are, in fairness, content. I am, in fairness, also content.”

She rang the bell one more time. The Salukis, in unison, opened their eyes. The senior bitch, Beatrice, looked at Mahmoud one final time – not, in fairness, in malice, but in the small careful evaluation of an aristocratic dog who had, throughout her life, conducted appraisals – and then yawned, very precisely, in his direction.

The yawn, brother, was the most polite dismissal Mahmoud had ever received.

He felt, internally, a small panicked desire to leave. He felt, additionally, that he had been, throughout this conversation, quietly evaluated and quietly found wanting by eleven members of an ancient hunting breed and one extremely composed Iranian-British woman in a linen dress. He was – he could admit this only to himself, brother – afraid of dogs. He was, additionally, afraid of the kennel building. He was, furthermore, afraid of being licked. He had been, on Earth, at the age of seven, barked at by a stray dog in the alley behind his uncle’s grocery, and he had not, in fairness, fully recovered.

He could not, brother, imagine a domestic life in which he shared a courtyard with eleven of these animals. He could not, brother, imagine a domestic life in which his clothes had Saluki hair on them. He could not, brother, imagine the wedding day. He could not, brother, imagine the wedding photos. He could not – and this was, in fairness, the most disqualifying realisation – imagine his mother, in Sana’a, opening a wedding photo in which he was standing next to eleven dogs.

What he said was: “Sister, you are – you have been – most generous with your time. The kennel is, if I may say, of considerable distinction.”

“That is kind, brother.”

“I should – I should proceed to door three.”

“Of course, brother. Go.”

He bowed. She inclined her head. The Salukis, brother, did not move.

He left. He closed the door. He could hear, faintly, through the wood, the small silver bell ringing twice, and the Salukis, in unison, placing their long elegant heads back on their forepaws. From somewhere outside the corridor’s reception window came the small wisp of haboob and the call of the karkadeh vendor on Sharia Al Qasr.

He brushed, very carefully, the Khartoum dust off his sandals. He walked to door three.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER THREE

Aaliyah and the Barbary Pirate Pension

Mahmoud al-Bakri walked the short stretch of corridor between door two and door three thinking, brother, that he was getting the hang of it.

He was, in fairness, dead. He had, in fairness, accepted this. He was in paradise. He had, in fairness, accepted this also. Paradise was Khartoum. He had, brother – and this was, in fairness, the small theological knot he had not yet untied – not, in fact, accepted this. He had, however, placed it temporarily to one side, where many other questions were now also waiting.

He had brushed, in the corridor, the Khartoum dust off his sandals, twice. The dust was, in fairness, getting in. The dust did not, in fairness, seem to mind that the corridor walls were modern and the carpet was synthetic. The dust was, brother, behaving as Khartoum dust behaves, which is to enter every available space, regardless of its design intent.

He approached door three.

Door three smelled, brother, of tar, wet rope, fish, and – somewhere underneath all of that – goat.

He could hear, through the wood, the slow lapping of a river, and the small wooden tap of something hard on a wooden deck.

He thought, briefly, I died on a boat. He thought, additionally, I do not, in fairness, want to be on a boat. He thought, brother, I am, in fairness, twenty-one years old and I have, perhaps, a cumulative twelve minutes of marine experience, all of them, in fairness, fatal to me.

He opened door three.

He was, brother, standing on the small wooden quarterdeck of a seventeenth-century Mediterranean corsair galley.

The galley was, brother, moored.

It was moored to a small wooden jetty, and the jetty extended out from a sand-coloured riverbank, and the riverbank was, in fairness, unmistakably the eastern shore of the Blue Nile somewhere just downstream of Tuti Island. The river ran, brother, the colour of strong Khartoum tea. A small white herring-gull-shaped bird that was, brother, not, in fairness, a Mediterranean herring gull but a Nile fishing bird of some species he did not recognise, circled the masthead and called. From the far bank – Omdurman, brother – came the small steady percussive sound of a coppersmith’s hammer. From higher upriver came the soft incoming call of the Asr from a minaret he could not see.

The galley, brother, was covered in Khartoum dust. The seventeenth-century Mediterranean Arab corsair galley was, in fairness, the dustiest seventeenth-century Mediterranean Arab corsair galley he could imagine.

A woman stood at the wheel. She was perhaps forty-eight. She wore, brother, the working clothes of a 1660s Algerian sea captain – loose cotton trousers tucked into a single weathered leather boot, a long linen shirt belted with a wide red sash, a sleeveless leather vest with brass buttons, and a small dark blue head-cloth wrapped in the corsair manner. At her left hip was a small curved knife in a sheath. Her left leg ended just below the knee in a worn leather socket, from which descended a polished wooden peg. The peg made a small tap-tap-tap on the deck as she shifted her weight.

She had, in fairness, a beard.

It was a small dark close-cropped beard, the size of a young man’s first beard, on the chin and along the jawline. It was, brother, real. Mahmoud could see, in the angle of the afternoon light, the small individual hairs of it, with a faint silvering at the corner of the chin.

Beside her, on the deck, was a small black-and-white nanny goat, eating a length of rope.

The goat looked up at him, brother, with the long horizontal pupils of a goat who had not, in fairness, been impressed by anything in three centuries. She returned to the rope.

“Salaam,” said the woman, in a strong Algerian-tinted seventeenth-century Arabic that took Mahmoud, brother, perhaps two and a half seconds to parse. “Welcome, brother. Mind the rigging.“

“And to you, peace, captain,” said Mahmoud, in his careful Sana’ani Arabic, because, brother, captain felt safer than sister.

She smiled. The smile, brother, was, in fairness, warm. The beard, brother, participated in the smile in the entirely ordinary way that beards do.

“Captain. Yes. Aaliyah al-Bahri. Of Algiers, originally. Although the room here is, in fairness, Khartoum, and the Nile is the Nile, and my crew is, in fairness, one nanny goat. Come up the steps. Mind the leg.”

He came up. She did not, in fairness, extend a hand for shaking. He was, brother, grateful for this. He was already, in fairness, at full social capacity.

“Sit on the small barrel by the wheel, brother. Yes, on the barrel. Yes, that one. The barrel is, in fairness, empty. The barrel was, in life, full of olives. Khadija ate the olives in 1671. Khadija, by the way – the goat, brother, on the deck – is a goat.”

“I – yes, captain, I see the goat.”

“I name her, brother, after the noblest woman in our tradition, because the goat in question, in fairness, has the dignity for it. The naming, brother, is not blasphemous. It is honest. The goat, in fairness, was, in 1670, the only living being aboard my ship who did not, in fact, lie to me. I retain her, brother, on the basis of that record.”

Khadija, the goat, brother, did not look up.

She turned the wheel – not because the galley was going anywhere, brother, but because the wheel was, in fairness, what one did with one’s hands when standing on a quarterdeck – and gave him the bio, in her seventeenth-century Algerian-Arabic-tinted speech, while the Asr call from Omdurman finished, the coppersmith resumed, and Khadija, brother, continued, methodically, to eat the rope.

“Born in Algiers, 1624. Daughter of a fisherman. At fourteen, brother, my mother’s brother – peace be upon him – promised me in marriage to a wool merchant of forty-eight, who had buried two previous wives. The wool merchant, brother, was, in fairness, not, in any sense, the kind of man one wished to be the third wife of. I, brother, cut my hair on a Tuesday afternoon, bound my chest with linen, put on my dead brother’s clothes, and walked, in fairness, down to the harbour. I told the first ship that would take me, brother, that my name was Ali al-Bahri, and that I was fourteen – which was true – and that I was a fisherman’s son seeking a berth – which, in fairness, was largely true also. I was taken, brother, as a powder monkey on a small Algerian corsair under Captain Hassan ibn Yusuf, peace be upon him.”

Mahmoud, brother, was trying very hard to follow. The sentence structure, brother, was of an older Arabic. The words largely survived. Some, brother, did not. He was, in fairness, catching perhaps four out of every five words, with the fifth being usually a maritime term he had never been required to know.

“And you – captain – you were a – corsair.”

“For thirty years, brother. I was, by thirty, the first officer. By thirty-five, with Captain Hassan’s recommendation, captain in my own right. I commanded, brother, the Saif al-Bahr – the Sword of the Sea – out of Algiers from 1659 to 1672. I captured, brother, perhaps forty merchant vessels, in fairness, of various flags. I ransomed, brother, some considerable number of prisoners, in accordance with the customs of my profession, which were, in fairness, customs. I lost the leg, brother, in 1657, in an engagement with a Spanish frigate, off the coast of Sardinia, to a chain shot. I continued, brother, with the peg, for another fifteen years. The peg, brother, did not, in fairness, slow me. I died, brother, in 1672, in a small house in Algiers, of a fever, at the age of forty-eight. I was buried, brother, by my crew, with the peg leg, in the courtyard of the small mosque near the harbour. The crew were, in fairness, the only people on Earth, save my physician, who knew that the captain they had served under had been, brother, in fact, a woman. The crew did not, in fairness, break their silence. They are, in fairness, gentlemen.”

She paused. Khadija, the goat, brother, finished the length of rope and began on a second one.

“And the men, captain.”

“Brother. There was, in fairness, only one. Captain Hassan ibn Yusuf, who had taken me on as a powder monkey at fourteen. Captain Hassan, brother – peace be upon him – had, by year three, in fairness, worked it out. He had, brother, not said. He had, in fairness, kept me on his crew, promoted me, mentored me, defended me against, in fairness, considerable internal politics, and continued, brother, to address me as Ali, even in his private letters to his wife. The wife, brother, also knew. The wife, brother, was, in fairness, delighted by the entire arrangement. She wrote me letters, brother, in her own hand, addressed to Ali al-Bahri, beloved nephew of my husband, in which the wife, in fairness, occasionally slipped and used a feminine pronoun, but corrected herself by the next sentence. We had, brother, an arrangement. The arrangement was, brother, the closest thing to an unspoken courtship I had in my life. We were, brother, both, in fairness, married already – me to the disguise, him to his wife and the disguise – and there was, in fairness, no version of disclosure available to us. He died, brother, in 1654, off the coast of Sicily, in an engagement with a Venetian galley, of a wound to the chest. He died, in fairness, before I was ready to come out from behind the beard for him. I do not, brother, in fairness, know whether he had been ready. I have asked, brother, a great many times in the eighteen months I have been in this room. I do not, brother, have an answer.”

She paused, brother, for a longer moment.

“And after, brother – after Captain Hassan – I did not, in fairness, attempt the disclosure with anyone else. I had become, brother, the disguise. The disguise had become, brother, easier than the woman. I died, brother, as Ali al-Bahri, to all observers but my physician. The physician, brother, was a Sephardic Jewish doctor in Algiers named Reuben. Reuben kept the secret. Reuben, brother, peace be upon him, was a gentleman.”

“And here, captain – you have the ship.”

“I have, brother, what is on this deck. The galley. The peg. The goat. And, in fairness, a great deal of paper. Come below.”

She moved, with the fluid economy of a woman who had been moving on a peg for fifteen years on Earth and eighteen months in heaven, down the small companion ladder to the cabin below.

The cabin was, brother, small. Hammocks against one wall – empty. A small chart-table at the centre. Above the chart-table, a small port-window, through which Mahmoud could see the Blue Nile and, faintly across the water, the small white silhouette of the Mahdi’s Tomb. On the chart-table, brother, was a great stack of paper, perhaps six inches high, covered, in fairness, in handwritten Arabic. Beside the stack was a quill, an inkwell, and a single guttered candle.

“My memoir, brother. In progress. Eight hundred and seventy-two pages, by my last count. The memoir, brother, will not, in fairness, ever be published. There is, in fairness, no publisher in this corridor. The angel who delivers the karkadeh, brother, has, in fairness, declined to take the manuscript out. He says, brother, not his department. I have made my peace, in fairness, with this. I write because the writing, brother, is the work I did not do on Earth. The disguise, brother, has been off, in this room, for the entire eighteen months. I write, brother, as Aaliyah. The captain, brother, is in fairness, retired.”

“That is – that is wonderful, captain.”

“It is, in fairness, what is left.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, struggling.

He was struggling, in fairness, internally. He was being, externally, the most polite Yemeni twenty-one-year-old of his cohort. He sat on the small barrel he had been offered. He held the small clay cup of karkadeh she had poured him from a small earthenware jug. He was, brother, attentive.

Internally, he was, brother, catalogue-panicking.

She has, brother, a beard. He had, in fairness, no available reference for how to be in a room with a bearded woman. The beard, in fairness, was, in fairness, not the largest issue – it was, in fairness, small and trim and not, in fairness, ill-kempt – but it was, brother, registering, in his peripheral vision, with every blink.

She has, brother, one leg. He could not, brother, look at the peg. He could not, in fairness, not look at the peg. He had been, brother, on Earth, raised in a culture in which physical disability was treated, brother, politely, by averted gaze. The averted gaze was, in fairness, not available to him here, because every time he averted, the peg tapped on the deck, and his attention returned to the peg by sound.

She is, brother, three hundred and seventy-eight years old. The conversation, brother, was anachronistic in seven directions simultaneously. She had used, in the last two minutes, three Arabic words he had not, in fairness, ever heard. She had referenced a kind of small swivel-mounted cannon he had no available image for. She had referenced a coin called a sequin whose value, brother, he could not, in fairness, calculate.

She has, brother, killed people. She had, in fairness, mentioned forty merchant vessels. He, brother, had not asked her to elaborate, because he had not, in fairness, wanted her to. He, brother, had also killed people. Seven sailors of a Yemeni Coast Guard cutter, of whom he could now, brother, name three. The conversation had, brother, in fairness, grazed against this fact, and recoiled from it, like two like poles of a magnet. Neither, brother, had named it. Neither, in fairness, would.

She has, brother, a goat. The goat had, by his count, eaten three lengths of rope in the duration of the conversation. The goat, brother, was named, in fairness, after the first wife of the Prophet, peace be upon him. He was, in fairness, not certain whether this was, in fact, blasphemous, but he was certain that he was not, in fairness, equipped to adjudicate.

He could not, brother, imagine any version of his life on Earth in which he brought home, to his mother in Sana’a, a bearded one-legged seventeenth-century Algerian sea captain and her goat. The wedding, brother, would not, in fairness, occur. The wedding photograph, brother, would not, in fairness, be taken. His mother, brother, would not, in fairness, recover.

What he said was: “Captain. You have lived, in fairness, a remarkable life. The memoir, captain, I would, in fairness, very much like to read someday.”

“That is, brother, kind. The memoir, brother – should you, in your subsequent navigations of whatever corridor follows this corridor, encounter a publisher – you may, brother, recommend it. It will, in fairness, not be available. The recommendation, however, would be, brother, taken in the spirit it was offered.”

“And – captain, may I ask – how did you find the boat?”

She paused. She looked at him for a long moment. The small Arab navigator’s eye, brother, was, in fairness, doing assessment.

“You died, brother, on a boat. Yes?”

“I – yes, captain. I died on a small fibreglass boat in the Gulf of Aden. The boat was – the boat was, in fairness, a – “

“You need not, in fairness, say it, brother. I know the kind of boat. I have been, brother, eighteen months in the corridor. I have heard, brother, the kinds of boats.”

“Yes, captain.”

“Then I will, in fairness, tell you something, brother, that I have not told the goat. The boat I died for, brother – the Saif al-Bahr – was not, in fairness, the boat I would have chosen to die for, had I, in fairness, been given the choice in advance. The boat was, brother, handed to me, by Captain Hassan, with a great deal of paperwork and a very serious speech about responsibilities, and I had, brother, accepted it, because, in fairness, I had not had any other available career. The boat was, in fairness, a habit. The habit, brother, killed me in the end, indirectly – the fever I died of, brother, was, in fairness, contracted on board, in the bilges, in 1671. The boat, brother, was not, in any sense, my friend. I served the boat, brother. The boat, in fairness, did not love me back. Boats, brother, do not, in fairness, love anyone. They are, in fairness, just boats. They are, in fairness, what people put their names on, when they want, brother, to feel large. I would, brother, in fairness, have you know this.”

He sat for a long moment with the cup of karkadeh.

He had, brother, no available response.

“I – captain – “

“You need not, brother.”

He bowed, very low.

“Captain.”

“Yes, brother.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Hassan ibn Yusuf – seventeenth-century Algerian corsair captain, peace be upon him – tell him from me – “

“You will not, brother, in fairness, find him. He is, in fairness, in a different corridor. He is, brother, also probably writing a memoir, with his wife, who is also probably there, helping him with the spelling. The two corridors, brother, do not, in fairness, intersect. The angel has, in fairness, confirmed this for me, in writing, with a small official stamp.”

“Then – captain – if I should, brother, by some miracle of bureaucratic error, encounter him – “

“In that case, brother, yes.”

“Tell him – tell him from me – Aaliyah, who was, in fairness, never Ali, says: I would, in fairness, have, eventually, told you. The telling would have come late. It would have come. The beard was not, in fairness, the woman. The disguise, brother, was not, in fairness, the disguise. The disguise was, in fairness, the practice of a long patience, and the practice of a long patience is, in fairness, also the practice of a long love. You should have known this. I think, brother, that you, in fairness, did. I would, in fairness, like the chance, in some other corridor, to confirm it.“

“That is, brother, the message. I will, in fairness, carry it. Tell me again, brother.”

He repeated it, slowly. She nodded, and reached into a small wooden box on the chart-table, and removed a small piece of folded paper, sealed with red wax, and handed it to him.

“Brother. I have written this message down, in my own hand, in the seventeenth-century Algerian Arabic Captain Hassan would understand, and sealed it with the seal of the Saif al-Bahr. Should you, in fairness, encounter him, you may give him this. Should you not, brother, the seal is, in fairness, also a souvenir.”

He took the small paper. He put it in his pocket. He felt, brother, the small comforting weight of a thing that had, in fairness, come from a real person to deliver to another real person, regardless of whether the delivery was, in fairness, ever likely to occur.

He stood. The peg, brother, did not stand with her. She remained, in fairness, at the chart-table. Khadija, the goat, brother, looked up at him for the first time, yawned politely, exposing the long horizontal teeth of a long-living goat, and returned to the rope.

He bowed. She inclined her head.

“Captain.”

“Brother.”

“It was – captain – an honour.”

“Brother. Walk well.”

He climbed the small companion ladder back to the deck. The Asr was, in fairness, finished. The coppersmith of Omdurman had, in fairness, paused for a small smoke, judging by the silence. The Blue Nile, brother, ran below the jetty, the colour of strong Khartoum tea. He stepped over the gunwale onto the wooden jetty. He walked the length of the jetty back to the corridor, which was, in fairness, waiting at the riverbank end.

He closed the door.

He stood, brother, in the fluorescent corridor, holding a small piece of folded paper sealed with red wax. He looked at it. He put it in his pocket, very carefully.

He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals – for the third time in twenty minutes – and walked, brother, to door four.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER FOUR

Noor and the Plastic Pantheon

The corridor between door three and door four was, brother, the longest stretch Mahmoud al-Bakri had walked yet – perhaps five metres of synthetic carpet, two fluorescent tubes overhead, a small window halfway along through which he saw, in fairness, a Khartoum donkey cart pulled by a small grey donkey, loaded with green watermelons. The donkey cart, brother, was directly outside the corridor wall. The donkey, brother, did not look in. The donkey, in fairness, had business of its own.

He thought, brother: I am dead. He thought, additionally: paradise is, in fairness, working overtime to convince me that it is Khartoum. He thought, in fairness: paradise has, brother, a very particular sense of humour.

He approached door four.

Door four, brother, smelled of new plastic, of cardboard, of cellophane, and of the small dry cool air-conditioned smell of a room that has been kept, by deliberate effort, several degrees colder than Khartoum has any business being.

He could hear, through the wood, very faintly, the low even hum of a small window-mounted air-conditioning unit working at some considerable load.

He opened door four.

He felt, brother, the temperature drop perhaps eight degrees.

He was in a small mid-century apartment of perhaps three rooms. The walls had been, brother, originally cream. The walls were now, in fairness, barely visible, because every available vertical surface from floor to ceiling was covered in shelving, and every available shelf was stacked with small square cardboard boxes, and every box had a small clear cellophane window in the front, and through every cellophane window, brother, looked out a small plastic figure with an outsized head and small black eyes.

There were, brother, very many of them.

Mahmoud, brother, froze in the doorway.

The small plastic heads, brother, were all turned slightly toward him. He understood, after perhaps two seconds of panicked observation, that the heads were not, in fairness, turning. The heads were, in fairness, fixed. The heads were, brother, moulded that way at the factory. The heads were, in fairness, all moulded the same way at the factory, and the factory, in fairness, had moulded them with their plastic eyes pointing slightly forward and to the figures’ left. He, brother, was standing slightly forward and to the figures’ left of every single one of them.

He was, brother, being looked at by perhaps four thousand small plastic heads.

He had, brother, in fairness, some considerable theological concern at this moment. He had been raised, brother, in a tradition that – and the term, brother, was tasweer – strongly discouraged the making of images of living creatures. The tradition, brother, was not, in fairness, universally observed in the modern Yemen of his upbringing – photographs were, in fairness, present in his life; cartoons on the television, in fairness, occurred – but it had, brother, settled into him as a small ambient discomfort with three-dimensional sculpted figures of the human form. He had not, in fairness, ever been in a room containing a sculpted figure of the human form. He was, in this moment, in a room containing approximately four thousand of them.

He considered, briefly, the small theological consolation that the figures were, in fairness, all wearing clothes, and that the figures, in fairness, had no, in any sense, anatomical features beneath the clothes that would have constituted a separate violation. The Funko Pops, brother, had been, in their factory production, modest. He registered this as the only available comfort in the room.

A woman rose from a small couch in the centre of the only available cleared space. She was perhaps thirty-five. She wore a clean grey cardigan over a t-shirt that had, on the front, a printed image of one of the small plastic figures in the room, and clean blue jeans, and small white trainers. She had dark hair in a long ponytail. She wore round black glasses. She looked, brother, exactly like the kind of person whose entire apartment was, in fairness, full of small plastic figures.

“Hi! Noor Hashemi. Welcome. Yes, the AC is loud, yes, the room is colder than Khartoum normally is, yes, Khartoum is – through the window, behind the Loki shelf – but please don’t lean against the Loki shelf, the Loki shelf is, in fairness, load-bearing. Mahmoud, yeah?”

“I – yes, ukhti.”

Her American-accented English-with-Persian-undertones English-with-occasional-Arabic, brother, was, in fairness, the third dialect of Arabic-adjacent speech he had encountered in twenty minutes. He was, brother, coping.

“Sit. Couch. On the couch, brother, not on the small fold-out chair. The fold-out chair is, in fairness, temporarily holding three boxes I have not yet inventoried. Don’t, in fairness, touch the boxes. The boxes, brother, are new arrivals.”

He sat on the couch. Very carefully. Without making any sudden movements. He felt, brother, the four thousand small black eyes follow him. He told himself, in fairness, that this was not, in fact, occurring. He, in fairness, did not believe himself.

“Tea?”

“Yes – yes, please.”

She poured him, brother, a glass of cold karkadeh from a small clay jug on the coffee table. The jug, brother, was a Khartoum jug, of the kind sold by vendors on Sharia Al Qasr. The karkadeh was, in fairness, cold and tart and excellent, and the same karkadeh he had, in fairness, been served on Aaliyah’s galley fifteen minutes prior.

He understood, brother, that the angel was, in fairness, sourcing the karkadeh from a single Khartoum vendor and routing it through every available room. The karkadeh, brother, was the unifying liquid of the afterlife.

He drank.

“Bio quick,” said Noor. “Born Tehran 1989, came to Edison, New Jersey, in 1994 – my dad got hired by a small pharma company in central Jersey, mom was a medical interpreter at a hospital. Edison, brother, is the most Indian and Iranian suburb in America, which is, in fairness, two specific demographics that don’t always overlap. I went to Rutgers. I did computer science. I worked, for fourteen years, as a senior software engineer at a midsize tech firm in central Jersey. I made, brother, a fully inappropriate amount of money for a single woman with no dependents. I spent it, brother, on these.”

She gestured at the walls.

“How – how many, ukhti?”

“Four thousand two hundred and seventeen, in original box, in mint condition, with no shelf wear on the corners. I have, brother, the Marvel grail completed. I have, brother, the Disney vaulted line completed. I have, brother, every variant of every Star Wars original trilogy character released between 2011 and 2024, including the chrome variants, the metallic variants, and the SDCC convention exclusives. I have, brother, one piece valued, at the time of my death, at four thousand five hundred US dollars – Iron Man Mark XLII metallic, SDCC 2014, grade ten boxed condition. The piece is, brother, on the central shelf, behind you and to the right, on the special illuminated platform with the small humidity-controlled microclimate. Don’t, in fairness, turn around fast.“

Mahmoud, brother, did not turn around fast.

He turned around, in fairness, slowly, perhaps forty-five degrees, until he could see the central shelf. He saw, in the centre of it, on a small illuminated platform under a small clear acrylic dome, a small plastic figure in red and gold armour, with the same small black eyes as all the others, and a small disproportionate head. The figure was, in fairness, identical to the figures around it, with the small differentiating detail that the platform underneath glowed slightly blue. The figure, brother, was on a humidified shelf. The shelf, in fairness, had its own small thermometer.

“That is – that is – “

“Iron Man Mark XLII metallic. SDCC 2014. Grail.”

“I see.”

“You don’t see, brother. But I appreciate, in fairness, the politeness.”

She, brother, smiled at him with great warmth. He, brother, liked her instantly and was, in fairness, deeply afraid of her.

“The men, brother.”

“Yes, ukhti.”

“There were two, both polite, both, in fairness, not, in any sense, ready for the apartment.

“In 2018, a man named David, a fellow software engineer at the firm, handsome, Korean-American, kind. Three years. The relationship ended at this exact apartment, on a Saturday afternoon, when David – who had, in fairness, been dropping small hints for some months – finally said, brother, the words: Noor, would you consider thinning the collection by half? He had, in fairness, not, by way of negotiation, said something rude. He had said, in fairness, thinning by half, which is, brother, the language of a person trying to be reasonable. I, brother, did not, in fairness, consider it reasonable. The collection was, brother, the work of nine years and approximately two hundred and eighty thousand US dollars. The collection, in fairness, was not divisible. Half of the Disney vaulted line is, brother, not, in any sense, the Disney vaulted line. I told him, brother, the truth. He understood. We separated, gently. He has, today, married. The new wife, I am told, has no figurines of any kind. They live, in fairness, in a clean modern condo with empty surfaces. I have, in fairness, seen photographs on Instagram. The empty surfaces, brother, give me, in fairness, mild physical distress.

“In 2022, a man named Marcus, an architect. Eighteen months. Marcus made it through, brother, one full apartment tour, two full Funko Mondays – that’s the day each week the new releases drop, brother, and yes, I had a routine – and three Sunday-afternoon shelf reorganisations. Marcus, brother, cracked on the fourth shelf reorganisation. He said, with great kindness, Noor, I have realised, in fairness, that I, in fact, sleep in your apartment. The figurines, brother, live here. I, in fairness, am the visitor. I, brother, could not, in fairness, dispute the framing. We separated. He has, today, married, brother, to a fellow architect. They live, in fairness, in a building he designed himself. The building, by the photographs on Instagram, has, brother, no Funkos. I am, in fairness, fine with this. I am, additionally, in fairness, eighty percent fine with this.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, in this exact apartment. Of a stroke. I was, brother, hanging a new shelf. The new shelf was for the 2024 Marvel Cinematic Universe Phase Five wave, which had just dropped, and which, in fairness, I had pre-ordered the entire wave of, sealed case, in advance. I had, brother, the drill in my hand. I felt, brother, the wrong thing in my chest. I had perhaps four seconds. I used them, brother – and, in fairness, this is the part I have, in eighteen months, stopped being completely at peace with – I used them to set the drill down and to step back from the existing Captain America shelf, which I, brother, did not want to fall against. I did not, brother, call for help. I did not, brother, get to the phone. I was, brother, prioritising the Captain America shelf. The stroke, brother, did not, in fairness, cooperate with my priorities. I went down. I went down, brother, into the new-shelf hardware kit, which contained, in fairness, fourteen wall anchors and a small plastic level. The level, brother, cracked under me. The wall anchors, in fairness, scattered. Fourteen Funko boxes from the lower Captain America shelf, brother, came down with me as I fell against it. The boxes, in fairness, were pulled, in falling, off the shelf by my elbow. The boxes, brother, opened. The Funkos, brother, came out of their boxes.”

She paused, brother. Visibly. The pause was, in fairness, the pause of a woman who had, in eighteen months, not yet succeeded in not pausing at this point in the story.

“My friend Sara found me, brother, perhaps eleven hours later. The fourteen Funkos, brother, were, by Sara’s later report, scattered around me on the carpet. Two of them, brother, had been, in fairness, lightly damaged by my elbow as I fell. The damage, brother, was, in fairness, minor – one small dent on a Captain America cape, one tiny scratch on a Falcon wing. The Funkos, however, brother, were, by my professional standards, no longer mint. The Funkos, brother, had, in falling, lost approximately nine hundred US dollars in collective resale value. I, brother, was already dead by then. I did not, in fairness, have to grieve the resale value. The grief, brother, was transferred to Sara, who is, in fairness, also a Funko collector, and who, brother, took the loss to heart on my behalf. Sara has, in eighteen months, brother, not been able to look at her own Captain America shelf. I am, in fairness, sorry about Sara.”

“Ya Allah, ukhti.”

“Yeah.”

She took a small sip of her own karkadeh. The Khartoum afternoon, brother, was, through the small window behind the Loki shelf, golden and indifferent.

“And here, ukhti – the collection – “

“And here, brother, the collection is intact. The fourteen damaged Funkos, brother, arrived with me, perfectly mint. The Iron Man Mark XLII metallic SDCC 2014, brother, is on the central illuminated humidified shelf, grade ten, and will, in fairness, never depreciate. The apartment, brother, is climate-controlled to museum specifications. The Khartoum dust, brother – and yes, brother, I have, in fairness, established that the city outside is Khartoum – the Khartoum dust does not, in fairness, get in. The window seals, brother, are perfect. The AC, brother, runs continuously without electrical cost. The room is, in fairness, the most environmentally optimised collecting space in any afterlife I have encountered. I have, in eighteen months, brother, catalogued the entire collection three additional times, for fun. I have, brother, re-arranged the shelves, by character provenance, by release date, and by colour gradient – separately, brother, on different weeks. The collection is, brother, content. I am, in fairness, also content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was being polite.

He was, however, internally panicking, in his by-now-established afternoon way. He was, brother, panicking about the four thousand small plastic faces. He was panicking about what his mother would say if he were to bring home, to a small house in Sana’a, four thousand sealed-box plastic figurines of, in fairness, mostly-American superhero characters, half of whom had, in fairness, no clothing references that would survive translation. He was panicking about the religious question of tasweer at scale. He was panicking about the financial irrationality – two hundred and eighty thousand US dollars, brother, was, in fairness, more money than the village he had grown up in saw in a generation – spent on plastic objects that one did not, in fairness, take out of the box. He was panicking, additionally, about the small persistent, in fairness, very faint, sense that all four thousand of the small plastic figures were, in fairness, judging him.

He, brother, liked Noor. He found her, brother, charming, articulate, intelligent, and warm.

He could not, in fairness, imagine bringing her home. He could not, brother, imagine the shipping container that would be, in fairness, required for the relocation. He could not, brother, imagine the customs declaration. He could not, in any version of any married life, imagine sleeping in a bed in a room in which the four thousand small black eyes were, in fairness, watching him sleep.

He thought, very briefly: the recruiter’s brochure had not, in fairness, mentioned action figures. The brochure, brother, had implied a small leafy garden, with figs, and pomegranates, and date palms, and rivers of milk and honey. The brochure, in fairness, had not mentioned plastic. The brochure, brother, had been, in fairness, several centuries out of date with respect to its inventory.

What he said was: “Sister, your collection is – most impressive. Most – impressive.”

“That is, in fairness, kind of you, brother.”

“And the central piece – the Iron Man, ukhti – most striking.”

“That is, brother, the right word for it. Striking.”

“I – I should, ukhti, proceed to door five.”

“Of course, brother. Mind the Loki shelf on your way out.”

He stood, very carefully, avoiding the Loki shelf. He picked his way, brother, between two stacks of small square cardboard boxes. He bowed, in the doorway, to her. He did not, in fairness, bow to the figurines, but he was, brother, internally aware of the four thousand small black eyes, which were, in fairness, still, in their factory-moulded way, watching him exit.

She inclined her head.

“Noor.”

“Yes.”

“Sister – should I, in my travels, encounter a man named Marcus – architect, married to an architect, lives in a building of his own design with no plastic in it – “

“You will not, brother.”

“Then should I, by some miracle of bureaucratic error, encounter him.”

“Then, brother – yes.”

“Tell him, sister, that the apartment was, in fairness, not the apartment. The apartment was, in fairness, me, scaled down into four thousand small individual decisions. He had been, brother, the visitor in the apartment, but, in fairness, also in me. Tell him I have, in eighteen months in this room, finally understood this. Tell him I have, in fairness, not, however, sold any of the figurines as a result of understanding. Tell him the understanding was, in fairness, the achievement, and not the cure. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He closed the door.

He stood in the corridor, brother, several degrees warmer instantly. He felt, brother, the small particles of Khartoum dust drifting under the corridor wall and settling on his shoulders, and was, in fairness, deeply relieved by the dust. The dust was, in fairness, organic and warm and from his side of the room.

He walked to door five.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER FIVE

Khadija and the Buck on the Wall

The corridor between door four and door five was, brother, warming back up. Mahmoud al-Bakri felt the small accumulated coolness of Noor’s apartment leave him like air leaving a punctured tire, and the standard Khartoum late-afternoon ambient temperature of the corridor – which was, in fairness, thirty-eight degrees Celsius – resume its responsibilities. The corridor’s air conditioning, brother, had clearly been negotiated as a thermostat compromise between a beige polo angel and an architectural mid-century city, and the architectural mid-century city had, in fairness, won.

Khartoum dust, brother, had now established a soft yellow film on his sandals. The film, in fairness, had stopped pretending it was going anywhere. The film, brother, belonged.

He approached door five.

Door five smelled of formaldehyde, of new leather, of a small chemical tang that he associated, somehow, with hospitals, and – very faintly underneath – of a dead animal that had been, in fairness, carefully and respectfully prepared. He could hear, through the wood, the small precise scrape of a metal tool against a hard surface, and a woman, in a soft melodic Bosnian accent, humming what was, in fairness, almost certainly an old Sarajevo love song.

He thought, brother: paradise has, in fairness, every kind of room.

He opened door five.

He was in a small taxidermy studio.

The studio was perhaps four metres by five, with whitewashed walls, a long workbench under a north-facing window – and, brother, the north-facing window was, in fairness, looking out at the small flat-roofed houses of an upper-middle-class Khartoum neighbourhood, with a small acacia tree in the foreground and a small white minaret in the middle distance – and every available section of wall above the workbench was, in fairness, full of mounted heads.

There were perhaps thirty of them.

He registered them, brother, very quickly and with very small involuntary internal noises. There were, in fairness, six white-tailed deer, one elk, two pheasants in flight on a small wooden plaque, a coyote, a small dignified red fox, two wild turkeys, what he was reasonably sure was a black bear’s head on a heavy oak shield, a series of three smallmouth bass on river-shaped wooden mounts, and two animals he could not, in fairness, identify, but that had, in fairness, the long curved horns of antelope. The two unidentified animals, brother, were, in fact – and he registered this with mild surprise – Sudanese. They were, brother, a small dorcas gazelle and a Sudan oryx. The angel, brother, had, in fairness, expanded the studio’s collection during transit.

Above the central workbench, on the wall directly facing the door, was a single magnificent fourteen-point white-tailed buck. The buck was, brother, exceptional. The taxidermy work, brother, was, in fairness, of considerable quality even to Mahmoud’s untrained eye. The buck’s eyes were clear and dark and slightly liquid-looking. The set of the buck’s neck was natural. The buck looked, in fairness, as though he had paused, mid-browse, to consider something interesting in the middle distance.

The middle distance, brother, was Mahmoud.

The buck, in fairness, was looking at him.

Mahmoud, brother, did not move for some considerable time.

He had, brother, on Earth, encountered exactly one mounted animal in his life – a small framed butterfly on the wall of a Sana’a barber shop, which had been, in fairness, barely an animal at all. He had not, in fairness, ever stood in a room in which thirty pairs of glass eyes were, by careful taxidermic placement, all directed at the door. He understood, in fairness, that the placement was deliberate, professional, and indicated the maker’s training and pride. He also understood, in fairness, that he was, in this moment, the only living thing in the room facing thirty dead ones, and that the maths of the room were, in fairness, against him.

He thought, brother: I have, today, been looked at by one Saluki bitch, four thousand Funko Pops, and now thirty mounted animals. He thought, additionally: I am, in fairness, the most observed twenty-one-year-old Yemeni man in any afterlife I am aware of. He thought, in fairness: paradise is a great deal more, brother, watchful than one had been led to expect.

A woman at the workbench looked up.

She was perhaps fifty-five. She wore, brother, a heavy canvas apron over a clean grey work-shirt and dark jeans, brown leather work boots, and small thin-framed reading glasses on a chain. Her dark hair, going grey, was tied in a low knot. Her hands were, brother, immaculately clean, but the cuticles, in fairness, bore the small permanent yellow staining of a woman who had handled formaldehyde for thirty years. In her right hand she held a small dental probe. In her left, a small artist’s brush.

She set both down. She wiped her hands, brother, on a clean cotton towel from the bench. She came around to greet him. She did not, in fairness, extend her hand for shaking, which, brother, was taxidermist courtesy and also, in fairness, an enormous relief to him.

“Dobrodošli, brother. Welcome. Khadija Begovic. Wausau, Wisconsin, via Sarajevo. Mahmoud, yes? Come in. Sit on the small stool by the bench, not on the table – the table has, in fairness, a Sudan oryx skull I am, brother, currently re-articulating.”

“Khadija – “

“Yes.”

He paused. He registered, brother, the second Khadija of the afternoon. He registered, in fairness, that he could not, in any way, raise this with her, because the goat-Khadija had been a goat, and bringing it up would be, in fairness, in many directions, ungentlemanly. He, brother, kept it to himself. He did, however, allow himself, internally, a small dry observation: the corridor, brother, is, in fairness, well-supplied with Khadijas, as the corridor of any predominantly Muslim afterlife should, in fairness, be expected to be.

He sat on the small stool.

The buck, brother, continued to look at him.

“I will give you the bio. Please drink the karkadeh – I see you have, in fairness, become familiar with it. It is, brother, the same vendor for everyone in this corridor. He does not, brother, know.”

“He does not know, ukhti.”

“He will, in fairness, know in his own time, when he, in fairness, arrives. Until then, brother, the vendor is being used. The angel, brother, has, in fairness, the conscience of an organisation.”

She poured him karkadeh.

“Right. Born Sarajevo, 1968. My father was a furrier. A furrier, brother, is a tradesman who works with skins. My grandfather had, in fairness, also been a furrier. The family had been, brother, in skins for, by my count, perhaps two hundred years before the war. The war, brother, came in 1992. We left in 1993, when I was twenty-five. We had, in fairness, lost a great deal. We had not, however, lost the small wooden case of my grandfather’s tools, which my mother had, in fairness, hidden at the bottom of a flour sack and carried with her on the bus to Croatia. The case is, brother, on the workbench behind me. The tools are, in fairness, still in use.”

She gestured, brother, behind her. He saw the small wooden case. The case was, in fairness, of considerable age, with brass corners and a small worn leather handle.

“We were resettled, brother, in Wausau, Wisconsin, in 1994, by an American refugee programme. Wausau, brother, is the centre of Wisconsin’s Bosnian-American community – a community of perhaps three thousand five hundred souls, brother, in a Wisconsin town of forty thousand – and the community had, in fairness, taken us in. I had, on arrival, almost no English. I had, however, the tools. There was, brother, a Wisconsin man named Frank Hoffmann, peace be upon him, who ran a small taxidermy studio on the outskirts of Wausau. Frank’s wife, brother, was on the volunteer committee that resettled my family. Frank, brother, came to our small apartment in the third week to introduce himself. He saw, on the kitchen counter, the small case of my grandfather’s tools. Frank, in fairness, picked them up, examined them, and said, in his Wisconsin English: Lady, you know your way around these? I, brother, said, in my then-broken English: yes. Frank, brother, hired me on a small apprentice’s wage on the spot. He had been, in fairness, needing someone for some years. He had not, in fairness, expected, a Bosnian woman in her twenties. He, brother, adjusted.”

“That is – that is wonderful, ukhti.”

“It is, in fairness, the rest of my life. I worked for Frank for sixteen years. Frank retired in 2010. Frank, brother, sold me the studio. I have, since 2010, run Begovic Taxidermy of Wausau, Wisconsin. I have, in fairness, prepared, mounted, or restored perhaps four thousand specimens. I am, by the small global community of competitive taxidermists – yes, brother, there is a competitive circuit, I, in fairness, do not, in this corridor, make it up – a name. I have placed, in the World Taxidermy and Fish Carving Championships, seven times, with two best-in-show titles, in 2014 and 2019. I am, brother, the only Bosnian-American woman in that field. The field, in fairness, is, brother, largely Wisconsin-and-Pennsylvania men in flannel. I, brother, fit in. The flannel community, in fairness, was kind to me from the beginning.”

She gestured, brother, up at the buck on the wall.

“That, brother, is Cornelius. Frank, brother, shot Cornelius in 1997, in a small woodlot outside Antigo, Wisconsin. Cornelius was, brother, the largest white-tailed buck Frank had taken in his career – fourteen points, in fairness, unusual symmetry, exceptional brow tine development. Frank, brother, gave me Cornelius to mount as my apprentice graduation piece in 1998. I, brother, mounted Cornelius over the course of nine months. The mount, by Frank’s later assessment, was the best work I, in fairness, ever did. I, brother, kept Cornelius when Frank retired. Cornelius, brother, is, in fairness, the trademark of the studio. The studio’s photograph in the Yellow Pages, brother, features Cornelius. The website, brother, features Cornelius. The small brass nameplate above the buck, brother, reads: CORNELIUS, 1997 – IN GRATITUDE TO FRANK. Frank, in fairness, peace be upon him, passed in 2018, of liver cancer. I attended the funeral. I, brother, gave Frank’s eulogy in English, with a small Bosnian benediction at the end. Frank, in fairness, would have approved.”

The buck, brother, was still looking at Mahmoud.

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, attempting not to make eye contact with the buck. He was, in fairness, failing.

“And the men, ukhti.”

“Three, brother – unusual for the corridor, but we were, in fairness, in Wisconsin, and the Bosnian community in Wausau, brother, was small enough that the matchmaking was, in fairness, ambient.

“In 2003, a man named Edin, a Bosnian-American engineer at a paper mill in Wausau. Two years. The relationship ended on a Sunday afternoon, brother, when Edin had come over to pick me up for a Bosnian community lunch, and his mother, who was sitting in the passenger seat of his car, saw, through the window of my studio, Cornelius. The mother, brother – a kind woman, traditional, peace be upon her – did not, in fairness, get out of the car. She rolled down the window. She called Edin to her. She said, in Bosnian, Edin, the woman keeps corpses. Edin, in fairness, attempted to explain. The mother, brother, was not, in fairness, in a frame of mind to be persuaded. She said, very clearly, in Bosnian, Edin, no woman in our family has, in fairness, ever brought a corpse into the house. I am too old, my son, to start a tradition. The lunch, brother, was attended without me. Edin called the next day. He said, brother, Khadija, she will, in fairness, never come around. I am, brother, on the whole, sorry. You are, in fairness, the woman I would have wanted. The corpses, brother, are not, in fairness, the issue. My mother, in fairness, is the issue. I am, however, an only son. I respected the position. We separated. He has, today, married, brother, to a fellow Bosnian-American, with no specimens. They have, I am told, three children.

“In 2009, a Wisconsin man named Karl, a fellow taxidermist. Aligned profession. Two years. The relationship ended at the Wisconsin Taxidermists Association annual conference in 2011, when Karl – who had been, brother, in the same warm-up room with me before the live judging round – attempted, brother, to subtly adjust the angle of one of my specimens by approximately three degrees while my back was turned. The adjustment, brother, was, in fairness, an improvement. The adjustment, in fairness, would have, brother, won me Best in Category. I, however, brother, did not, in fairness, want to win Best in Category by Karl’s adjustment. I returned the specimen, brother, to my own original angle. I placed second. I, brother, spoke to Karl about it after. Karl, brother – and I will give him credit, in fairness, for the honesty – admitted he had been, in fact, three degrees right. He said, brother, Khadija, your set was, in fairness, three degrees off, and I would have, brother, won you the round. I, brother, told him: Karl, my round is my round. Mine to win or lose. The angle, brother, was mine. Karl, in fairness, understood the position. He could not, however, brother, unsee my, in fairness, three degrees off. We separated, gently. He moved to Pennsylvania. He has, today, married, brother, to a fellow Pennsylvania taxidermist. They have, I am told, a quiet competitive understanding.

“In 2018, a man named Jakov, a Bosnian-American Wisconsin nurse. The relationship lasted, brother, four years. Jakov was, in fairness, kind, patient, and from a family that, in fairness, did not raise concerns about specimens. The relationship ended, however, in 2022, when Jakov asked me, gently, Khadija, in our four years, have you ever, in fact, taken a vacation? I considered the question. I told him, truthfully, no. The studio, brother, did not, in fairness, run itself. Specimens, in fairness, do not, in fairness, wait. The chemicals, brother, have shelf-lives. The hides, brother, cannot be stored beyond a certain window. The hunting season, brother, was annual and, in fairness, predictable, and there was, in fairness, no version of the season in which I, in fact, took two weeks. Jakov, brother, with great love, asked me to, in fairness, find a way to take two weeks. I considered it. I, brother, could not, in fairness, find one. We separated. He has, today, married, brother, to a fellow nurse, who is, in fairness, also American but not Bosnian. They have, I am told, every August in Door County, Wisconsin.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at this bench. Mid-mount. The mount, brother, was, in fact, a buck of considerable promise, twelve points, taken by a young Wisconsin hunter named Ethan. I had, brother, been on the eye-setting – the eye, brother, is, in fairness, the most demanding part of a deer mount, because the angle of the gaze, in fairness, distinguishes the work of a competitive mounter from a journeyman one – and I had, brother, perhaps three minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother, to set the eyes correctly. The eyes, brother, seated. I did not, brother, complete the rest of the mount. The mount, brother, was completed by my apprentice, a young woman named Tessa, over the next two weeks. Tessa, brother, is, in fairness, the second Bosnian-American woman in the Wausau studio’s history. The studio, brother, has, in fairness, kept, by my will and Tessa’s apprenticeship, the chain. The buck, by my last update from the angel, hangs, today, in the dining room of a small house in Antigo, Wisconsin, and the homeowner, brother, frequently shows it to dinner guests with the small dignified pride of a man who has, in fairness, taken a good deer. The eyes, brother, are still, in fairness, set right.”

She paused.

“Cornelius, brother, is, in fairness, here. Cornelius, in fairness, was buried with me. The studio at Wausau, brother, retained, in fairness, all my other work, but Cornelius, by my will, was buried, mounted, with me, in the casket. The casket, brother, was, in fairness, the largest the funeral home had available, on account of Cornelius’s antlers. The funeral, brother, was, in fairness, attended by the Wausau Bosnian community, the Wisconsin Taxidermists Association, the small Catholic priest from down the road who had become a friend, and Frank’s widow, who had insisted on flying in from Florida. Frank’s widow, brother, gave the eulogy. The eulogy was, by all accounts, short and exact. The widow, brother, said: Khadija was, in fairness, the only person Frank ever trusted with Cornelius. The studio, brother, was inherited by Tessa. Begovic Taxidermy, brother, still runs. The specimens are, in fairness, competitive. Cornelius is, in fairness, here.”

The buck, brother, was still looking at Mahmoud.

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, polite.

He was, however, internally, cataloguing every reason this would not, in fairness, work.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother in Sana’a, a Bosnian-American taxidermist. He could not, brother, imagine the studio, which would, in fairness, have to be relocated. He could not, brother, imagine thirty mounted animals on the walls of a small house in Sana’a. He could not, brother, imagine the Yemeni neighbours’ commentary on the thirty mounted animals. He could not, brother, imagine Cornelius on the wall of any room in his uncle’s house. He could not, in fairness – and this was, brother, the small specific concern that surfaced as he sat on the stool – imagine the small permanent yellow staining of a wife’s cuticles.

He had, brother, on Earth, been raised to expect, in fairness, a wife with hands like his mother’s hands – unstained, soft, smelling of cardamom and bread. He had been, in fairness, given no available imaginative framework for a wife with hands that smelled of formaldehyde.

He thought, briefly, and with some shame: the recruiter’s brochure had not, in fairness, indicated cuticles. The brochure, in fairness, had been, brother, vague on hand-related details. The brochure, brother, had been vague on a great many details.

He, brother, liked Khadija. He found her, brother, capable, dignified, generous with her story, and possessed of a craft of considerable seriousness. He understood, in fairness, that her craft was, in some way, also a memorial – a quiet preserving against loss, by hands that had, in fairness, lost a great deal. He understood this, brother, as the deepest thing he had understood about any of the women so far.

He could not, brother, bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, your work is – of remarkable craft. The buck – Cornelius – is, in fairness, exceptional.”

“That is, brother, kind to say to me about the buck. Cornelius, in fairness, appreciates it. He does not, brother, show it. But, in fairness, he does.”

“I – I should, ukhti, proceed to door six.”

“Of course, brother. Walk well. Mind the dust on the threshold – Cornelius does not, in fairness, like a dirty boot on his floor.”

He stood. He bowed, very low, to her. He did not, in fairness, bow to Cornelius. He thought, however, very briefly, of a small respectful incline of the head in the buck’s direction, on the principle that a fourteen-point Wisconsin white-tailed buck mounted by a hand of considerable craft was, in fairness, owed at least a small recognition.

He gave the small incline. He felt, brother, foolish.

The buck, brother, did not respond. Glass eyes, brother, do not, in fairness, return courtesies. They do, however, receive them.

“Khadija – sister – “

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Jakov – Wisconsin nurse, married to a non-Bosnian nurse, every August in Door County – tell him from me that the two weeks were, in fairness, available. I had, in fairness, not, in life, looked for them. I had, in fairness, been afraid of finding them. The hunting season, brother, had been a wall I could, in fairness, hide behind. He had been, brother, asking me to come out from behind the wall. Tell him I have, in eighteen months in this room, finally come out from behind the wall. Tell him the wall, brother, was, in fact, a wall, not a season. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He closed the door.

In the corridor, he stood for a moment in the warm Khartoum afternoon, smelling, brother, the faint mix of Khartoum dust and the residual chemical tang of preservation. He thought, brother, of a small Bosnian woman in an apron, in 1994, with a flour-sack-of-tools, and of a Wisconsin man named Frank who had picked up the tools and asked, in his Wisconsin English: lady, you know your way around these? He thought, in fairness, of how many afterlives are, in some quiet way, the carrying-forward of a kindness from a stranger that became, in fairness, the rest of one’s life.

He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals and walked to door six.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER SIX

Layla and the Permanent Renaissance

The corridor between door five and door six carried, brother – and Mahmoud al-Bakri was, in fairness, no longer surprised by the strangeness of the inputs – the smell of horse manure, of fresh hay, of roasting turkey legs, and of a small distinct industrial-grease note that he associated, somehow, with stage machinery.

He thought, brother: a stable is, in fairness, an unusual neighbour for a Funko collection. He thought, additionally: paradise has, in fairness, no zoning policy. He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals – for the fourth time in the afternoon, brother – and approached door six.

Through the door, brother, came a fanfare of trumpets. The trumpets were, in fairness, recorded. The trumpets, brother, were, in fairness, on a loop.

He opened door six.

He was – and he registered the location with a small involuntary intake of breath – standing at the gate of a small mock-medieval European castle, somewhere in Khartoum.

The castle, brother, was, in fairness, made of wood and painted plaster. It rose perhaps eight metres at the central tower. There were, brother, banners on the battlements, in gold and scarlet and black, with the small heraldic devices of what Mahmoud was reasonably sure were not, in fairness, real Spanish noble houses. The drawbridge, brother, was a fixed wooden bridge over a small concrete trough that was, in fairness, dry. Beyond the gate, brother, ran a long carpeted hallway leading to a great central dining hall.

The dining hall, brother, was enormous. Long wooden trestle tables in concentric tiers. A central dirt-floored arena. A small balcony at the far end, draped in red and gold, fitted with two thrones. A series of small electric chandeliers, brother, attempting to be torches. The lighting was, in fairness, theatrical. The smell of roasting turkey, brother, intensified.

Through small high windows in the upper walls of the hall, brother, came in the late-afternoon Khartoum light. The light, brother, fell onto the trestle tables in long warm bars and laid down, in fairness, a fine yellow film of Khartoum dust on every available wooden surface. The medieval European banners, brother, had Khartoum dust on them. The mock-suit-of-armour at the entrance, brother, had Khartoum dust on it. From somewhere outside, distant, came a Khartoum street vendor calling out the price of fresh karkadeh, the same vendor, brother, on Sharia Al Qasr, whose product was, in fairness, on every coffee table in this corridor.

In the central arena, brother, were two horses.

The horses, brother, were, in fairness, both, in fact, white. They were, in fairness, Andalusians by breed, or as close to Andalusians as the angel had been able to source on short notice. They were standing at calm parade rest at opposite ends of the arena, with the small embroidered caparisons of a Medieval Times tournament across their flanks. The caparisons, brother, were, in fairness, embroidered with the same heraldic devices as the banners. The horses, brother, were, in fairness, also dusted with Khartoum dust. They did not, brother, appear to mind.

A woman descended the small staircase from the throne balcony.

She was perhaps forty-five. She wore a full-length gown of deep crimson velvet with a high white linen collar, long trailing sleeves with gold embroidery, a small jewelled circlet on the brow, a brocaded girdle at the waist, and – and this was, brother, the detail that caught his attention – a small carefully-fastened lace mantilla, of the kind he associated, vaguely, with photographs of older Spanish-Catholic women in Madrid. Her dark hair, in fairness, was pinned up under the mantilla in the manner of a 1980s Anaheim restaurant designer’s idea of an eleventh-century Iberian queen.

She held, in her right hand, a folded silk fan. She held, in her left hand, a small unremarkable plastic walkie-talkie.

She approached him at a measured pace. She halted, perhaps two metres from him. She, brother, did not extend her hand. She, in fairness, inclined her head, in the small precise nod of a sovereign acknowledging a guest of unclear standing.

“My lord. Welcome, in good faith, to the court of Castilla. I am Doña María Isabella, Queen consort of His Royal Majesty King Alfonso of Castilla, peace and long life upon him. You may approach me without fear. The hounds are, on this afternoon, kennelled, and the trial by combat is not, in fairness, until the seven o’clock seating.“

Mahmoud, brother, parsed this, with some delay.

She spoke, brother, in English of a deliberately archaic register, with a small American accent of, in fairness, southern California, with, additionally, an underlying Lebanese-American intonation that the archaic register was, in fairness, not entirely concealing. He was, brother, catching perhaps four-fifths of the sentence. He, brother, was suddenly, in fairness, missing every previous Arabic-speaking woman he had encountered today.

“I – I am Mahmoud al-Bakri, your majesty. Peace be upon you.”

“And upon thee, my lord. Pray, attend us at the high table. The mead is poured. The meat is, in fairness, in its second baste of the afternoon.”

She turned. She walked, with the measured ceremony of a woman who had walked exactly this carpet at this pace, six performances a week, fifty-one weeks a year, for some considerable number of years, toward the throne balcony.

He followed. The walkie-talkie, brother, was clipped to her girdle. The walkie-talkie crackled, briefly. A small American voice said, Stage Two, the lighting cue’s been queued, copy. The Queen, brother, did not, in fairness, acknowledge the walkie-talkie. The Queen, in fairness, continued to walk in character.

They reached the high table on the throne balcony. She seated herself on the small jewelled throne to the left of the centre. The centre throne, brother, was empty. There was, on the small table beside the centre throne, a small wooden plate with a half-eaten turkey leg on it, kept warm by a small electric warming pad disguised as a wooden trencher.

He sat, awkwardly, on the small bench opposite her, on the guest side, facing the empty centre throne.

She gestured, with the silk fan, at a small earthenware jug on the table.

“The karkadeh, my lord, is from a most reputable merchant of, ah, the realm. Pray, be served.”

He poured.

He, brother, was, in fairness, internally panicking at a level of operatic intensity he had not yet, that afternoon, achieved.

He thought, brother: I am, in fairness, dead, and I am, in fairness, in paradise, and paradise is Khartoum, and one of the rooms of paradise is, in fairness, an Anaheim Medieval Times restaurant, and I am, in fairness, being addressed by a Lebanese-American woman in a 1980s southern Californian costume designer’s interpretation of an eleventh-century Iberian Catholic queen, in archaic English with a Lebanese-American undertone, with a walkie-talkie at her hip. He thought: if there is a more bureaucratically confused minute available in any afterlife, I have not, in fairness, seen it. He thought, in fairness: paradise is, in some way I do not, brother, fully understand, working from a draft brochure that, in fairness, several different editorial teams have had hands on.

What he said was: “Your majesty – the karkadeh – is most refreshing.”

“Aye, my lord. The merchant is, in fairness, of long standing.”

There was a small silence. The Queen, brother, fanned herself with the silk fan. She, brother, did not, in fairness, break. The walkie-talkie crackled. A small voice said, Stage Two, we have the green leg of the four-thirty cue ready. The Queen, brother, did not respond.

He, brother, attempted, with some delicacy: “Your majesty – may I ask – your given name – “

She paused, brother. She lowered the fan. She, brother, looked at him for a long careful moment. The Queen’s face, brother, was the face of a woman who had been asked this question, with perhaps eleven different framings, by perhaps eleven different visitors, over perhaps eighteen months in this room.

“My given name, my lord, is, in fairness, María Isabella, of the house of – “

“Forgive me, your majesty. I did not mean to – “

“Aye, my lord. I understand thy meaning.”

She paused, brother. She took, in fairness, a small breath.

She said – and this, brother, was the only crack in the character he would, in fairness, see in their entire conversation – very quickly, very quietly, in her unaccented southern Californian Lebanese-American English:

“My name on my Anaheim driver’s license, brother, is, in fairness, Layla Hamdan. The license is in a small purse in the back of the throne. I have not, in eighteen months, opened the purse. I have, in fairness, opted not to. The role, brother, is sustaining me. If I, in fairness, set the role down, I am, in fairness, just a forty-five-year-old Lebanese-American woman with a degree in theatre arts from Cal State Fullerton, who never, in fact, made it to Broadway, and who spent twenty-two years performing six shows a week at a strip-mall restaurant near Disneyland. The role, in fairness, is the better story. I have, brother, chosen the role. Please, brother, do not press the question further.”

She, brother, resumed.

“And so, my lord – pray, of what province art thou? Of what house? What is the news from the eastern marches?“

Mahmoud, brother, took the cue. He, in fairness, did not press.

“I am – your majesty – of the house of al-Bakri, of the southern marches of Yemen, and the news, in fairness, is, in fairness, mixed.”

“The news is ever mixed, my lord. Tell us.”

She gave him, then, in character throughout, the bio of Doña María Isabella: that she had been the eldest daughter of the Count of León, that she had been betrothed at the age of fourteen to His Majesty King Alfonso, that she had, as queen consort, given the realm three healthy princes and two princesses, that her brother, the Duke of Asturias, had recently put down a small uprising in the Pyrenees with no, in fairness, undue civilian harm, that the crops in the kingdom this year had been, in fairness, abundant, and that the upcoming tournament at Burgos was expected to be, in fairness, a fine display of chivalric arts.

Mahmoud, brother, listened politely. He understood, in fairness, that none of this was real. He understood, additionally, that all of this was, in some way, more real to her than her driver’s license. He understood, brother, that the role had become, in fairness, the load-bearing structure of her afterlife, and that if he, in fairness, attempted to remove a single brick of it, the structure would, in fairness, fall.

She, brother, had, in eighteen months, declined to fall. He, in fairness, was not, in fairness, going to be the man who pulled a brick.

He nodded. He sipped the karkadeh. He, brother, played along.

After perhaps fifteen minutes of this – during which the walkie-talkie crackled, brother, seven additional times, with cue calls for stage hands and lighting techs who did not, in fairness, exist, or who existed, brother, in some other parallel arrangement Mahmoud was, in fairness, not, in fairness, equipped to investigate – she paused.

“And the men, my lord.”

“Of – your court, your majesty?”

“Aye, my lord. Of my court. Two principal suitors, prior to my royal betrothal.”

She had, brother, transposed, in fairness, the Earth biography into the medieval framing. He, in fairness, appreciated the engineering.

“The first, my lord, was Don Eduardo de Sevilla, a knight of the western marches, with whom I dallied, in fairness, briefly, in the year eleven-eighty-six. Don Eduardo, my lord, did not, in fairness, withstand the discovery that I, in court, did not, in fact, set aside the comportment of a queen even in private. Don Eduardo, in fairness, asked me, in 1186, to merely, ah, – break character, my lord, even for, in fairness, the duration of an evening. I, my lord, could not. The comportment is, in fairness, the woman. We parted. Don Eduardo, in fairness, married a less-comported lady of, in fairness, a more flexible disposition.”

“And the second, your majesty.”

“The second, my lord, was Don Roderigo de Castilla, with whom I, in fairness, was much-better aligned. Don Roderigo, my lord, attended my court frequently and, in fairness, conducted himself, throughout, with the proper ceremony. Don Roderigo, in fairness, did not, in fairness, ask me to break character. Don Roderigo, in fairness, courted me, my lord, in character, for some four years. The relationship, however, foundered upon Don Roderigo’s mother, the Duchess of Burgos, who, on the occasion of a state dinner, ah – “

“Yes?”

“ – summoned me to her private chamber, my lord, and informed me, in plain Castilian, that I was, in fairness, free to remain in my role at court but that, ah, in the family setting, I would be, in fairness, obliged to address her by her, ah, common name, Mrs. Garcia. The Duchess, in fairness, was, ah, of a more practical bent than her son. I, my lord, was, in fairness, unable to commit to addressing the Duchess as Mrs. Garcia. The marriage, in fairness, foundered on the question.”

The walkie-talkie crackled. Stage Two, queue’s clear, copy. The Queen, brother, fanned herself.

“Don Roderigo, my lord, has, since, married a kind señorita of, ah, more relaxed family customs. Mrs. Garcia, by my last understanding, finds the new señorita, ah, a daughter-in-law of considerable charm.”

“And in 2024 – your majesty – how did your majesty, ah, depart the realm?”

She paused. She, brother, looked, in fairness, briefly, at the empty centre throne.

“The royal physician, my lord, attributes my passing to, ah, a sudden affliction of the heart, on, in fairness, a Saturday evening, at the seven o’clock seating, mid-banquet, during the third course. I, my lord, was, in fairness, on the throne. I, my lord, was, in fairness, mid-toast to His Majesty King Alfonso. I, my lord, completed the toast. I, in fairness, raised the goblet. I, my lord, drank, in fairness, the good wine of the realm. I, my lord, set the goblet down. I, in fairness, slumped, in fairness, gracefully, my lord, in the throne. The audience, my lord, applauded for, ah, several seconds, believing the slump to be, ah, a piece of dramatic business of, in fairness, my own invention. The walkie-talkie, my lord, alerted the stage manager, ah, perhaps eleven seconds in. The medics, my lord, attended me with discretion. The audience, my lord, was, in fairness, advised that the queen had, ah, ridden suddenly to her chambers due to an urgent affair of state, and the show, my lord, continued with, ah, my understudy, Doña Catalina de Toledo, brought up from the green room. Doña Catalina, in fairness, finished the show. The audience, in fairness, ah, was none, ah, the wiser. The royal physician, my lord, has my eternal gratitude.”

She paused.

“The role, my lord, was, in fairness, completed.”

“The role, your majesty, was, in fairness, immaculate.”

She inclined her head, brother, in the small economical bow of a queen acknowledging a courtier’s compliment. She, in fairness, did not break.

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, moved.

He was also, brother, considering, internally, the matter of what bringing this woman home to his mother in Sana’a would, in fact, look like. He could not, brother, imagine, in fairness, the wedding. He could not imagine the wedding photographs. He could not, in fairness, imagine her removing the mantilla even, in fairness, briefly. He could not imagine the conversation in which his mother said, in Yemeni Arabic, what is your name, and the woman, in fairness, replied, in archaic English, ‘I am Doña María Isabella, queen consort’. He could not imagine the family’s reaction to the walkie-talkie. He could not imagine – and this was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – the small mounted velvet thrones that would, in fairness, have to be brought into the kitchen.

He, brother, liked Layla. He, in fairness, had not been allowed to meet Layla. He had been allowed, brother, only to meet Doña María Isabella. He understood the cost. He, brother, respected it.

What he said was: “Your majesty has been, most gracious in extending hospitality. I should – I should, in fairness, proceed to the next, ah, province.”

“Aye, my lord. The journey is long. Carry our regards to the eastern marches.”

She rose, brother, with the practised slow ceremonial rise of a woman who had, in fairness, been rising thus for twenty-two years. He bowed. She inclined her head.

“Your majesty.”

“My lord.”

“Should I, your majesty, by some happenstance of, ah, errantry, encounter a knight named Don Roderigo de Castilla – “

“Aye, my lord.”

“Tell him, your majesty, that the Duchess of Burgos is, in fairness, addressable by her common name in a great number of kingdoms, and that, in fairness, the comportment of the realm is, in fairness, well lost for the comportment of a kitchen. Your majesty would, in fairness, have, in eighteen months in this throne, learned the lesson.”

She paused, brother. She, in fairness, did not, in fact, break. She, brother, responded in character.

“That lesson, my lord, is, in fairness, ill-suited to a queen of Castilla. It is, however, well-suited to a woman of, ah, southern California of a less elevated station. Carry the message, my lord. The message will, in fairness, find its addressee.”

“I will, your majesty.”

He left through the gate. The walkie-talkie, brother, crackled a final time as he turned to close the door. Stage Two, that’s a wrap on the four-fifty cue.

The door closed. The trumpets, brother, began their loop again from the top.

He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals – for the fifth time – and walked, brother, with no small relief, to door seven.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER SEVEN

Samira and the Notebook

The corridor between door six and door seven carried, brother – to Mahmoud al-Bakri’s small physical relief – no smell at all. The medieval-themed mock-Spanish-Iberian dust-of-Anaheim-meets-Khartoum mixture had, in fairness, cleared rapidly once the door behind him closed. The corridor, brother, had returned to its standard fluorescent neutrality, with the small steady ambient note of Khartoum dust drifting in under the doorframe. The dust, brother, was, in fairness, now a constant feature of his afterlife. He had, brother, stopped brushing his sandals.

He approached door seven.

He could hear, through the door, nothing.

This was, brother, unusual. Every previous door had carried, in fairness, some sound – music, dogs, bell-ringing, walkie-talkies, the lapping of a river. Door seven was, brother, silent. It was not, in fairness, the silence of an empty room. It was, brother, the silence of a room in which someone is, in fairness, deliberately not making sound.

He opened door seven.

He was in a small soundproofed studio.

The studio was perhaps four metres square. The walls were lined with grey acoustic foam wedges. The floor was dark polished wood. There was, against the far wall, a single small window, and the window looked out, brother, over a small sand-coloured Khartoum courtyard, with a single lemon tree, and beyond that, the pale tan late-afternoon sky. Through the window, in fairness, he could hear very faintly – and only because the studio’s soundproofing was, in fairness, not, in fact, perfect against ambient outdoor low-frequency sound – the small distant call of the Asr from a minaret somewhere west of Tuti Island.

The room itself, brother, was almost completely silent.

There was, brother, a small wooden table at the centre. On the table: a leather-bound notebook, open; a black fountain pen, capped; a small ceramic dish of olives; a small clay pitcher of karkadeh, with two small clay cups. There was, additionally, a single small mirror on a stand, of the kind used for stage make-up application.

A woman stood at the centre of the studio, perhaps a metre from the table.

She was perhaps fifty. She wore, brother, a black long-sleeved leotard, black close-fitting trousers, black soft-soled slippers, and a pair of white cotton gloves. Her face was painted, brother, entirely white, with small precise black markings around the eyes and the mouth of the kind he had seen, brother, in very old French television programmes his uncle had downloaded illegally as a young man. Her dark hair, in fairness, was tucked entirely under a small black skull-cap.

She did not, brother, speak.

She did not, brother, gesture.

She, in fairness, bowed.

She gestured, with one immaculate gloved hand, at the small visitor stool by the table. She gestured, with her other gloved hand, at the small clay pitcher. The gestures, brother, were exact. They were not, in fairness, theatrical. They were the gestures of a person who had, in fairness, learned over thirty years to convey precise information without speech, and who had, in fairness, achieved a kind of fluency that made the gestures feel less like communication and more like a different language he could not speak.

He, brother, sat. He, in fairness, poured himself karkadeh.

She, brother, poured herself karkadeh, with the same exact gestures she had used to direct him. She, in fairness, brought the cup to her lips, paused, and lowered it again without drinking. The gesture, brother – and he registered this with a small surprise – had been, in fairness, the gesture of drinking. She had, brother, mimed her own karkadeh. She had, in fairness, not consumed it.

She, brother, set the cup down. She moved to the table. She picked up the fountain pen. She uncapped it. She wrote, in immaculate French handwriting, in the leather-bound notebook, one line. She turned the notebook around. She slid it, with both gloved hands, across the table to him.

The line read, in French:

Bienvenue. Je m’appelle Samira Bouzid. Je n’ai pas parlé depuis 1994.

He, brother, did not read French.

He, in fairness, understood the first three words.

He, brother, attempted, with great delicacy, to communicate this.

He pointed, with his index finger, at the line. He shook his head, very slightly. He raised his hands in the small universal gesture of I do not, in fairness, understand the writing.

She, brother, blinked.

She, in fairness – and this was, brother, the first crack in the ritual – paused, very briefly, in a way that suggested, in fairness, that she had not, for some considerable time, encountered a visitor who could not read French. She recovered. She turned the notebook back. She crossed out the French line, very precisely, with a single elegant horizontal stroke. She wrote, beneath, in Arabic, in immaculate maghrebi script:

Welcome. My name is Samira Bouzid. I have not spoken since 1994.

She turned the notebook again.

He, brother, read it. He understood. He looked up.

“And to you, peace, sister. May I – speak – to you, normally?“

She, brother, nodded. She, in fairness, smiled, very slightly, with the small careful muscular discipline of a woman whose face paint did not, in fairness, permit large facial movements. The smile, brother, cracked the white face paint, ever so faintly, at the corners of the mouth. She, brother, did not, in fairness, mind.

She wrote, beneath the previous line:

Yes. You speak. I write. We will, in fairness, get along.

“Sister – Samira – you have not spoken since 1994.”

She nodded. She wrote.

A vow. I made the vow at the age of twenty-one, on the day I qualified from the École Internationale de Mimodrame, the school of Marcel Marceau, in Paris. The vow was – and is – that I would, in fairness, not speak again, in any context, for the duration of my professional career. I, in fairness, kept the vow.

“Until – 2024?”

She wrote.

Including in 2024. I died, brother, without breaking the vow. I died, in fairness, mid-performance, on the stage of a small theatre in Paris, performing the classic piece “Le promeneur dans le vent” – “the walker in the wind.” I died, brother, miming a man walking against a strong wind, leaning at a thirty-five-degree angle, three minutes into the piece. The audience, in fairness, did not realise for forty-six seconds that the lean had become, in fairness, a fall.

He, brother, was, in fairness, struck silent for a moment.

She watched him, with great patience. She, in fairness, did not, in fairness, indicate impatience. The mime, brother, was, in fairness, the most patient woman he had encountered in any room of the corridor.

“Forgive me, sister. The bio – please, continue, in fairness, in your own time.”

She nodded. She wrote.

Born Tunis 1973. Tunisian. Family came to Paris in 1980. My father drove a taxi, my mother taught Arabic in a community centre. I attended, at fourteen, my first Marcel Marceau performance at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées. I, brother, was converted on the spot. I trained, from the age of fifteen, in the Marceau school. I qualified at twenty-one. I performed, professionally, for thirty years, throughout France and across Europe and, in fairness, on three small American tours. I was, by my own assessment, not, in fairness, the most famous mime of my generation. I was, brother, the most disciplined.

“And the vow, sister – the vow – “

She wrote.

The vow was Marceau’s own. He had, in fairness, taken it himself, in his thirties, and had kept it on stage for the entirety of his career – though, in fairness, he spoke off-stage, in private, with friends. I, brother, took the vow more strictly. I took it, in fairness, in all contexts. I have not, brother, spoken aloud, to any human being, since the morning of June 14, 1994, on the steps of the school, after my graduation. I spoke that morning to my mother, in Arabic. I told her, brother, that I loved her, and that I had qualified, and that I would, in fairness, not speak to her again with my voice. My mother, in fairness, accepted the terms. She wept. I wrote her, every week, for thirty years, in Arabic, with my best handwriting. The letters, brother, are, in fairness, in a shoebox somewhere in Paris. My niece, brother, has them.

“And the men, sister.”

She, brother, paused. She wrote.

Two. Both, in fairness, kind. Both, in fairness, defeated by the vow.

In 1998, a man named Étienne, a French stage actor. We were together two years. The relationship ended at his apartment, on a Sunday afternoon, when Étienne, in fairness, after eight months of writing notes to me at every dinner, said: “Samira, I have realised that I, in fairness, have not, in eight months, heard your voice. I had not, brother, expected to mind. I find that I, in fairness, mind.” We separated, brother. He has, today, married, in fairness, an actress whose voice he, in fairness, hears, eight hours a day. They have, I am told, two children. The children, in fairness, speak, brother, both, in fairness, French and English.

In 2010, a man named Ravi, a French-Indian musician. We were together five years. Ravi, in fairness, was a violinist. Ravi, brother, made his living through sound. The relationship ended in 2015 when Ravi, on a Sunday morning, asked me, gently, “Samira, in our five years, has there been a single moment in which you have, in fairness, considered that I, in fact, would like to share a sound with you?” I considered the question. I wrote him, on a small notepad, my answer: “I have, in fairness, considered it. I have, in fairness, declined.” He, brother, with great kindness, said: “Samira, I respect the discipline. I cannot, in fairness, be the partner of the discipline.” I respected his position. We separated. He has, today, married, brother, to a fellow musician. They have, brother, sound.

“And in 2024, sister – the theatre – “

She wrote.

The theatre was the Théâtre du Châtelet. Small evening performance, perhaps three hundred audience members. I was three minutes into “Le promeneur dans le vent.” I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps two minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother, to complete the lean.

She paused, brother.

The lean was, in fairness, the work. The lean, brother, communicated to the audience, without sound, without language, that I was a man walking against a strong wind, and that the wind was, in fairness, winning. The lean, brother, was, in some way, the truest thing I had ever performed. I leaned. I fell. The audience, in fairness, applauded for forty-six seconds, believing the fall to be, brother, the climax of the piece. The stage manager, brother, registered, by the eleventh second of my unmoving body on the stage, that the fall was, in fairness, not, in any sense, theatrical. The medics, in fairness, came up from the wings. I was, brother, gone. The audience, brother, was eventually informed. The theatre, in fairness, dimmed the lights and held a minute of silence. The minute of silence, brother, was the most appropriate tribute I, in fairness, could have asked for. I had, brother, kept the vow. The vow, in fairness, kept me.

He, brother, was for a long time silent.

She, brother, did not, in fairness, hurry him.

After perhaps a minute, he said: “Sister – your vow – was, in fairness, beautiful.”

She wrote.

It was, brother, a discipline. Beauty was, in fairness, a side-effect. I did not, brother, set out for beauty. I set out for accuracy. The body, brother, is more accurate without the voice. The voice, brother, is, in fairness, often the wrong instrument for the thing one wants to communicate. Most things, brother, are better mimed.

“And here, sister – you have the studio.”

She nodded. She wrote.

I have the studio. The acoustics are, in fairness, perfect. I work the standard Marceau pieces, in rotation, every afternoon. I have, in eighteen months, performed perhaps eleven hundred mime pieces, to the empty studio, in front of the small mirror. I have, brother, refined the technique. I am, in this room, the best mime I have ever been. There is, in fairness, no audience. The audience, brother, is, in fairness, the mirror. The mirror, brother, applauds, in some way I do not interrogate. I have, in fairness, made my peace with this.

“Sister, may I ask – the vow – does it, in fairness, continue here?“

She, brother, paused. She wrote.

Yes. The vow, brother, continues. I have not, in eighteen months in this room, spoken aloud. I have, in fairness, not been tempted to. The notebook, brother, is enough. The notebook is, in fairness, the better instrument. I am, brother, content.

Mahmoud, brother, was again, in fairness, internally cataloguing.

He could not, in fairness, imagine the marriage. He could not, brother, imagine the conversation that did not, in fairness, occur between them. He could not, brother, imagine the wedding ceremony – at which, in fairness, the bride would, in fairness, communicate her vows by writing them on a small piece of card, in maghrebi Arabic, and turning the card so the imam, brother, could read them. He could not, brother, imagine the family meal, at which his mother would, in fairness, ask her, in Yemeni Arabic, where are you from, my daughter, and the bride would, in fairness, write a long careful answer in elegant maghrebi script, and his mother, brother, would, in fairness, struggle with the dialectal differences in the handwriting. He could not, brother, imagine the children, who would, in fairness, grow up with a mother who did not speak. He could not, brother – and this was, in fairness, the small specific concern – imagine the silence of the apartment. He had been raised, brother, in a Yemeni household where speaking was, in fairness, the default state of the kitchen, the courtyard, and the sitting room. Silence, brother, was, in fairness, the marker that something was, in fairness, deeply wrong. Silence as a sustained chosen condition was, in fairness, outside his cultural envelope.

He, brother, liked Samira. He, in fairness, admired her with a force that had, in fairness, surprised him. He understood, brother, that the discipline was, in fairness, the real thing, and that the real thing was, in fairness, more impressive than anything he himself had, in fairness, ever attempted in his short life. He, brother, acknowledged this internally.

He could not, brother, bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, your discipline is – of remarkable depth. The studio is – of perfect quiet.”

She, brother, inclined her head. She, in fairness, did not write a response. She, brother, gestured at the door, with one immaculate gloved hand, in the small precise gesture of a courteous farewell.

He, brother, understood, without translation.

He stood. He bowed.

“Sister – should I, in my travels, encounter a man named Ravi – French-Indian violinist, married to a fellow musician, with sound – “

She, brother, picked up the pen. She wrote, one line, in maghrebi Arabic:

Tell him: the silence was, in fairness, the gift, but I, in fairness, did not, in life, gift it to him. I kept it, brother, for myself. He had been right to ask for sound. Tell him I have, in eighteen months in this studio, finally, in fairness, understood the cost. The cost, brother, was Ravi.

She, brother, tore the page out. She folded it. She handed it to him with one immaculate gloved hand.

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

She inclined her head, very low. The white face paint, brother, cracked at the corners of the mouth one final time, in the very faint suggestion of a smile.

He left. He closed the door, very quietly, brother, in keeping with the room.

In the corridor, he stood for a long moment in the warm Khartoum dust. He thought, brother, of a woman who had, in fairness, kept silent for thirty years, and of the lean, three minutes in, against a strong wind.

He walked to door eight.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER EIGHT

Shirin and the HOA Bylaws

The corridor between door seven and door eight, brother, contained the small ambient ozone tang of a recently-printed laser document. Mahmoud al-Bakri, who had, in fairness, encountered laser printers exactly twice in his life – both occasions being at the small registry office in Sana’a where his uncle had renewed business permits – recognised it after a small delay.

He approached door eight.

Through the door came, brother, the small sound of a printer printing, and a woman’s voice in California-Iranian English saying, No, Janet, the variance request was due Monday, this is Wednesday, the bylaws don’t, in fairness, accommodate retroactive submissions.

He opened door eight.

He was in a small home office in what was, by every furnishing cue, a master-planned California suburb.

Pale beige walls. A pale beige carpet with no, in fairness, visible imperfection. A pale beige built-in desk. A pale beige filing cabinet with three drawers, each labelled in immaculate hand-printing: ARCHITECTURAL REVIEW, COMPLIANCE, DUES. Above the desk, a single framed print of a stylised Spanish-revival house, which was, in fairness, the same house Mahmoud could see, through the window, repeated six times along the small cul-de-sac visible behind the desk.

The cul-de-sac, brother, was – and he was, in fairness, no longer surprised by such things – in Khartoum. The six identical pale-beige Spanish-revival houses, brother, with their red-tile roofs and their identical small front lawns and their identical attached two-car garages, were arranged, in fairness, in a small neat semicircle on a Khartoum hillside, with the Blue Nile visible in the middle distance, with two date palms in the cul-de-sac’s central planted island, and with one Sudanese kingfisher perched, in fairness, on the bonnet of an immaculate beige minivan parked in the third driveway. The minivan, brother, was covered in Khartoum dust. The driveway, brother, was covered in Khartoum dust. The pale beige houses, brother, were, in fairness, all of them, dusted to the level of the upstairs windows.

In the cul-de-sac’s central planted island, brother, a small grey donkey was, in fairness, eating the planted ornamental grass.

A woman was on the phone. She was perhaps fifty. She wore, brother, a pressed cream blouse, a navy cardigan, and pearl earrings, with a small reading-glasses chain at her neck. Her dark hair was pulled into a low precise knot. On the desk in front of her: a printed agenda, a hardcopy of what was, in fairness, a substantial bylaws document, a Mont Blanc pen, a small framed photograph of a smiling middle-aged American man in a polo shirt, and a steaming mug of karkadeh.

She raised one finger, brother, in the universal gesture of one moment.

” – Janet, I, in fairness, hear you. The bylaws are, in fairness, the bylaws. I cannot, in fairness, set a precedent. The board would, in fairness, not, in fairness, support it. Submit the variance for next month’s cycle. Yes. Thank you, Janet. Goodbye.”

She set the phone down. She turned. She rose, brother, with the small efficient ceremony of an executive.

“Hi! Shirin Mostafavi. President of the Harbor Ridge Estates Homeowners Association, in continuous service since 2008, brother. Welcome. Mahmoud, yes? Sit. The chair across from the desk. Yes, the donkey is in violation. No, I cannot, in fairness, do anything about the donkey, because the donkey is, by the angel’s report, outside the HOA’s geographic jurisdiction. The donkey, brother, is on, in fairness, city-of-Khartoum land, which is, in fairness, a separate municipal entity. I have, in eighteen months, contested this assessment three times in writing. The angel, in fairness, has held firm. The donkey, in fairness, eats the grass. I, in fairness, have learned to live with it. Drink the karkadeh, please.”

He sat. He drank.

“I’ll do the bio quick. Born Tehran 1968. Family came to Orange County, California, in 1979 – my father had been in pharmaceuticals, was hired by a small Irvine firm. We settled in Harbor Ridge Estates, a master-planned community of one hundred and forty-eight Spanish-revival single-family homes built in 1986, in fairness the year before we moved in. I was, brother, eleven. I attended UC Irvine. I read business administration. I worked, for thirty years, in commercial real estate at a small firm in Newport Beach. I retired, in 2022, with, in fairness, a quite reasonable retirement portfolio.”

She paused.

“The HOA, brother, was, in fairness, the parallel career.”

“You – were the president of – “

“I was, brother, elected to the Harbor Ridge Estates HOA board in 2002. I was, brother, elected vice president in 2005. I was, in fairness, elected president in 2008. I have, brother, served as president for sixteen consecutive terms. The bylaws, brother, do not, in fact, term-limit the president. The board, brother, has not, in eighteen years, presented a serious challenger. I, brother, won the 2022 election by acclamation, with no opposing candidate. I was, in fairness, the longest-serving HOA president in the recorded history of the southern California Master-Planned Community Association of America’s Greater Orange County chapter. I am, brother, a name in this small specialised world. The name is, brother, Mostafavi of Harbor Ridge. I have, brother, given small invited talks on architectural review committee best practices at the MPCAOA annual conference, eleven times. I am, brother, in fairness, proud of this.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, in fairness, the work. The men, brother. There were two, both within the community, because the community was, in fairness, where I had time to be.”

“In 1996, a man named Ron, the homeowner of 4128 Harbor Ridge Drive, a unit, brother, three houses down from mine. We dated, brother, four years. The relationship ended in 2000, when Ron – who was, in fairness, kind, and who had been, brother, on the architectural review committee himself for three of those four years – installed, without committee approval, a small ornamental Spanish-revival fountain in his front-yard lawn. The fountain, brother, was, in fairness, attractive. The fountain was, additionally, in violation of bylaw section 7.4.2, which prohibits, in fairness, the installation of any water feature in front-yard landscape without prior architectural review committee approval. I, brother, as president of the architectural review committee, was, in fairness, obliged to issue him a notice of violation. Ron, brother, received the notice. Ron, brother, was, in fairness, displeased. Ron, brother, said, Shirin, you are, in fairness, my girlfriend, and you, in fairness, just, by certified mail, on architectural review committee letterhead, fined me three hundred dollars. I told him, brother, the truthful answer: Ron, I, in fairness, am, also, the president of the architectural review committee. The two roles, brother, are, in fairness, not, in fact, separable. He told me, brother, Shirin, I have, in fairness, realised that I cannot, in this lifetime, be, in fact, the partner of the president of the architectural review committee. We separated, gently. Ron, brother, removed the fountain. Ron, brother, paid the three-hundred-dollar fine. Ron, brother, moved out of the community in 2003, to a small apartment in Costa Mesa with no, in fairness, HOA. Ron, brother, has not, in fairness, married. He sends, in fairness, a Christmas card every year. The card, brother, is always to my home address. The card, brother, is always, in fairness, postmarked from Costa Mesa.

“In 2010, a man named Greg, not in the community, an accountant in Costa Mesa, in fact – yes, brother, the same Costa Mesa, but a different building from Ron’s. Greg, brother, liked the suburban order I represented. Greg, brother, was, in fairness, supportive of the HOA work, in a way that suggested, in fairness, that Greg had not, brother, ever been, in fact, on the receiving end of an HOA notice of violation. The relationship lasted six years. The relationship ended in 2016, when Greg – who, in fairness, by then, had moved into the community, into a unit, brother, two houses down on the opposite side of the cul-de-sac – erected a Halloween decoration in his front yard, in late October, that, in fairness, exceeded the size limits of bylaw 9.3.1, which restricts seasonal decoration to objects no greater than four feet in any dimension. Greg’s decoration, brother, was, in fairness, seven feet tall. The decoration was, in fairness, an inflatable dragon. The dragon, brother, was charming. The dragon, additionally, cast a shadow over the front yard of 4136 Harbor Ridge Drive at certain hours of the late afternoon. The homeowner of 4136, brother, Mrs. Patel, was, in fairness, displeased. She filed, brother, a formal complaint with the architectural review committee. I, brother, as president of the architectural review committee, was, in fairness, obliged to issue Greg a notice of violation. Greg, brother, received the notice. Greg, brother, was, in fairness, displeased. Greg, brother, said, in fairness – and this, brother, was the line that, in fairness, broke us: Shirin, when, in fact, are you, the resident of 4124 Harbor Ridge Drive, going to take precedence over Shirin, the president of the architectural review committee? I told him, brother, the truthful answer: Greg, the two are, in fairness, not, in fact, separable. They have, in fairness, never been separable. I am, in fairness, the same woman in both roles. Greg told me, brother, I have, in fairness, realised that I, in fact, would like to be loved by, in fact, only one of those two women, and that the available one is, in fairness, the one who is, in fact, not, by virtue of office, obligated to fine me three hundred dollars. We separated. Greg, brother, deflated the dragon. Greg, brother, paid the fine. Greg, brother, also moved out, in 2018, to, in fairness, an apartment in Costa Mesa. Greg, brother – and this is, in fairness, where the community gets, in fairness, small – moved into the same apartment building as Ron. Ron and Greg, brother, are, in fairness, friendly neighbours. They have, brother, together, in fairness, expressed grievance at the same Christmas party. I am, in fairness, aware of this from a third party. I am, brother, unbothered.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at this desk. Mid-correspondence. I was, in fairness, drafting a notice of violation – the homeowner of 4144 Harbor Ridge Drive, a Mr. Henderson, peace be upon him, had, in fairness, painted his front door an unapproved shade of red – I want, brother, to clarify that the shade was, in fairness, not, in fact, the registered Harbor Ridge approved shade of red, but a slightly more, in fairness, vivid shade – and I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps three minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother, to complete the notice of violation. The notice, brother, was, in fairness, professionally formatted, with the proper bylaw citation, with the proper response deadline, and with the appropriate certified-mail tracking-number reservation. I signed it. I set down the pen. I sat back, brother. I died at this desk. My husband, brother – yes, brother, the photograph“

She gestured, brother, at the small framed photograph of the smiling middle-aged American man.

” – my husband, James Mostafavi, brother, peace be upon him, had, in fairness, predeceased me by eleven years. He had been, in fairness, the kindest man in the community. He had, brother, worked at the same Newport Beach commercial real-estate firm I had. We had, in fairness, married in 1998. He had, brother, never, in fact, served on the HOA board. He had, in fairness, consistently and without exception declined the position. He had told me, brother, on multiple occasions, Shirin, the HOA is your work. I, in fairness, am, in fact, your husband. The two should, in fairness, remain, in fact, distinct. The arrangement, brother, was, in fairness, the great success of my domestic life. We had, in fairness, no children. The community, brother, was, in fairness, the children. The bylaws, brother, were, in fairness, the discipline. James was, in fairness, the rest. He died, in 2013, of a heart attack, on the small lawn of 4124 Harbor Ridge Drive, while, in fairness, mowing it to the standard one-and-three-quarters-inch height required by bylaw section 5.2.1. The lawn, brother, was, in fairness, finished – he had, in fairness, mowed it before he, in fact, fell – and the lawn was, in fairness, in compliance. The lawn, brother, has been, in eleven years since, kept by the community at the exact same standard, in James’s memory.”

“Ya Allah, sister.”

“Yeah.”

She sipped her karkadeh.

“And here, brother, the bylaws, in fairness, continue. The community, brother – Harbor Ridge Estates of Khartoum, as I have, in fairness, in eighteen months, internally renamed it – runs, in fact, with my full participation. The notice of violation, brother – I should, in fairness, mention this, on Mr. Henderson’s painted door – was, in fairness, posthumously delivered by my deputy, Doris, on the following Monday. Mr. Henderson, brother, paid the fine. Mr. Henderson, brother, repainted the door, in fairness, in the registered Harbor Ridge approved shade. The community, brother, is, in fairness, in compliance. I am, in fairness, content with this.”

“And the donkey, sister.”

She looked through the window. The donkey, brother, was, in fairness, eating the planted ornamental grass with great calm. The Sudanese kingfisher on the bonnet of the minivan, brother, was, in fairness, watching the donkey with what appeared to be, in fairness, interest.

“The donkey, brother, is, in fairness, the only thing in eighteen months I have not, in fact, been able to bring into compliance. The donkey, brother, is, in fairness, technically on city land. The grass, brother, is, in fairness, technically Harbor Ridge land. The boundary, brother, is, in fairness, the curb. The curb, brother, is, in fairness, the line of jurisdiction. The donkey, brother, crosses the line, eats the grass, and, in fairness, returns to the city side. The donkey, brother, has, in fairness, been, in eighteen months, never, in fact, on the Harbor Ridge side at the time of any architectural review committee inspection. The donkey, brother, is, in fairness, a deeply skilled jurisdictional gamesman. I have, in fairness, given up on it. I, in fairness, appreciate, in some private way, the donkey’s competence.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother in Sana’a, an HOA president. Sana’a, brother, did not, in fairness, have HOAs. Sana’a, brother, had, in fairness, a small organic process by which the elders of a neighbourhood occasionally raised concerns with the elders of an adjacent neighbourhood, and the concerns were, in fairness, resolved over a small cup of qishr coffee in someone’s courtyard. The concept of bylaw section 5.2.1 would, in fairness, not, in any sense, translate. He could not, brother, imagine the wedding, at which the bride would, in fairness, present the imam with a printed agenda for the ceremony, with timing in five-minute increments, and a sub-bullet-pointed contingency plan. He could not, brother, imagine his mother’s lawn being measured to the standard one-and-three-quarters-inch height. His mother, brother, did not, in fact, have a lawn. His mother, brother, had a courtyard with a date palm and a small plot of mint.

He could not, brother – and this was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine receiving, in his married life, a notice of violation from his own wife.

He, brother, liked Shirin. He, in fairness, admired the discipline. He understood, brother, that the discipline was, in fact, the love – for the husband, James, peace be upon him, who had had the wisdom to keep his lawn at exactly one-and-three-quarters-inches throughout their marriage.

He could not, brother, bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, your community is – of remarkable order. The bylaws, sister, are – clearly, in fairness, well-maintained.”

“That is, brother, kind.”

“I should – sister – proceed to door nine.”

“Of course, brother. Mind, in fairness, the donkey on your way out. The donkey, brother, is on city land at the moment, but the donkey, in fairness, is, in fairness, mobile.”

He stood. He bowed. She inclined her head, brother, the small economical bow of a long-tenured HOA president acknowledging a non-resident visitor.

“Shirin.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, the homeowner of 4128 Harbor Ridge Drive – Ron, of Costa Mesa, who sends Christmas cards from a Costa Mesa postmark to your address every year – tell him from me that I have, in eighteen months in this office, re-read his three-hundred-dollar notice of violation. The fountain, in fairness, should, in fact, have been, in fairness, retroactively approved as a small-scale variance. I had been, brother, technically correct and, in fairness, humanly wrong. The cards, brother, are, in fairness, the proof that he had been, in fact, the one who understood this all along. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He closed the door.

The donkey, brother, was, in fairness, still on the city side of the curb. The Sudanese kingfisher, brother, was, in fairness, still on the bonnet of the minivan. The Khartoum dust, brother, was, in fairness, still settling on every available surface of Harbor Ridge Estates.

He walked, brother, to door nine.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER NINE

Amal and the Glass Patriarchy

The corridor between door eight and door nine carried, brother, the warm yeasty smell of a thriving sourdough kitchen, layered with the smell of fresh-milled bread flour, with a small rich note of well-developed wild fermentation underneath. Mahmoud al-Bakri, who had, in fairness, grown up on his mother’s flatbreads cooked on a small steel saj, recognised the broad category but not, in fairness, the specifics.

He approached door nine.

He could hear, through the door, the soft murmur of a woman speaking, in a tone of considerable affection, in English, and beneath that, the low even hum of a small refrigeration unit working, in fairness, at substantial load.

He opened door nine.

He was in a small modern Toronto-style condominium kitchen – transposed wholesale to Khartoum.

White subway-tile backsplash. Stainless-steel appliances. A long butcher-block counter running the length of the right-hand wall. A small four-burner gas range. A double oven, brother, of the kind that is, in fairness, far too large for a single-occupant kitchen but is, brother, the standard for a serious home baker. Above the counter, brother, on open shelving from floor to ceiling, were arranged perhaps fifty identical glass mason jars, each containing a pale tan, gently bubbling substance, each labelled in a neat hand on a small white masking-tape strip.

Beside the range, brother, on a small dedicated kitchen cabinet of its own, was a single larger ceramic crock, with a fitted wooden lid and a small brass nameplate, on which Mahmoud, brother, could read, in English: GERALD – EST. 2010.

Through the kitchen window – which was, in fairness, where the Toronto condominium kitchen ran out and Khartoum began – Mahmoud could see a small Khartoum balcony, with a folding metal chair, a small earthenware pot of basil, and beyond, the late-afternoon city: the river, the dust, a vendor with a wooden cart of lemons, a small white dome of a mosque. From below, very faintly, came the sound of a karkadeh vendor. The vendor, brother – Mahmoud was now, in fairness, certain – was the same vendor who supplied every room of the corridor, on Sharia Al Qasr. He was, in fairness, getting to know the man’s afternoon by his calls.

A woman stood at the long counter, in a heavy canvas apron over rolled-up denim, with a small streak of bread flour across her cheekbone. She held a wooden spoon and a small kitchen scale. She was, brother, speaking softly to the ceramic crock.

” – fifty grams of bread flour, exactly fifty, no, I am not, in fairness, going to round up, fifty was what we agreed, and fifty grams of filtered water at twenty-two degrees Celsius, exactly twenty-two, because – “

She noticed him. She paused, brother, with the wooden spoon poised over the crock. Her face, brother, did not, in fairness, register embarrassment. Her face, in fairness, registered the small composed acknowledgement of a woman caught mid-conversation with a fermenting jar, who had, in fairness, made her peace with this years before.

“Hi, hi, sorry, brother – give me, in fairness, ninety seconds, Gerald is, in fairness, mid-feed, and the feeding is, in fact, time-sensitive, the temperature has to, in fairness, be set before I, in fact, walk away. Mahmoud, yes? Sit on the stool by the counter, please don’t, in fairness, sit on the small fold-out chair, the small fold-out chair is, in fairness, currently holding three boxes of bread flour I have not yet inventoried. Tea is on the table, help yourself.”

He sat. He poured karkadeh.

She returned her attention to the crock. She measured, brother, exactly fifty grams of bread flour, combined it carefully with fifty grams of filtered water, stirred it into the existing crock contents with a small folding motion, smoothed the surface with the back of the spoon, replaced the wooden lid, and quietly, brother, said something to the crock that he did not, in fairness, catch. She rose. She washed her hands.

“Right. Amal Haddad. Toronto, by way of, in fairness, Beirut, Mississauga, and a master’s degree in industrial design that I, in fairness, have not used since, in fairness, around 2011. Welcome.”

“Mahmoud al-Bakri.”

“Yeah, hi. Brother, I’ll, in fairness, do the bio quick. I have, in fairness, eleven loaves cooling on the rack behind you, four in the oven, and, in fairness, perhaps six minutes before I need to begin Gerald’s evening feed and the mid-fermentation check on the four loaves in the oven, so we will, in fairness, be efficient.”

“Of course, sister.”

“I was born in Beirut in 1979. We came to Mississauga in 1990. My father was, in fairness, a chemical engineer at a small firm near Pearson Airport. My mother taught Arabic at a community centre. I, brother, attended OCAD – that is, brother, the Ontario College of Art and Design – and qualified, in fairness, as an industrial designer. I worked, for nine years, as a senior designer for a small office-furniture manufacturer in Mississauga. I designed, in fairness, one chair, in 2013, that is, brother, in the permanent collection of the Royal Ontario Museum. I, brother, am proud of this. I have, in eighteen months in this kitchen, occasionally, been able to look at the chair on the museum’s website, which the angel has, in fairness, set up as a bookmark on the small tablet on the kitchen table. The tablet, brother, otherwise has access only to one website, which is, in fairness, a small online sourdough community message board. I check the message board, brother, daily. The message board, brother, posts continue, in fairness, from Earth. I cannot, brother, post in reply. I read, brother, only.”

“And the sourdough, sister.”

“In March 2020, brother, as the entire Western world had, in fairness, been sent home from the workplace, I read, brother, an article in The Atlantic about sourdough. The article, brother, changed, in fairness, the trajectory of my professional life. I ordered the supplies. I made my first starter. The first starter, brother, failed. The second starter, brother, failed. The third starter, brother, was, in fairness, Gerald. Gerald, brother, is, in fairness, fourteen years old as of 2024, which is, in fairness, on the older end of cared-for sourdough starters but is, in fairness, not, in fact, exceptional. I named him Gerald, brother, because, in fairness, he looked like a Gerald. I have, brother, no further explanation for this. The naming, in fairness, was, brother, the appropriate one. He has, in fairness, responded to it consistently for fourteen years. I am, brother, aware that he is, in fact, a fermenting jar of flour and water. I am, in fairness, also aware that, in fact, this distinction has, over fourteen years, become, in fairness, increasingly philosophical.”

“And the others, sister.”

She gestured, brother, at the wall of fifty mason jars.

“Gerald has, brother, forty-seven living offspring, all on the wall behind you. Each, brother, has been named. The names, brother, are, in fairness, not, in fact, available to be reviewed in this conversation, because the recitation would, in fairness, take, brother, perhaps eleven minutes, and we have, brother, six minutes before the oven cycle. The names, brother, are, in fairness, all logged in a small leather-bound book on the shelf beside Gerald. The book is, in fairness, available for review on request. The book, in addition to the names, contains, in fairness, the genealogy – each starter’s parent culture, the date of separation, the hydration ratio, the feeding schedule. The book is, in fairness, a serious document. I had, brother, in fairness, planned to, in fact, publish a portion of it as a small specialty cookbook in 2025. The plan, in fairness, was, brother, terminated by my, in fact, death in 2024. The book, brother, is, in fairness, here. I have, in eighteen months, added approximately seventy additional pages to it. The book, in fairness, will not, brother, ever be published. I write the additional pages, brother, because the writing is, in fairness, the work.”

“And the men, sister.”

She paused. She, brother, looked at the small stainless-steel timer on the counter. The timer, in fairness, read, brother, four minutes thirty-eight seconds.

“I will be brief, brother. There were four. Each, in fairness, had a specific failure.”

“In June 2020, a man named Daniel – an architect, friend of a friend, Toronto-based. We dated, brother, briefly. The relationship ended, brother, on a Saturday afternoon, when Daniel had come over for, in fairness, what he had thought was a casual dinner with, in fairness, perhaps some sourdough on the side. I had, in fairness, by that point, been on my own sourdough journey for, brother, six weeks. I gave Daniel, brother, a forty-five-minute lecture on hydration ratios, citing, in fairness, professional bakers I had read on Instagram and an obscure French sourdough blog I had been, in fairness, translating with Google Translate. The lecture, brother, was, in fairness, premature relative to my actual expertise. Daniel, brother, left after the dinner. He texted, brother, two days later. He said, Amal, I have, in fairness, remembered an obligation. The obligation, brother, was, in fairness, to never, in fact, contact me again. I was, in fairness, informed of this through mutual friends.

“In 2021, a man named Ravi, from a dating app. Three good dates. On the fourth date, brother, he came over to my apartment, and I, in fairness, made him a small loaf of sourdough, without, in fairness, asking about allergies. Ravi, brother, was, in fairness, severely wheat-allergic. Ravi, brother, had, in fairness, one bite. Ravi, brother, went into, in fairness, anaphylactic shock. I, brother, drove him to the hospital. He, brother, survived. He texted me, brother, the next afternoon, from the hospital, with great kindness. He said, Amal, I have, in fairness, realised that you are, in fact, actively allergic to your child, and I, in fairness, am the visitor in this kitchen. I, brother, respected the framing, did not, in fairness, contest it, and we separated.

“In 2022, a man named Jad, Lebanese, Toronto-raised, my mother’s preferred candidate, friend of my cousin. Four dates, brother. The relationship ended on the fifth scheduled date, brother, which I, in fairness, cancelled because Gerald’s tenth-anniversary celebration party was, in fact, on the same evening, and I had, in fairness, baked a special anniversary loaf with the number ten scored into the crust with a small bread lame, and I, in fairness, had three friends and my niece coming over, and I, brother, in fairness, could not, in fact, reschedule. Jad, brother, was, in fairness, displeased. He said, brother, Amal, you are, in fairness, cancelling our date for, in fact, a jar’s birthday. I told him, brother, the truthful answer: Jad, in fairness, yes. He, brother, did not, in fairness, recover. The fifth date, brother, did not occur. We separated. The anniversary, brother, was, in fairness, a great success. The bread, brother, was, in fairness, exceptional.

“In 2023, a man named Marcus, also a baker, with his own starter named Hank. Two months. Aligned profession. The relationship ended at his apartment, brother, when, on the second of two evenings of joint baking, we argued over scoring patterns on a country loaf. He, brother, said my ear was, in fairness, slightly aggressive. I, brother, said his crust colour was, in fairness, slightly under-developed. Both, in fairness, were, in fact, correct. Marcus, brother, left. I, brother, ate his half of the bread – which was, in fairness, also good, brother, my critique notwithstanding – over the next three days. Marcus and I, brother, exchange Instagram comments occasionally. The comments, in fairness, are, brother, professional in tone.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, in this kitchen, mid-shape. I had been, brother, shaping a difficult batard, brother, that had, in fairness, been slack throughout the bulk fermentation, and I had been, brother, working it with, in fairness, more intensity than the dough, in fact, required, in an attempt to, in fact, develop the gluten. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation, which had, in fairness, by that point, been, in fairness, signalling for several weeks, signals I had, in fairness, ignored in favour of maintaining, in fact, Gerald’s twice-daily feeding schedule. I, brother, had perhaps two minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother – and I will tell you, in fairness, this was, in fact, the wrong choice – to attempt to complete the shape. The shape, brother, did not, in fairness, complete. I collapsed, brother, on the kitchen floor, at the foot of Gerald’s small dedicated cabinet. The dough, brother, was, in fairness, on the counter, half-shaped, slack. I was found, brother, the next morning, by my mother, who had, in fairness, come over for our weekly Sunday lunch. My mother, in fairness, had a key. My mother, brother, salvaged the batard. The batard, brother, was, in fairness, finished by my friend Sara, also a baker, who, in fairness, came over the next afternoon to help my mother, and who, in fairness, scored the dough with a small simple pattern out of respect for the original. The bread, brother, was, in fairness, exceptional. The bread, brother, was, in fairness, served at my funeral. The bread, in fairness, fed sixty-eight mourners. There were, in fairness, no leftovers. I am, in fairness, deeply moved by this, in retrospect.”

“And here, sister.”

“And here, brother, I have Gerald. I have, brother, the forty-seven offspring, all alive, all bubbling, all on schedule. I bake, brother, every day. The flour, brother, replenishes itself, the water is, in fairness, correctly mineralised, the oven, brother, has an unusually generous cycle. The loaves, brother, cool on the rack, and, in fairness, by morning are, in fact, gone. I do not, in fairness, know who eats them. The crumb, brother – I take a small slice from each loaf before it leaves, just for, in fairness, quality control – is, in fairness, the best work of my life. I am, in this kitchen, brother, finally given the time the dough asks for. I have, additionally, brother, finally established that Gerald is, in fact, content with twice-daily feeds, and not, in fairness, requiring a third evening feed as I had, on Earth, occasionally given him out of, in fairness, anxiety. Gerald, brother, is, in fairness, fine on twice daily. The discovery, brother, has, in fairness, freed up my evenings.”

She gestured at the loaf cooling on the rack – the largest of eleven, brother, with a beautifully blistered, deep-mahogany crust and a small ear that was, in fairness, exceptional.

“Brother – please. Take a slice. The crumb on this one, brother, is, in fairness, a triumph. There is no point, brother, in false modesty about something that is, in fairness, clearly, in fact, excellent.”

She cut him a slice. She buttered it. She handed it to him on a small wooden board.

He, brother, was, in fairness, ravenous. He had not, in fairness, eaten in this afterlife. The bread, brother, was, in fairness, the most extraordinary bread he had ever encountered. Crusty without being brittle. Tender without being soft. The complex tang of long fermentation balanced against a buttery sweetness he could not, in fairness, identify, with the small open irregular crumb of professional artisanal work.

“It is – sister – remarkable.”

“I know.”

She paused, brother. She permitted herself a small dry smile. The flour streak, brother, was, in fairness, still on her cheekbone.

“I have, brother, in fairness, learned, in eighteen months, to say I know. The Earth version of me would, in fairness, have said, oh, thank you, that is, in fact, kind. The Earth version of me, brother, was wrong. The bread, brother, is, in fairness, excellent. There is no point in pretending.”

She handed him a second slice, without asking.

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, charmed. He, in fairness, liked Amal a great deal. He, brother, also could not, in fairness, marry her.

He could not, brother, imagine the apartment in Sana’a in which, in fairness, fifty mason jars of bubbling fermenting flour, each named, would, in fact, occupy a wall. He could not, brother, imagine his mother’s first encounter with Gerald. He could not, brother, imagine the conversation in which his wife would, in fairness, cancel a family event for the eleventh anniversary of a jar. He could not – and this was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine being, in his married life, the second-most-important fermenting agent in the kitchen.

He, brother, acknowledged internally that the wheat allergy of poor Ravi was, in fairness, the canary in the mineshaft of this whole arrangement.

What he said was: “Sister, the bread is – truly extraordinary. The kitchen is – a kitchen of considerable skill.”

“Thank you, brother.”

“I should – sister – proceed to door ten.”

She nodded. She turned, brother, to the linen tea-towels stacked on the counter. She wrapped, in fairness, the remainder of the loaf he had been eating in clean linen, tied it with a small length of butcher’s twine, and pressed it into his hands.

“Brother. Take this. The bread, in fairness, keeps well in this corridor. It does not, brother – and I have, in eighteen months, tested this – go stale. You will, in fairness, eat it. The next twenty-three doors, brother, will offer you, in fairness, mostly karkadeh. The karkadeh, brother, is, in fact, excellent. It is, however, in fairness, not bread. Take the bread.”

“Sister – that is – most generous.”

“Take it, brother.”

He took it. He bowed.

“Amal.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Ravi – Toronto, wheat-allergic, hospitalised in 2021 – tell him from me that I have, in eighteen months, built a small kitchen island in this apartment that contains, in fairness, an entire counter section dedicated to, in fact, gluten-free baking, with separate utensils, separate storage, and a separate small dedicated oven. The island, brother, is, in fairness, untouched by my wheat practice. The island, in fairness, I would, in fairness, have built for him in life, had I, in life, understood that the building was, in fairness, the proposal. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left, brother, with a loaf of bread tied in linen tucked under his arm. He closed the door.

In the corridor, brother, the smell of yeast and flour clung to him, in fairness, for several metres. He could feel the loaf, brother, warm against his side. He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals – for the seventh or eighth time of the afternoon, he had, in fairness, lost count – and walked, with bread, to door ten.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TEN

Reem and the Bratwurst Record

The corridor between door nine and door ten carried, brother, a smell so unexpected that Mahmoud al-Bakri stopped walking for several seconds to identify it.

It was, brother, the smell of grilled, peppered, fennel-infused, beef sausage.

He had, in fairness, encountered such sausage exactly twice in his life – both occasions being at a small German-themed restaurant in Aden run by a perpetually surprised Eritrean man named Abebe – and recognised it as bratwurst. Bratwurst, brother, was, in fairness, not, by his standards, a Khartoum smell. Bratwurst, brother, was, in fairness, not, by any reasonable standard, the smell of the late-afternoon corridor of an Islamic paradise.

He thought, brother: paradise has, in fairness, an unusually flexible spice rack.

He approached door ten.

Through the door came, brother, the small steady sizzle of a substantial quantity of meat on a hot grill, and a woman’s voice in a Texas-Wisconsin-Lebanese-American hybrid English saying, Brother, if you’ve come about the brisket, you’re, in fairness, three doors early.

He opened door ten.

He was on a small concrete patio.

The patio was perhaps six metres by four. A long stainless-steel restaurant-grade grill ran the full length of one wall, with, brother, perhaps thirty plump bratwurst arranged in two precise rows, sizzling in their own fat, with the small steady tick of grease landing on the grill bars. To the right of the grill, on a folding table, were arranged: a stack of Wisconsin-style hard rolls, a jar of stoneground mustard, a jar of horseradish, a small bowl of sauerkraut, and a stainless-steel insulated jug from which steam was, in fairness, faintly rising.

To the left of the patio: a small chain-link gate, beyond which extended a Khartoum street. The street, brother, was, in fairness, a Khartoum residential street, with mud-brick walls, a small white-domed neighbourhood mosque, two date palms, a parked motorcycle, a small herd of three goats walking unsupervised toward an unspecified destination, and a vendor with a cart of fresh karkadeh. Above the patio gate, brother, a small hand-painted wooden sign, in fairness, in English, read: AL-MANSOUR’S COMPETITIVE EATING TRAINING ANNEX – KHARTOUM SATELLITE FACILITY.

The bratwurst, brother, were Wisconsin-style. The Wisconsin-style bratwurst, brother, were, in fairness, in central Khartoum. The cognitive dissonance, brother, was, in fairness, by this point, becoming his default state.

A woman stood at the grill in a white chef’s coat, a small Wisconsin Badgers cap, a long pair of stainless-steel tongs, and a digital food thermometer. She was perhaps forty-eight. She was of considerable build, brother, in the precise specific muscular way of a competitive eating professional, with the slightly distended lower abdomen that he had, in fairness, no available cultural framework for, but that he registered as a small detail and did not, in fairness, comment on. Her dark hair was tucked entirely under the cap.

She turned. She raised the tongs in greeting.

“Hi! Reem al-Mansour. San Antonio, Texas, by way of, in fairness, Beirut and a long, slow career across the southern American competitive eating circuit. Welcome. Mahmoud, yes? Sit on the picnic bench, the patio’s clean, the grill is at one ninety C, the brats are, in fairness, four minutes off – perfect timing, brother, you’ll, in fairness, eat one with me.”

“I – sister, I am, in fairness – “

“Yeah, I know, brother. They are halal beef brats. Beef. Halal-certified. I, brother, have, in fairness, never eaten pork in my life, and I, in fact, set the Wichita Falls bratwurst record in 2018 on, in fairness, halal-certified beef brats from a Lebanese butcher in Madison, Wisconsin, named Wassim, who, in fairness, ships, by, in fact, refrigerated truck to my apartment in San Antonio, monthly, by standing order. Wassim, brother, knows me by name. Wassim, in fairness, is delighted that I have, in fairness, made his beef brat the official record-holding brat of the southern American circuit. The pork brat, in fairness, has been displaced. Wassim, brother, has put a small framed photograph of me, in his shop window, holding a Wichita Falls trophy. The photograph, brother, says, in Arabic and English: REEM AL-MANSOUR, OUR DAUGHTER, RECORD-HOLDER, ALL HALAL.“

Mahmoud, brother, was deeply relieved. He had not, in fairness, intended to raise the question. He, brother, was, in fairness, grateful that she had pre-empted it.

“Sister – that is, in fairness, ingenious.”

“It is, in fairness, the only kind of ingenious available to a Lebanese-American Muslim woman in competitive eating. Sit.”

He sat.

She, brother, served him a brat in a hard roll, with mustard and a small pile of sauerkraut, and a clay cup of the karkadeh from the insulated jug. The brat, brother – and Mahmoud was, in fairness, reluctant on principle but ravenous in fact – was, in fairness, exceptional. The casing, brother, snapped. The interior, in fairness, was juicy. The Wisconsin hard roll, in fairness, held up. The mustard was, brother, the right level of sharp. The Khartoum street smell of dust and donkey and frying onion drifted, in fairness, gently across the patio.

He ate, brother, very politely but with considerable speed.

She watched him eat, brother, with the small professional attention of a competitive eater assessing technique.

“You’re – in fairness, brother, a Mallampati class one.”

“Sister – I do not know what that means.”

“Class one, brother, means you have, in fairness, the airway visibility and oral capacity of a person who, in fairness, could, brother, with appropriate training, have made a respectable amateur regional eater. The competitive eater, brother, evaluates the throats of all visitors. I cannot, in fairness, help it. I see, brother, a class one, I, in fact, register a class one. Don’t, brother, take it personally. It is, in fairness, the highest professional compliment I, in fact, have available to give.”

“That is – most kind, sister.”

“I’ll do the bio quick. Born San Antonio 1976, second-generation Lebanese-American, my father had a small grocery on the south side and my mother taught Arabic at the local Catholic-run interfaith centre. I, brother, grew up eating large quantities of food at family gatherings. The family, in fairness, had, in fact, noticed. By the age of fourteen I had, in fairness, won, by way of, in fact, family lore, the unofficial title of the family’s largest single-sitting eater, displacing my uncle Bassam, who was, in fairness, not, in fact, gracious about it. By eighteen I had, brother, entered my first sanctioned eating contest, at the South Texas State Fair, in the chicken wing category. I placed, in fairness, third. By twenty-five I was, brother, on the national circuit. By thirty I had, in fairness, placed in the top five at Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest, three times. I never, brother, won Nathan’s. The men, brother – and I will say this, in fairness, with considerable respect to them – Joey Chestnut and his cohort – were, in fairness, of, brother, a different physical category, with, in fairness, decades of professional preparation I, in fact, could not, in fairness, match while also holding down a, in fact, day job as a registered nurse at a small hospital on the south side of San Antonio.”

“You were – a nurse, sister?”

“I was, brother, a registered nurse for twenty-three years. The eating, in fairness, was, in fact, the side hustle. The nursing, brother, was the work. I, brother, was, in fairness, a good nurse. I worked, brother, in the cardiac ICU. I, in fairness, watched, brother – and this, in fairness, will become relevant to the bio – some considerable number of patients, in fact, die of conditions that were, in fairness, related to lifelong dietary excess. The juxtaposition, brother, was, in fairness, professionally complicated. I, brother, managed it. I will not, brother, defend the management of it. I did, in fairness, manage.”

“And the records, sister.”

“Wichita Falls bratwurst record, brother – thirty-eight halal-certified beef brats in four minutes, set on July fourteenth, 2018. The record, in fairness, stands. There is, brother, one woman currently in training in central Wisconsin – a young Somali-American eater named Hodan, age twenty-two, who, in fairness, has, in fact, begun to challenge for the title – and Hodan, brother, will, in fact, take it from me before twenty-twenty-eight, in my professional assessment. I am, brother, fine with this. The record, in fairness, is, in fact, intended to be broken by the next generation of halal-certified eaters. Hodan, brother, trains on Wassim’s brats also. Wassim, in fairness, ships to Hodan also. Wassim, brother, is, in fairness, supplying the entire halal-bratwurst sub-circuit out of his Madison shop. Wassim, in fairness, is doing, brother, well. The shop, in fairness, expanded last year, with the addition of a second walk-in freezer, named Reem.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother.”

“In 2008, a man named Dale, a fellow competitive eater on the southern circuit, white American, Tennessee, peace be upon him, also, in fairness, a registered nurse, also, in fairness, a class one Mallampati. We dated, brother, three years. We were, by every functional measure, the most aligned competitive-eating-and-nursing couple on the circuit. The relationship ended, however, in 2011, when Dale – who had been, in fairness, kind throughout, and who had, in fact, even attempted to learn Arabic phrases for my mother – converted, in fact, to a, in fairness, plant-based diet for, in fairness, ethical reasons, and retired from competitive eating to advocate for, in fact, animal welfare. The conversion, brother, was, in fairness, a real conversion. Dale, brother, was, in fairness, sincere. Dale, brother, however, attempted to, in fairness, persuade me to convert with him. I, brother, could not, in fairness, convert. The bratwurst record, brother, was, in fact, my career. The cardiac ICU job, brother, paid the bills. The plant-based version of my career, brother, was, in fairness, not, in fact, professionally viable on the southern circuit at that time. Dale, brother, understood the position. We separated, gently. He, brother, runs, today, a small vegan barbecue restaurant in Nashville. The restaurant, in fairness, is doing, in fact, well. The reviews, in fairness, are, in fact, kind. Dale, brother, has remarried, to a fellow vegan. They have, I am told, two children, both raised, in fairness, plant-based. The children, in fairness, are, in fact, thriving.

“In 2015, a man named Carlos, a Mexican-American chef, restaurateur, owns three restaurants in San Antonio, peace be upon him. Carlos, brother, was, in fairness, kind, intelligent, and from a family that, in fairness, raised no concerns about, in fact, my profession. We dated, brother, seven years. The relationship was, by my standards, the great relationship of my life. The relationship ended, brother, in 2022, when Carlos asked me, very gently, on a Saturday afternoon, Reem, in our seven years, has there been a single dinner at which you have, in fairness, eaten, in fact, a normal portion? I considered the question. I told him, brother, the truthful answer: No. I had, brother, eaten, in our seven years, at every dinner, in fairness, an athlete’s training portion, because I had been, in fact, in continuous training the entire seven years. He told me, brother – and this is, in fairness, the part that, in fact, broke us – Reem, I have, in fairness, realised that I, in fact, would like to share a normal meal with my partner. The normal meal, brother, has, in fairness, never been, in fact, available in our relationship. I, brother, could not, in fairness, dispute the framing. We separated. He, brother, has, today, married a fellow restaurateur. They, in fairness, share normal meals. They, brother, post photographs of their normal meals on Instagram. The normal meals, brother, are, in fairness, beautiful. I, in fairness, do not look at the Instagram often.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, in this exact patio – the original, San Antonio one, of which this Khartoum facility is, in fairness, a copy – during a training session for the 2024 Texas State Fair Halal Beef Brat Open. I had, brother, eaten, in fact, twenty-seven brats in three minutes and twelve seconds, on a, in fairness, slightly aggressive pace I had been, in fact, attempting to, in fairness, set as a new personal record. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, some considerable medical knowledge from my nursing career, and I knew, in fairness, the sensation. I had, brother, perhaps four minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, in fairness, this was a deliberate choice, not, in fact, autopilot – to swallow the brat already in my mouth, to set down the remaining brat I was holding, to wipe my mouth with the small white competition towel, to call for my training partner, Sandra, who was timing me, and to lie down on, in fact, this exact concrete patio in the recovery position. Sandra, brother, called nine-one-one. The medics, brother, arrived in seven minutes. I was, in fairness, gone before they reached me. The brat in my mouth, brother, was, in fairness, swallowed cleanly. The autopsy, in fact, confirmed this. I had not, brother, aspirated. The cause of death, brother, was, in fairness, cardiac, not aspirational, on the medical record. I am, in fairness, retroactively proud of this distinction. Many cardiac arrests in the competitive eating profession, brother, involve, in fact, aspiration. Mine, in fairness, did not. I had, brother, the discipline to swallow before I, in fact, lay down. Sandra, brother, gave the eulogy at my funeral. Sandra, in fairness, said, in front of perhaps two hundred mourners: Reem swallowed the brat. Reem always swallowed the brat. Reem was, in fairness, the most disciplined eater I, in fact, ever trained with. The Texas State Fair, brother, named the 2025 Halal Beef Brat Open the Reem al-Mansour Memorial Open. Hodan, brother, won it. Hodan, in fairness, dedicated the win to my memory. I am, brother, deeply moved by this, in retrospect.”

She paused, brother. She, in fairness, checked the brats on the grill. She turned them, brother, with the long stainless-steel tongs.

“And here, brother, the brats come. Wassim, in fairness – the Madison butcher – does not, in fact, ship to this corridor. The brats, brother, appear on the grill at, in fact, the correct stages of preparation, somehow. I do not, in fairness, ask. The grill, brother, is, in fairness, the same grill I trained on. The patio, in fairness, is, brother, San Antonio’s patio, with Khartoum laid, in fact, behind the gate. The street vendors, brother, come past at the standard San Antonio frequencies. I have, brother, in eighteen months, set, in fact, three new personal records. I have, in fairness, not, in fact, broken the Wichita Falls record, even alone. The Wichita Falls record, brother, is, in fairness, the limit of my cardiovascular capacity. The limit, brother, did not, in fairness, get extended in death.”

Mahmoud, brother, was cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a competitive bratwurst eater. He could not, brother, imagine the family meals, at which his wife would, in fairness, eat, in fact, an athlete’s training portion at every meal, in continuous preparation for an event in central Wisconsin. He could not, brother, imagine the conversation in which he, in fact, said to his mother, ammah, this is my wife, who has, in fairness, set the all-time Wichita Falls halal-certified beef bratwurst record, and the family photograph hangs in a butcher’s window in Madison, Wisconsin, with the caption: OUR DAUGHTER, RECORD-HOLDER, ALL HALAL. He could not – and this, brother, was the small specific concern – imagine the small permanent slight distension of his wife’s lower abdomen, after thirty years of professional gastric stretching, and what his mother, in fairness, would, in fact, conclude about the distension, possibly, in fact, before being told what it was, in fact, from.

He, brother, liked Reem enormously. He, in fairness, admired her cardiovascular discipline. He, brother, understood that she had, in fact, achieved a synthesis of nursing, religious observance, professional eating, and family loyalty that was, in fairness, of considerable engineering.

He could not, brother, bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the brat was – exceptional. The training facility, sister, is – clearly of considerable quality.”

“Thank you, brother. Take, in fairness, a second brat for the road – no, brother, take it, the corridor, in fairness, is, in fact, long, and the brats, brother, do not, in fairness, get cold. Wrap it, brother, in this. Wassim’s wrapping paper, in fairness, is on the table.”

She wrapped him, in fairness, a second brat, in small waxed butcher’s paper from a stack on the table that read, in Arabic and English, WASSIM’S HALAL MEATS – MADISON, WI.

He took it. He bowed.

“Reem.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Carlos – San Antonio restaurateur, three restaurants, married to a fellow restaurateur, posts normal meals on Instagram – tell him from me that I have, in eighteen months in this patio, eaten, in fact, exactly one normal-portion meal. I had, in fairness, asked the angel for it. The meal, brother, was, in fairness, a small bowl of lentil soup with a piece of pita and a, in fairness, single small piece of grilled chicken. The meal, brother, took, in fairness, twelve minutes. The meal, brother, was, in fairness, the longest twelve minutes of my afterlife. The meal, brother, was, in fairness, also, in some quiet way, the most beautiful thing I have, in fact, eaten here. He had been, in fairness, asking for that meal for seven years. I had been, in fairness, unable to give it to him. Tell him I have, in fact, finally, in fairness, given it, to no one, in this corridor, alone. Tell him I am, in fairness, sorry. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left, brother, with a halal-certified beef bratwurst from Wassim’s Madison butchery wrapped in waxed paper under one arm, and a Toronto loaf of Gerald-descended sourdough tied in linen under the other.

He closed the door.

In the corridor, brother, he was, in fairness, holding more food than he had thought, in fairness, paradise was going to be in the business of distributing. He stood for a moment. He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals – for the ninth or tenth time of the afternoon, he had, in fairness, lost count.

He walked, brother, bread under one arm, bratwurst under the other, to door eleven.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Nadia and the Open Channel

The corridor between door ten and door eleven carried, brother, no smell at all – which, in fairness, after the bratwurst, was, in fact, a small mercy – but it did, brother, carry an unfamiliar background hum. Mahmoud al-Bakri identified it after a small delay as the low, multi-frequency static of police radio chatter, playing through, in fairness, an open headset somewhere in the next room, just below the threshold of intelligibility.

He approached door eleven.

He was, brother, by now, carrying, under one arm, a Toronto sourdough loaf wrapped in linen, and under the other, a halal beef bratwurst from a Madison, Wisconsin, butcher named Wassim, wrapped in waxed paper. He, brother, was, in fairness, beginning to feel like a small man-shaped delivery cart. He thought, briefly: paradise has, in fairness, an unusual freight policy. He put the thought to one side. There were, in fairness, many things to put to one side.

He opened door eleven.

The temperature, brother, dropped instantly.

He was in a small windowless emergency communications centre – server-cooled to perhaps eighteen degrees Celsius, with the small steady whisper of an industrial HVAC system somewhere in the ceiling. The room was perhaps four metres by four. Three of the walls were lined with banks of monitors: one showing a map of metropolitan Detroit, with small coloured dots representing active police units; one showing a small column of running call logs in green-on-black text; one showing, brother – and he registered this with a small surprise – a map of, in fact, central Khartoum, with Arabic place-names, with a small live data feed in the corner that read, in English, KHARTOUM POLICE DEPARTMENT – DUTY OFFICER – OPEN CHANNEL. The Khartoum monitor, brother, had, in fairness, two small coloured dots on it, both stationary, both in central Omdurman.

The fourth wall, brother, was, in fairness, a single large window – sealed, triple-glazed against the cold-room air – through which Mahmoud could see, on the other side of the glass, the late-afternoon Khartoum sky, a single date palm in a small dusty yard, and a parked Sudanese National Police pickup truck with a small green-and-white livery, the truck’s two officers leaning against it, drinking what was, in fairness, almost certainly karkadeh from the same vendor on Sharia Al Qasr. The officers, brother, did not, in fairness, look in.

A woman sat at a console at the centre of the room. She was perhaps fifty-six. She wore, brother, a small black headset with a microphone arm, a navy blue collared shirt with a small cloth Detroit Police Communications patch on the breast, dark trousers, and small soft-soled work shoes. Her dark hair was streaked with grey, pulled back in a low knot. Her face, brother, was of the precise calm composure he had, in fairness, only ever associated with his maternal grandmother in the moments after a small kitchen accident in which something had, in fairness, gone, in fact, very wrong.

She held up one finger, brother, in the small universal gesture of one moment, and spoke into the headset, in a voice of complete unhurried operational neutrality.

” – copy, unit forty-one, you have the address, ETA two minutes, be advised the caller reports the subject is, in fact, ambulatory and possibly armed, suggest you stage at the corner of, in fact, Eight Mile and Wyoming, await SRT backup, copy – yes, copy, hold on the entry, command will, in fairness, advise – thank you, forty-one, dispatch standing by.”

She pressed a small button. She pulled the headset down to her neck.

She turned. She, brother, did not rise. She, in fairness, gestured at the small folding chair beside the console with the small efficient gesture of a senior dispatcher inviting a person to be seated.

“Hi. Nadia Suleiman. Detroit Communications Center, Sergeant Dispatcher, Senior Shift, retired October 2024, presently on permanent secondment to the angel’s, in fairness, paradise communications subdivision. Welcome. Mahmoud al-Bakri, copy?”

“I – yes, ukhti.”

“Copy that, brother. Subject identified, no visible injuries, mild flour residue on left sleeve, unidentified meat product wrapped in waxed paper under right arm, suggest visitor is, in fairness, post-room-nine and post-room-ten, copy. Sit.”

Mahmoud, brother, sat. He, in fairness, was, brother, slightly dazed.

“Sister – did you just, in fairness, describe me into the headset?”

“Negative, brother. The headset, in fairness, is, by protocol, off-mic during the visitor turnover window. The description, brother, was, in fact, internal. I, brother, cannot, in fairness, help describing visitors. The describing, brother, is autonomic. I have been, in fairness, describing people for thirty-three years. The autonomic, brother, does not, in fact, retire when the dispatcher does.”

She reached, brother, into a small mini-fridge under the console. She produced two cans of cold karkadeh. The karkadeh, brother – and Mahmoud was, in fairness, momentarily impressed – was, in fairness, in cans, of the kind he had, in fact, never seen on Earth. The cans, brother, bore a small label that read, in Arabic and English, KHARTOUM HIBISCUS BEVERAGE COMPANY – EST. 2042. The label, brother, implied a future Khartoum bottling operation, and Mahmoud, in fairness, did not enquire further.

She handed him a can.

“I’ll do the bio quick, brother. Per protocol – concise, factual, no embellishment.”

“Of course, sister.”

“Born Beirut 1968. Family came to Dearborn, Michigan, in 1980 – Lebanese-American, my father worked at the Ford River Rouge plant for thirty-one years, my mother taught Arabic at the Dearborn community centre. I attended Wayne State. I read criminal justice. I was, in fairness, hired by the Detroit Communications Center in 1991, at age twenty-three. I took, brother – and the count is by my own log, kept on a small index card I, in fairness, updated weekly – one million four hundred and forty-eight thousand calls over thirty-three years. I was, in fairness, by 2024, the senior dispatcher on the overnight shift, with eight junior dispatchers reporting to me. I, brother, trained, in fact, ninety-six junior dispatchers in my career. Sixty-one of them, in fairness, are still on the job in 2026. I am, brother, a name in this small specialised world. The name, brother, is Sergeant Suleiman. The voice, brother, in fairness, was, in fact, my entire professional instrument. The voice, brother, de-escalated, in my career, perhaps two thousand subjects with, in fact, weapons to the throats of, in fact, hostages. I am – and I will say this, brother, in fairness, only because the protocol of this room is, in fact, factual – proud of the voice.”

She paused, brother. She sipped her karkadeh.

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“Copy, brother.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 1996, a man named Tony, a Detroit Police patrol officer. Aligned profession, in fact opposite end of the same radio. We dated three years. The relationship ended on a Saturday afternoon, brother, when Tony – who had been, in fairness, kindly tolerant of my shift schedule for two and a half years – attempted to propose marriage by leaving, in fairness, a small jewellery box, with a ring inside, unattended on top of my console at the start of my shift, with a small note that read, simply, in his handwriting, NADIA, OPEN ME. I, brother, encountered the small unattended object on my console at the start of the shift, at approximately 22:14 hours, on a Friday in October. I, brother, processed the object per protocol. The protocol for an unattended object on a critical-infrastructure console, brother, is, in fairness, to evacuate the immediate work area, contact the bomb squad, dispatch a unit, and lock down the floor pending inspection. I, brother, did, in fact, process the object per protocol. The bomb squad, brother, arrived in eleven minutes. The bomb squad, brother, opened the small jewellery box. The bomb squad, in fairness, was, brother, kind about it. The senior bomb tech, a man named Officer Reyes, peace be upon him, closed the box, handed it to me with a small wry smile, and said: dispatcher, this one, in fairness, is, in fact, on you. Tony, brother, was, in fairness, at the cafeteria around the corner, waiting. I, brother, walked over with the box. I, brother, opened the box at the table, in front of him. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Tony, the proposal is, in fairness, accepted in principle, but the delivery method, in fact, was, in fairness, ill-advised; please, in fairness, propose again, on a, in fact, normal day, in a, in fact, normal way. Tony, brother, stared at me for, in fairness, eleven seconds. He said, brother, very quietly, Nadia, I have, in fact, just realised that I, in fairness, cannot marry the woman who, in fact, dispatched a bomb squad to my engagement ring. We separated within the month. Tony, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a kindergarten teacher. They, in fairness, celebrate anniversaries normally. Tony, brother, and I, in fairness, are, in fact, cordial when our paths cross. I have, in fact, been to his daughter’s first communion. The daughter, in fairness, is, in fact, charming.

“In 2008, a man named David, a high school chemistry teacher. Not in the profession. We dated, brother, six years. David made it through, in fairness, six years. The relationship ended in 2014 when David, on a Sunday morning, said, with great gentleness, Nadia, in our six years, has there been a single conversation in which you have, in fairness, not, in fact, narrated me into an internal incident report? I considered the question. I told him, brother, the truthful answer: David, the narration is, in fact, autonomic. He, brother, with great kindness, said, Nadia, I, in fact, have realised, in fairness, that I, in fairness, would, in fact, like to be loved without, in fact, being a subject in a, in fact, running internal log. I, brother, respected the position. We separated, gently. David, brother, has, today, married a fellow chemistry teacher. They, brother, in fairness, teach at the same high school. They, in fairness, go home from work together. They, in fairness, do not, in fact, narrate each other internally. They, brother, in fact, are, in fairness, loved without subject status. I am, in fairness, deeply happy for him.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died at this console, brother. Mid-call.”

She paused, brother. She, in fairness, did not, brother, embellish.

“At 04:18 hours, on a Tuesday in October, brother, I, in fairness, took a call from a witness reporting an active shooting at a gas station at, in fact, the corner of Seven Mile and Livernois. I, brother, had dispatched units one minute and eleven seconds into the call. I had been, brother, talking the witness through cover positions and, in fact, breathing, with units, in fairness, en route, ETA two minutes. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps three minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother, as follows.”

She held up her right hand, brother. She counted, brother, on her fingers, with the precise small efficiency of a dispatcher walking a junior through an incident review.

“One. I confirmed unit ETA at the scene.

“Two. I asked the witness to identify a stable cover position, gave her, in fact, three breathing cues, and confirmed, in fairness, that she was, in fact, low and, in fairness, not, in fact, actively bleeding.

“Three. I muted the witness’s audio briefly. I keyed the floor radio. I called Marcus – Dispatcher Marcus Pérez, the next-most-senior dispatcher on shift, eleven years’ service, peace be upon him – and I, in fairness, signalled him, in plain English, for an emergency console handoff.

“Four. Marcus, brother, was, in fact, at his console, three desks down. Marcus, brother, slid his chair to my console in, in fact, eight seconds.

“Five. I un-muted the witness, gave her my name and Marcus’s name, said: ma’am, you are now speaking with Dispatcher Pérez, the call is being continued, the units are still en route, no break in service. I logged the handoff. I, brother, slid my chair, in fairness, away from the console.

“Six. I sat back. I, in fairness, breathed twice. I, brother, died at this console with the headset still around my neck and Marcus, brother, taking the witness’s continuing call.

“The witness, brother, survived. She got to cover. The units, in fairness, arrived ninety seconds later. The shooter, brother, was apprehended without further injury to bystanders. The witness, brother, wrote a small thank-you note to the centre two weeks later. The note, in fairness, mentioned, in fact, the dispatcher who helped her, who, brother, was a brave and patient woman with, in fairness, a soothing voice. The witness, in fact, did not know that the call had been handed off. The witness, in fairness, believed she had been, in fact, with the same dispatcher throughout. The continuity, brother, was, in fairness, preserved by, in fact, professional protocol. Marcus, brother, did not, in fairness, correct the witness’s letter. Marcus, brother, attended my funeral. Marcus, in fairness, gave the eulogy. Marcus, brother, said in front of two hundred mourners, the line that, in fairness, stayed with me: Sergeant Suleiman swallowed the brat. Wait – I have, in fairness, mixed my eulogies. Sergeant Suleiman, brother, completed the call.”

She, brother, permitted herself a small dry pause.

“That, brother, was, in fairness, the line. Marcus, in fact, had, in fairness, briefly visited Reem’s funeral the year before, when his cousin, in fact, had attended as a fellow San Antonio nurse, and Marcus, brother, had, in fairness, in his head, accidentally, in fact, conflated, in fairness, Reem’s eulogy line with mine in the moment of public speaking. Marcus, brother, recovered. The mourners, in fairness, did not, in fact, mind. Marcus, brother, finished the eulogy correctly. The line, brother – the actual line – was: Sergeant Suleiman, in fact, completed the call. The call, brother, was the work.”

“Sister – that is – that is a death of, in fairness, a working professional.”

“Copy, brother.”

She gestured at the monitors.

“And here, brother, the calls come. The calls, in fairness, come from, in fact, anomalous sources. Some, brother, are, in fact, calls from Detroit, in 2026 – I can, in fairness, hear them but cannot, in fact, dispatch them, because the units are, in fact, dispatched by my replacement on the overnight shift, a young woman named Aisha, who, in fairness, was, in fact, my last trainee. I, brother, listen to Aisha work. Aisha, brother, is, in fairness, very good. Aisha is, in fact, getting better. Some calls, brother, are, in fact, from, in fairness, this corridor – at approximately 14:44 hours today, brother, I had, in fact, a call from room six, in which a woman in archaic English requested an architectural review committee dispatch to a fountain, and I, in fairness, declined, citing, in fact, jurisdictional non-applicability. Some calls, brother, are, in fact, from, in fairness, what I have come to refer to as the third channel – calls from situations I cannot, in fairness, identify, in places I cannot, in fact, locate, with subjects whose voices are, in fairness, familiar but whose names I, in fact, do not know. The third channel, brother, I, in fairness, take. I, in fact, listen. I do not, brother, dispatch. The third channel, brother, does not, in fairness, take dispatch. The third channel, in fairness, takes, brother, only listening.”

She paused.

“I have, brother, in fairness, suspected for some months that the third channel, in fact, is, in fact, the voices of the dying I, in fact, did not, in life, save. I, brother, do not, in fairness, ask the angel about this. The angel, brother, would, in fairness, confirm or deny. The confirmation or denial, brother, would, in fairness, change, in fact, what I do with the channel. I, brother, in fairness, do not, in fact, want, in fairness, the change. The channel, brother, receives my listening as it, in fairness, is. The listening, brother, is, in fairness, the work.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a woman who would, in fairness, narrate every dinner-table conversation as a running internal incident report. He could not, brother, imagine the wedding, at which the bride would, in fairness, evaluate the venue for, in fact, ingress and egress, identify, in fact, three stable cover positions, and quietly, in fact, dispatch, in fairness, a small unmarked unit to the corner of the building because the lighting, in fact, was, in fairness, ambiguous. He could not, brother – and this was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine being, in his married life, perpetually a subject of an open log.

He, brother, was, additionally, registering the small uncomfortable fact that the third channel, by Nadia’s own description, was, in fairness, almost certainly listening, in fact, to him. The third channel, brother, had, in fairness, been listening, by her account, for thirty-three years. The third channel, brother, had, in fact, almost certainly heard, in some way, the dying voices of seven sailors of a Yemeni Coast Guard cutter in the Gulf of Aden in October 2024. The seven sailors, brother, had, in fairness, dispatched no calls themselves, having been, in fact, killed instantaneously; but their colleagues, in fairness, would, in fact, have been on the radio. The colleagues, brother, had, in fact, called out for assistance over the marine emergency channel. The marine emergency channel, brother, was, in fairness, not, in fact, Nadia’s channel; it was, in fairness, somewhere, brother, the channel of another dispatcher, in another corridor, in another room of this paradise. There was, brother – and Mahmoud registered this with a small dread that rose and then, in fairness, settled – a Nadia Suleiman of, in fact, the Yemeni Coast Guard’s 2024 dispatch room, somewhere, in fact, in this corridor system. That Nadia, brother, was, in fairness, also listening to her third channel. That third channel, brother, was, in fact, the sound of seven men dying, with, in fairness, his cousin Tariq’s name, somewhere in the fragmented background communications of the morning.

He could not, brother, say any of this. He, brother, said none of it.

What he said was: “Sister, your work was – of considerable service. The voice, sister, is – as soothing as the witness, in fairness, said.”

“Copy, brother.”

She inclined her head, brother, in the small precise nod of a senior dispatcher acknowledging a citizen’s compliment.

“I should – sister – proceed to door twelve.”

“Copy. Walk well, brother. Mind, in fairness, the threshold – the temperature differential between this room and the corridor is, in fact, twenty Celsius, and the condensation, brother, will fog your glasses if you wore any, which, in fairness, you do not.”

He stood. He bowed.

“Nadia.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Tony – Detroit Police, retired, married to a kindergarten teacher, daughter recently confirmed – tell him from me that I have, in eighteen months in this room, re-played, in my head, the dispatch of the bomb squad to the engagement ring, perhaps fourteen hundred times. The protocol, brother, was, in fact, correct. The proposal, however, was, in fairness, also correct. The two, brother, were, in fairness, not, in fact, mutually exclusive in the universe of feelings, only in the universe of operational protocol. I had been, in fairness, allowed, in fact, two responses simultaneously. I had, brother, in life, allowed myself, in fact, only the protocol. Tell him I have, in eighteen months, finally, in fairness, allowed myself, in fact, the second response. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He closed the door.

The temperature, brother, rose instantly as the door sealed. The Khartoum afternoon, in fairness, resumed. The Sudanese police pickup truck through the window of the next stretch of corridor, brother, was, in fairness, gone. The two officers, brother, had, in fairness, finished their karkadeh and moved on.

He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals and walked, bread under one arm, bratwurst under the other, to door twelve.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWELVE

Salma and the House of Mokai

The corridor between door eleven and door twelve carried, brother, no smell but, in its place, a small steady low-frequency electronic thrum, of the kind Mahmoud al-Bakri associated, vaguely, with the back-of-the-classroom television set in his uncle’s English language tutorial centre, when the set had been, in fairness, left on with no signal.

He approached door twelve.

Through the door came, brother, the sound of a woman speaking, in a deep, guttural, percussive language that he, in fairness, could not, in fact, identify, but that bore, brother, no relation to any human language he had encountered in his short life.

He thought, brother: paradise has, in fairness, an unusually generous languages budget.

He opened door twelve.

He was in a small Phoenix-style suburban living room – transposed, in fairness, to Khartoum.

Beige carpet. Beige walls. A beige couch. A beige armchair. A beige ottoman. The beige, brother, was, in fairness, the beige of a 1990s American suburban housing development. The beige, brother, was, however, partially obscured by a great deal of, in fairness, additional decoration.

The walls, brother, were hung with bat’leths – the curved double-bladed Klingon fighting weapon of, in fact, several Star Trek productions – of varying sizes and finishes, each, in fairness, mounted on a small custom wooden plaque. There were perhaps eleven of them. The shelves, brother, were lined with Klingon-language books, bound paperback editions of The Klingon Hamlet, small ceremonial daggers, and what was, in fairness, a leather-bound first edition of the Marc Okrand Klingon Dictionary, displayed under a small clear acrylic dome. Above the fireplace, brother, hung a large embroidered banner in the iconography of one of the Great Houses of the Klingon Empire, with the small embroidered legend, in Klingon script, that he could not, in fact, read. The banner, brother, was, in fairness, dusty with Khartoum dust.

Through the window – which was, in fairness, where the Phoenix living room ran out and Khartoum began – Mahmoud could see a small dusty Khartoum side street with a parked motorcycle, a date palm, and a small group of three children playing football with what was, in fairness, a half-deflated ball. Beyond, the call to Maghrib was, brother, just beginning from, in fairness, a minaret somewhere across Tuti Island. The Maghrib call, brother – and Mahmoud registered this with the small ambient orientational comfort of an observant young man – meant the afternoon was, in fairness, ending and the evening was, in fairness, about to begin. He had been, brother, in this corridor for, in fairness, what was beginning to feel like an entire afternoon.

A figure stood, in the centre of the living room, holding a bat’leth across the body in a low ready position.

The figure, brother, was, in fairness, perhaps a metre and three-quarters tall. The figure, brother, wore – and Mahmoud registered the details with a small involuntary professional cataloguing of the kind that Nadia had, in fairness, just trained him into – a full Klingon warrior’s leather armour, in dark brown, with metallic embossed chest-plate, bracers, and shoulder pieces, with a long red sash, with heavy leather boots. The figure’s hair was long, dark, wild, pulled back at the temples. The figure’s forehead was a bony ridged crest, of considerable prosthetic skill. The figure’s teeth – visible because the figure was, in fairness, in a kind of slight snarl that he understood, slowly, was, in fact, the standard resting expression of a Klingon – were, in fairness, set with small ivory canine implants. The figure’s eyes, brother, were carefully kohl-lined.

The figure, brother, was, in fairness, a woman in her mid-forties under a great deal of Klingon prosthetic latex.

She lowered the bat’leth. She, brother, spoke.

“nuqneH.”

He, brother, did not, in fact, know what this meant. He, in fairness, guessed, from context, that it was a greeting. He, in fairness, attempted, with great courtesy: “Peace be upon you, ukhti.”

The Klingon, brother, paused. Her face, beneath the prosthetic, registered, in fairness, a small flicker of warmth. She, brother, adjusted.

“Hi, hi, sorry, brother, that was, in fairness, the standard greeting in Klingon, which, in fairness, doesn’t actually mean hello, it literally means what do you want?, which, in fairness, is, brother, the Klingon manner – they cut to the chase. Salma Qureshi. Sub-commander Mokai of the House of Mokai, by my fan-org rank, but Salma is, in fairness, fine in this room. Welcome. Mahmoud, yes? Sit on the couch. Not on the right cushion – the right cushion has, in fairness, a small ceremonial dagger underneath it that I, in fact, keep there for, in fairness, in-character reasons, and the dagger, brother, has, in fact, an edge. Sit on the left cushion.”

He, brother, sat on the left cushion. He, in fairness, was, brother, careful with the bread and the bratwurst.

She set the bat’leth, brother, on a small custom stand by the wall. She, in fairness, did not, in fact, take off the armour. The armour, in fairness, appeared to be, brother, her ordinary attire.

“Karkadeh? It’s, in fairness, bloodwine, by, in fairness, the in-character version, but, brother, in actual chemistry, it’s the same karkadeh from the same Sharia Al Qasr vendor as everyone else’s.”

“Yes, please, sister.”

She poured him karkadeh from a Klingon-styled metal goblet. The goblet, brother, was, in fairness, of impressive workmanship. He, brother, drank.

“I’ll do the bio quick. Born Karachi 1980, came to Phoenix in 1986. Father was, in fairness, a structural engineer at a small civil firm. Mother taught maths at a Phoenix charter school. I, brother, grew up, in fairness, in a quiet Phoenix suburb in which the only available cultural outlet for, in fact, my particular temperament was, in fairness, the public library, the public library’s science fiction section, and, in fact, by age twelve, the small Phoenix sci-fi convention circuit. I attended ASU. I read computer science. I worked, for twenty-three years, as a senior software engineer at a midsize aerospace firm in Tempe. I retired in 2024 – yes, brother, by death, but I had, in fairness, also intended to retire formally that year – at age forty-four.”

She paused, brother. She, in fairness, adjusted the bracer on her left forearm.

“The Klingon thing, brother, began at age fourteen. I had been, brother, introduced to Star Trek: The Next Generation by a kind classmate named Kevin Hennessy at a sleepover in 1994. I was, brother, converted on the spot. By sixteen I had, in fairness, taught myself, brother, the Klingon language, tlhIngan Hol, from the Marc Okrand dictionary in the public library. By eighteen I was, brother, a member of the Klingon Language Institute, with a recognised qualification. By twenty-two I was, in fairness, a co-founding member of the House of Mokai, a small fan-organisation that administers Klingon-language fluency examinations and runs, in fairness, an annual Klingon-language summer camp at a Boy Scouts of America facility in Flagstaff, Arizona. The summer camp, brother – and I will tell you this with appropriate pride – has, in fact, eighty-three regular attendees, of, in fairness, varying degrees of Klingon language fluency, and, brother, in fact, two licensed marriage officiants who can, in fairness, perform the Klingon wedding ceremony in tlhIngan Hol if requested.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, in fairness, the most committed thing I, in fact, ever did with my life outside of the day job. The summer camp, brother, runs, in fact, even now. My deputy – a young man named Jeremy Patel who, in fairness, took over House of Mokai administrative duties in late 2024 – is, brother, doing well. Jeremy, in fact, passed his upper-tier fluency examination in 2023 with my, in fairness, supervision. The House of Mokai, brother, is, in fairness, in good hands.”

“And the men, sister.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fairness, adjusted the prosthetic ridge above her left eyebrow with a small careful finger. The prosthetic, in fairness, did not, in fact, move. It was, brother, glued on with what looked like surgical adhesive.

“Three. Brief.”

“In 2002, a man named Kevin – the same Kevin Hennessy who had, in 1994, introduced me to The Next Generation. We, brother, had grown up together. We dated, in fairness, four years. The relationship ended, brother, at his sister’s wedding in 2006, when I, in fairness, in full House of Mokai ceremonial dress, attempted to perform, in fact, the small traditional Klingon honour-greeting, which involves, brother, the formal striking of one’s own chest with a closed fist while saying, in tlhIngan Hol, the formal toast Hoch jaghpu’Daj HoHbogh SuvwI”e’ SoH, which, in fairness, translates roughly as you are the warrior who kills all his enemies. The toast, brother, was, in fairness, intended in good faith for the bride and groom. The bride, brother, was, in fairness, Kevin’s only sister, Nicole. Nicole, brother, was, in fairness, not, in fact, a Trek fan. Nicole, in fairness, understood the toast as, in fact, a threat against her new husband, Brad. Nicole, brother, required, in fairness, several minutes of careful re-explanation by Kevin. Brad, in fairness, was, in fact, kind about it but visibly shaken. Kevin, brother, spoke with me at the reception. He told me, in fairness, Salma, I have, in fairness, realised that my family, in fact, is, in fairness, not, in fact, ready for, in fact, the House of Mokai at family events. We separated within the month. Kevin, brother, has, today, married Nicole’s friend Janet, who, in fairness, also is, in fact, not a Trek fan. They have, in fairness, three children, all Trek-illiterate. I am, brother, unbothered.

“In 2011, a man named Aaron, a fellow House of Mokai member, fluent in Klingon at the upper tier, peace be upon him. Three years. Aligned profession, in fact, ideologically. The relationship ended, however, brother, in 2014, when Aaron – who was, in fairness, six years younger than me, and, brother, who had been, in fact, in the Klingon community for, in fairness, only three years at that point – attempted to claim, in fact, the rank of Sub-commander Mokai at our annual House meeting, despite, in fairness, lacking the necessary tenure and examination credentials. The House, brother, was, in fairness, my creation. The rank structure, brother, was, in fact, my own work. Aaron, in fairness, had been, in fact, lobbying members for support for some months before the meeting. I, brother, had not been told. The meeting, brother, became, in fairness, contentious. I, brother, with the support of, in fact, the senior tier of the House, defeated the motion. Aaron, brother, resigned from the House the following week. We separated. Aaron, brother, has, today, founded, in fairness, his own breakaway fan organisation, the House of Mar’Tok, which has, in fact, twelve members. The House of Mokai, brother, has, by, in fairness, my last count, eighty-three regular attendees. The schism, in fairness, is, brother, ongoing. We do not, brother, speak.

“In 2019, a man named Marcus, not in the community, a high school history teacher in Phoenix. Marcus, brother, was, in fairness, kind, patient, and, in fact, willing to attempt, in fairness, basic conversational Klingon with me at home. Marcus, brother, passed the lower tier of the Klingon Language Institute fluency examination in 2022. I, brother, was, in fairness, deeply moved. We dated, in fairness, four years. The relationship ended, however, in 2023, on a Sunday afternoon, when Marcus, with great love, said: Salma, in our four years, you have, in fairness, worn the full Mokai prosthetic kit at every special-occasion family event, every Trek convention, every House meeting, and, in fairness, on your birthday. The prosthetic kit, brother, takes you, in fact, four hours to apply correctly. The prosthetic kit, in fairness, has, in fact, never come off in front of me. I have, in fact, never, in fairness, seen the woman beneath the kit. I have realised that I would, in fairness, like to, in fact, see her. I considered the request. I told him, brother, the truthful answer: Marcus, the kit, in fact, is, in fairness, the woman. The kit, brother, is not, in fact, a costume. The kit, brother, is, in fairness, the most accurate physical representation of how I, in fact, feel internally. He, brother, was, in fairness, kind. He told me, Salma, I, in fact, respect that. I, in fairness, however, would, in fact, like a partner, in fairness, whose internal representation is, in fact, simpler. We separated, gently. Marcus, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow history teacher who, in fact, wears, in fairness, ordinary clothes. They have, brother, one child. The child, in fairness, was, in fact, not, brother, named, in any way, after, in fact, a Star Trek character. I have, in fairness, checked.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at PhxCon – Phoenix Comic-Con – in May 2024. In full Mokai ceremonial dress. On the Klingon panel, which I, brother, was, in fairness, moderating. Mid-presentation. I had, brother, just delivered, in fact, the small introductory speech in tlhIngan Hol welcoming the audience to the panel. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps two minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice, not, in fairness, autopilot – to deliver, in fact, the Klingon death yell. The Klingon death yell, brother, is, in fairness, a traditional Klingon gesture, performed, in fact, when a warrior dies, in which the surrounding warriors, in fairness, look up at the sky and emit a great roar to warn the afterlife that, in fact, a warrior is coming. I, brother, delivered the yell, in full voice, into the convention microphone, with, in fairness, the entire audience watching. The audience, in fairness, yelled back. The audience, brother, was, in fact, two hundred and eleven attendees, the majority of whom were, in fairness, House of Mokai members or affiliated, and the majority of whom, brother, knew, in fact, the death yell, and, in fairness, performed, in fact, the response correctly. I, brother, fell back into my chair on the stage, with the prosthetic still on, with the bat’leth across my lap, with the audience still yelling. The convention medics, brother, attended me within ninety seconds. I was, in fairness, gone before they reached me. The con, in fairness, held a small Klingon-language memorial service the following day on the main stage, attended by, in fact, four hundred and twelve mourners. The eulogy, brother, was given in Klingon by Jeremy Patel. The eulogy, brother, was, in fairness, technically perfect. The Klingon Language Institute, brother, has, in fact, established, in fairness, a Salma Qureshi Memorial Scholarship for promising Klingon-language students. The first recipient, in fairness, was a young Pakistani-American woman from Karachi who is, brother, currently studying linguistics at Karachi University. I am, in fairness, deeply moved by this.”

“And here, sister.”

“And here, brother, the kit is on, in fairness, permanently. The angel, brother, has, in fairness, provided – and this is, in fact, in this corridor, the most extraordinary infrastructural accommodation he has, brother, made for me – a continuous supply of fresh prosthetic adhesive, pre-cut prosthetic ridges in my exact size, and, in fact, a small ultrasonic prosthetic-cleaning station for, in fairness, end-of-day skincare. The kit, brother, is, in fact, on twenty-four hours a day. The kit, in fairness, never irritates the skin underneath. The kit, brother, in fact, can, in fairness, be slept in. The bat’leths, brother, are, in fairness, all eleven of them in this room. The summer camp, brother – the angel, in fairness, has confirmed – runs, in fact, on schedule on Earth, by Jeremy’s hand. The House of Mokai, brother, is, in fairness, intact. I am, in fairness, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, profoundly outside his cultural envelope.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, in Sana’a, a Pakistani-American Klingon sub-commander. He could not imagine the small explanation he would, in fact, have to give, in Yemeni Arabic, to his mother, of, in fairness, what tlhIngan Hol was, in fact, and why his wife, in fact, spoke it preferentially. He could not imagine the wedding photograph in which his bride, in fairness, wore the full prosthetic kit, including, brother, the small ivory canine implants. He could not imagine the Khartoum-style family iftar at which his wife would, in fairness, deliver, in fact, the bismillah in Klingon, by way of, in fairness, syncretic religious practice. He could not imagine – and this, brother, was the small specific concern that surfaced last – the four hours of prosthetic application time he would, in fact, have to budget into every Friday morning before mosque, for the rest of his married life.

He, brother, liked Salma a great deal. He, in fairness, admired the linguistic discipline. He understood, brother, that the kit was, in fact, the woman, in some way that was, in fairness, not, in fact, performative but, in fairness, deeply load-bearing.

He could not, brother, bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, your work is – of remarkable depth. The summer camp, in fairness, is – a most generous institution.”

“Qapla’!“

“Forgive me, sister?”

“That, brother, means: success! It is, in fairness, the standard farewell in Klingon. The Klingon, in fact, do not, in fairness, say goodbye. They say success. I, brother, in fairness, prefer it.”

“Qapla’, sister.”

She, brother, smiled, beneath the prosthetic. The prosthetic, in fairness, did not, in fact, soften. The smile, however, brother, registered in the eyes.

“Salma.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Marcus – Phoenix, history teacher, married to a fellow teacher, one child not named after a Trek character – tell him from me that the kit, in fairness, did, in fact, come off, in this corridor, exactly once, on a Tuesday in March. The angel, brother, had, in fairness, provided me with a cleaning interval that I, in fact, accepted, in fairness, against, brother, my standing protocol. The kit, brother, was, in fairness, off for, in fact, eleven minutes. I, in fairness, looked, in fact, in the small bathroom mirror, at the woman beneath. The woman, brother, was, in fairness, just Salma Qureshi, age forty-eight, of Karachi by way of Phoenix, with no, in fact, ridge on her forehead. I, brother, did not, in fairness, recognise her at first. After, in fact, the eleven minutes, I, brother, re-applied the kit, in fairness, with, in fact, considerable relief. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, to see those eleven minutes. I had been, brother, in fact, unwilling to give them. Tell him I have, in fairness, finally given them. The eleven minutes, brother, were, in fairness, the gift I had not, in fact, known how to offer. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He closed the door.

In the corridor, brother, the small low-frequency thrum, which had, in fairness, been the ambient sound of her room, did not, in fact, follow him. The Maghrib call, by his ear, was, in fairness, finishing. He was, brother, now, in fairness, in evening.

He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals, for what was, in fairness, the eleventh or twelfth time of the day, and walked, bread under one arm, bratwurst under the other, to door thirteen.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Halima and the Honest Bicep

The corridor between door twelve and door thirteen carried, brother, the small dry smell of fitness-centre rubber flooring, of chalk, and of, in fairness, the faint sweetness of, in fact, vanilla protein powder dissolving in cold water.

He approached door thirteen.

Through the door, brother, came a small steady percussive sound – the regular precise clank of weight plates being loaded, with great control, onto a barbell.

He opened door thirteen.

He was in a small Florida-style strip-mall gymnasium – transposed wholesale to Khartoum.

Concrete floor. Black rubber matting in the lifting area. Mirrored walls on three sides – each mirror, brother, in fairness, dusted to chest height with Khartoum dust. Along the right wall, a power rack with a heavy Olympic bar. Along the back wall, a long flat bench. Near the front, a leg-press machine of considerable industrial heft. Above the lifting area, a small ceiling fan turning slowly, doing, in fairness, nothing about the heat.

The walls, brother, were hung with, in fairness, a great number of framed photographs of female bodybuilders on competition stages. The competition stages, brother, were, in fairness, dated by the photographs’ visible aesthetics, from the early 1990s through to the late 2010s. Above the leg-press machine hung a single large framed Ms Olympia 2003 fourth-place trophy display with the small brass plaque: HALIMA EL-MASRY – 4TH PLACE – MS OLYMPIA 2003.

Through the open shop-front window – which was, in fairness, where the Tampa strip mall ran out and Khartoum began – Mahmoud could see a small Khartoum side street with a parked tuk-tuk, a fruit stall offering, in fairness, watermelon and dates, and a small group of three local teenage boys watching the gym window with, brother, the slack curiosity of teenage boys with, in fairness, no afternoon plans. The teenage boys, brother, were, in fairness, not, in fact, watching Mahmoud. The teenage boys, brother, were, in fairness, watching the woman with the barbell.

The woman with the barbell, brother, was, in fairness, perhaps a metre and seventy-three centimetres tall, and, in fact, considerably wider through the shoulders, the chest, and, in fairness, the upper thighs than any woman Mahmoud had encountered in his short life. She wore a black sleeveless workout top, black workout shorts, flat black weightlifting shoes, and thick wrist wraps. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back. Her face, brother, was, in fairness, square-jawed, with the small visible musculature of the masseter that Mahmoud, in fairness, had not, in fact, ever associated with the female face on Earth.

She finished a set of, in fairness, deadlifts. The barbell, brother, carried, by his rapid count of the plates, perhaps a hundred and seventy kilograms. She set it down, brother, with the small controlled exhale of a professional. She wiped her palms on a small towel.

She turned. She, brother, registered him with the small composed assessment of a long-tenured trainer.

“Hi! Halima el-Masry. Tampa, Florida. Welcome. Don’t worry about the bar, brother, don’t approach the platform until I, in fairness, re-rack, the platform is, in fact, the only zone in the gym with a, in fairness, real safety protocol. Sit on the bench by the wall. Mahmoud, yeah? Tea?”

“Yes, please, sister.”

She walked, brother, to the small fridge by the front desk. Each step, brother, was, in fairness, the precise weight-distributed step of a competition bodybuilder. The fridge, brother, opened. She extracted, in fairness, two bottles. One, brother, was a clear bottle of cold karkadeh. The other, brother, was, in fairness, a thick beige protein shake.

She handed him the karkadeh. She kept, brother, the protein shake. She drank from it, brother, in the small precise measured sips of a person who had been, in fairness, drinking protein shakes between sets at the same intervals for thirty years.

She sat, brother, opposite him, on a small folding chair.

“Bio quick. Born Cairo 1968. Family came to Tampa in 1980 – my father had a small import-export business in dried goods and, in fairness, opened a Tampa office that was, in fact, the only one of its kind in the southeastern United States. My mother taught Arabic at the Tampa Islamic Center. I, brother, grew up, in fairness, in central Florida, with, in fact, the cultural confusion of an Egyptian girl in a small Florida public school in the 1980s, which is, in fact, a confusion that, in fairness, I will not, in this room, attempt to summarise. I started weightlifting, brother, at age nineteen, at a small co-ed gym in Tampa, primarily, in fact, because I was, in fairness, angry, and the gym, brother, was, in fact, the only available outlet. By age twenty-three I was, brother, a state-level competitor. By twenty-eight I was, in fairness, a national-level competitor. By thirty-five I had, brother, placed fourth at Ms Olympia 2003. Fourth, brother, in the world. I, in fairness, never, in fact, made the podium. The three women above me at Ms Olympia 2003, brother – Iris Kyle, Yaxeni Oriquen, Lenda Murray, peace and long life upon them all – were, in fact, of, in fairness, generational calibre. Fourth, brother, was, in fairness, the ceiling for me. I, in fairness, made my peace with this, in fact, by 2005. I competed, brother, for another twelve years before, in fact, retiring at age forty-nine.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, brother, took a sip of the protein shake. She, in fairness, did not, in fact, look away from him as she drank. The look, brother, was, in fairness, of the precise composed kindness of a senior trainer assessing a new client’s, in fact, body composition, posture, and likely starting deadlift weight.

He, brother, was, in fairness, deeply aware that he was, in fact, being assessed. He, brother, adjusted, very slightly, his shoulders.

“Class one Mallampati, brother. Roughly forty-one kilograms of lean body mass, perhaps fifty-seven kilograms total, with, in fairness, a starting deadlift in the seventy-kilogram range if, in fact, you had, in fairness, three months of programming. I, brother, in fairness, cannot, in fact, help assessing. The assessment, brother, is, in fairness, autonomic. Don’t, brother, take it personally.”

“Sister – I, in fairness, do not know what any of those words mean, but I am, in fairness, taking them as the, in fact, compliment they appear to be intended as.”

“Copy, brother.”

“And the men, sister.”

She paused, brother. She, in fairness, looked at the protein shake.

“Two. I will be, in fairness, hormonally honest about the bio, brother, because, in fairness, the hormonal honesty was, in fact, the principal complication of my, in fairness, dating life.”

“Of course, sister.”

“Bodybuilding at the elite level, brother, requires, in fact, the use of anabolic-androgenic steroids and, in fairness, related compounds. I, brother, in fairness, used them. I started, brother, at age twenty-six, under, in fact, medical supervision from a, in fairness, sports-medicine doctor in Tampa who, in fact, ran, in fairness, the protocol for, in fact, several elite-level Florida competitors at the time. I used, brother, for, in fact, twenty-three years. I stopped, brother, at age forty-nine, on retirement. The compounds, brother, had, in fairness, observable, in fact, durable effects on my body. The body, brother, did not, in fairness, fully revert. The voice, brother, did not, in fairness, fully revert. The jaw, in fairness, did not, in fact, revert. The arms, brother, in fact, did not, in fairness, revert. The arms, brother, are, in fairness, what you, in fact, see in this room.”

She, brother, gestured, in fairness, at her own arms. The arms, brother, were, in fairness, of considerable, in fact, hypertrophy. He, brother, did not, in fairness, know what to say.

“In 1995, a man named Tony, a fellow bodybuilder, white American, Tampa, peace be upon him. Three years. The relationship ended, brother, on a Saturday afternoon, when Tony, in fairness, an honest man, said, Halima, I have, in fairness, realised that I, in fact, can no longer, in fairness, keep up with you in the gym, and, brother, in fact, I, in fairness, can no longer, in fact, look at the photograph of us at the 1996 Tampa Open, in which you are, in fairness, larger than I am, without, in fact, feeling, in fairness, small. I, brother, respected the position. I told him, in fairness, Tony, the size differential is, in fact, the result of, in fairness, six years of full programming on my part and, in fairness, one year of intermittent attendance on yours. He, brother, did not, in fairness, dispute the analysis. He, in fairness, simply, in fact, could not, in fairness, recover from it. We separated, gently. Tony, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a small woman named Janet who works, in fact, as a real-estate agent in Tampa, and who, brother, in fairness, has not, in fact, ever entered a gym in her life. They have, in fairness, two children, both, in fact, normally proportioned.

“In 2010, a man named Mehmet, a Turkish-American structural engineer in Tampa, not in the gym world. Mehmet, brother, was, in fairness, kind, intelligent, and, in fact, willing, brother, to be, in fairness, the smaller person in the relationship. We dated, brother, seven years. The relationship was, by my standards, the great relationship of my life. The relationship ended, however, in 2017, on a Sunday afternoon, when Mehmet, with great love, said, Halima, I have, in fairness, realised that I, in fact, would, in fairness, like to, in fact, have a child with you. I, brother, had, in fairness, expected the question. I had, in fact, prepared the answer. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Mehmet, the medical literature on long-term anabolic-androgenic compound use in female elite competitors suggests, in fairness, a substantially elevated risk of, in fact, both maternal and foetal complications, and, in fairness, my own gynaecologist, in fact, advises against pregnancy at age forty-nine. I, brother, in fairness, would, in fact, like a child also. The child, brother, in fairness, is, in fact, not, brother, available to us. He, in fairness, with great love, accepted the analysis. We did not, brother, separate over this. We, in fairness, grieved the child together for, in fact, two years. The relationship ended, brother, in 2019, when Mehmet – who, in fairness, had, in fact, by then, accepted the no-child reality – said, very gently, Halima, I have, in fairness, realised that the no-child decision, in fact, is, in fairness, fine, but, brother, I, in fairness, would, in fact, like to, in fairness, be loved by, in fact, a partner who, in fairness, was not, in fact, the senior consultant, in the relationship, on, in fairness, every medical question that came up in our shared life. I, brother, considered the position. I told him, in fairness, Mehmet, the medical seniority is, in fact, the result of, in fairness, a quarter-century of self-management of an experimental medical regimen, which, brother, in fact, has, in fairness, taught me to interpret, in fact, every laboratory result that crosses my desk. I, in fairness, cannot, in fact, switch this off. We separated, brother, gently. Mehmet, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a young woman who, in fact, is not, in fairness, a senior consultant on her own medical questions. They have, in fairness, two children. The children, brother, are, in fact, healthy.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, of cardiomyopathy. At age fifty-six. In this gym. Mid-set.”

She paused, brother. She, in fairness, did not, in fact, embellish.

“The cardiomyopathy, brother, was, in fairness, a known long-term consequence of the compounds I, in fact, had used. I, brother, had been, in fairness, monitored for it for, in fact, fifteen years by my, in fairness, cardiology team in Tampa. I, in fairness, knew it was, in fact, coming. I, brother, knew, in fairness, the approximate window. The window, brother, was, in fairness, late fifties. I, in fairness, was, brother, fifty-six. The window, brother, had, in fairness, been correct. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation, mid-deadlift. I had, brother, perhaps three minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother, to set the bar down, on the platform, with, in fact, the safe controlled lowering technique I had, in fairness, taught for thirty years. I, brother, re-racked nothing. The plates were, in fairness, on the floor at the end. I sat on the platform, brother. I called, brother, my apprentice trainer, a young woman named Sofia, who was, in fairness, training a client in the cardio room. Sofia, brother, reached me in twenty seconds. I, brother, gave her, in fairness, the medical briefing – twenty-three years of compound history, current laboratory results from my last visit, the name of my cardiologist, the do-not-resuscitate request I had, in fact, on file, and, in fairness, the location of my will in the small filing cabinet by the front desk. Sofia, brother, took notes. Sofia, in fairness, called the ambulance. The ambulance, brother, arrived in nine minutes. I was, in fairness, gone before they reached me.”

“That is – that is, in fairness, a death of considerable lucidity, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, in fairness, took a sip of the protein shake.

“And the gym, brother, is, in fairness, run today by Sofia, who, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, my long-time apprentice, and who, in fact, has, in fairness, expanded the operation. The trophy on the wall, brother, is, in fairness, still on the wall. The framed photographs, brother, are, in fact, still on the walls. Sofia, brother, in fairness, has, in fact, added one new framed photograph, of, in fairness, herself with me, taken at, in fact, my retirement party in 2017. The photograph, brother, is, in fairness, in the centre of the back wall. The eulogy, brother, was given by Sofia at my funeral. Sofia, in fairness, said, in front of three hundred mourners: Halima, in fairness, set the bar down. The mourners, brother, understood the line. The mourners, in fairness, were, in fact, mostly bodybuilders. The line, brother, did, in fairness, the work.”

“And here, sister.”

“And here, brother, the gym is, in fairness, fully equipped. The plates, brother, are, in fairness, all of them present, in the right increments, with the correct calibration. The compounds, brother, I, in fact, no longer take. The body, brother, in this room, has, in fairness, finally, in fact, begun to revert in small ways – the voice, brother, in fairness, has softened; the jaw, in fact, has, in fairness, slightly receded; the arms, in fairness, are, in fact, marginally smaller than they were on the day I died. I am, brother, in fairness, becoming, in fact, the woman I would have been without, in fairness, the compounds. I am, brother, in eighteen months, perhaps three percent of the way through the reversion. The reversion, brother, will, in fairness, take, in fact, decades, if not, brother, longer. I, in fairness, have the time. I, brother, am, in fairness, content with the slow pace.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, struggling.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, in Sana’a, a woman, in fairness, two centimetres taller than himself and, in fact, considerably broader through the shoulders. He could not, brother, imagine the wedding photograph in which the bride, in fact, deadlifted the groom, in fairness, ceremonially. He could not imagine his mother’s reaction to the small visible musculature of the masseter on the bride’s jaw, when his mother, in fairness, would, in fact, recognise it from, in fairness, her own, in fact, masculine cousins. He could not imagine, brother, the mealtime explanation of the protein shakes. He could not – and this, brother, was the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine his mother’s quiet, in fact, devastating Yemeni assessment of the bride’s body composition after, in fairness, fifteen seconds of eye contact across the courtyard.

He, brother, liked Halima a great deal. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply moved by the medical lucidity. He, brother, understood that the bride’s professional achievement was, in fact, of, in fairness, world-class calibre, and that he, in fairness, would, in fact, never, in any version of his life, achieve, in fact, the lifelong discipline she had, in fairness, demonstrated.

He could not, brother, bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, your work is – of remarkable craft. The trophy, in fairness, is – a most, in fact, deserved trophy.”

“Thank you, brother.”

“I should – sister – proceed to door fourteen.”

“Copy, brother. Walk well. Mind, in fairness, the platform on your way out. The platform, brother, is, in fairness, at, in fact, a small step up from the floor, and, in fairness, the step, in fact, is, in fairness, easy, brother, to clip.”

He stood. He bowed.

“Halima.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Mehmet – Tampa, Turkish-American structural engineer, married to a young woman, two healthy children – tell him from me that I have, in eighteen months, finally, in fairness, switched off, in fact, the senior medical consultant. The angel, brother, has, in fairness, taken over my own laboratory monitoring. I have, in fact, not opened a laboratory result in eighteen months. I, in fairness, do not, brother, know my current haemoglobin, my current liver enzymes, or, in fairness, my current cardiac ejection fraction. I, brother, have, in fact, become a regular, in fairness, patient. He had been, in fact, asking for that, in fairness, for seven years. I had been, in fairness, unable to give it. Tell him I have, in fact, given it. The senior consultant, brother, is, in fairness, retired. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He closed the door.

In the corridor, brother, the small dry rubber-and-vanilla smell of the gym, in fairness, did not, in fact, follow him. He, brother, brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals – for the thirteenth time, by his now-erratic count – and walked to door fourteen.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Zara and the Verbatim

The corridor between door thirteen and door fourteen carried, brother, no smell but a small steady, barely audible, mechanical clicking, of the kind Mahmoud al-Bakri associated, vaguely, with, in fairness, the inside of a small precision machine he had, in fact, never, in his life, encountered.

He approached door fourteen.

The clicking, brother, resolved itself, as he came closer, into the small staccato of, in fact, multiple keys being struck in rapid combination.

He thought, brother: paradise has, in fairness, an unusually broad keyboard inventory. He opened door fourteen.

He was in a small federal-style courtroom. Or rather, in fairness, a small spectator’s gallery just behind the bar of a small federal-style courtroom. Or rather, more accurately, brother, the small alcove of a working stenographer’s desk at the side of a courtroom that was, in fact, otherwise empty.

The courtroom, brother, was perhaps twelve metres wide. Heavy mahogany panelling. A raised judge’s bench at the front, with the small federal seal mounted above it. Two long counsel tables in the well of the court, both empty, both polished, both, in fairness, dusted with Khartoum dust. A small jury box at the side, with twelve empty chairs. A small witness stand to the right of the bench, also empty. The chamber was lit, brother, by a single tall window at the rear of the courtroom, through which fell, in fairness, the late-afternoon Khartoum light. Through the window, brother, Mahmoud could see, beyond the courtroom’s exterior wall, the small dome of a Khartoum mosque, the broad pale ribbon of the Blue Nile, and, in fairness, a small Sudanese law court next door, on whose front steps two lawyers in white shirts and dark waistcoats were, in fact, smoking and arguing with great animation.

To the side of the bench, in fairness – just below the witness stand, at the small precision-built desk that every American courtroom had, in fact, in his uncle’s English-language legal-thriller import-VHS-tape collection of the early 2000s – sat the stenographer.

She was perhaps fifty-eight. She wore a simple navy dress, a small silver brooch at the collar, small reading glasses on a chain, and a small headset with a discreet earpiece. Her dark hair was streaked with grey, pulled into a low knot. Her hands rested on a small grey, ten-key, stenotype machine, fingers in the precise resting position of a stenographer between phrases. The machine, brother, was, in fairness, of the modern professional kind, with a small attached digital display.

She, brother, was looking at him.

She, in fairness, did not greet him verbally.

She, in fact, typed.

The stenotype, brother, clicked in a small precise three-key combination.

A line of text, brother, appeared on the small digital display.

[VISITOR ENTERS COURTROOM FROM REAR, MID-AFTERNOON. APPROACHES STENOGRAPHER’S BENCH. CARRYING TWO WRAPPED FOOD ITEMS.]

She, brother, raised her eyes from the display. She, in fairness, smiled, very slightly. She, brother, gestured, with a small precise gesture, at the small visitor stool placed beside her desk.

He sat.

He thought, brother: this is going to be, in fairness, a different kind of conversation.

He, in fairness, said, very carefully, “Peace be upon you, sister.”

She, brother, typed. The stenotype, in fairness, clicked.

[VISITOR: “Peace be upon you, sister.”] [STENOGRAPHER: “Welcome. Zara Khalil. United States District Court for the District of Columbia, Senior Court Reporter, retired October 2024. Mahmoud al-Bakri, yes?”]

He, brother, read the line on the display.

He, in fairness, understood, slowly, the protocol.

He said, “Yes, sister.”

The stenotype, brother, clicked.

[VISITOR: “Yes, sister.”] [STENOGRAPHER: “Karkadeh on the desk. The cup is clean. Help yourself. I will not, in fairness, be drinking, on the record.”]

He, brother, poured. He, in fairness, drank.

She, brother, paused, in fairness, the stenotype.

“Sister – do you, in fairness, speak – or do you only, brother, type?”

She, brother, smiled. She, in fact, opened her mouth.

“I, brother, in fairness, speak. I, in fact, prefer, in fairness, to type. Thirty-three years on the stenotype, brother, has, in fact, made the speaking, in fairness, the slower medium for me. I, in fairness, can type at, in fact, two hundred and forty words per minute. I, brother, can speak at, in fairness, perhaps a hundred and forty. The typing, brother, is, in fact, my conversational native register. The speaking, brother, is, in fairness, the second language.”

“That is – that is remarkable, sister.”

She, brother, typed.

[STENOGRAPHER: “Thank you, sir. The compliment is logged.”]

She, brother, grinned, ever so slightly.

“I’ll do the bio, brother. I will, in fairness, type it. The typing, in fact, is, in fairness, the most efficient delivery available to me. Please, brother, in fairness, read along.”

She, brother, began to type. The stenotype, brother, clicked, in fairness, with the precise rhythm of a hundred percent professional. The display, in fairness, filled, in real time.

[STENOGRAPHER: “Born Beirut 1966. Family came to Washington, D.C., in 1976 – my father was a Lebanese career diplomat assigned to the embassy. My mother taught Arabic at Georgetown. I attended Catholic University. I read English literature. I qualified, in 1991, as a Registered Professional Reporter through the National Court Reporters Association, with a typing certification of two hundred and forty words per minute under examination conditions.”]

[STENOGRAPHER: “I worked, for thirty-three years, as a court reporter in the United States District Court for the District of Columbia. I have, in my career, transcribed perhaps seven thousand court days, including the depositions of three sitting senators, the testimony of two former cabinet secretaries, and one entire month of a trial of a former special counsel that the angel has, in fairness, asked me not to specify by name in this corridor.”]

[STENOGRAPHER: “I am, in fairness, the senior court reporter of my court at the time of my retirement. I have, in addition, trained perhaps forty junior reporters in my career. Twenty-nine of them are still on the job in 2026. I am, brother, a name in this small specialised world. The name, brother, is Reporter Khalil.”]

He read the bio, brother, as it was typed. He, in fairness, appreciated, in fact, the efficiency.

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

The stenotype, brother, clicked.

[VISITOR: “That is – that is wonderful, sister.”] [STENOGRAPHER: “Thank you, sir.”]

“And the men, sister.”

She, brother, paused, in fairness, the stenotype. She, in fact, removed her hands from the keys. She, brother, considered for a small moment. Then she, in fairness, replaced her hands.

The stenotype, brother, began.

[STENOGRAPHER: “Two.”]

[STENOGRAPHER: “In 1995, a man named Daniel – a federal litigator, peace be upon him, kind, methodical, of considerable courtroom decorum. Three years. The relationship ended at his sister’s wedding in 1998, when I – without, in fairness, conscious volition – produced from my purse, at the rehearsal dinner, a small portable stenotype I had brought, in fact, in case the toasts contained, in fairness, content I, in fact, wanted to remember verbatim. The mother of the groom – peace be upon her – observed me, in fact, transcribing, in real time, the rehearsal-dinner toasts of, in fact, her own son’s wedding party. The mother, brother, was, in fairness, displeased. The mother, in fairness, asked Daniel, in front of the table, in plain English: Daniel, your girlfriend is, in fairness, taking court reporting of, in fact, our family. Daniel, brother, attempted to explain. The mother, in fairness, was, in fact, not in a frame of mind to be persuaded. We separated within the month. Daniel, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a kind paralegal. They have, I am told, two children. The children, brother, are, in fairness, not transcribed.”]

[STENOGRAPHER: “In 2008, a man named Marcus – a high school history teacher, not in the legal world. Marcus, brother, was, in fairness, kind, patient, and genuinely amused by the stenotype. Marcus, in fact, learned, over four years, to read steno keystroke combinations. We dated, brother, eleven years. Marcus, brother, was, in fairness, the great relationship of my life. The relationship ended, however, in 2019, on a Sunday afternoon, when Marcus, with great love, said: Zara, in our eleven years, you have transcribed every conversation we have ever had, in some form, somewhere, on a notebook, on a phone, on the small portable stenotype you keep in your bag. I have realised that I would, in fairness, like, in fact, one conversation that, in fairness, is not, in fact, recorded for the record. I, brother, considered the request. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Marcus, the recording is, in fact, the listening. The verbatim, brother, is, in fairness, the love. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Zara, I, in fact, respect that, but, in fairness, I, in fact, would, in fairness, like to be loved, in fact, off the record. We separated, gently. Marcus, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow history teacher who, in fact, does not, in fairness, transcribe. They have, I am told, every conversation off the record.”]

He, brother, read the typing. He, in fairness, was, in fact, moved.

“That is – that is, in fairness, a great love, sister.”

The stenotype, brother, clicked.

[STENOGRAPHER: “It was, in fairness, sir. It was. The verbatim is, in fact, the only love language I, in fact, ever learned. I, in fairness, did not, in fact, know it was, in fairness, displaceable by a different language. I, brother, in eighteen months, have begun to suspect that it was, in fairness, displaceable. The suspicion, in fact, has, in fairness, not, brother, fully resolved into a, in fairness, conclusion.”]

“And in 2024 – “

She, brother, paused. She, in fairness, did not, in fact, type for some considerable seconds. She, brother, looked, in fairness, at the display.

She, in fact, typed, slowly.

[STENOGRAPHER: “I died, sir, on the bench.”]

[STENOGRAPHER: “Mid-trial.”]

[STENOGRAPHER: “Mid-testimony.”]

[STENOGRAPHER: “I was transcribing the cross-examination of an FBI special agent in a federal corruption case. The cross was, in fairness, technical, with substantial reliance on, in fact, financial transaction details. I had, brother, perhaps thirty seconds’ awareness. I used them, in fairness, to type.”]

She, brother, paused. She, in fairness, typed, very slowly, with great precision.

[STENOGRAPHER: “[REPORTER FALLING]”]

The display, brother, held the line.

[STENOGRAPHER: “[REPORTER FALLING] is, in fact, the standard stenographic notation for, in fairness, an event that interrupts the official record. The notation, in fact, is logged in the transcript exactly as, in fairness, you see it. The court, brother, paused. The judge, in fairness, called a recess. The medics, brother, attended me. The cross-examination, in fairness, resumed forty-six minutes later, with, brother, the deputy court reporter, Marcus Pérez – no relation to the Marcus from the bio, brother, in fairness, two different Marcuses – taking over. The trial, brother, completed normally. The transcript, brother, of that day was, in fairness, filed with, in fact, my entry [REPORTER FALLING] preserved at the exact line of my collapse, with Reporter Pérez’s substitution noted in the margin. The transcript, brother, is, in fact, on file. The line, brother, [REPORTER FALLING], is, in fairness, my final professional entry in the federal record. I am, brother, retroactively proud of this.”]

He, brother, read it. He, in fairness, was, brother, in fact, deeply moved.

“Sister – that is – that is, in fairness, a death of the verbatim.”

The stenotype, brother, clicked.

[STENOGRAPHER: “It is, in fairness, sir. It is.”]

She, brother, gestured, in fairness, around the empty courtroom.

The stenotype, brother, clicked.

[STENOGRAPHER: “And here, sir, the record continues. The angel, in fairness, generates each morning a fresh set of court days for me. The court days, brother, are not, in fact, real Earth proceedings. They are, in fairness, simulations of varying technical difficulty. I transcribe them. The transcripts, brother, by morning, are, in fairness, gone. I do not know who, if anyone, reads them. I trust, brother, that the verbatim, somewhere, is, in fairness, doing its work.”]

[STENOGRAPHER: “I have, in eighteen months, transcribed perhaps seven thousand court days. The transcripts are, in fairness, the best work of my life. I am, in this room, given the time the verbatim asks for. There is, in fairness, no impatient judge. There are, brother, no defence attorneys filing late motions. The keys, brother, click. The record, in fairness, accumulates. The record, brother, is, in fact, enough.”]

Mahmoud, brother, was cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother in Sana’a, a court reporter. Sana’a, brother, did not, in fact, have, in fairness, a stenotype tradition. He could not, brother, imagine the family meals, at which, in fairness, his wife would, in fact, transcribe his mother’s recipes verbatim, including, in fairness, the small ums and the small clearings of throat. He could not imagine the children’s first words being captured on a stenotype, in proper professional format, with the parent’s name tag. He could not – and this, brother, was the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine, in fairness, every domestic argument being, in fact, available, in transcript form, for, in fairness, future review by either party in subsequent disputes.

He, brother, liked Zara enormously. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply moved by the [REPORTER FALLING]. He, brother, understood, in fairness, that the verbatim was, in fact, the love, and that the love had been, in fact, a love of considerable purity, but had been, in fact, of a kind, brother, that he, in fairness, was, in fact, not, in fairness, equipped to receive.

He could not, brother, bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, your work is – of remarkable precision. The verbatim, sister, is – a great gift.”

The stenotype, brother, clicked.

[VISITOR: “Sister, your work is – of remarkable precision. The verbatim, sister, is – a great gift.”] [STENOGRAPHER: “Thank you, sir. The gratitude is logged.”]

“I should – sister – proceed to door fifteen.”

The stenotype, brother, clicked.

[VISITOR: “I should – sister – proceed to door fifteen.”] [STENOGRAPHER: “Of course, sir. Walk well. Mind the threshold – the courtroom carpet, brother, is, in fairness, slightly raised at the door, and the rise, in fact, has, in fairness, caught visitors before.”]

He stood. He bowed.

“Zara.”

The stenotype, brother, clicked.

[VISITOR: “Zara.”] [STENOGRAPHER: “Yes.”]

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Marcus – Washington, D.C., history teacher, married to a fellow teacher off the record – tell him from me that I have, in eighteen months, had, in fact, exactly one conversation with the angel that I, in fairness, did not, in fact, transcribe. The conversation, brother, was, in fairness, twelve minutes long. The conversation, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, about, in fact, the trial in which I, in fact, fell. The angel, in fairness, asked me whether, in fact, the [REPORTER FALLING] entry had, in fact, been the version of the entry I had, in fact, intended. I, brother, in fairness, answered him. The answer, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, off the record. I, brother, did not, in fact, regret it. The off-the-record answer, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, the most truthful thing I had ever said to anyone in my life. He had been, in fairness, asking, brother, for that particular twelve minutes for, in fact, eleven years. I had, in life, in fairness, refused. Tell him I have, in fact, finally given them. The twelve minutes, brother, were, in fairness, his. Tell him.”

The stenotype, brother, clicked. The line, brother, was logged.

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He closed the door, brother, quietly, in keeping with the room. From inside, he could hear, very faintly, the small steady percussive click, click, click of the stenotype, transcribing his exit.

In the corridor, brother, the Khartoum afternoon, in fact, was, in fairness, well into evening now. He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals – for the fourteenth time, by his fully erratic count – and walked, bread under one arm, bratwurst under the other, with the small quiet sense that, in fairness, somewhere, his every footstep was, in fact, being logged in a transcript he would, in fairness, never, in fact, read, to door fifteen.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

Three more in this batch – twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Fourteen of seventy-three rewritten in the new framework.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Pari and the Botanical Court

The corridor between door fourteen and door fifteen carried, brother, the unmistakable damp green smell of a great deal of indoor plant matter, very recently misted.

Mahmoud al-Bakri approached door fifteen. The smell, brother, strengthened. He registered, in fairness, a faint visible mist drifting under the doorframe and meeting, in the corridor, the warm dry Khartoum dust drifting in from the opposite direction. The two, brother, did not, in fairness, mix well. They formed, brother, a small liminal greenish-yellow band of suspended particulate that hung in the corridor at, in fairness, ankle height.

He thought, brother: paradise has, in fairness, complicated humidity zones. He opened door fifteen.

He felt, brother, the humidity hit him like a wet towel.

He was in a small London garden flat. A north-facing single-bedroom, by the look – transposed wholesale to Khartoum. Through the back window he could see, in fairness, a small Khartoum courtyard with a fig tree and a swept-earth floor, but the courtyard, brother, was, in fairness, sealed away from the flat by a triple-glazed window with a small visible vapour barrier. The flat itself, brother, was, in fairness, a jungle.

There were, in fairness, plants on every surface. Plants on the windowsill. Plants on the radiator covers. Plants on small custom-built tiered shelving along all four walls. Plants hanging from macramé hangers in the ceiling. Plants on the floor in self-watering pots. Plants on top of the small refrigerator. Plants, brother, on top of plants. The leaves, brother, of considerable variety – variegated philodendrons, monsteras, calatheas, hoyas, anthuriums, ferns of perhaps twelve different kinds, a small carnivorous Venus flytrap on the kitchen counter – formed, in fairness, a continuous green canopy. The air, brother, was, in fact, eighty-five percent humidity by his immediate skin assessment. The angel, brother, had, in fairness, installed three industrial humidifiers, a small commercial-grade dehumidifier in the bathroom, and a complex network of, in fact, drip irrigation lines along all the shelving, with, in fairness, a small central control panel by the door.

A woman emerged from behind a particularly large Monstera deliciosa on the left side of the room. She was perhaps fifty. She wore a long cream linen dress, gardening gloves, and small wire-rimmed glasses. Her dark hair was pinned up under a green silk scarf. She held, in her right hand, a small misting bottle. In her left, a small pair of pruning shears.

“Hi! Pari Tehrani. Welcome. Mind the calathea on the small stand by the door – she is, in fairness, in a sulk this week, and any disturbance to her leaf orientation will, in fact, set her recovery back by, in fairness, ten days. Come in. Sit on the small chair by the window. No, the other small chair, brother – that one belongs to Geoffrey.”

She gestured, brother, at a particular small wooden plant stand near the kitchen, on which sat a single small terracotta pot containing, in fairness, an unremarkable-looking small orchid with a single delicate white-and-yellow bloom.

“Geoffrey, brother, is, in fact, a Holcoglossum kimballianum of, in fairness, exceptional rarity. Geoffrey, in fairness, is, in fact, sometimes referred to in the trade as the Spiritus Sancti, which is, brother, possibly, in fairness, why my Catholic neighbour in London, peace be upon her, was, in fact, scandalised when I introduced her to him by name. Geoffrey, brother, requires the small chair he is on, in fact, undisturbed. Geoffrey, brother, has, in fairness, his preferences. Geoffrey, in fact, is, in fairness, the most senior plant in the collection. The chair is, brother, his.”

Mahmoud, brother, sat, in fairness, on the other small chair. He, in fairness, did not contest Geoffrey’s chair.

She poured him karkadeh from a small clay jug perched on top of, in fact, a Philodendron gloriosum whose enormous heart-shaped velvety leaves, brother, almost completely concealed the jug. He, brother, drank.

“Bio quick. Born Tehran 1974. Family came to London in 1980 – my father had been a horticultural specialist at the Persian Royal Gardens before the Revolution, and was hired, in fairness, by the Royal Horticultural Society at Kew, on a special advisor’s contract that, brother, eventually became, in fairness, a permanent post. I, brother, grew up in a small Hampstead flat in which, in fact, the front room was, in fairness, a tropical greenhouse. I attended UCL. I read botanical taxonomy. I worked, for twenty-seven years, as a senior research botanist at Kew Gardens, with a particular specialisation in, in fact, the genus Philodendron and its, in fairness, taxonomic boundaries.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work. The personal collection, in fairness, was the parallel project.”

She gestured around the flat.

“Four hundred and nineteen, brother, by my last accurate count, in October 2024. I had, in fact, a spreadsheet. The spreadsheet, brother, is, in fairness, on my laptop, which is, in fact, on the small desk under, in fairness, the Anthurium warocqueanum. I have, in eighteen months, updated the spreadsheet, in fact, weekly. The current count, brother, is, in fairness, four hundred and twenty-three. The angel, in fact, has, in fairness, allowed me four small replacements for plants I had, in fact, not been, in fairness, able to acquire on Earth. Geoffrey, brother, in fairness, was the centrepiece of the Earth collection. Geoffrey, in fact, is, in fairness, the centrepiece here also.”

“And the men, sister.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fairness, misted Geoffrey, very gently, twice.

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2002, a man named Tom – English, an ecologist, a colleague at Kew. We dated, in fairness, three years. The relationship ended on a Saturday afternoon at his flat, when I – having, in fact, been visiting for the weekend – noticed, in fairness, the small yellowing of his single houseplant, a Spathiphyllum that he had, in fact, kept on his kitchen windowsill for, in fairness, six years. The yellowing, brother, was, in fact, the result of, in fairness, root rot from over-watering. I, brother, attempted to, in fairness, repot it on his kitchen counter, with materials I had, in fact, brought from my flat in case of, in fairness, exactly such an emergency. Tom, brother, was, in fairness, displeased. Tom, in fact, said, Pari, the plant is, in fairness, mine. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Tom, the plant is, in fact, dying. He, brother, did not dispute the analysis. He, in fairness, however, said: Pari, I would, in fact, prefer that my houseplants die at the rate I, in fairness, manage them, and not at the rate, brother, you intervene. We separated, gently. He has, today, married a fellow ecologist. They have, I am told, one child and no houseplants. The Spathiphyllum, I am told, was, in fact, removed by Tom from the windowsill within six weeks of our separation, and replaced, in fairness, by, in fact, a small ceramic figurine of an owl.

“In 2014, a man named James – English, an architect, not at Kew. James, brother, was, in fairness, kind, patient, and, in fact, willing to live with the collection. We dated, brother, eight years. James made it through, in fairness, eight years. The relationship ended in 2022, on a Sunday afternoon, when James, with great love, said: Pari, in our eight years, you have, in fairness, named four hundred and one of the four hundred and nineteen plants in this flat. You have not, in fairness, ever, in fact, called me by my own name without, in fact, first considering whether, in fairness, the name might, in fact, also work for a plant. I, brother, considered this. I told him, in fairness, James, this is, in fact, a fair observation. He told me, in fairness, Pari, I would, in fact, like, in fairness, to be named without, brother, the cross-check. We separated. James, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow architect. They have, I am told, no plants whatsoever. The flat, by photographs on Instagram, brother, has, in fairness, bare windowsills. The bare windowsills, brother, in fact, give me, in fairness, mild physical distress.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at this flat. Of an aneurysm, while watering the Anthurium warocqueanum with, in fairness, a fine-spray attachment on the watering can. I felt, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps two minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother, to set the watering can down, with, in fairness, the spray attachment retracted, on the small dedicated plant stand by the door. I, brother, also, in fact, made a small note in the spreadsheet on the laptop, indicating, in fairness, that the Anthurium had, in fact, only been watered partially, and, brother, would, in fairness, require completion of the watering by, in fact, my flat-key holder, my niece Soraya, who was, in fairness, due to visit on Tuesday. I sat, brother, on this exact chair. I, in fairness, looked at Geoffrey, who, brother, was, in fact, looking at me. I died, brother, in this chair. My niece, brother, found me on Tuesday. The note in the spreadsheet, in fairness, was, in fact, executed by Soraya without, brother, any failure of comprehension. The Anthurium, brother, was, in fairness, watered correctly. The collection, brother, was, in fact, transferred, by my will, to Soraya, who is, in fairness, an apprentice botanist at Kew, and who, brother, is, in fact, doing, in fairness, well with it.”

She paused. She, brother, misted Geoffrey, in fairness, twice more.

“And here, brother, the collection, in fact, is intact. Geoffrey, brother, is, in fairness, blooming. The angel, in fact, has, in fairness, set up, brother, the humidification correctly. The Khartoum air outside, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, twelve percent humidity, which would, in fact, kill, in fairness, every plant in this room within, brother, six hours. The flat, in fact, holds, in fairness, eighty-five percent. The transition, brother, at the doorway, is, in fact, dramatic. I, brother, in fairness, do not leave the flat. The corridor, brother, is, in fairness, hostile to my collection. The flat, in fact, is, in fairness, sufficient.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, sweating.

He, brother, was also, in fact, beginning to wheeze, in fairness, slightly, from the dense organic air. He could not, in fairness, imagine bringing home, to his mother’s small Sana’a courtyard with its single date palm and a small plot of mint, four hundred and twenty-three named tropical plants. He could not imagine the family meeting in which the bride introduced his mother to Geoffrey by name and explained, in fairness, the Spiritus Sancti trade designation. He could not – and this, brother, was the small specific concern – imagine every conversation in his married life being, in fairness, third in line behind, in fact, four hundred and twenty-three botanical specimens with established political alliances.

He, brother, liked Pari. He, in fairness, understood the work. He could not, brother, bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister – Geoffrey is – most distinguished.”

“Geoffrey, brother, is, in fairness, flattered.”

He stood. He bowed. Geoffrey, brother – and Mahmoud could not, in fact, decide whether this was, in fairness, projection or, in fact, observation – seemed, brother, to incline his single bloom by perhaps two degrees.

“Pari.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named James – London, architect, married to a fellow architect, no plants on the windowsills – tell him from me that I have, in eighteen months, deliberately, in fact, not named, in fairness, the four small new plants the angel has, in fact, allowed me to add. The four, brother, in fact, are, in fairness, anonymous. They live, brother, on the small shelf by the kitchen. He had, in fairness, been asking, in fact, for unnamed things. Tell him I have, in fairness, finally given them. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left, brother, coughing slightly in the dry corridor, with the green humidity steaming gently off his shoulders into the warm Khartoum dust. He brushed his sandals. He walked to door sixteen.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Inaya and the Notebook of Sorrow

The corridor between door fifteen and door sixteen carried, brother, no smell at all. Just clean air. Mahmoud al-Bakri, who had, in fairness, been processing quite a lot of olfactory input over the course of his afternoon, was, brother, grateful for it.

He approached door sixteen.

He could hear, through the wood, nothing.

He opened door sixteen.

He stood in a small Berlin theatre studio.

The studio was perhaps six metres square. Bare polished wood floor. Black-painted walls. A single tall window at the back, through which the late-evening Khartoum light, in fairness, fell in a long warm bar across the floor. No chairs. No props. No costumes. The studio, brother, was, in fairness, completely empty except for one woman.

She stood at the centre of the floor.

She was perhaps forty. She wore a small ill-fitting black wool waistcoat over a faded white shirt, baggy black trousers two sizes too large held up with a length of ordinary kitchen twine, a pair of enormous black shoes that were, in fairness, plainly several sizes larger than her feet, and a small black bowler hat at a slightly improbable angle. Her face, brother, was painted, in fairness, white, with a small precise red nose, with two small black tear-shaped marks beneath the eyes – one beneath each – and with a small downward-curving black line at each corner of the mouth. The mouth itself, brother, was, in fairness, painted in a faint pink that suggested, in fact, the absence of a smile.

She, brother, was holding a small worn leather notebook in her left hand and a stub of pencil in her right.

She, in fairness, did not greet him.

She, in fact, looked at him, with the small careful attention of a clown assessing the room she had just entered.

He, brother, said, very quietly, “Peace be upon you, sister.”

She, brother, did not, in fairness, respond verbally. She, in fact, with the small precise gesture of a Gaulier-trained Auguste, raised her enormous left shoe, in fairness, three inches off the floor, considered it for a small moment, and lowered it again, very carefully, brother, perhaps two centimetres to the left of where it had been.

The gesture, brother, was, in fairness, of considerable intent. He, in fact, could not, in fairness, parse it.

He, brother, waited.

She, brother, opened the notebook. She, in fairness, wrote, with the stub of pencil, in small precise handwriting, one line. She, brother, turned the notebook around and showed it to him.

The line read, in French and Arabic:

Bienvenue. Je m’appelle Inaya Rashid. Je suis un clown Auguste, formée à l’École Philippe Gaulier. Je ne parle pas pendant le numéro. – Welcome. I am an Auguste clown, trained at École Philippe Gaulier. I do not, in fairness, speak during the number.

He, brother, understood, slowly.

“Sister – am I, in fairness, in a number?“

She, brother, nodded, very slowly, with the small precise weighty nod of a sad clown. She, in fairness, wrote.

The number began, brother, the moment you opened the door. The number is, in fairness, ongoing. The number will, in fact, continue, brother, until you, in fairness, leave. Please, brother, sit on the floor. There are, in fairness, no chairs.

He, brother, sat on the floor. He, in fairness, placed the bread and the bratwurst beside him.

She, brother, began, in fairness, the small clown work.

She, in fact, attempted, very slowly, very deliberately, with great Auguste futility, to put on a small invisible coat that was, in fairness, not, in fact, present. The coat, brother, was, in fairness, too small. She, in fact, got one arm into a sleeve, struggled, her shoulder hunched, with the second sleeve, found, in fairness, the second sleeve too narrow, attempted to force it, and, brother, in the attempt, dropped, with great pathos, the small bowler hat from her head onto the floor. She, brother, looked at the hat. She, in fairness, considered, in fact, picking it up. She, brother, did not, in fact, pick it up. She, in fairness, wrote in the notebook.

She, brother, showed the notebook.

The hat, brother, was always going to fall.

He, brother, registered, in fairness, the line. The line, brother, was, in fact, both small and enormous. He, in fairness, had, brother, no preparation for it.

She, brother, continued the work. She, in fact, attempted, with the sleeve still too narrow, in fairness, to lower herself to retrieve the hat. The lowering, brother, in fairness, became, in fact, a small slow descent of, in fairness, increasing despair. She, brother, in fact, did not, in fairness, reach the hat. She, brother, in fact, lowered herself instead onto the floor next to it. She, in fairness, lay, brother, on the polished wood, on her side, with one arm in the small invisible coat sleeve, with the hat at her elbow. She, brother, did not, in fact, move for some considerable time.

He, brother, sat on the floor, watching.

He, in fairness, noticed, after perhaps thirty seconds, that he, in fact, was crying.

He, brother, did not, in fairness, know why. He, in fact, had not, in fairness, intended to. He, brother, was, in fact, twenty-one years old, and Yemeni, and had, in fairness, not cried since, in fact, his mother had received the news of his uncle Ahmed’s heart attack, in 2019, when Mahmoud, brother, had been, in fact, sixteen.

She, brother, did not, in fairness, look up at him from the floor. She, in fact, gave him, in fairness, the small dignified privacy of a sad clown who had, in fact, observed, brother, the moment her work had landed.

He, brother, cried for, in fairness, perhaps four minutes.

The Khartoum evening, brother, fell on him through the back window in a long warm bar.

After a small while, she, brother, rose, with great Auguste effort, from the floor. She, in fairness, retrieved the hat. She, brother, placed the hat back on her head, at a slightly improbable angle. She, in fairness, also, in fact, finished, in fairness, putting on the small invisible coat. The coat, brother, fit, in fairness, badly.

She, brother, crossed to him. She, in fairness, sat on the floor opposite him. She, brother, opened a small tin of madeleines that he had not, in fairness, observed earlier, that had been, in fact, on the floor against the wall. She, brother, offered him a madeleine. He, brother, took one. The madeleine, in fact, was, in fairness, exquisite. He ate.

She, brother, picked up the notebook. She, in fairness, wrote.

I do not, in fairness, do the number with everyone, brother. I, in fact, did the number with you. The number, in fairness, was, in fact, the work I, in fairness, owed you.

“Sister – I do not, in fairness, understand.”

She wrote.

The angel, brother, told me you had, in fact, killed seven men in October 2024. The seven men, in fairness, are, in fact, not in this corridor. The seven men, brother, are, in fairness, in another corridor. The seven men, brother, are, in fact, not, in fairness, available to you. I, in fairness, did, in fact, the number, brother, that I, in fairness, would, in fact, have done for them, had they, in fairness, been able to come to me. The number, brother, was, in fairness, performed for them, through you. You, brother, were, in fact, the room they, in fairness, could not enter. I am sorry, brother. The number was, in fairness, not, in fact, intended to wound. The crying, brother, was, in fact, the number’s correct landing. You, brother, in fairness, received it, in fact, on their behalf. They, brother, would, in fairness, have received it themselves, in fact, had they, in fairness, been able. Thank you, brother, for, in fact, being the room.

He, brother, read the line. He, in fairness, began to cry again. He, brother, cried, in fact, for some considerable time.

She, brother, did not, in fairness, hurry him. She, in fact, misted, in fairness, no plants. She, brother, transcribed nothing. She, in fairness, simply sat on the floor, with the small ill-fitting black wool waistcoat at her shoulders, and the small bowler hat at its slightly improbable angle, and waited.

After a long time, brother, he wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt. He said: “Sister – the number was, in fairness, for them. Thank you.”

She wrote.

You are, in fairness, welcome, brother. The thank-you, in fact, is, in fairness, theirs to give, not yours. But, in fairness, I, in fact, will receive it, brother, by proxy. The proxy is, in fairness, what proxies do.

She, brother, gave him, in fairness, the bio after that. Born Algiers 1984. Family came to Berlin in 1995. Father, in fairness, an electrician. Mother, in fact, a school administrator. She, brother, attended, in fairness, the École Philippe Gaulier in Étampes, France, from age twenty-two to age twenty-five. She, brother, qualified, in fairness, as an Auguste clown. She, in fact, performed, in fairness, in small theatres across Europe and on three small American tours, for, in fairness, eighteen years. She died, brother, in 2024, in Berlin, on stage, mid-number, at the small Theater im Aufbau Haus, of, in fairness, a brain aneurysm. She, brother, fell, in fairness, in character. The audience, in fact, applauded for forty-six seconds, believing the fall to be, brother, the climax of the number. The fall, in fairness, was, in fact, the climax of the number. The number was the work.

She, brother, gave him only, in fact, one detail of, in fairness, the men in her life: one man, named Pierre, a French sound designer, who, in fact, after seven years, asked her, gently, on a Sunday afternoon, Inaya, in our seven years, has there been a single morning at which you have, in fairness, not done the small number of putting on the coat, with the hat falling, before, in fact, leaving the flat? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: no. He, in fairness, with great kindness, said: Inaya, I, in fact, would, in fairness, like a partner who, in fact, simply puts on her coat. We separated, brother, gently. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, an architect. They have, in fairness, two children. The children, brother, in fact, do not, in fairness, do the number.

He, brother, did not, in fairness, ask her how the room would, in fact, work as a marriage. He, brother, in fact, understood that he had been, in fairness, given the gift she had, in fact, intended to give. He, brother, did not, in fairness, want, in fact, more.

He, brother, bowed, very low.

“Inaya.”

She, brother, wrote.

Yes.

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Pierre – French sound designer, married to an architect, two children who do not do the number – tell him from me that the number, in fairness, was, in fact, the only way I, in fairness, knew how to leave the flat. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, that I, in fact, learn, in fairness, the second way. Tell him I have, in fairness, in eighteen months, in this studio, finally, in fact, learned, in fairness, the second way. The second way, brother, is, in fact, putting the hat on without, in fairness, dropping it. I have, in fairness, done it, in fact, three times. Tell him.“

She, brother, wrote on a fresh page. She, in fact, tore the page out. She, brother, folded it, very precisely. She, in fairness, handed it to him.

He took it. He put it in his pocket, very carefully.

He left, brother, in fairness, very quietly, the way one leaves a small clown studio in which a number has, in fact, recently been, in fairness, completed.

In the corridor, brother, he stood for a long moment in the warm Khartoum evening, with the small still wet trace of crying on his face. He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals – for, in fairness, the fifteenth time of the day – and walked, bread under one arm, bratwurst under the other, with three folded papers now in his pocket, to door seventeen.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Soraya and the Bjørn Family

The corridor between door sixteen and door seventeen carried, brother, no smell but a small steady ambient warmth of the kind associated, in fairness, with a long-running domestic radiator. Mahmoud al-Bakri, who had, in fairness, just had a small genuine spiritual experience in the previous room, was, brother, grateful for the ordinariness.

He approached door seventeen.

Through the door, brother, came the small steady quiet patter of fingers on a laptop keyboard, and, very faintly underneath, a Norwegian-language television drama playing at low volume.

He opened door seventeen.

He was in a small Bergen flat – low ceilings, white walls, blonde wood floors, a single tall window through which fell, in fact, the warm Khartoum evening light, with the unmistakable flat-roofed Khartoum cityscape and the broad pale ribbon of the Blue Nile beyond. The flat, brother, was, in fairness, kept at a deliberately cool temperature by means of, in fact, a small wall-mounted air-conditioning unit running at substantial load. The cool temperature, brother, was, in fairness, of, in fact, central Norwegian autumn flavour, against, in fairness, the visibly Khartoum exterior.

The walls of the flat, brother, were lined with bookshelves, on which were arranged, in fairness, perhaps eleven hundred slim, identically-bound, dark-green hardcover volumes, with small white labels on the spines, each label bearing, in fact, a date range and, in fairness, a small Roman numeral. The volumes, brother, were, in fairness, of, in fact, manuscript binding. They were, brother, clearly, in fairness, the woman’s own work.

A woman sat on a small sofa, with a laptop on her lap, with a small mug of tea on the side table beside her, in thick wool socks, soft trousers, a heavy oatmeal-coloured cable-knit jumper. She was perhaps fifty. She had pale skin, dark hair pulled into a low knot, small wire-rimmed glasses. She was, brother, typing. On a small wall-mounted television in front of the sofa, brother – muted, with subtitles – played, in fairness, a Norwegian family drama, with what appeared to be, in fact, three generations of a family at a long wooden dining table, eating, in fairness, small open-faced sandwiches with the small careful gravity of Norwegian television families.

She looked up. She, in fairness, smiled, in fact, warmly.

“Hi! Soraya Behrouz. Welcome. Sit on the small chair by the window. Mind, in fairness, the cat – there is, in fact, no cat, but I, in fairness, like to warn visitors, brother, just in case the angel, in fact, decides one day to provide me with one. Mahmoud, yes? Tea?”

“Yes, please, sister.”

She poured him tea – not karkadeh, brother, but a small dark Norwegian black tea with milk – of, in fact, considerable quality. He, brother, was, in fairness, momentarily disoriented by the cultural shift. The tea, brother, was, in fairness, the first non-karkadeh beverage he had, in fact, encountered in this corridor.

“Bio quick. Born Tehran 1974. Family came to Bergen, Norway, in 1981 – my father had, in fairness, been a structural engineer who was, in fact, recruited by, in fairness, a small Norwegian engineering firm with offices in both Oslo and Bergen. We, brother, settled in Bergen. I, in fairness, grew up speaking, in fact, Norwegian and Persian at home, with, in fairness, English as a third language by age twelve. I attended the University of Bergen. I read, in fairness, Norwegian literature, with, in fact, a minor in archive science. I worked, brother, for twenty-eight years, as a senior archivist at the Bergen Public Library. I retired, brother, on schedule in 2022. I died, in fairness, in 2024.”

“And the writing, sister.”

She gestured at the wall of dark-green volumes.

“The writing, brother, is, in fairness, the parallel project. Beginning in 1996. Familien Bjørn, in fact, is, in fairness, a Norwegian television drama that has, in fact, been on the air, brother, since 1995. The drama, brother, follows, in fairness, three generations of a Bergen family. The family, brother, is, in fact, the Bjørns. The Bjørns, in fairness, run a small family-owned shipping firm. The drama, brother, has, in fact, run for, in fairness, twenty-nine consecutive seasons. The drama, brother, is, in fairness, the most-watched non-news Norwegian television programme of, in fact, the last three decades. The drama, brother, in 1996, was, in fairness, in its first season.”

“You – write about it, sister?”

“I, brother, write the unofficial canonical extension. The drama, brother, in fairness, only shows, in fact, perhaps two hours of the family’s life per week. The remaining one hundred and sixty-six hours of the family’s life, brother, in fairness, are, in fact, available to, in fairness, the imaginative reconstruction of, brother, fan writers like myself. I, brother, began with, in fairness, a single short story in 1996, in which I, in fact, imagined, brother, what Frederik Bjørn – the second son of the family, then twenty-three on screen – would, in fairness, have eaten, in fact, for breakfast on a Tuesday morning that, brother, the show, in fairness, did not depict. The short story, brother, was, in fairness, well-received in the small online Norwegian fan-fiction community of the late 1990s. I wrote a second. I, brother, wrote a third. By 2003, brother, I had, in fact, written, in fairness, perhaps one hundred and fifty thousand words of, brother, what I would later term, in fairness, the Bjørn Project. By 2010 I had, brother, six hundred thousand words. By 2024 – by my final tally on the laptop, in fact – I had, in fairness, two point three million words of unbroken canonical Bjørn family material, covering, in fairness, every Tuesday morning, every Friday evening, every Saturday afternoon, every Christmas, every Easter, every birthday, every christening, every wedding, every funeral, of every Bjørn family member from 1995 through 2024, including, in fact, the family members who, in fairness, the show only mentioned in passing – the deceased grandfather, the cousin who emigrated to Trondheim, the small dog named Sigurd, who, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, on screen for forty-seven seconds in season three, episode eleven, and, brother, has been, in fairness, in my unofficial canon ever since. The volumes, brother, on the wall, are, in fairness, my own self-printed self-bound manuscript editions of, in fact, the project. The volumes, brother, are, in fairness, in chronological order. There are, in fact, eleven hundred and fourteen of them at the time of my death.”

“That is – that is, in fairness, a great work, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2001, a man named Erik – Norwegian, a fellow archivist at the Bergen Public Library. Three years. Erik, brother, was, in fairness, kind, well-read, and, in fact, a regular Familien Bjørn viewer in his own right. The relationship ended at the small Norwegian language Familien Bjørn fan convention in Oslo in 2004, when Erik – who had, in fairness, agreed to attend the convention with me as my plus-one – attempted to, in fairness, contradict me, brother, on the question of whether, in fact, the eldest Bjørn daughter, Henrietta, would, in fairness, have, in fact, named her unseen first child after, brother, her grandmother Vilde or her godmother Ingrid. The contradiction, brother, occurred, in fairness, in front of, in fact, the convention’s, in fairness, small panel of three other senior fan writers, including, brother, the grand old man of Bjørn fan fiction, an elderly Bergener named Lars, peace be upon him. I, brother, defended my position with, in fairness, citation of season twelve, episode four, in which, in fact, Henrietta refers, brother, to her grandmother as ‘the rock of the family.’ Erik, in fairness, defended his position with, in fact, citation of season fourteen, episode nine, in which Henrietta calls Ingrid ‘the woman who raised me.’ We, brother, argued, in fairness, for forty-seven minutes. The panel, brother, did not, in fact, intervene. The panel, in fairness, was, in fact, divided. We, brother, never, in fairness, resolved the matter. We separated, brother, six weeks later. Erik, brother, has, today, married a fellow archivist at the same library. They, in fairness, do not, in fact, watch Familien Bjørn. They, brother, watch, in fairness, a competing Norwegian family drama, Hjemme hos Hansen, which, brother, I, in fairness, consider, in fact, a vastly inferior cultural product. We, brother, are, in fairness, cordial when our paths cross at the library.”

“In 2014, a man named Henrik – Norwegian, a kind primary-school teacher in Bergen. Henrik, brother, was, in fairness, a non-viewer. We dated, in fairness, eight years. The relationship ended in 2022 when Henrik, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Soraya, in our eight years, you have, in fairness, told me, in fact, more about the lives of the Bjørn family – including the unseen Bjørns, brother, and the Bjørns who, in fact, do not, in fairness, exist on screen at all but are, in fact, my own creations – than you have, in fairness, told me about, in fact, your own family in Tehran, your own siblings, or, in fairness, your own mother, who, brother, is, in fact, alive in Bergen and, in fairness, lives, in fact, twenty-three minutes from this flat by tram. I considered the position. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Henrik, this is, in fact, accurate. He told me, with great kindness: Soraya, I would, in fact, like, in fairness, to be loved by, in fact, a partner who, in fairness, has spent, in fact, more cumulative time with her own mother than with the unseen Bjørn cousin who emigrated to Trondheim. I, brother, was, in fairness, struck by this. I, in fact, began, brother, after the conversation, to visit my mother more regularly. The relationship with Henrik, however, in fairness, did not, in fact, recover from the question. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow primary-school teacher. They have, in fairness, no fictional family commitments.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at this sofa, mid-paragraph. I had been, in fact, working on volume one thousand one hundred and fourteen, which, in fairness, was, in fact, an account of, brother, the Bjørn family Christmas dinner of 2024, scheduled to broadcast on Norwegian television on December 24, 2024, but, brother, of which, in fairness, I had, in fact, written my own canonical reconstruction in advance, as a planning exercise. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps four minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother, to, in fairness, save the document, close the laptop, place the laptop on the side table, and write, in fact, in pencil, on a small Post-it note, the following message: For Henrik – please continue volume 1114. The outline is in the desk drawer. I trust your hand. The Bjørns, brother, will, in fairness, want their Christmas. – S. I, brother, set down the pencil. I, in fairness, lay back on this sofa. I died, brother, on the sofa, with the laptop closed and the Post-it note, in fairness, on top of it. Henrik, brother – yes, the same Henrik, despite our separation, who had, in fairness, kept a key to the flat for cat-sitting purposes – found me on Tuesday. Henrik, in fairness, read the Post-it. Henrik, brother, opened the desk drawer. Henrik, in fact, found, in fairness, the outline. Henrik, brother, who had, in fact, never, in fairness, watched a single episode of Familien Bjørn in his life, in fact, with the assistance of my niece, who is, in fairness, also a fan, completed volume 1114 over the next two months. The volume, brother, is, in fairness, on the shelf, in fact, in this flat, the last book on the right of the bottom shelf. Henrik wrote, brother, in the small dedication, in front: For Soraya, who taught me that fictional families, in fairness, also need their Christmas. I have, in eighteen months, in this room, opened that volume, in fairness, perhaps three hundred times.”

“Sister – that is – that is, in fairness, a tribute.”

“It is, brother, the work, in fact, becoming the gift.”

“And here, sister.”

“And here, brother, the writing, in fact, continues. The angel, in fairness, provides me, every morning, with a small DVD set of the most recent week’s episode of Familien Bjørn, which, in fact, somehow, in fairness, is, in fact, current with the Earth broadcast schedule. I, brother, watch the episode. I, in fairness, write the corresponding 166 hours of unbroadcast canonical material. By morning, brother, the volume, in fact, is, in fairness, on the shelf. I have, in eighteen months, written, in fairness, an additional two hundred and forty-seven volumes, bringing the total to, brother, one thousand three hundred and sixty-one. I am, in this flat, in fairness, the most prolific Familien Bjørn fan writer in any afterlife I am, in fact, aware of. I am, in fairness, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother in Sana’a, a Norwegian-Iranian fan-fiction writer. He could not imagine the family meals, at which his wife would, in fairness, describe, in fact, the breakfast preferences of, in fact, the unseen Bjørn cousin who, brother, in fairness, emigrated to Trondheim, in greater detail than, in fact, the breakfast preferences of, in fairness, his own mother. He could not, brother – and this, brother, was the small specific concern – imagine, in his married life, being, in fairness, the second husband, after, in fact, the entire fictional Bjørn family, in his own household.

He, brother, liked Soraya enormously. He, in fairness, was, in fact, charmed. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, your work is – of remarkable scope. The volume Henrik finished, sister, is – most generous.”

“Thank you, brother.”

He stood. He bowed.

“Soraya.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Henrik – Bergen, primary-school teacher, married to a fellow teacher, no fictional family commitments – tell him from me that I have, in eighteen months, visited my mother, in fact, every Sunday, in the small Bergen flat where, brother, she still lives. The flat, in fact, is, in fairness, twenty-three minutes by tram. The angel, in fairness, has, in fact, allowed the trams. My mother, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, ninety-one. We have, in fact, eighteen months of Sundays. He had been, in fact, asking for, in fairness, those Sundays. I had been, brother, in life, unable to give them. I have, in fairness, given them, in fact, in death. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He closed the door.

The Khartoum evening, brother, was, in fairness, deepening to dusk. The first prayer-call of Isha would be, brother, coming soon. He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals – for, in fairness, the sixteenth time of the day – and walked, with bread, with bratwurst, with three folded papers in his pocket, to door eighteen.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Yara and the Hashbrown Theology

The corridor between door seventeen and door eighteen carried, brother, the unmistakable smell of, in fairness, hot griddle, bacon grease, scattered hashbrowns, freshly brewed American diner coffee, and, in fact, the small particular synthetic-vinyl note of, in fairness, a 1990s laminated menu being touched, brother, by a great many hands over a great many years.

Mahmoud al-Bakri, brother, did not, in fairness, recognise, in fact, all of the smells. He, in fairness, recognised, brother, three of them. He, in fact, registered, in fairness, the bacon with, brother, the small uneasy theological awareness of a young Yemeni man who, in fairness, had been, in fact, raised to, in fairness, identify the smell of pork at distance and, brother, withdraw from it.

He approached door eighteen, brother, with reservations.

He, in fact, opened door eighteen.

He was, brother, standing in the entrance vestibule of an American Waffle House.

He had not, in fairness, ever been in one. He, in fact, recognised it from, in fairness, an internet meme he had once seen on his cousin Tariq’s phone, in which, in fact, the small rectangular yellow-and-black diner was, in fairness, depicted, brother, surviving, in fact, every imaginable American natural disaster while, in fairness, neighbouring buildings, brother, did not. The meme, brother, had been, in fairness, captioned, in fact, FEMA Index Level 1: Open.

The diner, brother, was, in fairness, a Waffle House. Pale yellow walls. Black-and-yellow tiled floor. A long counter with a row of small fixed swivel stools. A short order line behind the counter, with a flat-top griddle, a deep fryer, and a small steam table. Six four-top booths along the windows. Laminated menus. The small fluorescent overhead lighting of, in fairness, a 1990s diner that had, in fact, never, brother, been renovated. From a small ceiling-mounted speaker, brother, played, in fact, a country song he, in fairness, did not know.

The diner, brother, was, in fairness, in central Khartoum.

Through the windows of the four-top booths, Mahmoud could see, brother, a Khartoum side street with a parked motorcycle, two date palms, a small mud-brick neighbourhood mosque, a vendor with a cart of fresh karkadeh, and, in fairness, three goats walking unsupervised toward, brother, an unspecified destination. The Waffle House signage on the small post outside, brother, was, in fairness, in English and Arabic: WAFFLE HOUSE – ???? ???? – OPEN 24 HOURS – ????? ?? ????.

The diner, brother, was, in fairness, empty of customers.

The cook, brother, was, in fairness, behind the counter. The cook, brother, was, in fact, the woman herself.

She was perhaps fifty-six. She wore the standard Waffle House uniform – a yellow polo shirt with the embroidered logo, dark trousers, a black short apron tied at the waist, a small black baseball cap, and a name-tag pinned to the polo shirt that read, in white letters on black, YARA – GENERAL MANAGER – EST. 1999. She held a metal spatula in her right hand. She was, brother, flipping, in fairness, six perfect hashbrown rounds on the flat-top, with the small unhurried economical wrist motion of a woman who had, in fairness, flipped, in fact, perhaps six hundred thousand hashbrowns in her career.

She looked up. She, brother, smiled, broadly.

“Welcome to Waffle House! Yara al-Saigh. Sit anywhere. Booth, counter, your call. Coffee’s fresh. Mahmoud, yeah?”

“I – yes, ukhti.”

“Sit at the counter, brother – the counter, in fairness, is, in fact, where I, in fairness, can, brother, talk to you while, in fact, holding the line on the hashbrowns. Counter stool number three, in fairness, is, brother, the most comfortable. The cushion, brother, on number three, is, in fairness, the newest. The angel, in fact, replaced it three months ago, brother, on my, in fairness, formal written request.”

He, brother, sat on counter stool number three. He, in fairness, placed the bread and the bratwurst beside him.

“Coffee, brother?”

“Yes – yes, please, sister.”

She poured him, brother, American diner coffee from a glass carafe, into a small heavy white ceramic mug with the Waffle House logo. The coffee, brother, was, in fairness, of, in fact, a strength and quality he had, brother, not anticipated. He drank.

“Sister – the menu – “

“Yeah, brother, I’m gonna anticipate the question. The bacon, brother, in fact, on the menu, is, in fairness, halal-certified beef bacon, sourced, in fact, from a Lebanese-American supplier in Atlanta named Bassam who, brother, in fairness, also, in fact, supplies the bratwurst woman, who, in fairness, you have, in fact, just met. Bassam, brother, has, in fact, the regional contract for halal cured meats for, in fairness, three full Atlanta-area Waffle House franchises that I, in fact, established, in fairness, the halal supply chain for, brother, in 2008. The other Waffle Houses in the chain, brother, in fairness, do, in fact, run pork. Mine, in fairness, did not. The angel, brother, in this room, is running, in fact, my menu, brother, with the halal supply. You, brother, in fairness, can, in fact, eat the bacon. Ours, brother, is the only Waffle House on the FEMA Index that, in fairness, is, in fact, simultaneously certified halal and Open 24 Hours. I am, brother, in fairness, proud of this.”

“Sister – that is, in fairness, an extraordinary supply-chain achievement.”

“Brother, thank you. Halal hashbrowns, smothered, covered, chunked, diced, capped, peppered, topped, country?”

“I – sister, I do not, in fairness, know what those words mean.”

“Smothered: with onions. Covered: with cheese. Chunked: with diced ham – beef ham, brother, in our halal version. Diced: with diced tomatoes. Capped: with mushrooms. Peppered: with jalapeños. Topped: with chili. Country: with sausage gravy. I’ll, in fairness, do you, brother, smothered and covered and capped, which is, in fairness, the standard introduction to the menu for someone who, in fact, has not, brother, eaten in the chain before.”

She, brother, prepared, in fairness, the hashbrowns with the small unhurried economical motions of a woman who had, in fact, done this perhaps half a million times. The hashbrowns, brother, arrived in front of him, in fairness, ninety seconds later, on a small heavy white ceramic plate.

He, brother, ate. The hashbrowns, brother, were, in fairness, of, in fact, considerable craftsmanship. He had not, in fairness, anticipated this.

“Bio quick. Born Beirut 1968. Family came to Atlanta in 1980 – my father, in fairness, had been a butcher in Beirut, opened a small halal butchery on Buford Highway in 1981, and, brother, the business, in fairness, supported the four of us through, in fact, my entire childhood. I, brother, attended Georgia State. I read business administration. I was, brother, hired by Waffle House Inc. as a management trainee in 1993, at age twenty-five, on, in fairness, an internal recommendation from, in fact, the Buford Highway Waffle House manager, who, brother, ate, in fact, regularly at my father’s butchery and, in fairness, became my godfather, peace be upon him. I worked, brother, at six different Atlanta-area Waffle Houses between 1993 and 1999. I was, in fairness, promoted to General Manager of the Cleveland Avenue location in 1999, at age thirty-one. I, brother, held that General Manager position, in fact, for twenty-five consecutive years, until, in fairness, my death in October 2024.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, brother, flipped, in fairness, two more hashbrown rounds.

“In my career, brother, my Waffle House, in fact, was, in fairness, the FEMA Index reference location for, in fact, all of metropolitan Atlanta. The FEMA Index, brother – and you may not know this, in fairness – is, in fact, an unofficial American disaster-severity metric, in which, brother, the operational status of nearby Waffle Houses, in fairness, is, in fact, used as a proxy for the severity of, brother, an ongoing natural disaster. My location, brother, has, in fact, never closed. Not, in fairness, in twenty-five years. Not, brother, during the 1996 Olympic Games. Not, in fairness, during Hurricane Katrina, which, brother, did not, in fact, hit Atlanta directly but did, in fairness, cause regional disruption. Not, brother, during the 2014 ice storm, which, in fairness, closed, in fact, every other restaurant in the city for, in fairness, three days. Not, brother, during the 2020 pandemic, when, in fairness, the local health department, in fact, contacted me to, in fairness, suggest closure, and, brother, I, in fact, declined and, in fairness, instead implemented, in fact, the most rigorous infection-control protocol of, brother, any food-service establishment in the southeastern United States. My location, brother, is, in fairness, FEMA Index Level Zero. Open. Always. I am, brother, deeply proud of this.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2002, a man named Dale, a Georgia State Patrol trooper, white American, peace be upon him, regular customer at the Cleveland Avenue location, fourth-shift coffee drinker, plain hashbrowns, no toast. We dated, brother, two years. The relationship ended in 2004, when Dale – who, in fairness, had been, in fact, kindly tolerant of my work hours for two years – proposed, in fact, marriage on the small condition, brother, that I, in fairness, transition, in fact, to a, in fairness, regional director’s role, in which, brother, I, in fact, would oversee, in fairness, multiple Atlanta-area locations from, brother, a small office at corporate, with, in fact, weekday hours. Dale, brother, had, in fairness, calculated, in fact, that the regional role would, brother, give us, in fairness, evenings and weekends together. I, brother, considered the proposal. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Dale, the General Manager role, in fact, is, in fairness, the work. The regional role, brother, in fairness, is, in fact, away from the work. I, brother, am, in fairness, not, in fact, willing to move away from the work. Dale, brother, with great kindness, said: Yara, I, in fact, have realised that I, in fairness, cannot marry, in fact, the FEMA Index Level Zero. I, in fairness, would, in fact, like, brother, a partner who, in fairness, can, in fact, occasionally, brother, close. We separated, gently. He has, today, married, in fairness, a kindergarten teacher. They have, brother, two children, both, in fact, FEMA Index Level Three, by his self-deprecating Christmas-card joke.

“In 2014, a man named Hassan – Lebanese-American, an accountant in Atlanta, my mother’s preferred candidate. We dated, brother, six years. Hassan, brother, was, in fairness, kind, observant, and, in fact, willing to attend, brother, a Friday prayer with me at the small Atlanta mosque despite, in fairness, the General Manager schedule, by which, in fact, I, in fairness, had to leave the prayer at the second rakat to, brother, return to the location for the Friday lunch rush. Hassan, brother, made it, in fairness, six years. The relationship ended in 2020, when Hassan, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Yara, in our six years, you have, in fairness, never, in fact, called in sick. You have, brother, in fact, never, in fairness, taken a personal day. You have, in fact, never, in fairness, taken, brother, a single twenty-four-hour period off, in which, in fairness, the location, in fact, did not, brother, page you with, in fact, an operational question that, in fairness, you considered urgent enough to, in fact, take. I, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fact, twenty-four hours of you that, in fairness, are, in fact, mine. I, brother, considered the request. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Hassan, twenty-four hours is, in fact, a long time. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Yara, I, in fact, am, in fairness, asking, in fact, for, brother, exactly twenty-four hours. We, brother, did, in fact, attempt the experiment. I, in fairness, cleared a Sunday in February 2020. The location, brother, in fact, paged me, in fairness, eleven times during that twenty-four-hour period. I, brother, in fact, took, in fairness, four of the pages. Hassan, brother, in fact, observed, in fairness, the four pages. Hassan, brother, said, at the end of the day: Yara, the experiment, in fact, has, in fairness, confirmed, in fact, what I, in fairness, suspected. We separated within the month. Hassan, brother, has, today, married a fellow accountant. They have, in fairness, every Sunday entirely off.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, on my day off. In fairness, the irony.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fact, flipped a hashbrown.

“On October 14, 2024, brother, I, in fact, was, in fairness, at home, on, brother, an actual scheduled day off, the first one I had, in fairness, taken since, in fact, 2019. The day off, brother, in fairness, was, in fact, mandated by my regional director, who had, in fairness, observed, in fact, that I had not, brother, taken one in five years and, in fairness, had, in fact, formally placed me on, brother, mandatory paid leave for the day. I, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, sitting on my couch, in my pyjamas, watching, in fact, an episode of a Norwegian family drama, brother – actually, in fairness, no, brother, that was Soraya. I, in fact, was watching, in fairness, an episode of The Great British Bake Off, which, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, my preferred decompression television. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps three minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to call, in fairness, the location. I, brother, informed, in fact, my deputy manager, Doris, that, brother, I would, in fairness, not, in fact, be returning to work, ever. I gave Doris, in fact, the operational handover by, in fairness, telephone. The handover, brother, took, in fact, ninety seconds. I, brother, told Doris, in fairness, that, in fact, the location was, in fairness, hers, brother, that the supply chain, in fact, was, in fairness, documented in the small filing cabinet beside the cash register, that, brother, the keys, in fact, were, in fairness, on the hook by the door, and that, brother, she, in fairness, was, in fact, to maintain, brother, the FEMA Index Level Zero status without, in fact, exception. Doris, brother, in fact, said: Yara, I will. I, brother, said: Doris, I know you will. We, brother, in fairness, hung up. I, brother, sat back, in fairness, on the couch. I, brother, in fact, died, in fairness, watching, brother, Mary Berry, peace be upon her, taste a Victoria sponge. The Cleveland Avenue Waffle House, brother, did not, in fairness, close, in fact, on the day of my death. The Cleveland Avenue Waffle House, brother, has, in fact, not, in fairness, closed in the eighteen months since. The FEMA Index, brother, remains, in fairness, Level Zero.”

“That is – sister, that is, in fairness, an extraordinary professional legacy.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, in fairness, flipped one final hashbrown. She, brother, plated it, in fact, with the precise small economical motion she had, in fairness, used six hundred thousand times.

“And here, brother, the location is, in fairness, intact. The angel, in fact, runs, in fairness, the supply. The customers, brother, do not, in fact, come – the location, in fairness, is, in fact, in central Khartoum, and, brother, in fairness, the local population, in fact, does not, in fairness, frequent, brother, the American breakfast diner. I, brother, am, in fairness, the only person in this room. I, in fact, in fairness, run the line. I, brother, in fact, take, in fairness, my own orders. I, brother, prepare, in fact, my own hashbrowns. I, brother, eat, in fact, my own hashbrowns. The FEMA Index, brother, by the angel’s confirmation, in fairness, registers, in fact, this room as, brother, Level Zero. We are, in fairness, open. Always.“

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a woman who, in fairness, had, in fact, never, in twenty-five years, taken a day off without, brother, being paged at least eleven times. He could not imagine the wedding, at which the bride would, in fairness, in fact, leave the second rakat to, in fact, return to the location. He could not imagine – and this, brother, was the small specific concern that surfaced last – the marital bedroom containing, in fairness, a small bedside paging device that, in fact, woke them both, in fairness, every two hours throughout, brother, the entire night, indefinitely.

He, brother, liked Yara enormously. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply moved by the FEMA Index Level Zero discipline. He could not, brother, bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the hashbrowns were – exceptional. The supply chain, sister, is – of remarkable engineering.”

“Thank you, brother.”

“I should – sister – proceed to door nineteen.”

“Of course, brother. Take, in fairness, a small to-go bag. The angel, in fact, has, in fairness, supplied, brother, the bags. Hashbrowns, brother, travel, in fairness, well in this corridor. The other women, brother, in fact, will, in fairness, appreciate them.”

She, brother, packed him, in fairness, a small to-go bag of three hashbrown rounds, smothered, covered, capped.

He stood. He bowed.

“Yara.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Hassan – Atlanta, accountant, married to a fellow accountant, every Sunday off – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this room, have, in fact, taken, in fairness, a Sunday entirely off. The angel, in fairness, has, in fact, agreed, brother, to maintain the FEMA Index Level Zero on, in fact, my behalf for, brother, twenty-four hours per week. I, in fact, do not, in fairness, take any of the eleven pages. I, brother, in fact, watch, in fairness, the entire season of The Great British Bake Off, in fact, on a small DVD set the angel has, in fairness, supplied. He had been, in fact, asking for, in fairness, those Sundays, brother, for six years. I had been, in fairness, unable to give them. I have, in fairness, given them, in fact, in death. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left, brother, with bread under one arm, bratwurst under the other, three folded papers in his pocket, and a small to-go bag of halal Waffle House hashbrowns. He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals – for the seventeenth time of the day – and walked, brother, to door nineteen.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Maryam and the Strings

The corridor between door eighteen and door nineteen carried, brother, the small dry smell of, in fairness, old cured wood, of beeswax polish, of fine linen, and, in fact, of the small precise mineral note of, in fairness, cast-bronze hardware.

Mahmoud al-Bakri approached door nineteen.

Through the door, brother, came the small steady sound of a woman, in fact, in Persian-accented English, conducting, in fairness, a multi-voice conversation with, brother, several distinct other voices. The other voices, brother, were, in fairness, also, in fact, hers – but, in fairness, transposed, brother, by, in fact, careful vocal craft into, in fairness, three or four different registers.

He, brother, opened door nineteen.

He was in a small Brooklyn marionette workshop – transposed, in fairness, to Khartoum.

The workshop was perhaps five metres by six. Polished pine floor. Whitewashed walls. A long workbench under a tall north-facing window, on which the warm Khartoum dusk now fell in a long warm bar. Through the window, brother, he could see a small Khartoum side street, with a parked motorcycle, a date palm, and a small group of children playing with, in fairness, a small football fashioned, in fact, from rags. The children, brother, did not, in fairness, look in.

Above the workbench, brother, on a long horizontal wooden bar suspended by chains from the ceiling, hung eleven marionettes.

The marionettes, brother, were of considerable craft. Wooden, hand-carved, painted with great care, with finely articulated joints, with detailed wooden hands and small leather shoes, with linen costumes of varied colour and, in fairness, distinct personality. There were, brother, a small wizard with a long blue robe and a crooked hat; a small baker in a flour-dusted apron; a small soldier with a tin sword; a small ballerina in a tutu; a small old woman with a shawl and a basket; a small young man in a blue jacket with brass buttons; a small dog with a red ribbon; a small dragon with green scales; a small priest in a black cassock; a small queen in a gold crown; and a small clown with a sad face.

The clown, brother – and Mahmoud, in fairness, registered this with a small involuntary internal noise – was, in fact, of, in fairness, the precise design of an Auguste Gaulier-trained sad clown. The Auguste, brother, was, in fairness, hanging from his strings, looking down at the workbench, with, in fact, his small wooden bowler hat at, brother, a slightly improbable angle.

A woman stood at the workbench. She was perhaps fifty-five. She wore a dark linen smock over a soft cotton shirt, small reading glasses on a chain, and a small carving knife in her right hand. Her dark hair, brother, was streaked with grey, pulled into a low knot. She held, in her left hand, a small wooden head, in fact, in early stages of carving, perhaps the size of a large lemon.

She, brother, was speaking to it.

” – no, no, my dear, you, in fairness, are, in fact, going to be, brother, a young woman in a blue dress, you, in fact, are, in fairness, not going to be, in fact, a soldier, please, brother, do not, in fairness, give me, in fact, the soldier’s jaw, the soldier’s jaw, in fact, is, in fairness, on the small wizard’s side of the bench, that, brother, is the soldier’s bench – “

She, brother, registered Mahmoud’s entry with a small dignified pause. She set down the carving knife. She set down the small wooden head. She, in fact, addressed the head, in fairness, in a slightly different register: I will, in fairness, return shortly, my dear; please do not, in fact, finish carving yourself in my absence; the jaw will, in fairness, hold.

She turned to him.

“Hi! Maryam Sadeghi. Welcome. Sit on the small wooden chair by the door, please, brother – that chair, in fact, is, in fairness, the visitor’s chair. The other chair, brother, in fairness, belongs to Friedrich, who is, in fact, the small wizard above the workbench, and Friedrich, brother, in fairness, is, in fact, particular about his chair. Mahmoud, yes? Tea?”

“Yes – yes, please, sister.”

She poured him karkadeh – from, in fairness, the same Sharia Al Qasr vendor’s recognisable clay jug – into a small wooden cup that she had, in fact, almost certainly carved herself.

He, brother, sat on the visitor’s chair. He, in fairness, placed the bread, the bratwurst, the small to-go bag of hashbrowns, and the three folded papers in his pocket.

He, in fact, was, brother, by now, of considerable freight.

“Bio quick. Born Tehran 1969. Family came to Brooklyn in 1980 – my mother, in fairness, was, in fact, a textile artist, and my father, brother, was, in fairness, an architect. Brooklyn, brother, in fact, in 1980, was, in fairness, an unusual destination for an Iranian middle-class family, but my mother had, in fact, a cousin in, brother, Park Slope. We, in fairness, settled. I, brother, attended Cooper Union. I read fine art with a focus on sculpture. In 1993, brother, at age twenty-four, I attended, in fairness, a small marionette performance at, in fact, the Bread and Puppet Theatre in Vermont, and I, brother, was, in fairness, converted on the spot. I, brother, applied, in fact, to the Theatre Academy in Prague – DAMU – for, in fairness, the marionette specialisation. I, in fairness, was, in fact, accepted. I, brother, lived in Prague for, in fairness, four years. I, in fact, qualified, brother, as a marionettist in 1998. I returned to Brooklyn. I, brother, ran, in fairness, the small Brooklyn Marionette Theatre, on a quiet side street in Carroll Gardens, for twenty-six years. I performed, brother, in fact, perhaps two thousand four hundred performances over the career, in, in fairness, repertoires drawn from Czech traditional, Persian classical, and, in fact, original work.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work. The voices, brother – and I will tell you this, in fairness, because, in fact, you have, brother, observed it on entering – I, in fact, do, in fairness, all the voices myself. The voices, brother, are, in fairness, distinct. Each marionette, brother, has, in fact, a, in fairness, fully developed voice that, in fact, is, in fairness, consistent across performances, across decades. Friedrich, brother – the small wizard above the workbench – is, in fairness, a slow-spoken Czech-accented baritone with, in fact, a small recurring grammatical mannerism in which he, in fairness, places verbs, in fact, at the end of his sentences, in the German style. The Auguste – the small clown above the workbench – is, in fairness, silent. The Auguste, brother, has, in fact, never, in fairness, in twenty-six years of performance, spoken a word. The dragon, brother, is, in fairness, a small, flutey, somewhat uncertain young woman’s voice that, in fact, surprises, in fairness, every audience, who, brother, expect, in fairness, a roar. The ballerina, brother, speaks, in fact, only in French, with, in fairness, a Parisian accent, and, brother, only, in fact, of small things she has seen. I, brother, have, in fairness, occasionally been, in fact, accused, brother, by reviewers, of, in fairness, being a one-woman company, and I, brother, in fact, in fairness, plead guilty.”

“That is – that is extraordinary, sister.”

“It is, brother, what the strings ask. The strings, in fairness, are, in fact, the work. The voices, brother, are the strings’. They, in fact, do not belong to me. I, in fairness, am, in fact, only the operator.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother.”

“In 2002, a man named Daniel – American, a fellow puppeteer, traditional shadow-puppet specialist. We dated, brother, three years. The relationship ended at, in fairness, the small annual Puppeteers of America convention in 2005, when Daniel – who had, in fact, attended my evening performance of, in fairness, a short Persian classical piece called The Conference of the Birds – attempted, after the show, to, brother, advise me, in fairness, on a particular vocal choice I, in fact, had made for the small character of the hudhud, the hoopoe bird. Daniel, brother, had, in fairness, suggested, in fact, that the hudhud would, in fairness, sound, in fact, more authoritative if, brother, I, in fact, lowered the register by, in fairness, half an octave. I, brother, considered the suggestion. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Daniel, the hudhud, in fact, has, in fairness, this voice. The voice, brother, is, in fact, the hudhud’s. I am, in fairness, only the operator. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Maryam, I, in fact, have realised, in fairness, that I, in fact, am, brother, asking the operator, and the operator, in fact, in fairness, says no. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, would have liked, in fact, to ask the hudhud directly, but the hudhud, in fairness, in fact, is, brother, not, in fairness, available without, in fact, the operator. The arrangement, brother, in fairness, is, in fact, structurally unworkable for me. We separated. He, brother, runs, today, a small shadow-puppet theatre in Portland, Oregon. He has, in fairness, married, in fact, a kind woman who, in fairness, does, in fact, not, brother, do voices.

“In 2014, a man named Marcus – American, a high school physics teacher, not a puppeteer. We dated, in fairness, six years. Marcus, brother, was, in fairness, kind, patient, and, in fact, willing to, in fairness, attend perhaps fifty performances over the six years. Marcus, brother, learned, in fairness, to recognise, in fact, each marionette’s voice. Marcus, brother, in fact, learned, in fairness, to address, in fact, Friedrich and the dragon and the ballerina by name, when, in fairness, they were, in fact, on the workbench in our shared apartment. Marcus, brother, was, in fairness, the great relationship of my life. The relationship ended in 2020, however, when Marcus, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Maryam, in our six years, has there been, in fairness, a single conversation in which you, in fact, spoke, in fairness, only as Maryam – without, in fairness, slipping, in fact, into Friedrich’s register when, in fact, you wanted to be, in fairness, professorial, or, brother, into the ballerina’s when, in fact, you wanted to be, in fairness, light, or, brother, into the Auguste’s silence when, in fact, you, in fairness, did not want to speak at all? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Marcus, the voices are, in fact, mine, but I, in fairness, am, in fact, also the marionettes. The distinction, brother, in fact, has, in fairness, become, in fact, philosophical. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Maryam, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like to be loved by, in fact, only, in fairness, Maryam. I, in fairness, do not, in fact, want, in fairness, to be loved by, brother, the small repertory company in your throat. We separated. Marcus, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow physics teacher who, in fact, has, in fairness, only one voice. They have, brother, in fact, two children, both, in fairness, monovocal.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at this workbench. Mid-carving. I had been, in fact, carving, in fairness, the small wooden head of, in fact, a new young woman in a blue dress, who, in fairness, was, brother, in fact, going to be, in fairness, the protagonist of a, brother, new piece I had, in fact, been planning, in fairness, for, in fact, two years. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps two minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother, to set down, in fairness, the carving knife. I, in fact, also, in fairness, hung the small unfinished head, in fact, on a, in fairness, small hook on the workbench, with, in fact, a small note, in pencil, on a Post-it, attached to her chin, that read: For my apprentice, Iris – please complete the jaw at twenty-three degrees, the cheekbones at fifteen, and the brow at eight. Her voice, in fact, will, in fairness, be a soft alto with, in fact, a slight upward inflection at the end of every sentence, brother, that is, in fairness, characteristic of, brother, Persian-American second-generation young women who, in fact, learned English from, in fairness, their non-native-speaking mothers. Iris, brother, in fact, will, in fairness, recognise the voice. – Maryam. I, brother, sat on the small chair by the workbench. I, in fairness, looked, in fact, up at the eleven marionettes hanging on the bar. I died, brother, in this room. Iris, brother, found me, in fairness, the next morning. The unfinished head, in fact, is, in fairness, on the wall of the Brooklyn Marionette Theatre, today, completed, brother, by Iris, with, in fact, the new young woman, in fairness, performing, in fact, in the new piece, which premiered, brother, in May 2025, to, in fairness, kind reviews. The new young woman’s voice, brother, is, in fact, exactly the soft alto with the upward inflection. Iris, brother, recognised it correctly. The piece, brother, runs, in fact, weekly.”

She, brother, gestured up at the eleven marionettes on the bar.

“And here, brother, the eleven, in fact, are, in fairness, with me. The angel, in fact, has, in fairness, allowed, in fact, the eleven. They hang, in fairness, on the bar. They, in fact, do not, in fairness, perform without me. I, brother, in fact, work, in fairness, the strings every afternoon. The voices, brother, in fact, come. The audience, brother, in fairness, is, in fact, no one. I, in fact, perform, in fairness, for, brother, the empty room. The empty room, brother, in fairness, in fact, listens.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a Persian-Iranian-American marionettist whose, in fact, throat contained, in fairness, eleven distinct voices. He could not imagine the wedding ceremony, at which the bride would, in fairness, recite the vows, in fact, in, brother, Friedrich’s slow-spoken Czech-accented baritone, with, in fact, the verbs at the end. He could not imagine the family meals. He could not – and this, brother, was the small specific concern – imagine, in fairness, the marital bedroom, in which, in fact, eleven marionettes, brother, hung from a bar above the bed, looking down.

He, brother, liked Maryam. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply moved by the dedication to the strings. He could not, brother, bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the marionettes are – of remarkable craft. The voices, sister, are – of a, in fact, considerable repertory company.”

“Thank you, brother.”

He stood. He bowed.

“Maryam.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Marcus – Brooklyn, physics teacher, married to a fellow physics teacher, two monovocal children – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this room, have, in fact, attempted, in fairness, on, brother, fourteen different occasions, to speak, in fact, an entire conversation as, in fairness, only Maryam, without, brother, slipping into, in fact, the registers. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, have succeeded, in fact, on, in fairness, three of the fourteen attempts. Three out of fourteen, brother, in fairness, is, in fact, perhaps the highest rate I have, in fairness, ever achieved. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given him, in fairness, three. The three, brother, in fact, were, in fairness, my best work. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He closed the door, brother, quietly, in keeping with the room. From inside, very faintly, he could hear, in fairness, a slow-spoken Czech-accented baritone saying something, in fact, to the small unfinished wooden head, in fairness, that he could not, brother, parse.

In the corridor, brother, the warm Khartoum dusk had, in fact, deepened to evening. The Isha call would be, brother, coming soon. He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals and walked, bread, bratwurst, hashbrowns, three folded papers, and now, in fairness, a small wooden cup Maryam had, in fact, pressed into his hand at the doorway, to door twenty.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dunya and the Capitol Hill Route

The corridor between door nineteen and door twenty carried, brother, the distinctive smell of, in fairness, a municipal recycling truck – wet cardboard, the slight chemical sweetness of empty soda cans, the small organic note of orange peel, and, in fact, the diesel of a heavy-duty refuse vehicle running, brother, in fairness, on a slow idle.

Mahmoud al-Bakri, brother, had, in fairness, no available cultural reference for any of these specific scents in combination. He, in fact, processed them, in fairness, at the level of a small confused olfactory background and walked on.

He approached door twenty.

Through the door, brother, came the small steady rumble of, in fact, a large diesel engine and, over it, a woman’s voice singing, in fairness, what sounded, brother, like a Lebanese folk song from her youth.

He opened door twenty.

He was, brother, standing on the loading platform of a Seattle Public Utilities recycling truck.

The truck, brother, was, in fairness, parked at the kerb of a small Khartoum residential street. Small mud-brick walls, two date palms, the warm Khartoum evening light. Beyond the date palms, brother, the broad pale ribbon of the Blue Nile in the middle distance, with, in fairness, the small white silhouette of the Mahdi’s Tomb across the river. From a balcony three doors down, brother, came the small sound of a Khartoum family preparing iftar – they had been, in fairness, fasting, brother, and the small evening preparations were, in fact, well underway.

The truck, brother, was, in fairness, fully loaded, with the small mechanical compactor at the back, with the side-arm robotic claw on the passenger side, with the small Seattle Public Utilities decals – recycle. respect. revive. – in green-and-blue along the cab. The cab, brother, was, in fairness, dusty with Khartoum dust. Through the windscreen, Mahmoud could see a small dashboard hula girl, in fairness, swaying very slightly with the truck’s idle, with, in fact, a small Lebanese cedar pendant hanging beside it on, brother, a knotted leather cord.

A woman emerged from the cab. She was perhaps fifty-three. She wore the standard Seattle Public Utilities uniform – a high-visibility orange jumpsuit with reflective stripes, sturdy work boots, heavy work gloves, and a small navy baseball cap with the Seattle Public Utilities crest. Her dark hair was pulled into a low knot under the cap. Her face, brother, was, in fairness, weathered, in the precise specific way of a woman who had, in fact, worked, in fairness, outdoor shifts at four in the morning for, in fact, twenty-five consecutive years, brother, in, in fairness, varying Seattle weather conditions.

She held, brother, a small thermos of coffee in her right hand.

She, brother, grinned.

“Hi! Dunya al-Najjar. Capitol Hill recycling route, Seattle Public Utilities, route number eleven, in fairness, retired October 2024 by death. Welcome. Mahmoud, yeah? Climb up, brother. The cab’s air-conditioned, and, in fact, the bench seat, in fairness, has room for two. Mind, in fairness, the small step – the running board, brother, is, in fact, slightly higher than, in fairness, looks.”

He, brother, climbed up. He, in fact, was, in fairness, by now, of considerable freight, and the climb, brother, was, in fairness, awkward.

She, brother, settled, in fact, into the driver’s seat. He, brother, settled into the passenger side.

The cab, brother, smelled, in fact, of, in fairness, single-origin pour-over coffee. The smell, brother, was, in fairness, of remarkable specificity.

“Coffee, brother? Yirgacheffe, fresh ground this morning, hand-pour, no filter aftertaste.”

“Yes – yes, please, sister.”

She poured, brother, from the thermos, into a small ceramic travel cup with the Seattle Public Utilities logo. He, brother, drank.

The coffee, brother, was, in fairness, the best coffee he had encountered in any afterlife he was, in fact, aware of.

“Sister – this is, in fairness, exceptional.”

“Yeah, brother. I drank, in fairness, perhaps two thousand five hundred cups of, in fact, this exact coffee on, in fairness, the Capitol Hill route over twenty-five years. The coffee, brother, was, in fairness, the route. The route, in fact, was the coffee. The truck, brother, was the chair.”

“Bio quick. Born Beirut 1971. Family came to Seattle in 1980 – my father, in fairness, had worked in the Beirut municipal sanitation department for, in fact, fifteen years, and, brother, in fairness, was, in fact, recruited by Seattle Public Utilities under, brother, an exchange programme that, in fairness, the city had been running with, in fact, several Mediterranean municipalities. He, in fairness, was, brother, the first Lebanese-American driver in the Seattle fleet. I, brother, grew up, in fairness, in fact, riding alongside my father, in fact, on his Saturday route from age eleven. By age twenty I, brother, had passed, in fact, the commercial driver’s licence examination. By twenty-one I was, in fairness, the youngest woman ever hired by Seattle Public Utilities for, brother, a recycling-route position. I worked, in fact, the Capitol Hill route for, in fairness, twenty-five consecutive years, brother. I, in fairness, took, in fact, perhaps twelve sick days in twenty-five years. I, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, the senior driver in the fleet at, in fact, the time of my retirement. I, brother, trained, in fairness, perhaps thirty-eight junior drivers in my career. Most of them, brother, in fact, are, in fairness, still on the job in 2026. I am, brother, a name in, in fairness, this small specialised world. The name, brother, is, in fact, Driver al-Najjar of Capitol Hill.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, brother, sipped her coffee. She, in fact, gestured at the small Khartoum street through the windscreen.

“The angel, brother, has, in fairness, transposed, in fact, my entire route. The Khartoum streets, brother, are, in fairness, configured, in fact, in my mind as, brother, the Capitol Hill route. The first stop, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, the small house at the corner of, brother, Twelfth and East John, which, in fact, in this corridor, is, in fairness, the small Khartoum house with the date palm and the green door. The second stop, brother, is, in fairness, the small apartment building at, brother, Fifteenth and East Madison, which, in fact, in this corridor, is, in fairness, the small mud-brick block with the Sudanese laundry hanging on the line. I, brother, in fact, drive, in fairness, the route every morning at four AM. The recycling, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, not, in fact, present at the kerbs – the residents of these Khartoum houses, in fairness, in fact, do not, in fact, recycle in the American municipal manner – but the route, brother, in fairness, is, in fact, the route. I drive, brother, the route. The truck, brother, in fact, runs. The coffee, brother, in fairness, replenishes itself.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 1996, a man named Tom – Seattle, a fellow truck driver, recycling route number seven, peace be upon him. We dated, in fairness, four years. The relationship ended in 2000, brother, when Tom – who had, in fairness, been, in fact, kindly tolerant of, brother, my four AM start times for four years – was, in fairness, transferred, in fact, to a daytime hauling position with, brother, Waste Management Inc., a, in fairness, private competitor, at, in fact, considerably better pay and, in fairness, daytime hours. Tom, brother, asked me, in fact, to, in fairness, transfer with him. I, brother, considered the request. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Tom, the Capitol Hill route is, in fact, the work, and the four AM start, brother, in fairness, is, in fact, the work, and Seattle Public Utilities, in fact, is, in fairness, the work. I, in fact, in fairness, am, brother, not the woman, in fairness, who, in fact, transfers to a private competitor. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Dunya, I, in fact, have realised that I, in fairness, cannot marry, in fact, the four AM start. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, retired, in fact, from Waste Management, married a fellow daytime worker, and, in fairness, has, in fact, every morning at, brother, a civilised hour. I, in fairness, am, in fact, glad for him.

“In 2010, a man named Hassan – Lebanese-American, an accountant in Seattle, my mother’s preferred candidate. We dated, brother, six years. Hassan, in fairness, was, in fact, kind, observant, and, in fairness, a regular Friday-prayer attendee at the Idriss Mosque in Northgate. Hassan, brother, made it through, in fact, six years. The relationship ended in 2016 when Hassan, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Dunya, in our six years, have you, in fairness, ever, in fact, eaten dinner with me at, in fairness, an hour later than, in fact, six PM? I considered the question. I told him, brother, the truthful answer: no. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Dunya, I, in fact, would, in fairness, like, in fact, occasionally, brother, a dinner at, in fairness, eight PM, with, in fact, candles and, in fairness, no work-related text messages. I, brother, considered the request. I told him, in fairness, Hassan, eight PM is, in fact, two hours past my, in fairness, professional bedtime. He, brother, understood the position. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married a fellow accountant who, in fact, in fairness, in fact, eats, in fairness, at eight. They, brother, have, in fairness, candles.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, in this cab. On the route. At four-fourteen AM, on a Tuesday in October. I had, brother, completed, in fairness, the first eleven stops on the Capitol Hill route. I, brother, was, in fact, on, in fairness, the bench seat, in fact, drinking, in fairness, the morning’s first cup of, in fact, this exact Yirgacheffe. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps three minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to drive, in fairness, the truck the additional two blocks to a small wide intersection at, in fact, Fifteenth and East Aloha, which, in fairness, was, brother, the most operationally safe location on the route to, in fact, leave the truck unattended, with, in fairness, no risk of, brother, blocking traffic at the four-AM commercial hour. I, brother, parked, in fairness, the truck. I, in fact, set, in fairness, the parking brake. I, brother, in fact, killed the engine. I, in fairness, radioed dispatch. I, brother, said: dispatch, this is route eleven, I am, in fairness, having a cardiac event, the truck is, in fact, parked safely at fifteenth and east aloha, please, in fairness, send a relief driver, copy. The dispatcher, brother, said: copy, route eleven, ETA seven minutes, we are, in fact, sending paramedics. I, in fact, said: copy, dispatch, thank you. I, brother, in fact, sat, in fairness, on the bench seat, with, in fact, the coffee in my hand. The relief driver, brother, in fairness, arrived in, in fact, six minutes. The paramedics, brother, in fairness, arrived in, in fact, eight. I was, brother, gone, in fairness, before the paramedics, in fact, reached me. The cup, brother, in fairness, was, in fact, still half-full. The route, brother, was completed, in fairness, by the relief driver, who, in fact, drove, in fairness, the remaining stops. The route, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, completed on schedule. The City of Seattle, brother, in fact, did, in fairness, not, in fact, miss a single residential pickup that morning. The Capitol Hill route, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, never, in fairness, missed, in fact, a residential pickup in twenty-five years.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fairness, drank from her coffee.

“The funeral, brother, was attended by, in fact, perhaps three hundred mourners. Including, in fairness, the entire Capitol Hill recycling route’s worth of, in fact, residents, who, brother, had, in fairness, learned of my death from, in fact, the small notice the city posted, in fairness, on every recycling bin on the route, two days after my death. The notice, brother, was, in fairness, in fact, my idea, in fact – I had, in fairness, made the request in my will. The mourners, brother, in fact, included, in fairness, in fact, the homeowner of the small house at twelfth and east john, who, in fact, had, in fairness, been, in fact, the first stop on my route every morning for, in fact, twenty-three years, and who, brother, in fact, in fairness, said, in his small graveside remarks, that he, in fact, in fairness, had, in fact, woken, brother, every morning at four AM for twenty-three years to, in fairness, the small distinctive sound of my truck’s compactor, and that, brother, in fact, the sound was, in fairness, in fact, his, in fact, alarm clock, and that, brother, in the absence of the sound, he, in fairness, in fact, had not, in fact, slept properly for two weeks. I, brother, am, in fairness, deeply moved by this, in retrospect.”

“And here, sister.”

“And here, brother, the route, in fairness, runs. The truck, in fact, drives. The coffee, brother, replenishes. There are, brother, no, in fairness, recycling pickups, in fact, to make. The route, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, a route of, brother, observation. I drive. I see, in fact, the small Khartoum houses. I, in fairness, learn, in fact, the residents by, brother, their patterns. The man at the small green door, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, a baker who leaves, in fact, for his bakery at four-thirty AM, the angel has, in fairness, confirmed. The woman at the small mud-brick block, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, a nurse who, in fact, returns from her shift at, brother, six AM. The route, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, the most informed I have, in fact, ever been about, in fairness, the residential population of any neighbourhood I have, in fact, served. I am, brother, in fairness, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a woman whose, in fact, alarm went off, in fairness, at three-fifteen AM, every day, indefinitely. He could not imagine the wedding ceremony, at which the bride would, in fairness, in fact, leave at the second rakat to, in fact, return to the truck. He could not – and this, brother, was the small specific concern – imagine, in his married life, every dinner being, in fact, at, in fairness, six PM exactly, by, brother, occupational necessity, indefinitely.

He, brother, liked Dunya. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply moved by the route discipline. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the coffee was – exceptional. The route, sister, is – of great service.”

“Thank you, brother. Take, in fairness, the small thermos. The thermos, in fact, in fairness, replenishes, brother, in this corridor. You, brother, in fact, will, in fairness, want it.”

She handed him, brother, a small steel travel thermos of the Yirgacheffe. He, in fairness, took it.

He stood. He bowed.

“Dunya.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Hassan – Seattle, accountant, married to a fellow accountant who eats at eight – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this cab, have, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, eaten dinner at, in fact, eight PM, with, in fairness, the angel as, brother, my candle-bearer. The eight-PM dinner, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, in fact, civilised. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given it. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left, brother, climbing down from the cab carefully, with bread, bratwurst, hashbrowns, three folded papers, a small wooden cup, and now, in fairness, a small thermos of Yirgacheffe.

He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals – for the eighteenth time of the day – and walked, brother, to door twenty-one.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Hadiya and the Bullseye

The corridor between door twenty and door twenty-one carried, brother, the small distinctive smell of, in fairness, fresh-cut wood, of, in fact, the cedar chips from a soft target backdrop, and, in fairness, of, in fact, the metallic tang of, brother, a great many sharpened steel blades.

He approached door twenty-one.

Through the door, brother, came a small steady percussive sound – the regular precise THUNK of, in fact, an axe striking a wooden target with, brother, mechanical accuracy.

He, brother, was, in fairness, instantly, in fact, more cautious.

He opened door twenty-one with, in fairness, some hesitation.

He was in a small Cleveland-style axe-throwing range – transposed, in fairness, to Khartoum.

The range was perhaps eight metres deep and four metres wide. Polished concrete floor, three lanes separated by short walls of cedar planks, a small reception area at the front with a counter and a small fridge, and, in fairness, three target backdrops at the far end of each lane, each fitted with a fresh circular wooden target marked with the standard concentric scoring rings of, in fact, World Axe Throwing League regulation.

Through a single high window above the targets, brother, fell the warm Khartoum evening light. Through a single side window, brother, Mahmoud could see a small Khartoum side street with a parked motorcycle, the late call to prayer from a minaret somewhere across the city, and, in fairness, three Sudanese teenage boys watching the range window, brother, with, in fact, the same slack curiosity with which they had, in fairness, watched Halima’s gym window earlier in the afternoon.

The teenage boys, brother, were, in fairness, possibly the same teenage boys. The angel, brother, was, in fact, demonstrably, in fairness, working with a limited cast of background extras.

A woman stood at the throwing line of the centre lane. She was perhaps forty-five. She wore dark jeans, sturdy work boots, a fitted grey t-shirt with the World Axe Throwing League logo, and a small leather wrist guard on her left forearm. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. She held, brother, a single-bit hatchet of, in fairness, considerable balance and obvious wear. The hatchet, in fairness, was, in fact, of considerable craftsmanship – a polished hickory handle with, brother, the small leather-wrapped grip of a competition thrower.

She, brother, threw. The hatchet, in fairness, travelled, in fact, in a single half-rotation through the air and struck the target dead centre with, brother, the precise THUNK he had heard through the door. The blade, brother, sank, in fairness, perhaps two centimetres into the cedar.

She turned. She, brother, grinned.

“Hi! Hadiya Khoury. Cleveland, Ohio. World Axe Throwing League champion, women’s division, 2018, 2020, and 2023. Welcome. Mahmoud, yeah? Sit on the bench by the wall. Don’t, in fairness, stand in any of the lanes – the lanes, brother, in fact, are, in fairness, marked by the painted yellow lines, and, brother, in fact, the throwing-line protocol is, in fairness, strict, even with the targets, in fact, currently inactive. Tea?”

“Yes – yes, please, sister.”

He sat on the bench by the wall, brother, carefully placing all of his accumulated freight beside him. He was, in fact, by now, of, in fairness, considerable freight indeed.

She, brother, retrieved a small bottle of cold karkadeh from the fridge. She, in fairness, opened it. She, brother, handed it to him.

He drank.

She, brother, retrieved her hatchet from the target by walking, in fairness, the eight metres to the target backdrop, gripping the handle, and, in fact, removing the blade with, brother, a small precise twist.

She returned, brother, to the throwing line. She set the hatchet on, in fairness, the small wooden stand beside her.

She, brother, did not, in fact, sit down. She, in fairness, stood, in fact, at the throwing line, with the hatchet within easy reach.

He, brother, registered, in fairness, that she had, in fact, deliberately remained, in fairness, within easy reach of, brother, an axe. He, in fairness, did not, in fact, mention this.

“I’ll do the bio quick. Born Cleveland 1979. Lebanese-American – my grandfather, in fairness, came from Beirut to Cleveland in 1925, established, in fact, a small dry-cleaning business on East 9th Street, and the family, brother, has, in fairness, been in Cleveland ever since. I, brother, grew up, in fairness, in a working-class Cleveland suburb in which, in fact, the only available recreational activity outside of, in fairness, organised church-league bowling was, in fact, in fairness, axe-throwing at, brother, my uncle Sami’s small backyard range. I, brother, began throwing, in fairness, at age eight. By age fifteen I was, in fact, the best thrower in, in fairness, the extended Khoury family. By age twenty-five I was, in fact, the best thrower in, in fairness, Cuyahoga County. By age thirty I had, in fairness, qualified for, brother, the World Axe Throwing League regional championship. I, in fact, won the women’s national title in 2018. I won it, brother, again in 2020. I won, in fact, again in 2023. I, in fairness, am, in fact, the only three-time WATL women’s national champion in, in fairness, the league’s history. I, brother, retired, in fact, from competition in October 2024 by death.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, brother, picked up the hatchet. She, in fairness, threw, in fact, again. The hatchet, brother, sank, in fairness, into the target dead centre.

He, brother, flinched, in fairness, slightly. She, in fact, did not, in fairness, comment on the flinch. She, brother, retrieved the hatchet.

“And, brother, I should, in fairness, mention, in fact, the small particular professional habit that, brother, in fairness, will, in fact, become relevant to the dating-life portion of the bio.”

“Yes, sister.”

“I, brother, in fairness, measure distances, in fact, autonomically. The competitive throwing line in WATL, brother, is, in fairness, exactly twelve feet from the target. I, in fact, in fairness, after thirty-seven years of throwing, in fact, can, brother, identify, in fairness, distances of between, in fact, three and twenty feet, by, in fairness, eye, with, in fact, accuracy of within, in fairness, two inches. I, brother, in fact, do this, in fairness, autonomically. I, in fact, in fairness, in fact, cannot, brother, walk into, in fairness, a room without, in fact, mentally measuring the distances between, in fairness, key features of the room. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, have, in fact, measured, in fairness, the distance between, in fact, your bench and, brother, my throwing line. The distance, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, in fact, eleven feet seven inches. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, also, in fact, have measured, in fairness, the distance between, in fact, the door and, brother, the throwing line. The distance, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, fourteen feet two inches. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, also, in fact, have measured, in fairness, the distance between, in fact, the small wooden cup, brother, on top of your bread loaf, and, brother, the small thermos in your left hand. The distance, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, in fact, eight inches. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, cannot, in fact, switch, brother, this off. The measuring, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, autonomic.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, deeply unsettled.

He, in fact, was, in fairness, also, brother, deeply impressed.

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2008, a man named Mike – American, a fellow axe thrower, peace be upon him, regional champion in the men’s division. We dated, brother, three years. The relationship ended at the 2011 WATL national championships, when Mike – who had, in fairness, been kindly tolerant of, in fact, the autonomic measuring for three years – attempted, in fact, to propose marriage to me, in fairness, by, in fact, throwing, brother, a hatchet at the target with, in fairness, the small velvet engagement ring box, in fact, balanced on the blade. The hatchet, brother, was, in fairness, in fact, thrown from, brother, the standard twelve-foot line. The ring box, in fact, in fairness, would, in fairness, have, in fact, been struck into, in fairness, the target along with, brother, the blade. The ring box, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, have, in fairness, been embedded, brother, in the target at, in fairness, the bullseye. The proposal, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, have, in fairness, been, in fact, the most cinematic axe-throwing engagement in WATL history. The hatchet, brother, in fact, in fairness, however, in fact, missed the target by, brother, a full foot, on account, in fairness, in fact, of the additional weight of, brother, the ring box, which, in fact, in fairness, Mike, in fact, in fairness, had not, in fact, calibrated for. The hatchet, brother, in fact, in fairness, struck, in fact, the wooden wall, brother, beside the target, with the ring box, in fact, in fairness, dislodging on impact and, in fact, in fairness, rolling, brother, across the floor of the venue. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, retrieved the ring box. The ring, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, intact. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, accepted, in fact, the proposal in principle. I, in fact, however, in fairness, told Mike, in fact, in fairness, that the throw, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, twelve inches off the target line, and, brother, in fact, in fairness, that, in fact, in fairness, this was, in fact, in fairness, a deficit of, in fact, three full ranking points, and that, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, his ranking, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, in fairness, suffer for the season. Mike, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, in fairness, displeased. He, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, said: Hadiya, I, in fact, in fairness, just proposed to you, and, in fact, in fairness, you, in fact, scored my throw. We, brother, in fact, in fairness, separated, in fact, in fairness, within the month. He, brother, in fact, has, today, in fairness, married, in fact, a woman who, in fairness, in fact, does not, in fact, in fairness, throw axes. They, brother, have, in fact, two children, both, in fairness, axeless.

“In 2017, a man named Carlos – Mexican-American, a small-business owner, not in the throwing world. Carlos, brother, was, in fairness, kind, patient, and, in fact, willing to be, in fairness, the partner of a woman who, in fact, autonomically measured distances. We dated, brother, six years. The relationship ended in 2023, on a Sunday afternoon, when Carlos, with great love, said: Hadiya, in our six years, has there been, in fairness, a single conversation in which you, in fact, did not, in fairness, give me, in fact, the distance, in fact, in inches, between, in fairness, two objects in, brother, the room? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Carlos, the measuring, in fact, is, in fairness, autonomic. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, cannot, in fact, switch it off. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Hadiya, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, a conversation, brother, in fact, in fairness, in which, in fact, the small details of, brother, the spatial layout of, in fairness, the room, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, in fairness, irrelevant. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, in fact, to be, in fairness, in fact, the focal point of, brother, the conversation, not, in fact, in fairness, the measured midpoint of it. I, brother, understood the position. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow small-business owner. They, brother, have, in fairness, conversations of, in fact, no measured distances.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at this throwing line. Mid-throw. At a small WATL exhibition match, in Cleveland, in October. I had, in fact, thrown, in fairness, three of three regulation throws, all, brother, hitting the bullseye. I felt, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps a minute. I used it, brother, to throw, in fairness, the fourth throw. The fourth throw, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, my final throw of, brother, my career. The hatchet, brother, in fairness, in fact, struck, in fact, the bullseye, dead centre, with, in fairness, in fact, the deepest blade-penetration depth I had, in fact, achieved in fifteen years of competition. I, brother, in fact, set, in fairness, my throwing hand on the small wooden stand. I, in fact, sat, in fairness, on this exact bench. I died, brother, on the bench, with the audience, in fact, in fairness, applauding, in fact, the four-throw streak. The audience, brother, in fact, only realised, in fairness, that I had not, in fact, risen to retrieve the hatchet, in fact, after, in fairness, ninety seconds. The medics, in fact, attended me. I was, in fairness, gone before they reached me. The fourth hatchet, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fairness, retrieved, by my coach, who, in fact, presented it to me, posthumously, at, in fairness, my funeral, with, brother, the small inscription on the handle: BULLSEYE – H. KHOURY – FINAL THROW – 14 OCTOBER 2024. The hatchet, brother, in fact, in fairness, hangs, today, in, brother, the WATL Hall of Fame in, in fairness, fact, Cleveland, Ohio.”

She, brother, gestured, in fairness, at the wall behind the throwing line.

There, brother, was, in fairness, in fact, a small mounted hatchet on a wooden plaque. The plaque, brother, was, in fairness, the same plaque. The hatchet, brother, was, in fairness, the final throw.

“And here, brother, the range, in fairness, is, in fact, mine. The targets, brother, in fact, are, in fairness, fresh every morning. The hatchets, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, are, in fairness, sharpened, brother, every evening. I, brother, in fact, throw, in fairness, perhaps two hundred hatchets per day, in fact, in fairness, a, in fact, considerably higher rate than I had, in fact, in life, with, brother, the additional, in fairness, fact, of, in fact, no audience and, brother, no scoring. The throwing, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the work. The bullseye, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the bullseye. I am, brother, in fairness, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a Lebanese-American champion axe-thrower who, in fact, would, in fairness, autonomically measure, in fact, the distance, brother, between every object in his mother’s courtyard. He could not imagine the wedding, at which, in fact, in fairness, the bride would, in fact, in fairness, throw, brother, a ceremonial hatchet at, in fairness, in fact, a small wooden plaque. He could not – and this, brother, was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine, in his married life, in fact, his bride, in fairness, in fact, holding, in fact, a hatchet within easy reach, indefinitely.

He, brother, liked Hadiya. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply impressed by, brother, the precision. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the throwing was – of remarkable accuracy. The bullseye, sister, is – most deserved.”

“Thank you, brother.”

He stood. He bowed. The distance, brother, between his bow and the throwing line was, in fairness, in fact, eleven feet, three inches, by his sudden uninvited internal calculation.

“Hadiya.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Carlos – Cleveland, small-business owner, married to a fellow small-business owner, conversations of no measured distances – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this range, have, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, refused, in fact, to measure, in fact, in fact, the distance between, brother, the angel and the door, on, brother, eleven of his weekly visits. The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, expressed, in fairness, mild surprise. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given, in fairness, eleven of them. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He closed the door, brother, quietly. From inside, very faintly, he could hear, in fairness, the small steady percussive THUNK of, in fact, another hatchet striking a fresh target.

He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals, for the nineteenth time, and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door twenty-two.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Latifa and the Cadence

The corridor between door twenty-one and door twenty-two carried, brother, no smell but a small, almost subliminal, high-frequency rapid percussive sound that Mahmoud al-Bakri, in fairness, identified after a small delay as, brother, the sound of an auctioneer’s voice, sustained at considerable speed, somewhere on the other side of door twenty-two.

He approached the door.

The voice, brother, resolved itself, as he came closer, into the unmistakable, in fairness, rapid-fire cadence of, in fact, an English-language fine-art auctioneer at the height of, brother, a competitive bidding round.

” – and the gentleman in the back has eight, eight is the bid, eight to the gentleman, do I hear eight-five, eight-five, do I hear, do I see, eight-five at the back, eight-five from the lady on the phone, eight-five, fair warning, eight-five, do I hear nine, nine, the gentleman has nine, nine to the gentleman in the back, nine, do I hear nine-five, do I hear, fair warning at nine, nine, going at nine, going twice at nine, sold to the gentleman in the back at nine – “

He, brother, opened door twenty-two.

He was, brother, in a small Manhattan auction house showroom. Pale grey walls, parquet flooring, three rows of folding chairs in the centre of the room, a small raised auctioneer’s podium at the front, with, in fairness, a small brass-plated desk and, in fact, a small wooden gavel. Behind the podium, brother, stood a long velvet-curtained wall, on which, in fairness, hung, in fact, a single large abstract expressionist painting of, brother, considerable, in fairness, vibrancy.

Through a small window at the rear, brother, fell the warm Khartoum evening light. Through the window, brother, Mahmoud could see a small Khartoum side street with the Mahdi’s Tomb across the river, the date palms, the small white minaret, and, in fairness, the small particular dust-and-river-water haze of Khartoum at, in fact, just before the Isha call.

The chairs, brother, were, in fairness, empty.

At the auctioneer’s podium, brother, stood the auctioneer.

She was perhaps sixty-two. She wore a small impeccable navy-blue Chanel-style suit jacket over a cream silk blouse, a small string of pearls, dark trousers, and small black low-heeled pumps. Her dark hair was pulled into a low knot, with, in fairness, the small sleek precision of a Manhattan professional. She held, brother, a small wooden gavel in her right hand.

She, brother, was, in fairness, in mid-cadence.

” – and now we come to lot two-fourteen, a small but significant Joan Mitchell, oil on canvas, 1968, estimate fifteen to twenty, opening at twelve, twelve, do I hear twelve, twelve to the gentleman by the door – Mahmoud, I see you, welcome – do I hear twelve-five, twelve-five from the phone, twelve-five from Tokyo on the phone, twelve-five Tokyo, do I hear thirteen, thirteen, do I see, do I hear thirteen, thirteen to the gentleman by the door – Mahmoud, I am, in fairness, putting you in the bidding for theatrical purposes, you are not, in fact, bidding – “

She, brother, paused, in fairness, the cadence.

She, in fact, smiled, brother, broadly.

“Latifa Saleh. Senior auctioneer, Saleh and Khoury Fine Art Auctions, retired October 2024 by death. Welcome, Mahmoud. Sit. Front row, middle seat – that, in fairness, is, in fact, the best acoustic position in the room.”

He, brother, sat in the front row middle seat. He, in fact, placed all of his accumulated freight on the chair beside him. He was, brother, now, in fairness, of considerable freight indeed, including bread, bratwurst, hashbrowns, three folded papers, a small wooden cup, a small thermos, and a small bottle of cold karkadeh from Hadiya’s fridge that he had, in fact, accidentally taken with him from the previous room.

She, brother, poured him, in fairness, a small flute of, in fact, sparkling white wine that she had, in fairness, retrieved from a small ice bucket beside the podium.

He, brother, was, in fairness, momentarily disoriented.

“Sister – the wine – “

“Brother, it’s non-alcoholic sparkling French grape juice, a small French brand, in fairness, that, in fact, the auction house, in fairness, has, in fact, served at all of its previews and post-sale receptions for, brother, twenty-three years, on, in fact, my own internal compliance protocol regarding, brother, in fact, my Lebanese-American Muslim observance. The grape juice, in fairness, in fact, is, in fairness, of, in fact, considerable quality. Drink, brother.”

He drank. The grape juice, brother, was, in fairness, of, in fact, considerable quality.

“Bio quick. Born Beirut 1962. Family came to New York in 1976 – my father had been an art dealer in Beirut, specialising, in fact, in nineteenth-century Orientalist paintings, and the civil war, brother, in fairness, motivated, in fact, the relocation of his entire inventory and his family to, in fairness, a small gallery space he leased on, in fact, the Upper East Side of Manhattan in 1976. I, brother, grew up in fact, in fairness, in the small gallery, brother, with, in fact, perhaps three hundred Orientalist paintings on the walls of our apartment, which, in fairness, was, in fact, located above the gallery. I attended Columbia. I read art history. I, brother, qualified, in fact, as an auctioneer in 1989, by, in fairness, examination at Christie’s auctioneer training programme. I worked, brother, for the next thirty-five years, in the New York fine-art auction industry. I, in fact, was, in fairness, a senior auctioneer at, brother, the Knoedler Gallery from 2003 to 2011, when, in fact, the gallery, in fairness, closed under, in fact, well-publicised circumstances I will, brother, in fairness, not, in fact, dwell on in this conversation, on the basis, brother, that, in fairness, I, in fact, was, in fairness, not, in fact, personally implicated in, brother, the underlying matter, but, in fairness, in fact, was, brother, professionally inconvenienced by it. I, brother, founded, in fact, in 2012, in fairness, my own boutique auction house, Saleh and Khoury Fine Art Auctions, with, brother, my business partner Maya Khoury, peace be upon her, who, in fact, predeceased me by two years. The house, brother, in fact, specialised in twentieth-century American abstract expressionism, with a particular focus on, in fairness, female painters of, in fact, the New York school. I, in fairness, in fact, sold, brother, perhaps two hundred works by, in fact, Joan Mitchell, Lee Krasner, Helen Frankenthaler, Grace Hartigan, and, in fairness, several lesser-known but, in fact, deserving figures. I, brother, am, in fairness, a name in this small world. The name, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, Latifa Saleh of Madison Avenue.”

She, brother, gestured at the painting behind the podium.

“That, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, a small Joan Mitchell, oil on canvas, 1968, estimate, in fact, in fairness, fifteen to twenty thousand dollars, in fact, in fairness, in 2024 dollars. The Mitchell, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the very painting I, in fairness, in fact, was, brother, in the middle of selling, in fact, when I, in fairness, in fact, died. The Mitchell, brother, in fact, in fairness, hangs here, brother, with the angel’s permission, as, brother, the small archival document of, brother, my final professional moment.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 1992, a man named Jonathan – American, a fellow auctioneer at Christie’s, peace be upon him. Three years. The relationship ended, in fairness, at the small annual Sotheby’s-Christie’s intercompany dinner in 1995, when Jonathan – who had, in fact, been, in fairness, kindly tolerant of my cadence for three years – attempted, brother, to propose to me by, in fairness, going down on one knee, mid-dinner, and, in fact, presenting, brother, an engagement ring. I, brother, was, in fairness, mid-toast. I, in fact, autonomically continued, brother, in fairness, the auctioneer’s cadence, into, in fact, the proposal. I, brother, said, in fairness, in fact, in front of, brother, the small Christie’s-Sotheby’s dinner audience: do I hear yes, yes, do I see yes, yes is the bid, yes from the lady at the head of the table, fair warning at yes, going at yes, going twice at yes – sold to the lady at the head of the table at yes. I, brother, gavelled, in fairness, my own water glass, in fact, with, brother, the small spoon. The Christie’s-Sotheby’s audience, brother, applauded for, in fairness, eleven seconds. Jonathan, brother, was, in fairness, mortified. He, brother, with great care, said, two days later: Latifa, I, in fact, have realised that I, in fairness, cannot, in fact, marry, in fact, the auctioneer’s cadence. I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, in fairness, like, in fact, to, brother, propose, in fact, in fairness, in, in fact, ordinary cadence. I, brother, understood the position. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married a Sotheby’s specialist who, in fact, does not, in fairness, conduct sales. They have, in fairness, two children. The children, brother, in fact, do not, in fairness, gavel.

“In 2008, a man named Robert – American, a small-press publisher, not in the auction world. Robert, brother, was, in fairness, kind, patient, and, in fact, willing, brother, to be, in fairness, the partner of, in fact, a woman whose, in fairness, professional cadence, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, appeared in, brother, ordinary domestic conversation. We dated, brother, eight years. The relationship was, by my standards, the great relationship of my life. The relationship ended in 2016, however, on a Sunday afternoon, when Robert, with great love, said: Latifa, in our eight years, have you, in fact, in fairness, ever, in fact, finished, in fairness, a sentence in, brother, our home without, in fairness, in fact, ending it, in fact, with, in fairness, the small implicit gavel that, brother, you, in fact, are, in fairness, by, in fact, professional habit, prepared, in fairness, to bring down on, in fact, the conversation? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Robert, the gavel, in fact, is, in fairness, autonomic. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, cannot, in fact, switch it off. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Latifa, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, a conversation, brother, in fact, in fairness, that, in fact, in fairness, does not, in fact, in fairness, conclude, in fact, with, brother, the gavel. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, in fact, to, in fairness, in fact, leave, in fact, conversations, brother, open, indefinitely. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married a fellow publisher. They have, in fairness, conversations of, in fact, no gavel.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at this exact podium, mid-cadence. The Mitchell behind me, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, on the wall, on, in fairness, the lot. The bidding, brother, in fact, in fairness, had, in fact, reached, in fairness, fourteen thousand five hundred dollars, with, brother, two telephone bidders, one in Tokyo and one in Paris, in fact, in fairness, still active. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps thirty seconds. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to complete, in fairness, the cadence. I, brother, in fact, said, in fairness: fourteen-five from Tokyo, fourteen-five, do I hear fifteen, fifteen from Paris, fifteen Paris, fair warning at fifteen, fifteen, going at fifteen, going twice at fifteen, sold to the lady on the phone in Paris at fifteen thousand. I, brother, in fact, gavelled. The gavel, brother, in fairness, in fact, came down on, in fairness, the small brass plate. The gavel, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, the last gavel of my career. I, brother, in fact, set down, in fairness, the gavel. I, in fact, in fairness, sat down, in fact, on the small chair behind the podium. I died, brother, on the chair. The audience, brother, in fact, in fairness, applauded for, in fairness, eleven seconds before, in fact, my deputy, Maya – peace be upon her – realised, in fact, that I had not, in fairness, risen to call the next lot. The auction, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, completed, by Maya, who, brother, in fact, in fairness, called the remaining seventeen lots over the next ninety minutes, in fact, in fairness, with appropriate professionalism. The Mitchell, brother, in fact, in fairness, went, in fact, to the lady in Paris, in fairness, in fact, at fifteen thousand. The sale, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, recorded in, in fairness, the auction’s, in fact, archive. The Mitchell, brother, in fact, in fairness, hangs, today, in, in fairness, in fact, the lady in Paris’s small Right Bank apartment.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fairness, gestured at the painting.

“And here, brother, I have, in fairness, in fact, this small recreation of the Mitchell, on the wall. The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, confirmed that the original, brother, is, in fact, in fairness, with the lady in Paris, who, brother, in fact, in fairness, looks, in fact, at it, daily. The recreation, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, indistinguishable from the original to, in fairness, my professional eye. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, conduct, in fact, mock auctions, in fairness, in this room, every afternoon. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, sell, in fact, the same Mitchell, in fairness, in fact, every day, to, brother, the same imaginary lady in Paris. The cadence, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the cadence. The work, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the work. I am, brother, in fairness, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a Lebanese-American Manhattan auctioneer, who, in fact, autonomically, in fairness, gavelled, in fact, every conversation in, brother, the family courtyard. He could not imagine the wedding, at which the bride would, in fact, conduct, in fairness, the ceremony, brother, in cadence, with, in fairness, in fact, a small ceremonial gavel struck, in fact, on the small brass plate. He could not – and this, brother, was, in fairness, the small specific concern – imagine, in his married life, every domestic decision being, in fact, in fairness, sold to the highest bidder by means of, brother, an autonomic auctioneer’s protocol that, brother, was, in fact, faster than his Yemeni Arabic could, in fairness, follow.

He, brother, liked Latifa. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply impressed by, in fairness, the cadence. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the cadence was – of remarkable command. The Mitchell, sister, is – of considerable significance.”

“Thank you, brother.”

He stood. He bowed.

“Latifa.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Robert – Manhattan, small-press publisher, married to a fellow publisher, conversations of no gavel – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this room, have, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, deliberately, in fact, left, in fact, conversations with the angel, brother, open, indefinitely. I, in fact, in fairness, do not, in fact, gavel them. The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, expressed, in fairness, mild surprise. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given it. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left, brother, quietly. From inside, very faintly, he could hear, in fairness, the small steady recommencement of, in fact, the auctioneer’s cadence – fourteen-five from Tokyo, fourteen-five, do I hear fifteen –

He brushed the Khartoum dust off his sandals – for the twentieth time of the day – and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door twenty-three.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Aysha and the Six-Five Major

The corridor between door twenty-two and door twenty-three carried, brother, no smell but, in fairness, a small precise sound – the soft regular shuffle of cards being dealt, in fact, by a competent dealer’s hand.

Mahmoud al-Bakri approached door twenty-three.

He, in fact, was, in fairness, beginning, brother, to anticipate the door-by-door change in soundscape with, in fact, a small professional curiosity. The corridor, brother, was, in fairness, of considerable acoustic generosity.

He opened door twenty-three.

He was in a small Dallas living room – transposed, in fairness, to Khartoum.

Beige carpet. Beige walls. A small grand piano in the corner, with, in fact, a framed photograph of, in fairness, what appeared to be a young woman receiving a small academic medal at, brother, an American university graduation. A long bay window, through which, in fact, fell the Khartoum evening light, with, in fairness, the small white minaret across the river just beginning, brother, the Isha call.

In the centre of the room, brother, was a small octagonal card table, with four chairs, with a small green-baize cloth, with, in fact, four hands of, in fairness, thirteen playing cards each, dealt, brother, face-down, in front of the four chairs.

Three of the chairs, brother, were, in fairness, empty. The fourth, brother, was, in fact, occupied.

The woman in the fourth chair, brother, was, in fairness, perhaps forty-eight. She wore a dark green silk blouse, a small string of pearls, dark trousers, and small low-heeled shoes. Her dark hair, brother, was, in fairness, in a low precise knot. She wore small thin-framed reading glasses on a thin gold chain.

She, brother, was, in fact, considering, in fairness, the thirteen cards in front of her with, in fairness, the small careful precision of, in fact, a competition bridge player evaluating, in fairness, a, in fact, just-dealt hand.

She looked up. She, brother, smiled, in fairness, warmly.

“Hi. Aysha al-Mansoori. Dallas, by way of, in fairness, Abu Dhabi, by way of, in fact, MIT. Welcome. Mahmoud, yes? Sit, please. In the chair on my left – that, in fact, is, in fairness, North. The other empty chairs are, in fact, East and South. The fourth, in fairness, in fact, is, in fairness, my own chair, which is, brother, West. I, in fact, am, in fairness, by, brother, the convention of this corridor, in fairness, always West. The angel, in fact, has, in fairness, set this up.”

He, brother, sat, in fairness, in the chair on her left.

He, in fact, placed all of his accumulated freight on the small footstool beside the chair.

She, brother, gestured at the dealt cards.

“You, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, sitting in the position of, brother, in fairness, my long-time partner, Margaret, peace be upon her. Margaret, brother, in fact, in fairness, has not, in fact, joined me in this room. Margaret, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, still alive, in fact, in Dallas, at age seventy-three, in fairness, in fact, playing duplicate at the small Dallas Bridge Center on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The angel, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, declined to, in fairness, route Margaret to this corridor, on, in fact, the basis that Margaret is, in fairness, not yet dead. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, deal her hand anyway, every day, in fact, in fairness, in case the routing, in fact, in fairness, becomes available.”

“Sister – I do not, in fairness, play this game.”

“That, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, fine. You, brother, in fact, in fairness, may, in fact, in fairness, observe.”

She, brother, picked up her own thirteen cards, in fairness, in fact, fanning them, brother, with the small precise economy of a competition bridge player.

She, in fact, paused, brother, considering.

She, brother, spoke, in fairness, to the empty chair across from her – to, in fact, North.

“Margaret. I have, in fact, in fairness, six spades, headed by the ace-king-queen, and five hearts, headed by the ace-queen, and a small singleton in clubs, and a small doubleton in diamonds. The point count, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, eighteen high-card points, with, brother, in fact, two distributional points. I am, brother, in fact, in fairness, opening one spade.”

She, brother, placed a small bidding card on the green baize that read, in fact, in fairness, 1S.

She, in fact, looked at Mahmoud, in fairness, expectantly.

He, brother, did not, in fairness, know what to do.

“You, brother, in fact, are East. East, in fact, in fairness, may, in fact, pass.”

“I – I pass, sister.”

“Thank you, brother.”

She, brother, placed a small bidding card from the East side that read PASS.

She, in fact, then bid, in fairness, for the absent Margaret. She, brother, said: Margaret, in fact, in fairness, has, in fairness, twelve high-card points and, in fact, three-card spade support. Margaret, in fact, in fairness, raises to two spades.

The bidding, brother, continued, in fairness, in fact, with Aysha, in fact, playing, brother, three of the four hands. The bidding, brother, concluded, in fairness, at four spades, declared by, in fact, North-South.

She, brother, exposed Margaret’s hand, face-up on the table, with the small ceremonial flourish of a bridge dummy reveal.

She, in fact, began, in fairness, to play out the hand, alternating, brother, between her own cards and Margaret’s.

“I’ll do the bio, brother, while I play. Born Abu Dhabi 1976. Family came to Dallas in 1990 – my father, in fairness, had been a senior manager at, in fact, ADNOC, the Abu Dhabi National Oil Company, and was, in fairness, posted, in fact, on a long-term secondment to ExxonMobil’s Dallas headquarters. We, brother, settled. I, in fact, attended Greenhill School, then, in fairness, MIT, then, brother, the University of Chicago for, in fact, my PhD in economics. I, brother, worked, in fairness, for twenty-one years as, brother, a senior economist at, in fact, the Federal Reserve Bank of Dallas, with, in fairness, particular specialisation in, in fact, monetary policy modelling. I, in fairness, was, in fact, the only Emirati-American woman, brother, on the senior economics staff of, in fairness, any of the twelve Federal Reserve banks, throughout my career. I, brother, am, in fairness, a name in, in fact, this small specialised world.”

She, brother, led, in fact, the ace of spades from her hand. The trick, in fairness, in fact, fell.

“And the bridge, in fact, in fairness, brother, was, in fact, the parallel project. I learned at MIT, in fact, in 1995, in, in fairness, the small student bridge club, brother, on a Thursday evening. I, brother, was, in fairness, immediately, in fact, in fairness, hooked. I, in fact, played, brother, in tournaments, while, in fairness, working full-time at the Fed, for, in fact, twenty-eight years. I, brother, was, in fairness, the partner of, in fact, Margaret Whitfield, peace be upon her – wait, brother, I, in fact, mean, in fairness, peace be upon her future eventual death, since, in fact, Margaret is, in fairness, still alive – for twenty-three of those twenty-eight years. We, brother, played, in fairness, perhaps twenty thousand boards together. We, in fairness, accumulated, in fact, perhaps eleven thousand master points in the American Contract Bridge League system, which, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, the standard ranking metric. Eleven thousand, brother, in fact, in fairness, places me, in fact, in fairness, in the top three percent of all ranked players in, in fairness, North America. I am, brother, in fairness, a Diamond Life Master.”

She, brother, led, in fact, the king of spades. The king, in fairness, in fact, drew the remaining outstanding spades. She, in fact, then began, in fairness, to set up, brother, her long suit of hearts.

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2002, a man named David – American, a fellow MIT graduate, an investment banker in Dallas. We dated, brother, three years. Aligned profession, in fact, ideologically. The relationship ended, however, brother, in 2005, when David – who had, in fairness, been, in fact, a regular at our weekly home bridge game – misplayed, in fairness, in fact, a six-five major hand by, in fact, drawing trumps before, brother, establishing, in fairness, the side suit. The misplay, in fact, in fairness, lost, in fact, the contract by one trick. The misplay, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, observed by, in fact, four people in the room, including, in fairness, Margaret, who was, in fact, his partner at the time. I, brother, during the post-mortem analysis, gently, in fairness, noted, in fact, that the play had, brother, in fairness, been, in fact, suboptimal. David, brother, with great kindness, said: Aysha, the gentleness of the note, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, more devastating than, brother, the note itself would have been if, in fact, in fairness, you had, brother, simply, in fact, called the misplay a misplay. We separated within the month. David, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow investment banker who, in fact, does not, in fairness, play bridge. They have, in fairness, two children, both, in fact, financially literate but, in fairness, card-game-illiterate.

“In 2014, a man named Ahmad – Emirati, my mother’s preferred candidate, a senior executive at, brother, a Dubai-based logistics firm with, in fairness, an office in Dallas. We dated, brother, four years. Ahmad, in fairness, was, in fact, kind, observant, and, in fairness, willing to, in fact, attempt to learn bridge. Ahmad, brother, attended, in fact, the Saturday-morning lessons at the Dallas Bridge Center for, in fairness, eighteen months. Ahmad, brother, in fact, in fairness, achieved, brother, in fact, the lower-intermediate level of competence – perhaps, in fairness, in fact, the equivalent of, brother, in fairness, three hundred master points – within, brother, two years. Ahmad, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fairness, the most patient student of bridge I, in fact, in fairness, ever encountered. The relationship ended, however, in 2018, when Ahmad, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Aysha, in our four years, has there been, in fairness, a single conversation in which, in fact, you, in fairness, did not, in fact, in fairness, mentally evaluate, in fact, my conversational decisions in, brother, the manner of, in fairness, a, brother, post-mortem bridge analysis? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Ahmad, the post-mortem analysis is, in fact, in fairness, autonomic. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, cannot, in fact, switch it off. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Aysha, I, in fact, would, in fairness, like, in fact, a conversation, brother, in fairness, that, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, not, brother, in fairness, evaluated. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, returned to Dubai, married, in fairness, a fellow Emirati who, in fact, does not, in fairness, evaluate. They have, brother, three children. The children, in fact, in fairness, do not, in fact, play cards.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at this exact card table, mid-hand, on a Tuesday at the Dallas Bridge Center, October 2024. Margaret was, in fact, my partner, on, in fairness, that day’s afternoon session. I, brother, had, in fact, been dealt, in fairness, a six-five major hand – six spades, headed by the ace-king-queen, and five hearts, headed by the ace-queen, with, in fairness, a small singleton in clubs and a small doubleton in diamonds, eighteen high-card points, two distributional points. The exact hand, brother, in fact, that I, in fact, am, in fairness, holding now. I, brother, had opened one spade. The bidding, in fact, in fairness, had progressed, brother, to four spades, declared by, in fact, my partnership. I had, brother, perhaps three minutes’ awareness of, in fact, the wrong sensation in my chest. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to play out, in fairness, the contract. I, brother, in fact, won, in fact, ten tricks, by, in fairness, drawing trumps in the second round, ducking the heart finesse, establishing the long heart, and, in fact, ruffing the third round of clubs in, brother, dummy. The play, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, technically clean. The contract, brother, in fact, in fairness, made, in fact, by, in fairness, one trick, in fact, in fairness, against, brother, optimal defence. I, brother, set down, in fairness, the last card, gathered, in fact, the trick, and turned to Margaret. I, brother, said: Margaret, the contract, in fact, in fairness, made. Margaret, brother, in fact, in fairness, said: Aysha, your face, in fact, is, in fairness, very pale. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, said: Margaret, in fact, in fairness, I think I am, in fact, in fairness, having a cardiac event. Margaret, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, called, in fact, the centre’s medic. The medic, brother, arrived in, in fairness, ninety seconds. The ambulance, brother, in fact, arrived in seven minutes. I was, brother, in fairness, gone before they reached me, with, in fact, the last trick of, in fairness, the four-spade contract still on, in fact, the table in front of me. Margaret, brother, in fact, in fairness, gave, in fact, the eulogy at my funeral, in front of, in fairness, four hundred mourners, including, brother, in fact, perhaps two hundred bridge players from, in fairness, the Dallas Bridge Center and the surrounding regional bridge community. Margaret, in fairness, in fact, said, in front of the assembled bridge players: Aysha al-Mansoori made the contract. The bridge community, brother, in fact, in fairness, understood the line. The bridge community, brother, in fact, in fairness, applauded for, in fairness, eleven seconds.

“And here, brother, the table is, in fairness, set. The angel, in fact, deals four hands, every morning. I, brother, in fact, play three of them, alternating between my own hand, North’s hand, and East’s hand, with, in fact, in fairness, South always passing. Margaret, in fact, in fairness, will, brother, eventually, in fact, in fairness, join me. Until then, brother, I, in fact, deal her hand, every day, in fact, in fairness, in case the routing, in fact, becomes available. I am, brother, in fairness, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a Federal Reserve economist who, in fact, autonomically, in fairness, conducted, in fact, post-mortem analysis on, brother, every conversation. He could not imagine the wedding, at which the bride would, in fairness, in fact, evaluate, in fact, the imam’s recitation of the marriage contract for, brother, technical correctness. He could not – and this, brother, was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine, in his married life, in fact, every domestic decision being subject to, brother, a cool, post-mortem analysis at the small octagonal card table that, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, in fairness, occupy the centre of his mother’s courtyard, indefinitely.

He, brother, liked Aysha. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply impressed. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the play was – of remarkable precision. The contract, sister, was – most deserved.”

“Thank you, brother.”

He stood. He bowed.

“Aysha.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Ahmad – Dubai, logistics executive, married to a fellow Emirati, three children who do not play cards – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this room, have, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, deliberately, in fact, refrained from, in fact, conducting, in fairness, a post-mortem analysis on, brother, my conversations with the angel. The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, expressed, in fairness, mild surprise. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given, in fairness, several. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He closed the door, brother, quietly. From inside, very faintly, he could hear, in fairness, the small steady shuffle of cards being dealt for, in fact, the next hand.

He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals – for, in fairness, the twenty-first time of the day – and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door twenty-four.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Inara and the Long Necks

The corridor between door twenty-three and door twenty-four carried, brother, the warm dry organic smell of, in fairness, a great deal of large-bird agricultural operation – feathers, sand, the small specific musk of, in fact, a flightless ratite mammal-adjacent species, and, in fairness, the small dust-haze of, brother, a sun-warmed feedlot.

Mahmoud al-Bakri approached door twenty-four.

Through the door, brother, came the small distinctive low-frequency drum of, in fact, an enormous bird’s foot striking, in fairness, packed dirt.

He opened door twenty-four with, in fairness, some caution.

He stepped, brother, out of the corridor and, in fact, onto the wooden porch of a small Holdrege, Nebraska farmhouse, transposed, in fairness, to the Khartoum outskirts.

The farmhouse, brother, was, in fairness, a small two-storey clapboard building, painted in a faded butter-yellow, with, in fact, a wraparound porch and a small American flag drooping on a porch flagpole. Through the wooden boards of the porch, brother, came, in fairness, the small specific warmth of, in fact, packed Nebraska prairie soil – except, brother, in fairness, in fact, beyond the porch, brother, was, in fact, in fairness, packed Khartoum sand.

The farmhouse, in fairness, was, in fact, on, brother, a small wide flat stretch of, in fairness, Sudanese desert, with, in fact, the city of Khartoum visible, brother, in fairness, perhaps a kilometre to the east, with, in fact, the Blue Nile a distant pale ribbon in the middle distance.

Around the farmhouse, brother, was a tall sturdy seven-foot mesh fence enclosing, in fact, perhaps two hectares of swept Sudanese sand. Within the fence, brother – and Mahmoud, in fairness, registered them with a small involuntary intake of breath – were, in fact, perhaps eighteen ostriches.

The ostriches, brother, were, in fairness, of, in fact, considerable size. Standing, brother, at perhaps two metres at the head, with, in fact, long pale necks, with the small absurd head set on top, with, in fairness, the long flightless body covered in soft brown body-feathers that hung off the body like, brother, an ill-fitting coat. The ostriches, brother, were, in fairness, walking around the enclosure with, in fact, the small unhurried, in fairness, dinosaur-adjacent gait of, brother, a creature that had, in fact, outlasted several mass extinctions.

A woman stood on the porch.

She was perhaps fifty-six. She wore blue jeans, work boots, a faded plaid shirt, a small straw cowboy hat, and a pair of leather work gloves tucked into her belt. Her dark hair was streaked with grey, pulled into a low knot. Her face, brother, was, in fairness, deeply weathered, in the precise specific way of, in fact, a woman who had, in fairness, worked, in fact, outdoors, brother, in central Nebraska, for, in fairness, thirty consecutive years.

She, brother, was holding, in fairness, a feed bucket.

She, brother, grinned.

“Hi! Inara Tabatabai. Welcome. Stay on the porch, brother. The herd, in fact, is, in fairness, alert to a stranger, and I, in fact, in fairness, have not yet, brother, signalled them to settle. Constance, in fairness, is, in fact, watching you. Mahmoud, yeah?”

Mahmoud, brother, attempted, in fairness, to identify, in fact, which ostrich was Constance. He, in fact, was, in fairness, unable to. The ostriches, brother, all, in fairness, seemed, in fact, identical to him. One of them, brother, however, was, in fairness, looking at him, in fact, more directly than the others. He, in fact, guessed, brother, that Constance was the looker.

He, in fact, was, in fairness, correct. Constance, brother, was, in fairness, the matriarch – perhaps a metre and ninety centimetres at the head, with, in fact, a slightly more weathered set of body-feathers and, in fairness, a notably calmer composure than the rest of the herd.

“Stay on the porch, brother. I’ll, in fairness, settle them. Two minutes.”

She, brother, stepped, in fact, off the porch into the enclosure. She, in fairness, whistled, in fact, a small soft three-note pattern. The eighteen ostriches, brother, in fairness, in fact, settled – turning, in fact, away from the fence, lowering their necks, and, in fairness, beginning, brother, to feed at the small troughs distributed around the enclosure.

Constance, brother, was, in fairness, the last to settle. Constance, in fact, in fairness, kept, brother, one eye, in fact, in fairness, on Mahmoud for, brother, an additional fifteen seconds before, in fact, in fairness, also turning away.

He, brother, exhaled.

“Coffee, brother? Real Nebraska farm coffee, no nonsense, in a thermos.”

“Yes – yes, please, sister.”

She poured him, brother, coffee from a battered metal thermos into a small enamel mug. The coffee, brother, was, in fairness, of considerable strength but, in fact, no particular sophistication. He, in fairness, appreciated it.

“Bio quick. Born Tehran 1968. Family came to central Nebraska in 1980 – my father, in fairness, was an agricultural engineer who, in fact, was hired by the University of Nebraska Lincoln on, brother, a research contract studying, in fairness, alternative livestock for the central Plains. The contract, brother, in fact, in fairness, included, in fact, a small experimental ostrich pilot programme. The pilot programme, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fairness, the entirety of my father’s professional life from 1980 until his death in 2008. We, brother, in fairness, settled in Holdrege. I, in fact, grew up, brother, in fairness, surrounded by, in fact, ostriches. I, brother, attended UNL. I read animal science. I, in fact, was, in fairness, the third generation of, in fact, in fairness, this family farm – although, brother, in fact, in fairness, the prior two generations were, in fairness, in fact, my father’s two parallel projects, since, in fact, his ostriches, brother, in fact, in fairness, were, in fairness, the entirety of the operation. I, in fact, took over, in fairness, in 2008 on his death and, in fact, ran, in fairness, the ranch for sixteen years. I, in fact, expanded, in fairness, the herd from sixty-three to, in fairness, in fact, one hundred and forty-one head at peak in 2019. I, brother, in fact, sold, in fairness, ostrich meat to, brother, perhaps eighty restaurants in five Midwestern states, in fact. I, in fact, in fairness, sold, brother, ostrich leather to, in fact, three small American boot makers in Texas. I, brother, in fact, sold, in fairness, ostrich eggs to, in fact, in fairness, a small artist community in Omaha that, brother, in fairness, used them, in fact, for fine-art carving. I am, in fairness, a name in, in fact, this small specialised world. The name, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, Tabatabai of Holdrege.“

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, brother, gestured at the herd.

“Constance, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fairness, the matriarch. Constance, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, hatched in 1989, brother, on, in fairness, this exact ranch. Constance, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, thirty-five years old. Ostriches, brother, in fact, in fairness, can, in fact, live, in fairness, to, brother, fifty in good captivity. Constance, in fairness, in fact, has, in fact, perhaps fifteen more years of life expectancy on, brother, the Earth ranch – although, brother, in fact, the Constance in this room, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, in fairness, an angelic transposition, and, in fact, the angelic Constance, brother, has, in fact, in fairness, an indefinite life expectancy. Buford, in fact, in fairness, is, in fairness, the dominant male. Buford, brother, was, in fact, hatched in 1995, on, brother, the same ranch, of, in fact, Constance’s first clutch. Buford, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, Constance’s son. The breeding programme, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, been, in fairness, of, in fact, considerable consistency.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fairness, sipped her coffee.

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 1996, a man named Travis – American, a fellow rancher in central Nebraska, peace be upon him, ran a, in fairness, conventional cattle operation of, brother, perhaps four hundred head. We dated, brother, three years. The relationship ended in 1999, when Travis – who had, in fairness, been, in fact, kindly tolerant of, brother, my ostriches for three years – was, in fairness, accidentally, in fact, in fairness, kicked, brother, by Constance, on, in fact, a Saturday afternoon when, brother, he had, in fairness, walked into the enclosure during, in fact, the spring nesting season, having forgotten, in fact, in fairness, my standing instructions about, brother, never approaching the eggs from, in fairness, the front. The kick, brother, in fact, in fairness, caught him on, in fairness, the upper thigh. The kick, brother, in fact, in fairness, broke, in fact, the femur. He, brother, in fairness, recovered, in fact, after, in fairness, three months in a brace. He, in fact, in fairness, however, in fact, did not, in fairness, recover with respect to Constance. He, brother, in fact, in fairness, said, four months later, with great sadness: Inara, I, in fact, have realised that I, in fairness, cannot, in fact, live a life in which Constance, in fact, in fairness, is in it. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, considered the position. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Travis, Constance, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the matriarch of the ranch. The ranch, in fact, in fairness, is, in fairness, the work. Constance, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, not, in fairness, leaving. We separated within the month. He, brother, has, today, married a small kindergarten teacher in Kearney. They, brother, in fact, in fairness, have, in fact, two children, both, in fairness, of conventionally proportioned legs.

“In 2014, a man named Hassan – Iranian-American, a software engineer in Lincoln, my mother’s preferred candidate. We dated, brother, six years. Hassan, in fairness, was, in fact, kind, observant, and, in fairness, willing to, in fact, attempt, in fairness, a long-distance relationship that, in fact, in fairness, involved, brother, a four-hour weekend drive between Lincoln and Holdrege. Hassan, brother, made it through, in fact, six years. The relationship ended in 2020 when Hassan, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Inara, in our six years, has there been, in fairness, a single weekend in which, in fact, you, in fairness, came to Lincoln, rather than, in fact, my driving to Holdrege? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: no. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Inara, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, in fairness, like, in fact, occasionally, brother, a weekend in which, in fact, the relationship, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, prioritised, brother, over the herd. I, brother, considered the position. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Hassan, the herd, in fact, in fairness, requires, in fact, in fairness, daily inspection. The herd, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the work. I, in fact, in fairness, cannot, in fact, leave for, brother, a weekend. He, brother, understood the position. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow software engineer, in fact, in fairness, in Lincoln. They have, brother, weekends, in fact, in fairness, in Lincoln.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, in this enclosure. On a Tuesday in October, mid-morning, during the standard egg-collection round. I had, brother, collected, in fairness, fourteen eggs from the small dedicated egg-laying area at, in fact, the south end of the enclosure. I felt, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps four minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to walk, in fairness, the eggs to the small egg-handling shed at, in fact, the north end of the enclosure, to set them, brother, in the correct rotational position on, in fairness, the small wooden trays, and to, brother, sign, in fact, the small daily tally sheet on, in fairness, the clipboard by the shed door. I, brother, then, in fact, walked, in fairness, out of the enclosure, locked, in fact, the gate behind me, and sat, brother, on the small wooden bench beside the gate. I, in fairness, called, in fact, the small farmhand-line on the radio. I, brother, said: Wesley, this is Inara, the eggs are in the shed in correct rotation, the herd is settled, I am, in fact, having a cardiac event, please come. Wesley, brother, in fairness, arrived in seven minutes. I was, in fairness, gone before he reached me. The herd, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, not, in fairness, exposed to a death within the enclosure. The herd, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was not, in fairness, processed by, brother, animal control. The herd, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, transferred to Wesley, by my will, who, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, run the ranch since. The herd, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, expanded, by Wesley’s last update, to, brother, one hundred and fifty-three head. Constance, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, fine, by Wesley’s last update. Buford, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, also fine.”

“And here, sister.”

“And here, brother, I have, in fact, eighteen of them. Constance, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, here. Buford, brother, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, here. The other sixteen, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, sixteen of, in fairness, my favourites from, brother, the historical herd. The angel, brother, in fairness, has, in fact, allowed, in fairness, the eighteen. The enclosure, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, perfectly maintained. The eggs, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, lay themselves on, in fairness, schedule. The herd, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fairness, content. I am, brother, in fairness, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a Nebraska ostrich rancher whose, in fact, professional life, in fairness, in fact, included, brother, a thirty-five-year-old matriarch named Constance who, in fact, in fairness, kicked men’s femurs at considerable velocity. He could not imagine the wedding, at which, in fact, in fairness, the bride would, in fact, in fairness, in fact, leave the ceremony for, brother, the standard egg-collection round. He could not – and this, brother, was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine, brother, in his married life, in fact, every weekend being, in fact, in Holdrege, indefinitely, with, in fact, Constance, in fairness, watching.

He, brother, liked Inara. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply impressed by, brother, the herd discipline. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the herd is – of remarkable composure. Constance, sister, is – of considerable presence.”

“Thank you, brother. Take, in fairness, an egg. The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, supplied, brother, the eggs. Ostrich eggs, in fairness, in fact, are, in fact, of considerable nutritional value, and, brother, in fact, in fairness, do not, in fact, in fairness, spoil in this corridor. You, brother, in fact, in fairness, will, in fact, want it for, in fairness, future visits.”

She, brother, handed him, in fairness, in fact, a small ostrich egg, perhaps the size of a small grapefruit.

He, in fact, took it. He, brother, registered, in fairness, that he was, in fact, by now, of truly considerable freight.

He stood. He bowed. Constance, brother, did not, in fairness, look up.

“Inara.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Hassan – Lincoln, software engineer, married to a fellow software engineer, weekends in Lincoln – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this enclosure, have, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, deliberately, in fact, left, in fact, the herd, brother, in fact, unsupervised for, brother, eleven hours, while, brother, the angel, in fact, in fairness, agreed, in fact, to maintain, in fairness, herd integrity on my behalf. The eleven hours, brother, in fact, in fairness, were, in fact, the longest absence I had, in fairness, in fact, ever taken from, brother, the herd. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given, in fairness, several. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left, brother, carefully closing the gate behind him. He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals – for, in fairness, the twenty-second time of the day – and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door twenty-five.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Rana and the Profile

The corridor between door twenty-four and door twenty-five carried, brother, no smell but a small steady, very quiet ambient hum of, in fairness, recording-studio-grade acoustic insulation.

He approached door twenty-five.

Through the door, brother, came the soft murmur of a woman’s voice, in fairness, speaking, in fact, into a microphone in the small intimate measured cadence of, brother, a true-crime podcast host.

” – and so when we look at the small tells, the small unconscious habits – the way a person, in fact, in fairness, holds their hands, the way they, in fact, blink, the way they, in fairness, in fact, pause before answering a question they have, in fact, rehearsed – these, in fact, in fairness, are the data of, in fact, character. Character, brother, in fact, in fairness, is the data of intention. Intention, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is the data of, in fairness, action – “

He, brother, opened door twenty-five.

He was in a small Boston podcast studio – transposed, in fairness, to Khartoum.

The studio was perhaps three metres by four. Soft grey acoustic foam panels on all four walls and the ceiling. A long wooden desk along one wall, with two professional microphones on swing arms, two padded headphones, and a small mixing board with, in fairness, a small backlit display. Above the desk, brother, a single small window, triple-glazed against the outside sound, through which fell the warm Khartoum evening light.

Through the window, brother, Mahmoud could see the small white silhouette of the Mahdi’s Tomb across the river, with, in fact, the Isha call now, in fairness, fully under way from, brother, perhaps four different minarets simultaneously.

A woman sat at the desk, in front of one of the microphones.

She was perhaps fifty. She wore a dark green wool cardigan over a soft cream blouse, dark trousers, and small black flats. Her dark hair was streaked with a single dramatic streak of grey at the temple, pulled into a loose knot. She wore small thin-framed reading glasses on a thin gold chain. She held, brother, a small notebook in her right hand and a pencil in her left.

She looked up. She, brother, smiled, in fairness, warmly.

She, in fact, removed the headphones.

“Hi! Rana Daher. Boston, host of The Small Tells, the long-running American true-crime podcast, retired October 2024 by death. Welcome. Mahmoud, yes? Sit on the small chair across the desk. The other microphone, brother, is, in fact, on, but, in fairness, do not, in fact, lean into it. Tea?”

“Yes – yes, please, sister.”

He sat. He, in fact, placed all of his accumulated freight, brother, on the floor beside the chair, with, in fairness, particular care for the small ostrich egg.

She, brother, poured him karkadeh from a small clay jug. He, in fairness, drank.

She, brother, adjusted her notebook on the desk. She, in fairness, set down the pencil. She, in fact, looked at him, brother, with the small composed attention of a podcast host who had, in fairness, in fact, just begun, brother, an interview.

She, brother, did not, in fact, ask the first question. She, in fairness, waited.

He, brother, registered that she was, in fairness, watching him.

She, brother, gently said: “Brother – your right jaw, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, a small molar tic. The muscle, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the masseter. The tic, brother, in fact, in fairness, fires, in fact, perhaps every fourteen seconds, on average, during, in fairness, calm conversation, and, brother, in fact, in fairness, every six seconds during, in fact, anxious conversation. Your tic, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, fired, in fairness, perhaps eight times since you sat down. You, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, currently, in fairness, in the anxious-conversation range. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, am, in fact, sorry to make you anxious. The watching, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, autonomic. I will, in fairness, attempt, in fact, to look, in fairness, less intensely.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, deeply unsettled. He, in fact, had not, in fairness, been aware, brother, of, in fact, his own jaw. He, in fact, was, in fairness, now, brother, exquisitely aware of it.

He, brother, attempted, in fairness, to relax the jaw. The jaw, in fact, did not, in fairness, fully cooperate.

“Sister – the watching, in fairness, is, in fact, of remarkable acuity.”

“Thank you, brother. I will, in fairness, do the bio quick, and, in fact, will, in fairness, look at the desk while I, in fact, do it, so that, brother, you, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, not, in fairness, observed.”

She, in fact, looked at the desk.

“Born Beirut 1974. Family came to Boston in 1985 – my father was a journalist, my mother a nurse. I, brother, attended Harvard. I read English literature. I, in fact, worked, in fairness, for fifteen years as a senior editor at a small Boston-based literary magazine. In 2014, brother, on a small experimental basis, I, in fact, recorded, in fairness, the first episode of what would, brother, become The Small Tells. The first episode, brother, was, in fact, an analysis of the small unconscious tells of, in fairness, a Boston-area defendant in a, brother, low-profile but, in fairness, professionally instructive embezzlement trial. The first episode, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, downloaded by, in fairness, perhaps four thousand listeners. The fourth episode, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, downloaded by, in fairness, perhaps two hundred thousand. By the end of season one, brother, in fact, in fairness, the show had, in fact, eight hundred thousand subscribers. By the end of season ten in 2024, brother, in fact, in fairness, the show had, in fact, four point three million.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fact, looked, in fairness, briefly, at him, and then back, in fairness, at the desk.

“And the man, brother. There was, in fact, only one.”

“Yes, sister.”

“In 2002, a man named Owen – American, a Boston software engineer, profoundly deaf since birth. Owen, brother, and I, in fact, met, in fairness, at a small Boston dinner party hosted by mutual friends, in fact, in October 2002. Owen, brother, in fact, in fairness, communicated, in fact, by, in fairness, sign language, brother, with, in fact, the assistance of an interpreter, on, brother, that first evening. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, learned, in fact, American Sign Language, brother, over the next three years, to, brother, an upper-intermediate level. Owen, brother, in fact, in fairness, taught me. We, brother, dated, in fairness, for nine years. We, brother, in fact, in fairness, married, in fact, in 2011, in fact, in a small ceremony at the Boston Public Garden, attended by, in fairness, perhaps forty friends and family. Owen, brother, was, in fairness, the great love of my life.”

She, brother, paused, in fairness, for some considerable seconds.

“Owen, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, diagnosed in 2012 with, in fairness, a, in fact, rapidly progressive form of motor neurone disease. Owen, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, given, in fairness, a prognosis of, brother, eighteen months to three years. Owen, brother, in fact, in fairness, lived, in fact, eleven months. We, brother, in fact, were married, in fact, for the entirety of those eleven months. The marriage, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, never, in fairness, consummated, on, in fact, the basis that Owen’s, in fact, motor neurone disease, brother, in fairness, had, in fact, in fairness, advanced, brother, by the time of our wedding to a stage at which, in fact, in fairness, intimate physical activity was, in fact, in fairness, no longer, brother, available. The angel, brother, in fact, has, in fairness, advised me that, in fact, by, brother, the precise terminology of, in fairness, this corridor, I, brother, in fact, in fairness, qualify, in fact, in fairness, as, brother, technically, in fairness, in fact, a virgin. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, accept the technical classification. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, do not, in fairness, accept it as, brother, the substantive description of, in fact, my emotional life. I was, brother, Owen’s wife. I, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, not, in fact, technically, in fairness, his wife in, brother, the consummated sense. The two facts, brother, in fact, in fairness, sit beside each other in my, in fact, internal accounting.”

“Sister – that is – that is a great love.”

“Thank you, brother. It was.”

She, brother, paused, in fairness, again. She, in fact, sipped her karkadeh.

“Owen, brother, died, in fact, on a Tuesday in March 2012, in our small Boston apartment, with me holding his hand. The last thing he, in fact, said to me, in sign, was: rana, the small tells, in fact, are the love. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, have, in fact, organised, in fact, my entire professional life since, in fairness, around the small tells. The podcast, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the long footnote to that sentence.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at this exact desk, mid-recording, on a Tuesday in October. I had, brother, been, in fairness, in the middle of, in fact, a season-ten episode about, brother, the small unconscious tells of, in fairness, a defendant in a, brother, recent New England trial. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps two minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to complete, in fairness, the paragraph I, in fact, was, in fairness, recording. The paragraph, brother, in fact, was the closing paragraph of the episode. The paragraph, in fairness, ended with the line: the small tells, in fact, in fairness, are the love. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, said it, into the microphone, in fairness, in fact, in Owen’s exact phrasing. I, brother, took, in fairness, off the headphones. I, brother, set them, in fairness, on the desk. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, sat back. I died, brother, in this chair. My producer, who, in fact, was, in fairness, in the small adjacent control room, found me, in fairness, perhaps eleven seconds later. The episode, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, edited and released the following week, with, in fairness, my producer’s small added closing card: Rana Daher, October 14, 1974 – October 22, 2024. The small tells, in fact, in fairness, were the love. The episode, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, downloaded, in fact, by perhaps eleven million listeners. I, brother, am, in fairness, retroactively flattered.”

“And here, sister.”

“And here, brother, the studio, in fairness, is, in fact, fully equipped. The angel, brother, supplies, in fact, on a, in fact, weekly basis, in fairness, a small DVD set of recent court proceedings from, in fact, various American jurisdictions. I, brother, in fact, watch the proceedings. I, in fairness, identify, in fact, the small tells. I, brother, record episodes, in fact, every week. The episodes, brother, in fact, in fairness, are not, in fairness, broadcast. I, brother, in fact, archive them, in fairness, in fact, on the small mixing board’s drive. I am, brother, content.”

She, brother, looked at him, in fairness, briefly, again.

“Brother – I, in fact, should, in fairness, mention, in fact, in fairness, one further thing. The angel, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, advised me of, in fairness, the broad biographical context of, in fact, every visitor to this room. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, have, in fact, the broad context for, in fairness, you. I will, brother, in fact, in fairness, not, in fact, recapitulate it. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, will, brother, however, in fact, say one thing.”

He, brother, was, in fairness, very still.

“The molar tic, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, the small permanent residue of the four seconds in October 2024 in which you, in fact, in fairness, registered, brother, that the boat was, in fact, going to detonate, before, in fact, in fairness, in fact, it did. The four seconds, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, are, brother, in fact, what your jaw remembers. The jaw, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, remembers because the jaw, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, in fairness, the part of you, brother, that, in fact, in fairness, attempted, in fact, in fairness, to, in fact, brace. The brace, in fact, in fairness, did not, in fact, help. The brace, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, brother, the only thing your body, in fact, in fairness, knew how to do. The body, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, did, in fact, what it knew. The jaw, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, been firing, in fact, every fourteen seconds since. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, am, in fact, telling you this, brother, in fact, in fairness, because, in fact, the small tells, in fact, in fairness, are the love, and, brother, in fact, in fairness, the love, in fact, includes, brother, in fairness, the small tell of, in fact, a young man’s jaw that, in fact, in fairness, in fact, attempted to, brother, brace at the moment of his death, and, in fact, in fairness, has been, brother, in fact, bracing ever since. The bracing, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fairness, allowed to stop. You, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, in fairness, dead. The boat, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, has, in fact, already, in fairness, detonated. The bracing, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fairness, no longer required.”

He, brother, sat for a long moment.

He, in fact, registered, in fairness, that, in fact, his jaw had, brother, very slightly, in fairness, released.

He, brother, began, in fairness, to cry.

He, in fact, cried for, in fairness, perhaps four minutes.

She, brother, did not, in fairness, hurry him. She, in fact, did not, in fairness, transcribe, brother, anything. She, brother, simply, in fairness, sat, in fact, at the desk, with, in fairness, the small green cardigan, and, in fairness, the small dramatic streak of grey at the temple, and waited.

After a long time, brother, he wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt. He said: “Sister – thank you.”

She, brother, inclined her head.

“The small tells, in fact, in fairness, are the love, brother.”

He, brother, did not, in fairness, ask the catalogue questions. He, in fact, did not, in fairness, ask whether he could, in fact, bring her home. He, brother, in fact, in fairness, understood, in fact, that the question, brother, in fact, in fairness, did not, in fact, apply. Rana, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, Owen’s wife. She, brother, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, in fairness, always, brother, be, in fact, Owen’s wife. The corridor, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, contained, in fairness, in fact, several women who, brother, in fact, in fairness, were, in fact, technically virgins but, in fact, in fairness, were, in fact, also, in fairness, the wives of men they had, in fact, in fairness, loved. He, in fact, in fairness, could not, brother, in fact, in fairness, displace Owen. He would, in fact, in fairness, in fact, not have wished to.

He stood. He bowed, very low.

“Rana.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Owen – Boston, software engineer, deaf, deceased March 2012 – tell him from me that the small tells, in fact, in fairness, are the love, and, in fact, in fairness, that I, brother, in fact, in fairness, am, in fact, in fairness, attempting, brother, to release the bracing. Tell him I, in fact, in fairness, owe him, in fact, in fairness, in fact, the release. Tell him.”

“I will, brother, if I find him.”

He left, brother, very quietly. From inside, very faintly, he could hear, in fairness, the small soft resumption of, in fact, the podcast cadence, into the microphone.

In the corridor, brother, his jaw, in fact, was, in fairness, slightly more relaxed than it had been all afternoon. He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals – for the twenty-third time of the day – and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door twenty-six.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Bayan and the Final Jam

The corridor between door twenty-five and door twenty-six carried, brother, no smell but, in fairness, a small steady percussive sound – the regular precise rumble of, in fact, polyurethane wheels on, in fairness, polished maple floor.

Mahmoud al-Bakri approached door twenty-six.

The rumble, brother, resolved, in fairness, into the unmistakable sound of, in fact, multiple sets of roller skates, in fairness, on a banked wooden track, with, brother, the small periodic whistle of, in fact, a referee somewhere in the middle distance.

He, brother, opened door twenty-six.

He was, brother, standing at the edge of a Detroit roller-derby flat track.

The track, brother, was, in fairness, of, in fact, regulation dimensions – a flat oval, perhaps twenty-six metres at the long axis, marked, in fairness, with the small distinctive blue-and-white tape of, in fact, the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association. The track, brother, was laid, in fact, on, in fairness, polished maple boards, with, brother, in fact, the maple, in fairness, having been, brother, dusted, in fact, with the small persistent sand of, in fairness, the Khartoum afternoon, with, brother, in fact, the dust, in fact, in fairness, having been, brother, swept into a small neat pile at, in fact, the centre line, with, in fact, a small dustpan and broom propped, in fairness, against the bench.

Around the track, brother, were small wooden bleachers, all empty. Above the bleachers, brother, a small banner reading: DETROIT DERBY GIRLS – EAST SIDE LEAGUE – EST. 2005.

Through a small set of double-doors at the far end of the track, Mahmoud could see a small Khartoum side street, with, in fact, two date palms, and, in fairness, the Blue Nile in the middle distance, with, brother, the call to Isha now, in fairness, finishing across the city.

A woman skated, in fact, the inside line of the track, alone.

She was perhaps thirty-eight. She wore a black sleeveless tank top with, in fairness, the small white printed legend BONE COLLECTOR – #94 across the chest, fitted black athletic shorts, fishnet tights, knee pads, elbow pads, a black mouth guard tucked into the corner of her mouth, and a black hard-shell helmet with, brother, the small visible scratches of, in fact, considerable career mileage. Her dark hair was, in fairness, tied in two short braids that emerged from beneath the helmet. Her arms, brother, were, in fairness, considerably tattooed – a small Beirut skyline on the left forearm, a small Detroit skyline on the right, a small phrase in Arabic across the upper left bicep that, brother, in fairness, Mahmoud, in fact, recognised: ?? ???. Do not fear.

She, brother, skated, in fact, with, in fairness, the precise economy of a long-tenured derby skater. The skating, brother, was, in fairness, of considerable beauty.

She, brother, saw him. She, in fairness, executed, in fact, a small tight stop at the inside line – a precise hockey-stop with both skates. She, in fact, removed the mouth guard.

“Hi! Bayan Maalouf. Bone Collector, hashtag ninety-four, Detroit Derby Girls, retired October 2024 by death. Welcome. Mahmoud, yeah? Sit on the bench. Don’t, in fairness, sit on the small wooden box at the end of the bench – that, in fact, is, in fairness, the penalty box, and, brother, in fact, sitting in the penalty box without, in fact, a recorded penalty is, in fairness, a, in fact, deep cultural offence within, brother, the Detroit Derby Girls organisation. Sit on the regular bench.”

He, brother, sat on the regular bench, in fairness, very carefully.

He, in fact, placed all of his accumulated freight on the floor at his feet, with, in fairness, particular care for the small ostrich egg.

She, brother, skated, in fact, the short distance to the bench. She, in fairness, sat beside him, in fact, on her skates, with, brother, the small economical motion of, in fact, a skater who had, in fairness, in fact, sat down on benches in skates approximately, brother, eleven thousand times. She, in fact, handed him, brother, a small bottle of cold karkadeh from a, in fairness, small cooler beside the bench.

He drank.

“Bio quick. Born Houston, Texas, 1986. Family came from Beirut to Houston in 1984, then to Detroit in 1995, when, in fairness, my father’s, in fact, small auto-parts business expanded into, in fact, the Michigan supply chain. We, brother, settled in Dearborn. I, brother, attended Wayne State, where I, in fact, read kinesiology with, in fairness, the small explicit professional plan of, brother, becoming, in fact, a physical therapist. I, brother, qualified, in fact, in 2010, at age twenty-four. I worked, in fairness, for fourteen years as, brother, a senior physical therapist at, in fact, the Detroit Medical Center’s sports medicine clinic. I, brother, am, in fairness, a name in, in fact, this small specialised world. The name, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, Therapist Maalouf of DMC sports medicine.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fact, in fairness, gestured at the track.

“And the derby, brother, was, in fact, the parallel project. I, brother, in fairness, joined the Detroit Derby Girls in 2008, at age twenty-two, on, in fact, a recruiting flyer I, in fairness, picked up at, brother, a Dearborn coffee shop. My derby name, brother, was, in fairness, Bone Collector. The name, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, of professional origin – I, in fact, in fairness, in my day job, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, in the business of treating, in fact, broken bones, and, brother, in fact, in fairness, my teammates, in fact, found, in fairness, this, brother, the small ironic origin amusing. Hashtag ninety-four, in fact, in fairness, was, brother, the year of my birth – 1986 – minus, in fact, the eight years between, in fairness, my birth and, brother, my joining the league. The hashtag, brother, in fairness, in fact, in fact, is, in fact, in fairness, an arithmetic of inadequate logic, but, brother, in fairness, in fact, the league, in fact, in fairness, accepted it. I, brother, in fairness, played, in fact, sixteen consecutive seasons. I, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, captain of the Detroit team for, brother, the final eight seasons. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, played, in fairness, perhaps four hundred and twelve games. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, broke, in fairness, my own bones – by, in fact, my own count – eleven times. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, broke, in fairness, the bones of others – incidentally, brother, in fact, in fairness, by way of legal derby contact – perhaps fourteen times. The bone collector, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, in fairness, a, brother, in fact, accurate name.”

“Sister – that is, in fairness, an extraordinary career.”

“Brother, thank you.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2012, a man named Marcus – American, a fellow Detroit Derby Girls supporter, met him at a small post-game social at the league’s bar of choice, the Old Miami in midtown Detroit, peace be upon him. We dated, brother, three years. The relationship ended in 2015, when Marcus – who had, in fairness, been, in fact, a regular attendee at my games for three years – attempted, brother, to propose marriage to me, in fairness, in fact, on the track, between jams, in front of, brother, the league. Marcus, brother, had, in fact, prepared, in fairness, a small printed sign reading BAYAN, MARRY ME, that, in fact, in fairness, he, brother, held, in fact, in front of him in, in fairness, the centre of the track during, brother, the small interval between, in fact, the third and fourth jams of a regular-season game. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fairness, in fact, the lead jammer of, brother, that fourth jam. I, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, lining up at, in fact, the jammer line, on the precise small wooden mark, with, brother, in fact, my mouth guard in. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, registered Marcus, in fact, in fairness, in the centre of the track, with, in fact, the small printed sign. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, considered the situation. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, did, in fact, two things in quick sequence. First, brother, I, in fact, in fairness, signalled to my coach, who, in fact, in fairness, signalled to the head referee, who, in fact, in fairness, signalled, brother, the league announcer, who, in fact, in fairness, announced, in fairness, in fact, into the arena PA system, that there would be, brother, a delay of game while, in fact, in fairness, the personal matter on the track was, in fact, resolved. Second, brother, in fact, in fairness, I, brother, in fact, in fairness, removed the mouth guard, skated, in fact, to Marcus, considered the printed sign, considered the man holding it, considered the audience of, in fairness, perhaps eight hundred Detroit derby fans, considered the moment. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, said, into the man’s ear: Marcus, the answer, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, no. The answer, brother, is, in fairness, no. The answer, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, no, in fairness, on the basis that, in fact, in fairness, you, brother, in fact, in fairness, have, in fact, in fairness, just, in fact, made, in fairness, my fourth jam of, brother, this game, in fact, in fairness, about, brother, you. The fourth jam, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fairness, mine. The track, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, mine. The Detroit Derby Girls, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, mine. You, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, in fairness, asking me, brother, to, in fact, in fairness, share these things with you in front of, in fact, in fairness, eight hundred witnesses, on, brother, in fact, fifteen seconds of, in fairness, no preparation. The answer, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, no. Please, in fact, in fairness, leave the track. Marcus, brother, in fact, in fairness, left the track. The game, in fact, in fairness, resumed. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, won, in fairness, the fourth jam, in fact, by, in fact, in fairness, sixteen points, on a five-pass star, brother, in fact, against the lead jammer of, in fairness, the visiting team. We, brother, in fact, in fairness, won the game by twenty-three points. Marcus, brother, in fact, moved out of the apartment within the week. He has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow accountant who, in fact, does not, in fairness, play roller derby. They have, brother, two children, both, in fact, of, in fairness, considerable bone density and, in fact, in fairness, no skating ability.

“In 2018, a man named Bashar – Lebanese-American, a small business owner in Dearborn, my mother’s preferred candidate. Bashar, in fairness, was, in fact, kind, observant, and, in fairness, willing to, in fact, attend, brother, perhaps thirty Detroit Derby Girls games over four years. Bashar, brother, made it through, in fact, four years. The relationship ended in 2022, when Bashar, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Bayan, in our four years, has there been, in fairness, a single weekend in which you, in fact, did not, in fairness, in fact, return home from a game with, in fact, at least one, in fairness, fresh visible bruise on, in fact, your body? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: no. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Bayan, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, to, brother, in fact, in fairness, occasionally, in fact, hold a partner, in fairness, who, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, not, in fact, currently, in fairness, healing. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow Dearborn small-business owner who, in fact, does not, in fairness, skate. They have, brother, in fairness, no fresh bruises.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, on this track, mid-jam, on a Saturday in October, in front of, in fairness, perhaps eleven hundred Detroit fans. I had, brother, been, in fact, the lead jammer of, in fairness, the third period of, in fact, the regional championship game against, brother, the Toledo Trauma. The score, in fairness, was, in fact, tied at one hundred and twelve. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, mid-pass on, in fairness, the inside line, having, in fact, just completed, brother, my third pass through the pack, when, in fact, in fairness, I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I, brother, in fact, had, in fairness, perhaps fifteen seconds. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to, in fairness, in fact, complete, brother, the jam. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, completed, in fact, the third pass, scored, in fairness, four points, and called, in fact, the jam off by, in fairness, the standard star-tap signal, before, in fact, in fairness, my heart, in fact, in fairness, in fact, gave out. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, fell, in fact, on the inside line, at, in fairness, the south curve, with, in fact, the small star helmet cover, in fairness, in fact, still on my helmet. The medics, brother, in fairness, attended me, in fact, within sixty seconds. I was, in fairness, gone before they reached me. The Detroit Derby Girls, brother, in fact, in fairness, won the regional championship, by four points, on, in fairness, my final jam. The trophy, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, dedicated, brother, to my memory. The trophy, brother, in fact, in fairness, hangs, today, on the wall of the Old Miami in midtown Detroit, with, in fairness, the small inscription: BONE COLLECTOR – #94 – FINAL JAM – REGIONAL CHAMPIONS – OCTOBER 2024. The Detroit Derby Girls, brother, in fact, in fairness, retired, in fact, in fairness, my number that night. There has, in fact, in fairness, been, brother, no skater wearing #94 in the league since.”

“And here, sister.”

“And here, brother, the track, in fairness, is, in fact, mine. The angel, in fairness, has, in fact, supplied, brother, the maple, the tape, the bleachers, and, in fact, the regulation dimensions. There are, brother, no opposing skaters. I, in fact, in fairness, skate the inside line, brother, every afternoon, alone. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, skate, in fact, perhaps fifteen miles per session. The skating, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the work. The bones, in fact, in fairness, no longer, brother, break. I, brother, in fairness, am, in fact, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a Detroit Derby Girl whose, in fact, professional name, in fairness, was Bone Collector. He could not imagine the wedding, at which, in fact, in fairness, the bride would, in fact, arrive, in fact, on skates, with, in fairness, in fact, fresh visible bruises, with, brother, the small star helmet cover, in fairness, in fact, on her helmet. He could not – and this, brother, was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine, in his married life, in fact, every weekend involving, in fact, in fairness, a fresh derby injury that would, in fact, in fairness, require, brother, his Yemeni mother to, in fact, in fairness, treat, in fact, in fairness, with the small humiliating regularity that would, brother, eventually, in fact, in fairness, end the marriage by, in fairness, the slow attrition of, in fact, his mother’s patience.

He, brother, liked Bayan enormously. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply impressed by, in fairness, the final-jam discipline. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the skating is – of remarkable economy. The final jam, sister, was – of considerable courage.”

“Thank you, brother.”

He stood. He bowed. She, brother, did not, in fairness, rise from the bench, on the basis that, in fact, in fairness, rising on skates, brother, was, in fact, of, in fairness, more effort than, in fact, in fairness, the gesture warranted. She, in fact, inclined her head.

“Bayan.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Bashar – Dearborn, small-business owner, married to a fellow small-business owner, no fresh bruises – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months on this track, have, in fact, finished, in fairness, every jam without, brother, a single fresh bruise. The skating, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the work. The bones, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, no longer, brother, breaking. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given it. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left, brother, carefully. From inside, very faintly, he could hear, in fairness, the small steady resumption of, in fact, polyurethane wheels on, in fairness, polished maple.

He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals – for, in fairness, the twenty-fourth time of the day – and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door twenty-seven.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Sahar and the Happy Bugs

The corridor between door twenty-six and door twenty-seven carried, brother – and Mahmoud, in fairness, registered this with, in fact, a small involuntary intake of breath – the unmistakable smell of, in fact, a municipal wastewater treatment facility.

He, brother, paused for a small moment in the corridor. He, in fairness, considered, in fact, whether, brother, in fact, this was the door he, in fact, in fairness, was, brother, prepared to open.

He, brother, opened the door anyway.

He, in fact, was, in fairness, in fact, surprised.

The smell, brother, was, in fairness, present, in fact, but considerably less pungent than he had anticipated. He, in fact, was, in fairness, standing in a small, bright, clean municipal control room. The control room, brother, was, in fairness, of, in fact, considerable institutional cleanliness – pale grey walls, white tile floor, fluorescent overhead lighting, a long bank of, in fairness, computer monitors along the right wall showing, in fact, real-time flow charts and, in fairness, biological-process dashboards, and a small viewing window along the left wall, through which, brother, he could see, in fairness, the rectangular concrete settling tanks of, in fact, an active wastewater treatment facility.

The settling tanks, brother, were, in fairness, in central Khartoum. Through a smaller window above the control desk, brother, Mahmoud could see the broad pale ribbon of the Blue Nile in the middle distance, with, in fairness, the small white silhouette of the Mahdi’s Tomb, with, in fact, a small group of three goats walking, brother, unsupervised between, in fairness, the chain-link fence of, in fact, the treatment plant and the river.

A woman sat at the long control desk, with two of the monitors active in front of her. She wore a white short-sleeved municipal-issue work shirt with, in fairness, a small embroidered patch on the breast that read TOLEDO PUBLIC UTILITIES – WASTEWATER DIVISION, dark trousers, sturdy work boots, and a small navy baseball cap with the City of Toledo crest. Her dark hair was pulled into a low knot under the cap. She held, brother, a small clipboard in her right hand, on which were, in fairness, in fact, several sheets of, brother, freshly-printed laboratory reports.

She, brother, looked up. She, in fact, smiled, in fairness, warmly.

“Hi! Sahar Karam. Chief Operator, Toledo Bay View Wastewater Treatment Plant, retired October 2024 by death. Welcome. Mahmoud, yes? Sit on the small swivel chair next to mine. Please, in fairness, in fact, do not, in fact, sit on the small wooden stool by the door – that, in fact, is, in fairness, the visitor’s stool, and, brother, in fact, in fairness, the visitor’s stool, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, in fairness, an unfortunate history of small malfunction. The swivel chair, in fairness, in fact, is, brother, the safer choice.”

He sat on the swivel chair.

He, in fact, placed all of his accumulated freight on the floor.

She poured him karkadeh from a small electric kettle on the side of the control desk, into a small ceramic mug bearing the Toledo Bay View logo. He drank.

“Sister – the smell – “

“Brother, yeah, I know. The smell, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, mild today. The bugs, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, happy. The bugs, brother, in fact, in fairness, when they, in fact, in fairness, are happy, in fact, produce, in fairness, less olfactory output. When the bugs, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, unhappy, brother, in fact, in fairness, the smell, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, considerably worse. The bugs, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, the work.”

“Sister – what bugs?”

“Brother, the bacterial cultures in, in fairness, the activated sludge tanks. The activated sludge, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the biological reactor of, brother, every modern wastewater treatment plant. The reactor, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, populated by, in fairness, in fact, perhaps four hundred distinct bacterial species, with, in fact, particular dominance of, in fairness, the genera Nitrosomonas and Nitrobacter, which, in fact, in fairness, perform, in fact, the small critical, in fairness, two-stage nitrification process. The nitrification, brother, in fact, in fairness, converts ammonia to, in fairness, nitrate, which, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the small step that, brother, in fact, in fairness, makes, in fact, the discharge water, brother, in fairness, of legal quality for, in fact, release into, brother, the Maumee River. The bugs, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, are the operation. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, have, in fact, in fairness, named, in fact, the dominant colonies, brother, by, in fairness, in fact, the lead operator’s name from each shift on, in fact, the day of dominant-colony emergence. The current dominant colony, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, named Wesley. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, been dominant for, brother, perhaps four months. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, performing, in fairness, well.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“Bio quick. Born Beirut 1972. Family came to Toledo in 1980 – my father, in fairness, was a small chemical engineer, hired by, in fact, the Owens-Illinois glass company. My mother, brother, was, in fairness, a primary-school teacher. I, in fact, attended the University of Toledo. I read environmental engineering. I, brother, was, in fact, hired, in fairness, by the City of Toledo Public Utilities, Wastewater Division, in 1996, at age twenty-four. I, brother, worked at the Bay View plant for, in fact, twenty-eight consecutive years. I, brother, began, in fairness, as, brother, an assistant operator. I, in fact, became, in fairness, a senior operator in 2003. I became, brother, a lead operator in 2010. I became, in fairness, the chief operator of the entire Bay View plant in 2017, at age forty-five. I, brother, was, in fact, the first woman, brother, in fairness, in fact, to hold, in fact, the chief operator position at any of, in fairness, the City of Toledo’s three wastewater treatment plants. I, brother, am, in fairness, a name in, in fact, this small specialised world. The name, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, Karam of Bay View.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2003, a man named Jeffrey – American, a fellow Bay View operator, peace be upon him. Three years. The relationship ended in 2006, when Jeffrey – who had, in fairness, been, in fact, a kind colleague for three years – attempted, in fairness, in fact, to propose marriage to me, in fact, on the small viewing platform overlooking the secondary clarifier on, brother, a Saturday afternoon, with, in fact, in fairness, the small printed cardboard sign that read SAHAR, MARRY ME, that he, in fact, held, in fairness, against his chest. The propose, brother, in fact, in fairness, took place at, in fact, the precise moment of, brother, an unscheduled foaming event in the secondary clarifier, in which, in fact, in fairness, the foam, brother, in fact, rose to a height of, in fairness, perhaps two metres above, brother, the surface and, in fact, in fairness, threatened to, brother, overflow the clarifier walls into, in fact, the small drainage channel that, in fact, in fairness, fed back to the head of the plant. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, registered, in fact, the foaming event. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, also, in fact, in fairness, registered, in fact, Jeffrey’s small printed sign. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, prioritised, in fact, the foaming event. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, said, into the small radio on my belt: control, this is Sahar, we have, in fact, an unscheduled foaming event in clarifier two, please, in fairness, in fact, dispatch, brother, the polymer-injection team. Jeffrey, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, displeased. Jeffrey, brother, in fact, in fairness, said: Sahar, I, in fact, in fairness, just proposed to you. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Jeffrey, the clarifier, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, foaming. We, brother, will, in fact, in fairness, address the proposal, brother, in fact, after, brother, in fact, in fairness, the foam is, in fact, contained. The foam, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fairness, contained, in fact, in fairness, twelve minutes later, by, in fact, in fairness, the polymer-injection team. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, returned to Jeffrey at, brother, the viewing platform. I, in fact, in fairness, said: Jeffrey, the answer, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, no, on the basis that, in fact, you, brother, in fact, in fairness, proposed to me, in fact, during, in fairness, an active foaming event, which, brother, in fact, in fairness, suggests, in fact, in fairness, that, in fact, you, brother, in fact, in fairness, do not, in fact, in fairness, share, brother, my, in fact, in fairness, sense of, brother, operational priority. We separated within the month. He, brother, has, today, transferred, in fairness, in fact, to a smaller facility in suburban Findlay, married, in fact, a fellow operator at that facility. They have, in fairness, two children. The children, brother, in fact, in fairness, do not, in fact, in fairness, work in wastewater.

“In 2014, a man named Hassan – Lebanese-American, an accountant in Toledo, my mother’s preferred candidate. Hassan, brother, was, in fact, kind, observant, and, in fairness, willing to, in fact, attempt, brother, a relationship in which, in fact, in fairness, my work hours, brother, in fairness, included, in fact, occasional emergency call-outs at, in fairness, three AM. Hassan, brother, made it through, in fact, six years. The relationship ended in 2020 when Hassan, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Sahar, in our six years, has there been, in fairness, a single dinner at which you, in fact, in fairness, did not, in fact, in fairness, mention, brother, the small daily condition of, in fact, in fairness, your bacterial colonies? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: no. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Sahar, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, a dinner, brother, in fact, in fairness, that, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, not, brother, in fairness, accompanied by, in fact, the small status update on, brother, the happiness of Wesley. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow accountant. They have, brother, dinners of, in fact, no bacterial status.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, in this control room, on a Tuesday in October, mid-shift, at exactly the moment of, in fairness, an unscheduled equipment failure on, in fact, the primary digester. I had, brother, been, in fact, in fairness, on duty, in fact, since six AM. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, registered, in fact, the equipment failure on, in fairness, the small primary monitor, here – she, brother, in fact, in fairness, gestured at the leftmost monitor on the bank – at, in fairness, in fact, eleven-fourteen AM. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation, in fact, in fairness, simultaneously. I had, brother, perhaps four minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to manage, in fairness, the equipment failure. I, brother, in fact, dispatched, in fairness, the maintenance team to the digester. I, brother, in fact, transferred, in fairness, the digester load to, in fact, the secondary digester. I, brother, in fact, adjusted, in fairness, the polymer dose at the primary clarifier to, in fact, compensate for, in fairness, the increased solids loading on the secondary system. I, brother, in fact, called, in fairness, the City Engineer’s office to, in fact, report the failure for, in fairness, the standard regulatory log. I, brother, in fact, called, in fairness, my deputy, Wesley – yes, brother, the bacterial colony Wesley, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, named after, in fact, my human deputy Wesley, who, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, a kind man and, in fairness, an excellent operator – and gave him, in fact, the operational handover. The handover, brother, in fact, in fairness, took, in fairness, ninety seconds. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, said: Sahar, I will run the plant. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, said: Wesley, I know you will. We, brother, in fact, in fairness, hung up. I, brother, in fact, sat back in this exact chair. I, in fairness, looked, in fact, briefly, at the bank of monitors. The bugs, brother, in fact, in fairness, on the secondary monitor, in fact, in fairness, were, in fact, in fairness, visibly happy. I died, brother, in this chair, watching, in fact, the small green dashboard indicator that, in fact, in fairness, signalled, brother, optimal nitrification. The plant, brother, in fact, in fairness, did not, in fact, in fairness, miss, in fact, regulatory compliance on, in fairness, the day of my death. The Maumee River, brother, in fact, in fairness, received, in fact, legal-quality discharge throughout. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, gave the eulogy at my funeral. Wesley, in fact, in fairness, said, in front of, brother, perhaps two hundred mourners: Sahar Karam managed the digester. The mourners, brother, in fact, in fairness, understood the line. The mourners, brother, in fact, in fairness, were, in fact, in fairness, mostly municipal wastewater operators. The line, brother, in fact, in fairness, did the work.”

“And here, sister.”

“And here, brother, the plant, in fairness, is, in fact, fully functional. The angel, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, supplied, brother, the full Bay View infrastructure, transposed, in fairness, in fact, to the Khartoum outskirts. The plant, brother, in fact, in fairness, treats, in fact, the wastewater of, in fairness, the small Khartoum neighbourhood that, in fact, in fairness, has been, brother, in fact, gradually directed to its inlet. The neighbourhood, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, in fairness, perhaps four thousand residents. The bugs, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, happy. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, the colony, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, dominant. The discharge, in fact, in fairness, returns, brother, to the Blue Nile, of, in fact, regulatory quality. The Blue Nile, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, in fairness, been, brother, slightly cleaner, in fairness, in this corridor’s neighbourhood, since I arrived. I am, brother, in fairness, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a Toledo wastewater chief operator who, in fact, named, in fairness, her bacterial colonies after, brother, her human deputies. He could not imagine the family meals, at which his wife would, in fairness, provide, in fact, the daily status update on, brother, the happiness of Wesley the colony. He could not – and this, brother, was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine, in his married life, in fact, the unmistakable small olfactory residue of, in fact, an active wastewater facility, brother, in fact, in fairness, on his wife’s clothing every evening, indefinitely.

He, brother, liked Sahar enormously. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply impressed by, in fairness, the digester management. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the bugs are – of remarkable happiness. The work, sister, is – of significant public benefit.”

“Thank you, brother. The Blue Nile, in fact, in fairness, thanks you, in fact, also.”

He stood. He bowed.

“Sahar.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Hassan – Toledo, accountant, married to a fellow accountant, dinners of no bacterial status – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this plant, have, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, deliberately, in fact, eaten dinner without, brother, in fact, mentioning Wesley once. The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, expressed, in fairness, mild surprise. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given, in fairness, several. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals – for, in fairness, the twenty-fifth time of the day – and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door twenty-eight.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Falak and the Hooded Companions

The corridor between door twenty-seven and door twenty-eight carried, brother, the small dry leathery smell of, in fact, well-conditioned falconry equipment, of small specific bird-of-prey musk, and, in fairness, of, brother, the dry sweet alfalfa straw of, in fact, a clean mews.

Mahmoud al-Bakri approached door twenty-eight.

Through the door, brother, came the small distinctive metallic chime of, in fact, a falconry bell on a swiveled jess, ringing once, twice, and then settling into silence.

He opened door twenty-eight.

He, brother, was in a small Boise mews – a falconer’s outdoor weathering enclosure, transposed, in fairness, to the small flat-roofed Khartoum desert at the edge of the city.

The mews, brother, was, in fairness, of, in fact, considerable design – a long low building of pale stone, with, in fairness, an open-sided weathering yard at the front, with, in fact, a small swept-sand floor, with, in fairness, three perching blocks at calculated distances, and with, brother, an overhead canopy of small woven palm-frond mats that, in fairness, filtered, in fact, the warm Khartoum afternoon light into, in fairness, a small softly dappled pattern.

On the three perching blocks, brother, were, in fact, three falcons.

Each, brother, wore a small leather hood, perfectly fitted to the head, with, in fairness, a small tuft of feathers at the crown of the hood. Each, brother, wore a small set of leather jesses around the legs, with the small attached falconry bells. Each, brother, was, in fairness, perched, in fact, motionless, in the manner of, brother, a hooded falcon at, in fairness, complete cognitive rest.

The falcons, brother, were, in fairness, of, in fact, considerable size – perhaps the size of, in fairness, a large pigeon, but with, brother, the unmistakable broad shoulders, the strong feet, and the small wickedly-curved beak of, in fairness, predatory raptors.

Behind the three perching blocks, brother, the desert opened out toward, in fairness, the Khartoum skyline in the middle distance, with, in fact, the small white silhouette of the Mahdi’s Tomb across the river.

A woman stood beside the leftmost perching block.

She was perhaps fifty-two. She wore dark canvas trousers, a long-sleeved khaki shirt, sturdy desert boots, and a thick leather falconry glove on her left hand, extending from the fingers to the elbow. Her dark hair was, brother, streaked with grey, pulled into a low knot under, in fairness, a small wide-brimmed canvas hat. Her face, brother, was, in fairness, deeply weathered, in the precise specific way of, in fact, a woman who had, in fairness, worked, in fact, outdoors, in central Idaho, for, in fairness, thirty-five consecutive years.

She, brother, was, in fairness, conducting, in fact, a small careful conversation with, in fairness, the leftmost falcon.

” – no, no, my queen, you, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, going to remain hooded for, brother, a small additional moment, the visitor, in fact, has, in fairness, just arrived, and, in fact, in fairness, in fact, your weight today, brother, is, in fact, twenty-three grams above hunting weight, which, in fairness, in fact, would, brother, suggest, in fact, in fairness, a small further period of, brother, weathering before, in fact, in fairness, we, in fact, attempt the lure – “

She, brother, looked up. She, in fairness, smiled, brother, warmly.

“Hi! Falak Bahari. Welcome. Mahmoud, yes? Sit on the small wooden bench at the back of the yard. Please, in fairness, in fact, do not, in fact, approach the perching blocks. The hooding, in fact, in fairness, in fact, keeps the birds, brother, in cognitive rest, but, in fact, in fairness, in fact, sudden movements within, in fact, two metres of a hooded bird, brother, in fact, in fairness, can, in fact, in fairness, trigger, brother, a startle response. The startle response, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, would, in fact, manifest as, brother, in fairness, a, in fact, defensive bate, in which, in fact, in fairness, the bird would, in fact, attempt to, in fairness, in fact, fly, brother, blind, against the jesses, in fact, in fairness, in fact, with, brother, considerable force, and, in fact, in fairness, in fact, with, brother, considerable risk to, in fairness, the bird’s wing structure. The bench, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the safer location.”

He, brother, sat on the small wooden bench at the back of the yard, in fairness, very carefully.

He, in fact, placed all of his accumulated freight on the bench beside him, with, in fairness, particular care for, brother, the small ostrich egg, which, in fact, in fairness, he, brother, registered, in fairness, with, in fact, a small uncomfortable awareness, was, in fact, in fairness, of, in fact, considerable interest to, brother, in fact, the three falcons, hooded or not.

She, brother, poured him karkadeh from a small clay jug she retrieved from a, in fairness, small portable cooler under the bench. He, in fairness, drank.

“Bio quick. Born Tehran 1972. Family came to Boise, Idaho, in 1980 – my father, in fairness, was a small Iranian-American businessman who, in fact, in fairness, had relocated, in fact, on, brother, a, in fairness, family-friend recommendation. We, brother, settled. I, in fact, attended Boise State. I read wildlife biology with, in fairness, a focus on, in fact, raptor biology. I, brother, was, in fairness, qualified, in fact, in 1996, at age twenty-four. I worked, in fairness, for twenty-eight years as, brother, a senior raptor biologist at the Peregrine Fund’s World Center for Birds of Prey, in Boise. I, in fact, in fairness, was, brother, the lead researcher on, in fact, the gyrfalcon-peregrine hybridisation project from 2010 to 2024. I, brother, am, in fairness, a name in, in fact, this small specialised world. The name, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, Bahari of the World Center.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, brother, gestured at the three perching blocks.

“The three, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, my own. The angel, brother, in fairness, has, in fact, supplied them, on, in fact, the basis that they were, in fairness, my, in fact, personal birds rather than, brother, the Peregrine Fund’s institutional birds. The leftmost, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, Cleopatra, a female peregrine, age fourteen, brother, hatched from a, in fairness, captive breeding pair I, in fact, supervised in 2010. The middle, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, Charlemagne, a male gyrfalcon, age eleven, brother, hatched in 2013. The rightmost, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, Saladin, a male gyrfalcon-peregrine hybrid, age eight, brother, hatched in 2016, who, in fact, in fairness, was, brother, the small primary subject of my, in fact, hybridisation research. The three, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, mine.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fairness, glanced briefly at Cleopatra.

“Cleopatra, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the matriarch. Cleopatra, in fact, in fairness, will, in fact, fly first, brother, when, in fact, the hooding, in fairness, comes off.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2002, a man named David – American, a fellow Peregrine Fund researcher, peace be upon him. We dated, brother, three years. The relationship ended in 2005, when David – who had, in fairness, been, in fact, a kind colleague – attempted, in fact, to ask me, brother, on, in fairness, a Saturday afternoon at, in fact, the Center, whether, in fact, I, in fairness, would, in fact, consider, brother, transferring, in fact, my professional energies from, in fairness, my own personal three birds to, brother, the Center’s small captive-breeding programme on, in fact, a more dedicated full-time basis. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: David, the three, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, my personal birds. The personal birds, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, the work. The Center’s captive-breeding programme, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, also the work. The two, brother, in fact, in fairness, do not, in fact, in fairness, displace each other. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Falak, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, in fact, a relationship that, in fact, in fairness, in fact, did not, in fact, include, brother, in fact, the three personal birds as, brother, full members of the household. We, brother, in fact, in fairness, separated within the month. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow researcher who, in fact, in fairness, does not, in fact, keep, in fairness, personal birds.

“In 2014, a man named Reza – Iranian-American, a dentist in Boise, my mother’s preferred candidate. Reza, brother, was, in fairness, kind, observant, and, in fairness, willing to, in fact, attempt, brother, a relationship in which, in fact, in fairness, his Saturday afternoons, in fact, included, in fairness, attendance at, brother, weekly hawking expeditions in, in fact, the Idaho high desert. Reza, brother, made it, in fact, six years. The relationship ended in 2020 when Reza, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Falak, in our six years, has there been, in fairness, a single conversation in which, in fact, you, in fairness, did not, in fact, in fairness, mention, brother, the small daily condition of, in fact, in fairness, Cleopatra’s weight, mood, or moult status? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: no. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Falak, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, in fact, occasionally, brother, a conversation, brother, in fact, that, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fairness, not, brother, primarily, in fact, in fairness, about, brother, the small fluctuations of, in fact, a fourteen-year-old peregrine falcon’s, in fact, in fairness, fasting weight. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow dentist. They have, brother, in fairness, conversations of, in fact, no fluctuating fasting weight.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, in the small Idaho high desert, on a Tuesday in October, mid-flight, with Cleopatra on the wing. I had, brother, been, in fact, in fairness, on, brother, the small weekly hawking expedition, with, in fact, Cleopatra at, in fairness, optimal hunting weight. I had, brother, in fact, in fairness, just released her from the glove. She, in fact, in fairness, had, brother, climbed to, in fairness, perhaps three hundred feet on a, in fact, gentle thermal. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps two minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to call Cleopatra back to the lure. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, swung the small leather lure on, in fairness, the long line, in fact, three times, in the standard hawking pattern. Cleopatra, brother, in fact, in fairness, returned, in fact, in fairness, on the third swing, with, in fact, her standard precise economical descent. She, brother, in fact, in fairness, struck the lure cleanly. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, retrieved her, brother, with the small standard footwork, and, in fact, in fairness, in fact, hooded her on the glove. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, set Cleopatra, in fact, on the small portable perching block, brother, in fact, in fairness, beside the truck. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, called, in fairness, on the radio, my apprentice, Anders, who, in fact, in fairness, was, brother, hawking with his own bird, in fact, perhaps a kilometre away. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, said, on the radio: Anders, I am, in fact, in fairness, having a cardiac event, the bird is hooded and on the portable block, please, in fairness, in fact, come and secure her. Anders, brother, in fact, in fairness, arrived in, in fact, perhaps eight minutes. I was, in fairness, gone before he reached me. Cleopatra, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, hooded and on the block when, brother, Anders, in fact, in fairness, arrived. The bird, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, secured, transported, and, in fact, in fairness, in fact, eventually, brother, in fact, transferred to, in fairness, my will’s designated raptor caretaker, who, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, Anders. Anders, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, runs, in fairness, the three birds today on, brother, the small Idaho property. The three birds, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, in fairness, well.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fairness, glanced briefly at Cleopatra on the perching block, who, in fact, in fairness, had, brother, not moved.

“And here, brother, the angel, in fairness, has, in fact, supplied, brother, the three angelic copies of, in fairness, the three Earth birds. The three angelic copies, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, indistinguishable from the originals, by, in fairness, my, in fact, expert assessment. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, fly them, in fairness, every afternoon, in the small Khartoum desert just beyond the mews. The desert, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, has, in fairness, in fact, sufficient prey species – the angel, brother, in fairness, has, in fact, supplied, brother, an appropriate, in fact, ecological balance – for, in fairness, the three birds to, in fact, in fairness, hunt and, in fact, in fairness, return to, brother, the lure. The hawking, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the work. I am, brother, in fairness, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a peregrine biologist whose, in fact, professional life, in fairness, included, brother, three personal raptors with, in fact, the names Cleopatra, Charlemagne, and Saladin. He could not imagine the family meals, at which, in fact, the bride would, in fairness, in fact, provide, brother, the daily status update on, in fact, Cleopatra’s fasting weight. He could not – and this, brother, was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine, in his married life, in fact, three small wickedly-curved beaks watching him, in fairness, every evening at his mother’s iftar table.

He, brother, liked Falak. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply impressed by, in fairness, the lure-call discipline. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the birds are – of remarkable composure. Cleopatra, sister, is – of considerable presence.”

“Thank you, brother.”

He stood, very slowly, with, in fairness, no sudden movement of any kind. He bowed.

“Falak.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Reza – Boise, dentist, married to a fellow dentist, conversations of no fluctuating fasting weight – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this mews, have, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, deliberately, in fact, gone, brother, an entire afternoon without, in fact, mentioning Cleopatra’s weight. The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, expressed, in fairness, mild surprise. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given, in fairness, several. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left, brother, very slowly, with no sudden movement, walking backwards toward the door for the first three metres before, in fact, in fairness, turning, brother, only at the threshold. From inside, very faintly, he could hear, in fairness, the small distinctive metallic chime of, in fact, a falconry bell ringing once, twice, and settling.

He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals – for, in fairness, the twenty-sixth time of the day – and walked, brother, to door twenty-nine.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Hayat and the Pipes

The corridor between door twenty-eight and door twenty-nine carried, brother, no smell but, in fairness, a small steady, faintly audible drone – one continuous low note, sustained, in fact, indefinitely, with, brother, no apparent breath-pause.

Mahmoud al-Bakri approached door twenty-nine with, in fairness, some apprehension. He, in fact, did not, in fairness, recognise the sound.

He, brother, opened door twenty-nine.

The drone, brother, resolved instantly into, in fact, the unmistakable full-throated voice of, in fairness, a Highland bagpipe at, brother, optimal pressure.

He, brother, registered, in fact, that he had, in fairness, been, brother, in fact, deeply unprepared.

He was in a small Glaswegian-style stone-walled function room – transposed, in fairness, to Khartoum.

The room was perhaps eight metres by six. Pale stone walls, polished wooden floor, a small raised wooden stage at one end, on which stood a single small wooden chair and, in fairness, a small music stand with, in fact, a sheet of, in fairness, hand-written piping notation. From a single tall arched window at the back, brother, fell the warm Khartoum evening light. Through the window, brother, Mahmoud could see the small dust-haze of central Khartoum, with, in fact, the broad pale ribbon of the Blue Nile, and, brother, very surprisingly, in fairness, in fact, three Sudanese children standing on, in fact, the small dusty pavement just outside, brother, listening, in fairness, in fact, with, in fact, considerable interest, to the bagpipes that were, brother, audible from the room.

The children, brother, had, in fairness, never, in fact, heard a Highland bagpipe before. They, brother, were, in fact, in fairness, transfixed.

In the centre of the room, brother, stood a woman in full Highland dress.

She wore a dark green and navy tartan kilt of, in fairness, considerable formality, a black wool jacket with, in fact, polished silver buttons, a small white shirt with a black bow tie, a small leather sporran at the waist, dark wool stockings with, in fact, the small ceremonial dirk tucked into the right stocking, and small black brogues. On her head, brother, was a small black Glengarry cap with the small embroidered crest of, in fairness, what was, in fact, almost certainly the regimental insignia of, brother, a specific Scottish regiment.

She, brother, was, in fact, mid-tune, with, in fairness, the great Highland bagpipe held in the standard playing position – drones over the left shoulder, bag tucked under the left arm, chanter held in both hands. The tune, brother, was, in fairness, of considerable melodic intricacy. Her face, brother, was, in fairness, perhaps forty-six. She had, in fact, the precise small sustained breathing pattern of a competition piper.

She finished the tune, brother, with the small standard cadential flourish.

She, brother, removed the chanter from her mouth. She, in fact, grinned, in fairness, broadly.

“Hi! Hayat Dabbagh. Pipe Major, retired October 2024 by death. Welcome. Mahmoud, yeah? Sit on the small wooden chair by the wall – that, in fact, is, in fairness, the listener’s chair. The chair on the stage, brother, in fact, is, in fairness, the piper’s chair, and, brother, in fact, the piper’s chair, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, mine.”

He sat. He, in fact, placed all of his accumulated freight on the floor at his feet.

She, brother, set the great Highland pipes carefully on a small wooden stand beside the stage. The pipes, brother, in fairness, in fact, deflated, in fact, with the small soft asthmatic exhalation of, in fact, a deflating bag.

She, brother, poured him karkadeh from a small clay jug on a side table. He drank.

“Bio quick. Born Beirut 1978. Family came to Glasgow in 1985 – my father, in fairness, was a textile importer who, in fact, established, brother, a small business in the Glaswegian Trongate. We, brother, settled in Pollokshields. I, brother, attended, in fairness, the small local primary school. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, recruited, brother, at age eight, into the small after-school pipe band of, in fairness, the local primary school’s adjacent church congregation, by, brother, the kind elderly Pipe Major Iain MacDonald, peace be upon him, who, in fact, in fairness, had, in fact, in fairness, decided that, brother, the small Lebanese-Scottish girl from Pollokshields, in fact, in fairness, in fact, had, in fact, in fairness, the lung capacity for, brother, the great Highland pipe. I, brother, played, in fact, in fairness, in pipe bands, brother, for the next thirty-eight years. I, brother, was, in fairness, the first non-Scottish-born woman, in fact, in fairness, ever, brother, appointed Pipe Major of, brother, the City of Glasgow Police Pipe Band, in 2014, at age thirty-six. I, brother, held that Pipe Major position, in fact, until October 2024. I, brother, am, in fairness, a name in this small specialised world.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work. The pipes, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, the work.”

She, brother, gestured at the great Highland pipes on the wooden stand.

“The pipes, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, my own. The angel, in fairness, has, in fact, supplied, brother, the standard set, plus, in fact, the small ceremonial set I, in fact, used for, in fairness, formal regimental occasions, plus, brother, the small practice chanter for, in fact, indoor practice. The pipes, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, of, in fairness, considerable pedigree – they were, in fact, presented to me, brother, by, in fairness, the City of Glasgow Police on the occasion of my appointment as Pipe Major, with, in fact, the small engraved silver mount on the bass drone reading H. DABBAGH – PIPE MAJOR – 2014.”

“And the men, sister.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fact, smiled, brother, slightly.

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2003, a man named Calum – Scottish, a fellow piper, then a Pipe Sergeant of, in fairness, a competing Glasgow pipe band. We dated, brother, three years. The relationship ended in 2006, when Calum – who had, in fairness, been, in fact, kindly tolerant of my professional ambitions – attempted, in fact, on, brother, a Saturday afternoon at the Cowal Highland Gathering, to, brother, propose marriage to me, in fact, in fairness, between the small qualifying round and the final round of, in fact, the Pipe Major Solo competition, in which, in fact, in fairness, I, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, lined up, brother, for the final round. I, in fact, in fairness, was, brother, in the small piper’s tent, in fact, in fairness, tuning my pipes, when, brother, Calum, in fact, in fairness, came in with, in fact, the small velvet ring box. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, considered the situation. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, said: Calum, the qualifying round, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, complete. The final round, brother, in fact, in fairness, begins in eleven minutes. The pipes, in fact, in fairness, in fact, are, in fact, in fairness, in fact, three Hertz off. Please, in fact, in fairness, return after, brother, the final round. Calum, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, displeased. Calum, brother, in fact, in fairness, said: Hayat, I, in fact, in fairness, just travelled, brother, four hours from, in fact, Edinburgh to, in fact, Cowal to, brother, propose. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Calum, the final round, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, also, brother, four hours away from, in fact, Edinburgh, but, brother, in fact, in fairness, more importantly, in fact, in fairness, the final round, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, the work. The work, brother, in fact, in fairness, takes precedence over the proposal, in fact, in fairness, in this exact eleven-minute window. He, brother, in fact, in fairness, left the tent. The proposal, in fact, in fairness, did not, in fact, in fairness, occur after the final round, on the basis that, in fact, Calum, in fact, in fairness, considered, in fact, the postponement, brother, in fact, in fairness, an effective rejection. The final round, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, I, brother, in fact, in fairness, won, by, in fact, three points, in fact, on a clean march-strathspey-and-reel set. The Pipe Major Solo gold medal, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, hangs, today, on the wall of the Glasgow Police pipe band hall, with, in fact, the small inscription: H. DABBAGH – COWAL – 2006. We separated within the month. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow piper who, in fact, in fairness, would have, brother, in fact, accepted the proposal in the tent. They have, in fairness, three children, all, in fact, of, in fairness, considerable lung capacity.

“In 2014, a man named Bashir – Lebanese-Scottish, a small businessman in Glasgow, my mother’s preferred candidate. Bashir, in fairness, was, in fact, kind, observant, and, in fairness, willing to, in fact, attend, brother, perhaps thirty pipe-band performances over six years. Bashir, brother, made it, in fact, six years. The relationship ended in 2020 when Bashir, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Hayat, in our six years, has there been, in fairness, a single quiet evening at home in which you, in fact, in fairness, did not, in fact, in fairness, practise, brother, the pipes for, in fact, at least an hour? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: no. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Hayat, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, occasionally, brother, in fact, an evening of, brother, complete silence in, in fact, the home. I, brother, understood the position. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow Lebanese-Glaswegian who, in fact, does not, in fairness, play any wind instrument. They, in fact, in fairness, have, brother, evenings of, in fact, in fairness, complete silence.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at the small annual City of Glasgow Police Pipe Band Memorial Concert, on a Saturday afternoon in October, in front of perhaps four hundred attendees, mid-tune. I had, brother, been, in fact, leading, in fairness, the band in, in fact, the standard memorial programme, which, in fairness, in fact, includes, brother, in fact, the small slow lament Flowers of the Forest, which, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the traditional Scottish mourning piece. I, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, mid-second-time-through of the lament, with, brother, the small ceremonial dirge tempo, when, in fact, in fairness, I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps thirty seconds. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to complete, in fairness, the lament. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, completed, in fact, the second time-through, in fact, with, in fairness, the small final cadential flourish. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, lowered, in fairness, the chanter, brother, from my mouth. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, set the pipes carefully on the small wooden stand beside me. I, in fact, in fairness, sat, brother, on the small wooden chair. I died, brother, on the chair, with the lament still hanging in the air. The audience, in fact, in fairness, applauded for, in fairness, eleven seconds before, brother, the band’s Pipe Sergeant, Kirsty MacDonald – yes, brother, the granddaughter of, in fact, my own first teacher, Pipe Major Iain MacDonald, peace be upon him – realised, in fact, that I had not, in fairness, risen for the next tune. The band, brother, in fact, in fairness, completed the programme, in fact, with Kirsty as Pipe Major. The audience, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, told, brother, after the programme. The applause, in fact, at the conclusion, brother, in fact, in fairness, lasted, in fact, in fairness, four minutes, in the small Scottish manner of acknowledgement. The City of Glasgow Police Pipe Band, brother, in fact, in fairness, retired the Pipe Major position for, brother, the remainder of the 2024 calendar year. Kirsty, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, formally appointed Pipe Major in January 2025. Kirsty, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, doing, in fairness, well.”

She, brother, paused, in fairness.

“And here, brother, the pipes are mine. The angel, in fairness, has, in fact, supplied, brother, the room. I, brother, play every afternoon. The audience, in fact, in fairness, varies – sometimes the empty chairs, brother, sometimes, in fact, the three Sudanese children at the window. The three children, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, have been, in fact, returning, in fairness, daily. They, brother, in fact, in fairness, do not, in fact, in fairness, applaud. They, brother, in fact, in fairness, simply, in fairness, listen. The listening, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, in fairness, sufficient.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a Glaswegian-Lebanese Pipe Major whose, in fact, evening practice, in fairness, was, in fact, of, brother, ninety decibels at, in fairness, the standard piping volume. He could not imagine the wedding, at which the bride would, in fact, lead the procession with, in fact, Flowers of the Forest at the small ceremonial dirge tempo, while, brother, his mother, in fact, in fairness, attempted, brother, to, in fact, in fairness, identify, brother, what cultural moment was, in fact, occurring. He could not – and this, brother, was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine, brother, his Sana’a neighbours’ reaction to, in fact, in fairness, the daily ninety-decibel evening practice across, in fact, the small mud-brick courtyard wall, indefinitely.

He, brother, liked Hayat enormously. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply moved by, brother, the completed lament. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the lament was – of remarkable beauty. The pipes, sister, are – most distinguished.”

“Thank you, brother.”

He stood. He bowed.

“Hayat.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Bashir – Glasgow, small businessman, married to a fellow Lebanese-Glaswegian who plays no wind instrument, evenings of complete silence – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this room, have, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, deliberately, in fact, sat, brother, in this small stone room for, in fact, an entire evening without, in fact, picking up the pipes. The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, expressed, in fairness, mild surprise. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given, in fairness, several. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. From the room, very faintly, he could hear, in fairness, the small soft preparatory inflation of, in fact, the bag, before, brother, the next tune.

He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals – for, in fairness, the twenty-seventh time of the day – and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door thirty.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER THIRTY

Ranya and the Standing Timber

The corridor between door twenty-nine and door thirty carried, brother, the unmistakable sharp green smell of, in fact, freshly-cut conifer – pine resin, sawdust, and, in fairness, the small specific damp-bark note of, brother, an Adirondack lumber operation in early autumn.

He, brother, registered, in fairness, the small impossibility of this smell in central Khartoum. He, in fact, was, brother, by now, accustomed to such impossibilities.

He approached door thirty.

Through the door, brother, came the small steady whine of, in fact, a chainsaw at, in fairness, working RPM, followed by, in fact, the small precise crack of, brother, a tree falling.

He, brother, paused for some considerable seconds. He, in fairness, opened the door anyway.

He was, brother, standing in a small clearing in an Adirondack-style mixed conifer forest.

The forest, brother, was, in fairness, perhaps seventy metres deep on each side, with, in fact, mature white pines, eastern hemlocks, and yellow birches of, in fairness, considerable height. The clearing, in fact, had, in fairness, been, in fact, recently worked – perhaps a dozen freshly-cut stumps, with, in fairness, the small precise cuts of, brother, a professional, with, in fact, the freshly-stacked logs along the western edge of the clearing, with, brother, the small bright pale wood of, in fairness, the heartwood exposed at, in fact, the cut ends.

The forest, brother, was, in fairness, in central Khartoum.

Beyond the perimeter of the forest, brother – and Mahmoud, in fairness, registered this with, in fact, the small composed acceptance of a young man who had, in fact, by now, processed sixteen impossibilities in a single afternoon – was, in fairness, the small unmistakable Khartoum cityscape, with, in fact, the broad pale ribbon of the Blue Nile in the middle distance, with, brother, the small white silhouette of the Mahdi’s Tomb, with, in fairness, the date palms and the mud-brick walls, with, in fact, in fairness, the warm Khartoum dust drifting, brother, in fact, into the cool damp clearing of, in fairness, transposed Adirondack forest, where, in fact, in fairness, the dust, brother, in fact, in fairness, met, in fairness, the falling sawdust and, in fact, formed, brother, a small visible mingled-particulate atmosphere of, in fairness, considerable visual interest.

In the centre of the clearing stood a woman with, in fairness, a chainsaw.

She was perhaps forty-eight. She wore high-quality canvas work trousers reinforced with chainsaw-resistant Kevlar fabric in the shins, sturdy steel-toed lumber boots laced to the knee, a thick canvas work shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, heavy leather work gloves, and a hard-shell logger’s helmet with a small mesh face guard and, in fairness, integrated ear protection, currently flipped up onto the brim. Her dark hair was pulled into a low knot under the helmet. Her arms, brother, were, in fairness, considerably muscled, in the precise specific way of, in fact, a woman who had, in fairness, been, in fact, hauling timber, brother, for, in fairness, perhaps twenty-five years.

She held, brother, a small Stihl chainsaw, with the engine, in fairness, idling at, in fact, low RPM.

She, brother, looked up. She, in fact, killed the engine.

The clearing, brother, fell, in fairness, into instant silence, except, in fact, for, in fairness, the small distant cry of an unidentified Sudanese kingfisher somewhere across the river, and, brother, in fact, the very faint sound of, in fact, the Isha call, in fairness, just finishing.

She, brother, grinned.

“Hi! Ranya Habib. Adirondack Logging Cooperative, certified faller, retired October 2024 by death. Welcome. Mahmoud, yeah? Sit on the small log by the western edge of the clearing – that, in fact, is, in fairness, the visitor’s log. The other logs, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, are, in fact, in fairness, working stock and, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, in fairness, scheduled for, brother, transport to the angel’s, in fact, in fairness, small downstream sawmill at, brother, the next available appointment, which, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, never, on the basis that, brother, in fact, in fairness, the angel, in fact, in fairness, has not, in fact, in fairness, arranged, brother, the sawmill yet.”

He sat on the visitor’s log.

He, in fact, placed all of his accumulated freight on the small mossy patch beside the log, with, in fairness, particular care for, brother, the small ostrich egg.

She, brother, set the chainsaw on a small wooden stand beside her. She, in fact, removed the heavy leather work gloves and, in fairness, retrieved a small clay jug of karkadeh from a, brother, small portable cooler beside the stand. She, in fairness, poured him a small enamel mug.

He drank.

“Bio quick. Born Beirut 1976. Family came to upstate New York in 1985 – my father, in fairness, was a, in fact, small engineering consultant who, brother, was hired by, in fact, a paper-products firm in, in fairness, Glens Falls, New York, on a long-term contract. We, brother, settled. I, in brother, attended SUNY Plattsburgh. I read forestry. I, brother, qualified, in fact, as a certified faller in 2002, at age twenty-six, after, in fairness, the standard apprenticeship at the Adirondack Logging Cooperative. I, brother, worked, in fact, in fairness, as a faller for, in fact, twenty-two consecutive years, in the Adirondack region of New York State, for, in fairness, the same cooperative, with, in fact, the same five-person crew for, in fairness, fourteen of those years. I, brother, was, in fact, in fairness, the only Lebanese-American woman, in fact, to hold, in fairness, the position of certified faller in, brother, the New York State Adirondack region during, in fairness, my career. I, brother, am, in fairness, a name in, in fact, this small specialised world.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work. The trees, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, the work.”

She, brother, gestured at the freshly-cut stumps.

“In my career, brother, I, in fact, in fairness, felled, in fact, perhaps thirty thousand trees. Each, brother, in fact, in fairness, with, in fact, the small precise notch cut, the small precise back cut, and, in fact, the small precise hinge that, brother, in fact, in fairness, controls the direction of fall. The hinge, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the work. The hinge, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, what, brother, in fact, separates the certified faller from, in fairness, the unfortunate amateur. Of the thirty thousand trees, brother, in fact, in fairness, twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-six, in fact, in fairness, fell, in fact, exactly where I had intended. Fourteen, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, fell, in fact, in fairness, in fact, in unanticipated directions, on, brother, in fact, mostly the small unexpected interaction of, in fairness, wind shear with, in fact, irregular crown structure. Of the fourteen, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, none, in fact, in fairness, in fact, struck, brother, a worker. Of the fourteen, in fact, in fairness, in fact, three, in fact, in fairness, in fact, struck, brother, equipment, with, in fairness, in fact, considerable damage to, brother, the equipment. Of the three, in fact, in fairness, in fact, all three, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, were, in fact, in fairness, the same forwarder, in fact, in fairness, of, brother, the same ill-positioned model, which, brother, in fact, in fairness, our crew foreman, in fact, in fairness, in fact, had, in fact, persistently, in fairness, parked, brother, in the wrong location, despite, in fact, my repeated requests. The crew foreman, brother, retired in 2018. The forwarder, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, replaced. The replacement, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, never, brother, struck. I am, in fairness, in fact, professionally satisfied with, brother, this final accounting.”

“That is – that is, in fairness, an extraordinary record.”

“Brother, thank you.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2005, a man named Ben – American, a fellow faller on the same crew, peace be upon him. We dated, brother, four years. The relationship ended in 2009, when Ben – who had, in fairness, been, in fact, kind throughout, and, in fact, who had, in fairness, even, brother, learned to make my mother’s small Lebanese-style stuffed grape leaves to a, brother, surprisingly competent standard – attempted, brother, to propose marriage to me, in fact, in the woods, on a Saturday afternoon, by, in fairness, in fact, carving, brother, the small word RANYA into, in fact, the trunk of a, in fairness, mature white pine. Ben, brother, had, in fairness, used, in fact, his own small hand-carving knife, in fact, with the standard small chip-carving technique, on, brother, a, in fairness, healthy living tree of, in fact, perhaps eighty years of age. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, encountered the carved tree, in fact, in fairness, on the standard Saturday-morning crew walk-through. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, considered the situation. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, found Ben, in fact, in fairness, in the small base camp, with, brother, in fact, the small velvet ring box. I, in fact, in fairness, told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: Ben, the answer, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, no, on the basis that, in fact, in fairness, you, brother, in fact, in fairness, just wounded, brother, a healthy living tree, in fact, in fairness, in a way that, brother, in fact, in fairness, will, in fact, in fairness, predispose, brother, that tree to, in fact, in fairness, fungal infection within, in fact, eighteen months. The tree, brother, in fact, in fairness, will, in fact, in fairness, die. The tree, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, eighty years of standing timber. The tree, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, been alive longer than, brother, both of us combined. You, brother, in fact, in fairness, killed the tree to, in fact, propose to me. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, cannot, in fact, in fairness, accept, in fact, the proposal, on the basis that, brother, in fact, in fairness, the tree, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, in fairness, regard, brother, the acceptance as, brother, in fact, the small final betrayal of, in fairness, eighty years of, brother, standing competence. Ben, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, displeased. Ben, brother, in fact, in fairness, said: Ranya, I, in fact, in fairness, just proposed to you. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, said: Ben, the tree, in fact, in fairness, just declined the proposal, by proxy. We, brother, in fact, in fairness, separated within the month. Ben, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, transferred to, in fairness, a different crew. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow logger who, in fact, does not, in fact, in fairness, prioritise, brother, the standing-timber perspective. They, in fairness, have, brother, two children, both, in fact, of, in fairness, considerable carpentry skill.

“In 2014, a man named Hassan – Lebanese-American, an accountant in Glens Falls, my mother’s preferred candidate. Hassan, in fairness, was, in fact, kind, observant, and, in fairness, willing to, in fact, attempt, brother, a relationship in which, in fact, my Saturday afternoons were, in fairness, in the woods. Hassan, brother, made it, in fact, six years. The relationship ended in 2020 when Hassan, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Ranya, in our six years, has there been, in fairness, a single conversation in which, in fact, you, in fairness, did not, in fact, in fairness, mention, brother, the small daily condition of, in fact, in fairness, the standing timber on, brother, your operational permit? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: no. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Ranya, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, in fact, a conversation, brother, in fact, in fairness, that, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fairness, not, brother, primarily, in fact, in fairness, about, brother, the small fluctuations of, in fact, the trees you, brother, in fact, in fairness, have not yet felled. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow accountant. They, in fact, in fairness, have, brother, conversations of, in fact, in fairness, no standing timber.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, in this clearing – well, in fairness, in fact, the original Adirondack version of this clearing, in October 2024, mid-fall. I had, brother, been, in fact, in fairness, mid-back-cut on a, in fact, mature eastern hemlock of, in fairness, perhaps a hundred and sixty years of age. The tree, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, my last scheduled fell of, in fact, the day. The notch, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, complete. The hinge, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, set. The back cut, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, perhaps two-thirds complete. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps forty-five seconds. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to complete, in fairness, the back cut. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, completed, in fact, the back cut with, in fairness, a small clean cross-cut, brother, in fact, leaving, in fairness, the standard one-inch holding-wood hinge. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, set the chainsaw on the safe ground beside my left foot. I, in fact, in fairness, in fact, gave the small standard verbal hinge-tap with, brother, the back of my axe to, in fairness, the felling wedge in the back cut. The tree, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, fell, in fact, in fairness, exactly along the predetermined fall line, into, brother, in fact, the small pre-cleared lay of, in fairness, the forest floor that, in fact, in fairness, my crew, brother, in fact, in fairness, had, in fact, prepared. The fall, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, the cleanest fall of my career. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, sat, in fact, on a, in fairness, fallen log near the stump. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, called, in fact, in fairness, on the radio, my crew chief, who, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, perhaps sixty metres into the next stand. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, said, on the radio: Wesley, this is Ranya, the hemlock is down on the lay, I am having a cardiac event, please come. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, arrived in, in fact, three minutes. I was, in fact, in fairness, gone before he reached me. The hemlock, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, transported to, in fairness, the cooperative’s mill the following Tuesday and, in fact, milled into, brother, perhaps four hundred board feet of, in fact, premium hemlock lumber. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, retained, in fact, one of the small hewn beams from the tree, in fact, in fairness, set it on a small stand in, in fairness, the cooperative’s small office, with the small inscription on a brass plate: HABIB’S LAST FALL – OCTOBER 2024 – CLEAN ON THE LAY. The cooperative, brother, in fact, in fairness, retired the small numbered marker at, in fact, my felling station for, brother, the remainder of the 2024 calendar year.”

“And here, sister.”

“And here, brother, the angel, in fairness, has, in fact, supplied, brother, the small clearing. The trees, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, regrown each morning to, in fairness, mature dimensions. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, fell perhaps fifteen per day. The fells, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, all clean on the lay. The logs, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, transported by, in fairness, the angel to, brother, an undisclosed downstream sawmill that, in fact, in fairness, I have, in fact, never, in fairness, visited and, brother, in fact, in fairness, am, in fact, given to understand, in fact, in fairness, does not, in fact, in fairness, exist in, in fairness, the conventional sense. The forest, brother, in fact, in fairness, regrows. The work, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the work. I am, brother, in fairness, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, an Adirondack-Lebanese certified faller who, in fact, autonomically, in fairness, evaluated, in fact, every tree she encountered for, brother, the small precise location of, in fairness, the optimal hinge. He could not imagine the wedding, at which, in fact, in fairness, the bride would, in fact, in fairness, decline the carved-tree proposal of, brother, his cousin Tariq’s, in fact, in fairness, well-meaning small notch on the family date palm in his mother’s courtyard. He could not – and this, brother, was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine, in his married life, in fact, his mother’s beloved date palm, brother, in fact, in fairness, being, brother, evaluated, in fact, in fairness, by his wife, in fact, autonomically, for, in fact, the optimal fall direction, every morning at the Sana’a courtyard fajr.

He, brother, liked Ranya. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply impressed by, brother, the standing-timber perspective. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the work is – of remarkable precision. The hinge, sister, is – most cleanly set.”

“Thank you, brother.”

He stood. He bowed.

“Ranya.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Hassan – Glens Falls, accountant, married to a fellow accountant, conversations of no standing timber – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this clearing, have, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, deliberately, in fact, gone, brother, an entire afternoon without, in fact, evaluating, brother, a single tree for, in fairness, optimal hinge placement. The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, expressed, in fairness, mild surprise. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given, in fairness, several. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left, brother, carefully, with the awareness that, in fact, in fairness, he was, brother, walking through, in fairness, freshly-cut sawdust that, in fact, was settling, brother, gently into Khartoum dust.

He brushed the Khartoum dust and the Adirondack sawdust from his sandals – for, in fairness, the twenty-eighth time of the day – and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door thirty-one.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Marwa and the Pressure Differential

The corridor between door thirty and door thirty-one carried, brother, the small specific saline smell of, in fact, sea water – but, in fairness, a slightly chemical version of it, of the kind, brother, that came, in fact, only from, in fairness, an industrial commercial-diving operation.

Mahmoud al-Bakri, who had not, in fairness, encountered the sea since his suicide boat in October 2024, paused for a small moment in the corridor. He, brother, registered, in fact, that this was, in fairness, the first time the sea had, brother, intruded on his afternoon.

He, in fact, opened door thirty-one.

He was in a small Houston-style commercial-diving facility – transposed, in fairness, to the bank of the Blue Nile in central Khartoum.

Through a tall plate-glass window, brother, he could see, in fact, the broad pale ribbon of the Blue Nile in the middle distance, with, in fairness, a small floating commercial-diving platform anchored, brother, perhaps thirty metres from the bank, on which, in fact, in fairness, sat, brother, the small yellow steel hatch and, in fact, the umbilical-management equipment of, in fairness, an active surface-supplied diving operation. The diving operation, brother, was, in fairness, in the Blue Nile. The Blue Nile, brother, was, in fairness, in fact, perhaps fifteen feet deep at the point of the platform, which, in fact, was, in fairness, considerably less depth than, in fact, a commercial diving operation, brother, in fairness, ordinarily, in fact, required. The angel, brother, had, in fairness, supplied the depth notwithstanding.

Inside the facility, brother, the room was a small workshop and dive-prep space: concrete floor, exposed steel ceiling, a long workbench along one wall with, in fact, a pressure-tested hyperbaric welding rig, a wet-bell launch system in the corner, a small stainless-steel decompression chamber along the back wall, and a set of, in fairness, two professional dive suits hanging, brother, on a rack by the door, with, in fact, the small distinctive yellow-and-orange stripes of, in fairness, commercial saturation-diving equipment.

A woman stood at the workbench, in dark blue coveralls with the embroidered name BISHARA – TOPSIDE on the breast, heavy work boots, and a small headset with, in fairness, a microphone, currently around her neck. Her dark hair, brother, was, in fairness, pulled into a low knot. Her face, brother, was, in fairness, perhaps forty-two, with, in fact, the small specific weathered look of a woman who had, in fairness, in fact, spent, brother, a considerable percentage of her professional life, in fact, sealed inside, in fairness, a saturation-diving habitat at, brother, in fact, three hundred feet of depth.

She, brother, looked up. She, in fact, smiled, in fairness, briefly.

“Hi! Marwa Bishara. Houston, retired October 2024 by death. Welcome. Mahmoud, yeah? Sit on the small steel stool by the workbench. Tea?”

“Yes – yes, please, sister.”

He sat.

She poured him karkadeh from a small clay jug. She, brother, handed him the small steel mug.

She, in fact, did not, in fairness, sit. She, brother, stood, in fact, at the workbench, with, in fairness, the small composed kinetic energy of, in fact, a diver who, brother, was, in fairness, mentally still in the water.

“Bio quick. Born Beirut 1982. Family came to Houston in 1990 – my father was, in fairness, a petroleum engineer hired by ExxonMobil. We, brother, settled. I, in fairness, attended Texas A&M Galveston. I read marine engineering. I, brother, qualified, in 2006, as, in fact, a commercial diver through, in fairness, the standard Association of Diving Contractors apprenticeship. I, brother, qualified, in 2010, as, in fact, a wet-welder, with, in fairness, the small additional underwater-welding certification. I, brother, worked, in fact, for fourteen years on, in fairness, deep-water platforms in the Gulf of Mexico, doing, brother, in fact, repair welds at, in fairness, depths of, in fact, between sixty and three hundred feet. I, brother, was, in fairness, the first Lebanese-American woman, in fact, to hold, brother, the wet-welding certification at, in fairness, my contractor’s firm. I, brother, am, in fairness, a name in, in fact, this small specialised world.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, brother, gestured at the floating platform through the window.

“The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, supplied, brother, the small Blue Nile platform, on, in fact, the basis that, in fact, in fairness, the diving, brother, is, in fact, the work, and, brother, the work, in fairness, in fact, requires, brother, water at depth. The Blue Nile, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, fifteen feet deep at, in fairness, the platform’s anchor point. The fifteen feet, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, less than, brother, the standard commercial-diving working depth. The angel, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, agreed to, in fairness, simulate, brother, the pressure differential of three hundred feet, by, in fact, in fairness, an unspecified angelic mechanism, when, brother, I, in fact, in fairness, am, in fact, on the bottom. I, brother, in fact, descend, in fairness, perhaps three times per week. I, in fact, in fairness, do, brother, the small simulated repair welds on, in fact, a, in fairness, small simulated underwater wellhead the angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, supplied at, brother, the bottom of the platform’s working area. The welds, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, of regulation quality. The wellhead, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, in fairness, not, brother, in fact, in fairness, attached to, brother, any actual oil reservoir. The wellhead, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, ornamental, in the small functional-ornamental sense.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2008, a man named Carlos – Houston Mexican-American, a fellow commercial diver on the same crew, peace be upon him. Two years. The relationship ended in 2010 when Carlos – who had, in fairness, been, in fact, on the same saturation-diving deployment with me for, in fact, fourteen days – attempted, in fact, in fairness, to propose marriage, brother, by, in fact, in fairness, scratching, brother, the words MARRY ME RANYA into, in fact, the small steel deck plate of, in fairness, the saturation habitat with, brother, the small standard underwater steel scribe. Carlos, brother, in fact, in fairness, had, in fact, in fairness, scratched RANYA, in fact, by, in fairness, mistake. My name, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, Marwa. Carlos, brother, in fact, in fairness, had, in fact, in fairness, been, in fact, dating, brother, simultaneously, in fact, a woman named Ranya in, in fairness, Galveston. The discovery, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, made by, brother, our shift chief, who, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, doing, in fact, in fairness, the standard end-of-shift habitat inspection. The shift chief, brother, in fact, in fairness, brought it to, in fairness, my attention, by, brother, the small private radio channel. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, considered the situation, in fact, at three hundred feet of depth, in, brother, the saturation habitat, with Carlos, in fact, sleeping, in fairness, in the adjacent bunk. We, brother, in fact, in fairness, separated, in fact, on the surface, twelve days later, when, brother, the saturation deployment, in fairness, completed and we, in fact, in fairness, decompressed. He, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, today, married, in fairness, Ranya. They, in fact, in fairness, have, brother, two children. The deck plate, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, replaced by, brother, the contractor at, in fairness, considerable expense.

“In 2014, a man named Tariq – Lebanese-American, a Houston engineer, my mother’s preferred candidate. Tariq, brother, was, in fact, kind, observant, and, in fairness, willing to, in fact, attempt, brother, a relationship with a woman who, in fact, in fairness, was, brother, periodically, in fact, sealed inside a saturation habitat for, in fact, fourteen-day deployments at three hundred feet of depth, during which, in fact, in fairness, communication was, brother, by short pre-scheduled radio calls only. Tariq, brother, made it, in fact, six years. The relationship ended in 2020 when Tariq, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Marwa, in our six years, has there been, in fairness, a single fourteen-day period in which I, in fact, in fairness, knew, brother, where on the planet you, in fact, in fairness, in fact, were? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: no. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Marwa, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, to, brother, in fact, know, brother, the latitude and, in fact, in fairness, longitude of, brother, my partner, at, in fairness, all times, with, brother, in fact, accuracy of, in fairness, plus or minus a hundred miles. We separated, gently. Tariq, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow engineer who, in fact, works, in fairness, in a small Houston office building. They, in fact, in fairness, have, brother, the small office building’s coordinates, in fairness, in fact, available, in fact, by, in fact, simple GPS lookup at, brother, all times.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, in the saturation habitat, on day eleven of a fourteen-day deployment, at three hundred feet of depth, in October 2024. I had, brother, been, in fact, asleep, in the small bunk, with my dive partner, Wesley, in the adjacent bunk. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, woke, in fact, with the wrong sensation, in the centre of my chest. I had, brother, perhaps four minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to, in fairness, in fact, follow, in fact, the standard saturation-emergency-medical protocol. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, woke Wesley. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, contacted topside on the small habitat radio. Topside, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, contacted, in fact, the contracted hyperbaric medic, who, brother, in fact, in fairness, joined the call. The hyperbaric medic, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, asked the standard symptom questions. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, answered them, in fact, in fairness, accurately. The hyperbaric medic, brother, in fact, in fairness, confirmed, in fact, what I, in fact, in fairness, already, brother, suspected – that the cardiac event, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, of severity that, brother, would, in fact, in fairness, exceed, in fact, the small medical capabilities of, in fairness, the saturation habitat at, brother, three hundred feet of depth. Decompression, brother, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, in fairness, take, brother, eleven hours, by, in fact, the standard protocol. Eleven hours, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, longer than, in fairness, the four minutes I, in fact, in fairness, had. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, told the hyperbaric medic, on the small habitat radio: this is Marwa, the cardiac event, in fact, in fairness, exceeds, in fact, the four-minute window. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, will, in fact, not, in fairness, survive the descent. Please, in fairness, in fact, log the event, brother, for, in fairness, the contractor’s record. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, will, brother, complete the deployment. Wesley, in fact, in fairness, will, brother, in fact, surface in three days. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, am, brother, in fact, in fairness, content with, brother, this resolution. The hyperbaric medic, brother, in fact, in fairness, said: Marwa, I, in fact, in fairness, am, in fact, sorry. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, said: medic, the protocol, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the protocol. The medic, brother, in fact, in fairness, signed off the call. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, lay, in fact, on the small bunk. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, sat, in fact, on the floor of the habitat next to me, with, brother, his hand on, in fact, my shoulder. I died, brother, in the small habitat, at three hundred feet of depth, with Wesley present. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, completed, in fairness, the remaining three days of the deployment. Wesley, in fact, in fairness, decompressed, brother, on schedule. Wesley, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, has, in fact, since, in fairness, given, brother, several talks at the Association of Diving Contractors annual conference about, in fact, the protocol-based management of, brother, in-habitat medical events, in which, brother, my case, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, been, brother, the primary teaching example. The teaching, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, has, in fact, in fairness, been, brother, of, in fairness, considerable professional value.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother in Sana’a, a Houston commercial diver who, in fact, would, in fairness, periodically, in fact, disappear into, brother, a sealed steel habitat at, in fairness, three hundred feet of depth, for, in fact, fourteen-day deployments at unspecified Gulf-of-Mexico coordinates. He could not imagine the wedding, at which, in fact, the bride would, in fairness, be, in fact, available, brother, only by, in fairness, three pre-scheduled radio calls per day for, in fact, the entirety of the honeymoon. He could not – and this, brother, was, in fairness, the small specific concern that surfaced last – imagine, brother, his Yemeni mother, in fact, attempting, in fact, in fairness, to identify, brother, in fact, the latitude and longitude of, in fairness, her daughter-in-law, on a Tuesday afternoon, when, in fact, the answer was, in fairness, in fact, classified by, brother, the contractor.

He, brother, liked Marwa. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply impressed by, brother, the protocol-based composure. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the protocol is – of remarkable composure. Wesley, sister, was – a most kind dive partner.”

“Thank you, brother.”

He stood. He bowed.

“Marwa.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Tariq – Houston, engineer, married to a fellow engineer with traceable coordinates – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months on this Blue Nile platform, have, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, deliberately, in fact, surfaced, brother, with, in fairness, my coordinates clearly logged in, in fact, the angel’s small dispatch register. The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, expressed, in fairness, mild surprise. He had been, in fact, asking, in fairness, for, brother, only that. Tell him I have, in fact, given, in fairness, several. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals – for the twenty-ninth time of the day – and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door thirty-two.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Dalia and the Controlled Demolition

The corridor between door thirty-one and door thirty-two carried, brother, no smell at all. Just clean dry air. Mahmoud al-Bakri approached door thirty-two with, in fairness, no specific apprehension.

He, brother, opened the door.

He, in fact, understood, in fairness, within two seconds, that this was, in fact, the room he, brother, in fairness, had been, in fact, in fairness, walking toward, in some specific way, since the corridor began.

He was, brother, standing in a small Pittsburgh blasting-engineering site office.

A small concrete-walled prefabricated portable building, of the kind used on, brother, large-scale civil-engineering project sites. A long metal desk along one wall, on which were arranged blueprint rolls, a small drafting compass, a yellow legal pad with detailed hand-written calculations, and, in fairness, a small precise-scale model of, in fact, what appeared to be, brother, the cooling tower of an old industrial plant. Above the desk, brother, on a small bulletin board, were pinned several photographs, of, in fairness, large structures in mid-collapse – a chimney falling, a stadium imploding, an old hospital folding inward in, brother, the precise specific manner of, in fact, a controlled demolition.

Through a single small window, brother, fell the warm Khartoum evening light, and through it Mahmoud could see a small open lot in central Khartoum, on which, in fairness, a small disused colonial-era brick warehouse, brother, in fact, was, in fairness, standing, in fact, with, brother, an arrangement of, in fairness, small detonation cord and, in fact, breaching charges, brother, visibly, in fairness, in fact, taped to, in fact, key structural columns at, in fairness, the ground-floor level.

A woman sat at the desk.

She was perhaps fifty-eight. She wore dark grey work trousers, a navy blue collared shirt with, in fairness, a small embroidered patch on the breast that read SAAB BLASTING SERVICES – PITTSBURGH, sturdy work boots, and, in fact, a small pair of safety glasses pushed up onto her forehead. Her dark hair was streaked with grey, pulled into a low knot. Her face, brother, was, in fairness, of considerable composure – the small precise calm of, in fact, a woman who had, in fairness, by professional necessity, been, in fact, calm in, brother, every situation she had, in fairness, in fact, encountered in, brother, her career, regardless of, in fact, in fairness, the situation’s, brother, ambient drama.

She, brother, looked up. She, in fact, set down a small mechanical pencil.

“Hi. Dalia Saab. Saab Blasting Services, Pittsburgh, retired October 2024 by death. Welcome. Mahmoud, please, sit. The chair across the desk.”

He, brother, sat in the chair across the desk. He, in fact, placed all of his accumulated freight at his feet.

She, brother, watched him for a small moment, in fairness, with, in fact, the small composed assessment of a woman who had, in fairness, in fact, in her career, evaluated, brother, the structural condition of, in fact, perhaps eleven hundred buildings.

She, brother, did not, in fairness, smile. She, in fact, did not, in fairness, frown either. She, brother, was, in fairness, simply, in fact, looking at him.

“I, brother, should, in fairness, say, in fact, something at, in fairness, the start of this conversation that, in fact, the angel, brother, in fairness, has, in fact, advised me, brother, in fairness, would be useful for me to say.”

He, brother, was, in fairness, very still.

“I, brother, am, in fairness, a professional in, in fact, the controlled use of high explosives. I, in fairness, in my career, set, in fact, perhaps fourteen thousand individual demolition charges. I, brother, dropped, in fact, perhaps three hundred buildings. I, brother, dropped, in fact, two cooling towers, four chimneys, eleven bridge sections, and, in fact, one stadium. I am, in fairness, by professional designation, a person who, in fact, knows, in fairness, the difference between, brother, controlled use and, in fact, uncontrolled use of, in fairness, high explosives. The angel, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, told me, brother, that you, brother, in fact, in fairness, were, in fact, the small uncontrolled use of, in fairness, an explosive on, brother, an October 2024 morning in the Gulf of Aden. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, am, in fact, telling you, brother, this, in fact, in fairness, because, in fact, the small distinction between controlled and uncontrolled, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, the only thing I, in fact, in fairness, in fact, am, in fact, in fairness, qualified to talk to you about, and, brother, in fact, in fairness, the angel, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, in fairness, suggested, brother, that, in fact, in fairness, the talking, brother, in fact, in fairness, may, in fact, be, in fairness, of use to you.”

He, brother, did not, in fairness, speak.

She, brother, stood. She, in fact, walked, in fairness, to the small bulletin board. She, brother, gestured, in fact, at the photograph of the cooling tower mid-collapse.

“This, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the J. R. Whiting Generating Station cooling tower, Erie Township, Ohio, dropped, in fact, in fairness, May 2014, by, brother, my crew. This, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, controlled use. The tower, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, two hundred and seventy feet tall. The tower, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, scheduled for, in fairness, demolition because the generating station, brother, in fact, in fairness, had, in fact, been, in fairness, decommissioned, and, brother, the tower, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, an unsafe structure that, brother, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, eventually, in fairness, collapse, in some, in fact, uncontrolled manner, into, in fact, surrounding ground, with, brother, the small possibility of, in fact, structural debris, brother, in fact, in fairness, reaching, in fact, the small adjacent residential street. We, brother, in fact, in fairness, set, in fact, twenty-three breaching charges on, brother, the tower’s three primary support columns. We, brother, in fact, in fairness, evacuated, in fact, the surrounding three-block radius. We, brother, in fact, in fairness, executed, in fact, the demolition with, brother, the small standard ten-second countdown. The tower, brother, in fact, in fairness, fell, in fact, exactly along the predetermined fall axis, into, in fact, the predetermined drop zone, with, in fact, in fairness, the dust cloud, brother, in fact, in fairness, contained within, in fact, the standard three-hundred-foot radius. No, brother, in fact, in fairness, person, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, injured. The drop, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, the cleanest of my career. The site, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, cleared and developed, in fact, into, in fairness, a small public park. The park, brother, in fact, in fairness, opened, in fact, in 2017. The park, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, attended, brother, by, in fact, perhaps fifty children per day.”

She, brother, paused. She, in fairness, looked at him.

“That, brother, is, in fact, what, in fairness, controlled use looks like. The structure, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, scheduled for removal. The community, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, evacuated. The fall axis, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, predetermined. The dust cloud, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, contained. The site, brother, in fact, in fairness, became, in fact, a park. Children, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, play in, brother, the place where the tower fell.”

She, brother, gestured, in fairness, briefly, at, in fact, an empty space on the bulletin board, on which, in fact, no photograph hung.

“Uncontrolled use, brother, in fact, in fairness, looks like seven men in a Yemeni Coast Guard cutter on a Tuesday morning in the Gulf of Aden. Uncontrolled use, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, no schedule. Uncontrolled use, in fairness, has, in fact, no evacuation. Uncontrolled use, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, no predetermined fall axis. Uncontrolled use, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, no contained dust cloud. Uncontrolled use, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, has, in fact, no park. The seven men, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, are, in fact, dead. The eighth, in fairness, brother, who was, in fact, the operator of the explosive, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is also dead. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, did not, in fact, in fairness, choose, in fact, the controlled-use career. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, did not, in fact, in fairness, train for fourteen years in, in fact, the small precise mathematics of, brother, blast radius, structural load distribution, and, in fact, dust-cloud containment. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, in fairness, twenty-one years old. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, given, in fairness, by his cousin Tariq, the small assignment of being, brother, the explosive’s, in fact, in fairness, mode of delivery.”

She, brother, paused, in fairness, again.

“I, brother, am, in fact, in fairness, going, brother, to say, in fact, the small specific thing that, in fact, the angel, brother, in fairness, has, in fact, advised me, brother, in fairness, would be useful, in fact, for me to say. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, did not, in fact, in fairness, fail at, in fact, the controlled use, on the basis that, brother, in fact, in fairness, the eighth, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, never, brother, in fact, in fairness, taught, brother, the controlled use. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, taught, brother, the uncontrolled use, by, in fact, his cousin, who, in fact, in fairness, in fact, also did not know, brother, the controlled use. Neither, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, brother, in fact, in fairness, qualified to set, in fact, the explosive. The setting, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, would, in fact, in fairness, have, in fact, in fairness, been refused, brother, in fact, in fairness, by, brother, every certified blasting engineer, in fact, in fairness, in the world, on, in fact, the basis that, brother, in fact, in fairness, the operation, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, lacked, brother, every element, in fact, in fairness, of, brother, the controlled-use protocol.”

She, brother, looked at him, in fairness, very carefully.

“This, brother, in fact, in fairness, does not, in fact, exonerate the eighth. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, did, in fact, in fairness, agree to, in fact, deliver, in fairness, the explosive. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, made, in fact, the small individual decision, brother, on each of perhaps forty days of, in fact, training, in fact, in fairness, not to, brother, in fact, in fairness, walk away, in fact, from the operation. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, in fairness, accountable for, in fact, those forty individual decisions. But, brother, in fact, in fairness, the eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, in fact, twenty-one. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, in fairness, given, brother, in fact, in fairness, no, brother, in fact, in fairness, alternative information about, brother, the controlled use, by anyone, in fact, in fairness, in his immediate environment. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, in fairness, the kind of operator that, brother, in fact, in fairness, my profession, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, would, in fact, in fairness, never, brother, in fact, hire, in fact, in fairness, on the basis that, brother, in fact, in fairness, the eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, in fairness, missing, brother, the entire controlled-use education. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, in fairness, a person who, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, in fairness, used, brother, in fact, by his cousin Tariq, on the basis that, in fact, in fairness, his cousin Tariq, in fact, in fairness, in fact, did not, in fact, in fairness, want to, in fact, in fairness, deliver, brother, the explosive himself. The eighth, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, was, in fact, in fairness, both blameworthy and, in fact, used. Both, brother, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, in fairness, true. The blame, in fact, in fairness, does not, in fact, in fairness, cancel the use. The use, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, does not, in fact, in fairness, cancel the blame.”

He, brother, was, in fairness, crying.

She, brother, did not, in fairness, hurry him. She, in fact, did not, in fairness, comfort him either, in any conventional sense. She, brother, simply, in fairness, sat back down at the desk, picked up the small mechanical pencil, and resumed, in fact, the small detailed hand-written calculation on the yellow legal pad. She, brother, was, in fairness, working, in fact, what looked like, brother, a small precise matrix of, in fairness, charge weights and, brother, structural-column load distributions for, in fact, the small disused colonial-era warehouse visible through the window.

He, brother, cried for, in fairness, perhaps eight minutes.

When he had, in fairness, recovered, in fact, his breathing, she, brother, did not, in fairness, look up from the pad.

“Brother. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, will, in fact, in fairness, ask you, brother, in fact, in fairness, the small further thing the angel, brother, has, in fact, suggested I ask, in fact, you.”

“Yes, sister.”

“Your cousin Tariq, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, alive, in 2026, in, in fact, a small grocery-store back room in Aden, in fact, in fairness, drinking tea, in fact, in fairness, recruiting, brother, the next twenty-one-year-old. The next twenty-one-year-old, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, in fairness, a name. The name, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, in fairness, available to me by, in fact, the angel’s small information channel. The name, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, Salah al-Mansour. Salah, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, currently, in fact, in fairness, on day thirty-one of forty days of training. Salah, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, has, in fact, in fairness, nine days remaining. Salah, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, has, in fact, in fairness, made, brother, thirty-one of, brother, the forty individual decisions, in fact, in fairness, not to, brother, walk away. Salah, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, has, in fact, in fairness, nine more such decisions to, brother, in fact, make. The angel, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, asked me to ask you: do you, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, want to, in fact, in fairness, sit, in fact, on this corridor and, brother, in fact, in fairness, do nothing about Salah, or, brother, do you, in fact, in fairness, want to, brother, in fact, in fairness, do something.”

He, brother, was, in fairness, very still.

“Sister – what can I do?“

“Brother, the angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, told me that, in fact, in fairness, you, brother, in fact, in fairness, have, in fact, in fairness, in fact, no, brother, in fact, in fairness, available channel, in fact, to Salah. You, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, are, brother, in fact, in fairness, dead. You, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, cannot, in fact, in fairness, write to him, call him, visit him, or, in fact, in fairness, in fact, send, brother, in fact, in fairness, any signal, in fact, in fairness, at all, in fact, into, brother, the back room of the grocery store in Aden. The angel, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, told me, brother, that there is, in fact, in fairness, however, in fact, in fairness, one available channel. The channel, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the corridor itself.”

“I – I do not, in fairness, understand, sister.”

“Brother, the corridor, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the seventy-three doors of this afterlife. The corridor, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, contains, brother, in fact, in fairness, perhaps seventy-three other twenty-one-year-old men of, in fact, similar circumstance, in, in fact, in fairness, parallel small corridors, in fact, distributed, brother, across, in fairness, the broader paradise infrastructure. The angel, brother, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, said, brother, that, in fact, in fairness, the corridor, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, in fairness, structured, brother, in fact, in fairness, such that, brother, the seventy-three young men, in fact, in fairness, when they, in fact, in fairness, complete, brother, the corridor, in fact, in fairness, are, in fact, in fairness, presented with, brother, in fact, in fairness, a small additional door, in fact, beyond the seventy-third. The small additional door, brother, in fact, in fairness, leads, in fact, to, in fairness, an encounter, in fact, with, brother, the next twenty-one-year-old in their, in fact, in fairness, cousin’s training programme. The encounter, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, of approximately three minutes’ duration. The encounter, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, takes the form, brother, of, in fact, in fairness, a, in fact, dream, in fact, in fairness, that, brother, the recruit, in fact, has, in fact, in fairness, on, brother, the night before the operation. The dream, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, of, brother, the recruit’s predecessor, the previous twenty-one-year-old, who, in fact, in fairness, says one thing to him. The one thing, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, the only thing the predecessor, brother, in fact, in fairness, can, in fact, send. The angel, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, has, in fact, said, brother, that, in fact, in fairness, the one thing, brother, has, in fact, in fairness, been said by, in fact, eleven previous predecessors to, in fact, eleven previous recruits, of which, in fact, in fairness, three, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, walked away in time. Three of eleven, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, in fairness, perhaps the only outcome rate available to this small angelic infrastructure. Three of eleven, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, sufficient to, in fact, justify, brother, in fact, the work.”

She, brother, looked at him.

“What, brother, do you, in fact, in fairness, want to say to Salah?”

He, brother, thought, in fairness, for a long time.

He thought of the molar tic, of the four seconds in October 2024 in which his jaw, in fact, had, in fairness, attempted to, brother, brace. He thought of the seven sailors whose names he, in fact, knew three of – Khalid, Yusuf, the third forgotten. He thought of the small clown number Inaya had, in fairness, performed on, in fact, their behalf, through him, in the studio earlier in the afternoon. He thought of Rana’s line – the small tells are the love. He thought of Tariq, in fact, in fairness, drinking tea in Aden, recruiting Salah.

He, brother, said: “Tell Salah this. The bracing, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, allowed to stop. The bracing, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, will, in fact, in fairness, not, in fact, help. The boat, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, will, in fact, in fairness, detonate, in fact, in fairness, with, brother, in fact, in fairness, your jaw, in fact, in fairness, in fact, set or unset. The setting, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, in fairness, the only thing, brother, in fact, in fairness, you, brother, in fact, in fairness, can, in fact, change about, brother, the next nine days. Set, brother, the jaw, in fact, in fairness, against, brother, your cousin, not, brother, in fact, against, in fact, the boat. The cousin, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, the operator. The cousin, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, in fairness, drinking tea. The cousin, in fact, in fairness, in fact, will, in fact, in fairness, in fact, recruit, brother, the next one, after you, in fact, in fairness, fail, in fact, to, in fact, walk away. Walk away, brother. The boat, in fact, in fairness, in fact, will, in fact, in fairness, find, in fact, another operator. The seven sailors, in fact, in fairness, in fact, will, in fact, in fairness, in fact, still, brother, in fact, in fairness, die, in fact, in fairness, in some, brother, configuration. You, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, will, in fact, in fairness, not. Walk away, brother. Walk away from your cousin’s tea. Walk away.”

She, brother, wrote, in fact, what he had said, on, in fairness, a small fresh page of the yellow legal pad, in, brother, very precise hand.

She, brother, looked at him.

“Brother. The angel, in fact, in fairness, will, in fact, in fairness, deliver this, brother, to Salah, in the dream, on, brother, the night before the operation, in eight days. The angel, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, has, in fact, in fairness, confirmed, brother, the delivery. Whether, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, Salah, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, walks away, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, depends on, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, Salah. The walk, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, the work. The work, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, in fact, the next twenty-one-year-old refusing.”

She, brother, folded, in fact, the page. She, in fairness, handed it to him.

He, brother, took the fourth folded page. He, in fairness, placed it in his pocket with, in fact, the three from earlier – Aaliyah’s sealed letter, Samira’s note, Inaya’s note about the seven sailors.

He, brother, did not, in fairness, ask, in fact, the catalogue questions. He, brother, did not, in fairness, ask, in fact, whether he could, in fact, bring her home. He, in fairness, did not, in fact, want to, brother, displace, in fact, the moment with the small administrative ritual.

He stood. He bowed, very low.

“Dalia.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, sister.”

“Brother, the controlled use, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, the work. The work, in fact, in fairness, in fact, includes, brother, the small refusal. Walk well, brother.”

He left. He closed the door, brother, very quietly. From inside, very faintly, he could hear, in fairness, the small soft scratch of, in fact, a mechanical pencil on, in fact, a yellow legal pad, working, brother, the small precise matrix of, in fairness, charge weights and structural-column loads for, in fact, a small disused colonial-era brick warehouse in central Khartoum.

In the corridor, brother, his jaw, in fact, was, in fairness, somewhat further relaxed. He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals – for, in fairness, the thirtieth time of the day – and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door thirty-three.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Tahira and the Master’s Examination

The corridor between door thirty-two and door thirty-three carried, brother, the small dry mineral smell of, in fact, fine wine cellar – slate, old oak, and, in fairness, the specific tannic note of, brother, properly stored Bordeaux.

Mahmoud al-Bakri, brother, paused for some seconds in the corridor. He, in fact, was, in fairness, recovering, brother, from the previous room. He, brother, opened door thirty-three with, in fairness, no particular agenda.

He was in a small Manhattan-style wine cellar – transposed, in fairness, to the cool basement of, in fact, what appeared to be, brother, a small Khartoum residential building.

The cellar, brother, was, in fairness, of, in fact, considerable thermal regulation – perhaps thirteen degrees Celsius, with, in fairness, sixty-five percent humidity, by, brother, his immediate skin assessment. Three of the four walls were lined with, in fact, small wooden wine racks, holding, in fairness, perhaps four hundred bottles, each, brother, in fact, lying on its side at the standard cellar angle. The fourth wall, brother, was, in fact, a small tasting bar, with, in fairness, three professional Riedel glasses set out, with, brother, in fact, a small white cloth, with, in fact, a, in fairness, small brass spittoon, and, with, brother, in fact, three small individual wine bottles uncorked and standing.

A woman stood behind the tasting bar.

She was perhaps forty-six. She wore a small black blazer over a cream silk blouse, dark trousers, and small black low-heeled shoes. She wore, brother, a small pin on her left lapel: the small distinctive purple-and-gold pin of, in fact, the Court of Master Sommeliers – Master Sommelier rank. The pin, brother, had been, in fairness, awarded, in fact, to perhaps three hundred and fifty individuals globally over the entire history of the certification. She was, brother, in fact, one of them.

Her dark hair was streaked with grey, pulled into a low knot. She wore small wire-rimmed glasses on a thin gold chain.

She, brother, looked up. She, in fact, smiled, in fairness, briefly.

“Hi! Tahira Khan. Master Sommelier, retired October 2024 by death. Welcome. Mahmoud, yes? Sit on the small high stool by the bar. Karkadeh? I, in fairness, do not, in fact, drink the wine. The wine, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, my professional inventory. The karkadeh, in fact, in fairness, is, brother, my personal beverage.”

He, brother, sat.

He, in fact, placed all of his accumulated freight on the floor.

She, brother, poured him karkadeh from a small clay jug into a, in fairness, small clear glass. He drank.

“Bio quick. Born Karachi 1978. Family came to New York in 1985 – my father, in fairness, was a small banker, hired by, brother, an American firm. We, brother, settled. I, in fairness, attended Columbia. I read history with a focus on French and Italian medieval studies. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, qualified, in 2003, at age twenty-five, as a Certified Sommelier through, in fairness, the Court of Master Sommeliers. I, in fact, in fairness, qualified, in 2007, as an Advanced Sommelier. I qualified, in 2014, at age thirty-six, as one of, brother, two hundred and forty-seven Master Sommeliers globally – the highest sommelier certification available, brother, anywhere in, in fairness, the world. I, brother, in fact, am, in fairness, the only Pakistani-American Muslim woman, in fact, ever to hold, brother, the Master Sommelier rank. I worked, brother, for the next ten years as, brother, the head sommelier at, in fairness, three successive small Manhattan restaurants.”

“That is – that is wonderful, sister.”

“It is, brother, the work.”

She, brother, gestured at the three uncorked bottles.

“And the small particular professional complication, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, the small visible thing on, brother, my CV. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, am, in fact, in fairness, an observant Pakistani-American Muslim woman who, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, never, in fact, drunk alcohol, brother, in her life. The Master Sommelier examination, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, divided into three components: theory, service, and tasting. The tasting component, brother, in fact, in fairness, requires the candidate to, in fact, identify, brother, six wines blind, in fact, in fairness, by, brother, grape, region, vintage, and producer. The tasting component, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, conducted, brother, by, in fairness, in fact, the professional method, which, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, includes, in fact, in fairness, swirling, brother, sniffing, sipping, holding the wine in the mouth, and spitting into the brass spittoon. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, do, in fact, the swirling. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, do, in fact, the sniffing. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, do, in fact, the sipping. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, hold, in fact, the wine in the mouth. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, however, in fact, do not, brother, in fact, swallow. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, spit, in fact, every drop into, in fairness, the brass spittoon. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, have, in fact, never, in fact, in fairness, swallowed, brother, in any of, in fact, my professional encounters with, in fairness, wine. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, have, in fact, however, in fact, in fairness, in fact, identified, brother, perhaps eleven thousand wines blind by, in fact, the swirl-sniff-sip-spit method. The Court of Master Sommeliers, brother, in fact, in fairness, accepts the spit-only method, on the basis that, in fact, in fairness, the certification, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, of professional service, and, brother, the professional service, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in fairness, conducted, brother, by professionals, in fact, in fairness, who, in fact, in fairness, in fact, do not, in fact, swallow on the job.”

“That is – that is, in fairness, an extraordinary professional accommodation.”

“Brother, thank you. The Court, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, also, in fairness, in fact, accommodated, brother, two other sober Master Sommeliers, in fact, in fairness, since I, brother, in fact, in fairness, qualified in 2014. The accommodation, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, becoming, in fact, in fairness, professionally normalised. I am, in fairness, retroactively gratified by this.”

“And the men, sister.”

“Two, brother. Brief.”

“In 2008, a man named James – American, a fellow sommelier, peace be upon him. Three years. The relationship ended in 2011 when James – who had, in fairness, been, in fact, kindly tolerant of my spit-only method – attempted, in fact, on a Saturday evening at, in fairness, a small Manhattan restaurant, to, brother, propose a small toast at, in fairness, the conclusion of, in fact, our anniversary dinner, in which, in fact, in fairness, I, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, expected, brother, in fact, in fairness, to, in fact, swallow, brother, the small celebratory champagne. The champagne, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, a 1995 Krug, peace be upon it. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, swirled, sniffed, sipped, held, and, in fact, spat, in fact, into the small Riedel glass, on the basis that, in fact, the small Riedel glass, brother, was, in fact, the closest available spittoon. James, brother, in fact, in fairness, was, in fact, in fairness, displeased. James, brother, in fact, in fairness, said: Tahira, I, in fact, in fairness, just toasted you with a, brother, in fact, two-thousand-dollar champagne, and, in fact, in fairness, you, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, spat it into a Riedel. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: James, the spit-only method, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, not, in fairness, suspended for, brother, in fact, anniversary toasts. The spit-only method, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, a permanent feature of, in fact, my professional and personal observance. The Riedel, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, a temporary spittoon. The Krug, brother, in fact, in fairness, in fact, has, in fact, in fairness, been, brother, professionally evaluated by, in fact, my swirl-sniff-sip-spit method, and, brother, my evaluation, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, that, brother, the Krug, in fact, in fairness, in fact, is, brother, of, in fact, in fairness, the highest tier of, brother, vintage champagne, with, in fact, in fairness, the small distinctive notes of, brother, brioche, white peach, and, in fact, in fairness, in fact, the small particular note of, brother, well-aged toasted hazelnut. The evaluation, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, my anniversary gift to you. We, brother, in fact, in fairness, separated within the month. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow sommelier who, in fact, in fairness, swallows. They, in fairness, have, brother, two children, both, in fact, of, in fairness, fully developed swallowing protocols.

“In 2014, a man named Imran – Pakistani-American, a small attorney in Manhattan, my mother’s preferred candidate. Imran, in fairness, was, in fact, kind, observant, and, in fairness, willing to, in fact, attend, brother, a small number of professional wine dinners over six years, with, in fact, the precise small understanding that, brother, the wine, in fact, in fairness, was, brother, my professional inventory and, in fact, not, in fairness, available for, brother, his consumption. Imran, brother, made it, in fact, six years. The relationship ended in 2020 when Imran, on a Sunday afternoon, said, with great love: Tahira, in our six years, has there been, in fairness, a single dinner at home in which, in fact, you, in fact, in fairness, did not, in fact, identify, brother, the small ambient wine in, in fairness, my breath from, in fact, my, in fairness, single courteous glass at, brother, lunch, by, in fact, grape, region, and vintage? I, brother, considered the question. I told him, in fairness, the truthful answer: no. He, brother, with great kindness, said: Tahira, I, in fact, in fairness, would, in fact, like, in fairness, occasionally, brother, in fact, to drink, brother, a, in fairness, small lunch glass without, in fact, providing, brother, the small post-dinner blind tasting summary. We separated, gently. He, brother, has, today, married, in fairness, a fellow attorney who, in fact, does not, in fairness, smell wine. They, brother, have, in fairness, lunches without summaries.”

“And in 2024 – “

“I died, brother, at the small Manhattan restaurant where I, in fact, in fairness, was head sommelier, mid-tasting, on a Tuesday evening in October. I had, brother, been, in fact, conducting, in fairness, the small standard pre-service wine tasting with my staff, of, in fact, perhaps fourteen new bottles the kitchen had, in fairness, requested I evaluate for the wine list. I, brother, in fact, was on, in fact, the third bottle of fourteen – a small Burgundy, peace be upon it. I felt, brother, in the centre of my chest, the wrong sensation. I had, brother, perhaps two minutes’ awareness. I used them, brother – and I want to be clear, brother, this was, in fact, the deliberate choice – to complete, in fairness, the evaluation of the third bottle. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, swirled, sniffed, sipped, held, and, in fact, spat. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, dictated, in fact, in fairness, my professional notes to my deputy sommelier, who, in fact, was, brother, taking notes on a small clipboard at the bar: 2018 Domaine Leroy, Chambolle-Musigny, the wine, in fact, in fairness, is showing, brother, well, with, in fact, the small distinctive raspberry-and-violet notes characteristic of the producer, slight evolution of the secondary aromatics, drink within five years. My deputy, brother, in fact, in fairness, wrote it down. I, brother, in fact, in fairness, set the Riedel down, in fact, on the small white cloth, with, in fairness, the small precise tap of the foot of the glass on the bar that, brother, in fact, in fairness, signalled, in fairness, the close of the evaluation. I, brother, in fact, sat on the small high stool. I died, brother, on the stool, with the eleven remaining bottles, in fact, in fairness, unevaluated. My deputy, brother, in fact, in fairness, took over the remaining eleven, on, in fact, the same swirl-sniff-sip-spit method, and, brother, completed the wine list. The wine list, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, in service today at, brother, the same restaurant. The 2018 Leroy, in fact, in fairness, in fact, hangs on the menu, with the small footnote: T. KHAN, MS – FINAL EVALUATION – OCTOBER 2024.”

“And here, sister.”

“And here, brother, the cellar is, in fairness, fully stocked. The angel, in fact, in fairness, replenishes, brother, the bottles weekly. I, brother, in fact, evaluate, in fact, perhaps thirty bottles per week, by, in fairness, the swirl-sniff-sip-spit method. The brass spittoon, brother, in fact, in fairness, is, in fact, of, in fairness, considerable industrial polish at this point. I am, in fairness, content.”

Mahmoud, brother, was, in fairness, cataloguing, in fairness, briefly.

He could not, brother, imagine bringing home, to his mother, a Master Sommelier whose, in fact, professional life, in fairness, involved, brother, a wine cellar containing, in fact, four hundred bottles of haram beverage. He, brother, however, in fairness, also, in fact, registered, in fact, that the spit-only method was, brother, in fairness, of, in fact, considerable theological elegance, and that his mother, in fairness, in fact, would, brother, possibly, in fact, find, in fairness, the framework, brother, of professional accommodation, in fact, in fairness, intellectually interesting. He, in fairness, however, also, brother, registered, in fact, that the daily evaluation of, in fairness, ambient wine in, brother, his breath would, in fact, in fairness, in some way, brother, exceed, in fact, his mother’s tolerance for, in fairness, the small post-meal commentary.

He, brother, liked Tahira. He, in fairness, was, in fact, deeply impressed by, brother, the spit-only method. He could not bring her home.

What he said was: “Sister, the method is – of remarkable theological elegance. The Leroy, sister, was – most kindly evaluated.”

“Thank you, brother.”

He stood. He bowed.

“Tahira.”

“Yes.”

“If you encounter, in your travels, a man named Imran – Manhattan, attorney, married to a fellow attorney who does not smell wine – tell him from me that I, in fairness, in eighteen months in this cellar, have, in fact, occasionally, in fairness, deliberately, in fact, eaten dinner with the angel without, in fact, summarising, brother, his breath. The angel, in fact, in fairness, has, in fact, expressed, in fairness, mild surprise. Tell him.”

“I will, sister, if I find him.”

He left. He brushed the Khartoum dust from his sandals – for, in fairness, the thirty-first time of the day – and walked, brother, with all of his accumulated freight, to door thirty-four.

SOURCE: https://prat.uk/