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Eight years since I’ve seen my parents’ graves, and if I haven’t visited it’s a safe bet that neither has anyone else. Maybe a few of the curious, assuming that anyone is still curious about such things. Not a week goes by that I don’t think of them there, under their shared granite slab. They died a day apart, my mother the one day and my father the next, so one stone seemed appropriate and more cost-effective. Not that I paid. I just mean that it must have seemed more appropriate and cost-effective to the man who did pay for the pretty pink rock and the engraving and had them buried side by side. They’re within reach, but they never touch. How so like the world of the living.

You don’t entirely appreciate how alone you are until you’ve lost your parents.

In the beginning, we piled stones on graves to stop wild animals from digging up the remains of our loved ones. I suppose those rough mounds served as markers as well, but the principal reason we piled them so high and wide was because we didn’t want to come back to find our parents’ bones strewn around like any other animal’s. Nowadays, with coffins and fancy fenced-off graveyards in the middle of the city, you don’t have to worry about anything eating your dead parents. We’ve almost completely run out of things to worry about. I’m kidding. I wouldn’t even mention it, but down east here, people tend not to know when you’re kidding.

My mother’s father was a baker, and he was not a kind man. That was about all she ever said about him. There was an empty place in my mother that couldn’t be filled up with any amount of love or nastiness, and I was always pretty sure it had something to do with her father, but there was no way of getting at what he might have done to her. It was like she spent her whole life hiding from him, always glancing over her shoulder. One time, when I tried to get more out of her (I was probably seven or eight years old), she told me he was like the giant that Jack meets at the top of the beanstalk. I guess my father was Jack. He met her at a meeting in a Denver basement in 1964. She was seventeen years old and he was over forty. It was the monthly gathering of the Secret Society, an anti-communist cell operating in Denver. She had been hired to dance and take off her clothes for them. (She told me this when I was sixteen, after she’d pulled out my bottom drawer and found a magazine full of young women who had taken off their clothes. She said I could keep the magazine, but I couldn’t stand the thought of her knowing it was there, so I burned it.) The Secret Society didn’t pay her much to take off her clothes. The man who hired her, a friend of her father, said it was for the cause of freedom.

The morning after the last performance of her dancing career, she was heading north in my father’s pickup truck. He was the most exciting man she’d ever met, a war hero from an exotic northern kingdom. Queendom. He’d lost his arm fighting the Nazis, and she was escaping with him from the giant and from Denver and from the United States of America, and she would never be unhappy again.

Nine months later I was born.

I’m only twenty-nine years old. People generally think I’m older. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I’ve suffered more than most in twenty-nine years, and that’s made me act or appear older than I am. Don’t get me wrong: there’s no pride in my claim of suffering. Mostly I suffer from shame, and there’s not much percentage in being proud of your shame. I’m a janitor here at an elementary school in Toronto, Canada, and I’m also a bit of a philosopher. The thing that marks me most is my unusual relationship with God. I’ve killed for Him, and He, in turn, has killed for me. That, I believe, is an unusual relationship.

I like being a janitor because it’s plain and simple, one of those jobs that’s never noticed unless it’s left undone or not done well enough. When somebody compliments me on my work, it’s most often because she wants to feel good about herself for noticing. I’d just as soon not be noticed. The highest compliment is when they forget you exist. If they can’t see right through you, you’re not using the right window cleaner. This afternoon, for instance, I happened to be emptying the trash barrel in the corner of the schoolyard when I heard the voice of this lawyer’s son, a boy I have not gained a good opinion of. I turned to see that he had another kid cornered.

“Give me the ball, you little faggot.”

These kids were both in grade four, the same grade as Caroline. There’s no way he’d have let a teacher hear him say that, but he didn’t take any notice of the janitor. I was of no more consequence than a rat rooting around the garbage. Less, in fact. A rat is far more deserving of attention than a janitor. And if the cornered kid hadn’t been a friend of Caroline’s, I’d never have got myself involved. I watch out for Caroline and her friends. Caroline is my daughter.

“I said, give it here, you faggot. Why don’t you go play with your girlfriends? Maybe they’ve got a Barbie doll for you.”

Caroline’s friend has more backbone in him than little Mussolini expected, and he shook his head and wouldn’t give up the ball. Didn’t say a word, though, and you could see he was pretty scared.

“Give it here, faggot!”

“Watch your mouth,” I said.

The lawyer’s kid spun around to look at me. Caroline’s friend was gaping at me too, but he looked just as scared as before I stuck my nose in, like he thought I was on his case for not watching what he wasn’t saying. For a second there, they were equal: two scared little boys.

“I don’t like to hear that kind of talk,” I said.

By this time the lawyer’s kid had realized I was only the janitor. “Mind your own fucking business, freakoid.” He turned back to Caroline’s friend. “If you don’t give me the fucking ball –”

I picked him up by his shirt collar at the scruff of his neck, as if he were a kitten, and turned him around to face me. “I told you, I don’t like to hear people talking that way.”

He started wriggling, and for a second I thought he was going to take a swing at me, even though I had him by the back of the neck. The laying on of the hands wasn’t what made him drop his fists. It was my eyes. He could see something in my eyes that made him hang still and pee his pants. He could see me wondering whether God wanted him dead. Caroline’s friend saw too, and he ran.

I set the boy down and walked away.

Caroline’s friend went right to the teacher in the playground and told her. I’m not sure which teacher, because I’d gone down to hide under the stairs in my room with the red door. Had a coffee. What could be safer than drinking coffee in a room under the stairs behind a red door? A knock came, and I opened up to see that the principal herself had come for a visit. She looked me over for signs of chaos and depravity.

“How are you, Jonathan?”

“Fine. Just having a coffee. Would you like a coffee?”

“One of the students said you were involved in an altercation in the playground.”

I knew I should not have lifted him off the ground. Less than three months on the job. They could get rid of me for less.

“Just now? Oh. Yeah. A couple of boys arguing and I told them to stop. Hope I didn’t scare them.”

She studied me and I looked at the floor.

“Did you touch him, Jonathan?”

“Touch? No. I don’t think so. No.”

“What happened?”

“The one called the other a name.”

“What name?”

“I don’t remember.”

“It’s better if I know what name.”

I looked around to make sure no one else was listening. “Faggot.”

“You see, Jonathan, that’s important. There’s a strict policy against that kind of thing. But you have to come to me immediately. And you’d better not have touched him. We’ve had to deal with his father before. You’d better tell me the complete truth about what happened so that I know what I’m dealing with here.”

I shrugged and then, because it was obvious she wasn’t buying, I added, “Just dealing with garbage.”

I smiled and she shook her head, not appreciating the humour of a janitor dealing with garbage.

“I need to know, Jonathan,” she said. “I need to know exactly what happened.”

“Never touched him,” I said. “I told him to watch his mouth, and the kid he was tormenting ran away, so I left.”

She looked me in the eye and I forced myself not to look away.

“That’s strange,” she said. “The boy you helped was under the impression there was some kind of physical intervention involved.”

“That is strange,” I said. “Maybe he wished it were so.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“It certainly makes for a better story.”

She studied me some more and waited. She has eyes so blue that even in the basement they make you remember the sky.

“I like this job,” I said. “I wouldn’t do anything that would mean I could lose it.”

Caroline looks like her mother. Like her mother and like my mother. It’s hard to put a finger on the particular resemblances. My mother’s eyes and mouth, for sure. Her mother’s nose and chin and cheekbones. The resemblance goes beyond the face, though, right into her tiny skeleton: the way she stands on her left leg and curls her right foot behind her left ankle. Her mother used to do that too.

Caroline’s mother, Gloria Irvine, was only seven when I first met her in Mrs. Field’s grade two classroom. That was far from Toronto, in Broken Head, Saskatchewan, a place Caroline has no conception of, I’m sure, though that’s where she was conceived. Not so strange really: out of squeamishness, we all tend to avoid a conception of our conception. But my mother wouldn’t allow me the luxury.

“It was Calgary, Eisenhower.” My name was Dwight then, but my mother usually called me Eisenhower or some other silly made-up name. It was a game she liked: she’d call me Eisenhower and she’d ask me how I got a name like Eisenhower and I’d tell her it wasn’t my name. “That dingy little bachelor apartment your father had there. A furnished room, and we slept on the pullout couch. Galley kitchen, with the table tucked into the L of the main room. Bathroom and showers down the hall. There was that couch you were made on and a desk in the corner.”

I was nine, Caroline’s exact age, when my mother told me this story. We were on the farm near Broken Head where I grew up, sitting in the dark kitchen (the west windows had been smashed in a hailstorm and Dad had boarded them over and left them that way) with the bright red walls. Vermilion, she called them. Her favourite colour. She kept pointing to the couch in the living room as if it were the very one she was talking about. I remember her bright red lipstick. Her lips were the same shape as Caroline’s.

“You happened in that apartment on that couch, and I remember the exact moment. I’ll never forget that orgasm. I was seventeen and it was my first and I’ve never had one like that since. He must’ve drunk just the right amount that day: not enough to make him useless; just enough to slow him down. It was like he flicked a switch I never knew was in me. It was like the top of my head come off. It blew me apart, and the sperm that was you had nothing between it and the egg.”

She ran her fingers through my hair. You mustn’t underestimate my mother, even though she dropped out of school to run away with my father. She was smart, and she wanted to make sure I knew things. She’d already long ago explained to me what an orgasm was. I’d asked her where babies came from, and she’d outlined the mechanics and started piling on vocabulary. Penis. Vagina. Copulation. Ejaculation. Reproduction. That was years before, and she was gradually layering on the details.

“That’s what an orgasm’s for in a woman. They’ve got an obvious purpose in a man. In a woman it’s not so obvious, but that doesn’t mean there’s no reason for them. Contrary to popular belief, they’re not purely for pleasure. Scientists have done studies, and they’ve found that a woman is much more likely to have a baby if she has an orgasm. It opens her up so wide. Not surprising. Unfortunately, Eisenhower, nothing’s ever purely for pleasure.”

I’ve spent most of my life imagining the scientists doing those studies. But I never became a scientist.

The principal did stay for coffee, even though she always tells me I make terrible coffee. She sat on an orange plastic chair, legs crossed at the knees, holding her chin in a professional way. Choppy came in smelling of the smoke he’d had in the alley and found her sitting on his chair, and even though he said he was just as happy turning over a pail and sitting on that, all of a sudden she had to go. When she was gone, Choppy sat where she’d been sitting, cleaning his fingernails with a jackknife and flashing me dark smiles.

“She wants you, boy. Why don’t you give it to her right down here in our cozy little room? Just hang a ‘Gone Fishing’ sign on the door and I’ll leave you be.”

“She’s a married woman, Choppy.”

“What difference does that make? She’s bored with the husband. You saw him at Breakfast with Santa: any woman’d be bored. He’s gone a little thick around the middle and a little thin around the top. Gives her a bit of a thrill fantasizing about doing it with the caretaker, I’ll bet.”

“You’re the one fantasizing, Choppy.”

“I’m only thinking of you, boy. Going around day after day with that hangdog expression on your face. You make me want to cry. Anyone can see that all you need’s a little loving. The principal can sure see it, and she’s more than ready to give it to you.”

“Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, Choppy. Thou shalt not commit adultery.”

He picked his nose and eyed what he’d discovered. “The Bible’s got its place, maybe, but it’s not much good for getting your dick wet, is it? We’d better be getting back to work.” He stood up on his tiptoes and stretched his arms up to the ceiling.

“You remind me a bit of my father, Choppy.”

“Is that so? Well, Johnny my boy, you are more like a son to me than my own son, that bastard. You are indeed. And I’m sure your old man’s a fine, upstanding specimen of humanity.”

“Was,” I said. “He passed away.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry to hear that.”

I shrugged. “We were never that close.”

Caroline and I are closer in age than my father was to my mother. Mom was only eighteen and Jacob Froese was forty-two when I was born. It’s pronounced Froze, which is why I chose that name for myself. I call myself Jonathan Froze: I have all the official identification so that nobody will ever know Dwight Froese and Jonathan Froze ever occupied the same body.

Jacob Froese lost his left arm somewhere in Belgium. My mother told me that, and at first I wondered if we might ever go over there to look for it. I don’t know if it was a grenade or a shell or a very large bullet. He never talked about it. I watched him shred targets to test a new weapon he’d made, and I saw him kill a gopher a hundred yards away with a .22, but he never said much about the war. This once, I must have been eight, in the middle of supper he stopped chewing his steak and looked me in the eye and said, “At boot camp, there was this sign above the barracks door: Kill the Enemy.” Then he looked towards the window as if he’d been interrupted by a magpie shrieking out there and started chewing again.

Another time, they were screaming at each other and Mom’s nose was bleeding, and he grabbed me by the arm as he was marching out the door and shook me hard and said, “She was mine until you come along!”

He should have had a new prosthesis by the time I was a kid, but somebody or something warned him that the government would use monitoring equipment in the newfangled prosthetic to keep track of his movements, so he made do with the old one, making repairs of his own when anything went wrong. He was handy. He made guns in our basement on a metal lathe. I liked to watch him work, liked the smell of hot oil and smoking steel as I peered through the spaces between the basement stairs, the single light bulb dangling down on a wire above him glinting off the narrow ribbon of metal that lifted off as the cutter licked slowly down the length of the shaft. Periodically, to cool the cutter, he would squeeze a drop of oil from the can he held in his good hand. There was a big red button on the lathe that he pushed when he was finished, and when he pushed it, the lathe always stopped. I’d sneak down when his back was to me, but as the shaft slowed he’d turn and take off his safety glasses and stare through the darkness under the stairs straight into my eyes, and he’d say, “Red means stop.”

Unlike my mother, he wasn’t much of a talker, but this one time when he was drunk – more often than not, he was drunk – he told a very strange story.

“We were living in this fleabag apartment in Calgary, and I got this letter from a lawyer,” he said. My ears perked up because I knew he was talking about the apartment with the pullout couch my mother had told me about. He was telling the story to a friend of his named Chandler who was a gun dealer and bought the guns he made. I was hiding in the pots cupboard beside the fridge. Listening. There wasn’t any good reason to hide. I hadn’t done anything to piss him off that day, but if he’d found me he would’ve been mad enough to take his belt to me. I was only hiding because I knew he’d make me go out to the shop and sort bolts if he saw me. I guess I was also keen on hearing what he and Chandler talked about when they talked.

“Letter from this lawyer said my dad dropped dead of a heart attack and left me half a section of land. Didn’t know what to think: leaving me land when I had every reason to believe I’d been decently disowned. I was a bit suspicious. Greeks bearing gifts and all that.”

Chandler laughed. “Your dad weren’t no Greek: he was a damn Mennonite.”

“Mennonite preacher. So I couldn’t figure why he’d leave land to the boy he’d shunned. Hadn’t said more than two sentences to anyone in the family since the day I stole the horse and rode to Broken Head to join the army.”

“Oh, right. You Mennonites didn’t believe in going over there to kill other Krauts, did you?”

“Nothing to do with Krauts. Didn’t believe in killing the man who was holding the gun to their heads. Pacifists. Turn the other cheek and let him blow your brains to the far side of never mind.”

“But you were cut from a different cloth. Right, Jake? So you joined up. You want another splash?”

Chandler’d brought the whiskey they were sharing, and Dad must have nodded, because I heard him push back his chair and go to the fridge for more ice.

“So they shunned me. Not that I gave a damn. But I was sure thrown for a loop when I got that letter from the lawyer. Jumped in the truck and drove the six hours here to have a look at the place before I sold. Had no intention of keeping it. No desire to live here.”

“What changed your mind?”

Dad’s chair scraped back into place at the table, and I heard him strike a match to light a smoke. “Well, I came and took a look around. Walked through the pasture. Went for a swim in the creek. Skinny-dipping, like I remembered doing when I was a kid. Left my arm lying there on the bank. When I got out, I lay down on the ground stark naked and closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, my dad was standing over me, looking down into my eyes. He asked if I liked it.”

“What? Liked it? What are you saying? Who asked?”

“My dad.”

“I thought you said he was dead.”

“Yeah. But there he was, looking down at me, and he asked me if I liked the place, and I said I thought he was dead. ‘I’m not your father,’ he said to me. ‘I come to you in his form because my real form would strike you stone blind.’”

“Uh- huh?” Chandler said.

“‘Is that so?’ I said to him. ‘Who are you, then? Elvis Presley?’”

Chandler thought that was funny.

“He spat on the ground right beside my head where I’m lying there, just the way my dad would have done. Then you know what he said?”

“What did he say, Jake?”

“He said, ‘I am Yahweh.’”

“He’s who?”

“Yahweh. God. That’s God’s original name. He’s had a few, you know?”

“Really?” Chandler said. “Why does He keep changing it?”

“Dunno. Too many bad cheques. So I’m looking at his spit dripping down from a blade of the prairie wool, and I’m thinking, Is that really God’s spit? And so you know what I said to him?”

“What did you say to him?”

“Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“I told him to prove he was God.”

Chandler coughed before he spoke. “You did? And what’d he do?”

“Well, he stepped on his own spit, right beside my head, so the toe of his boot was practically in my eye, and I’m staring at this scuff on the toe of his boot that’s shaped like a butterfly and I’m wondering if it’s going to turn into a real butterfly and flutter away, and then he said, ‘I’m not here to make miracles for you, Jacob Froese. I’m here to warn you that the son who’ll be born to you in three months will one day kill you.’”

I sat up straight and bumped my head against the top of the cupboard. Neither Dad nor Chandler spoke for a long time. I held my breath.

“Did you hear that?” Dad finally asked.

“Yeah, I heard. Eva was pregnant,” Chandler said. “That was Dwight he meant would kill ya?”

My name back then was Dwight. Not Jonathan. Not Eisenhower.

“That must have been who he meant,” Dad said. “That’s who was born three months later. ‘Your son who’s growing in that young prostitute,’ is what he said.”

“Dwight? He told you Dwight was going to kill you?”

“Yeah. And I stood up and asked him if that was his proof he was God. ‘That’s your proof you’re Yahweh?’ I said. But as I was standing, he was growing, so he was still looking down at me from way up above. He was smiling. I don’t remember my father ever smiling. His yellow teeth were showing. ‘If you want to take my warning as a miracle you can, but that’s the only miracle I’m giving you,’ he said.”

“Dwight?” Chandler said again.

“And I said to him, ‘You were always clucking on about God, but you were never before honest enough to admit you thought you were him.’”

“He said that Dwight was going to kill you?”

“And he said, ‘I’ve given you my warning, but you’re such a faithless fool, you won’t know it’s true until you’re dead.’ And he turned and walked away. I watched him for five whole minutes until he’d climbed out of the valley and disappeared over the horizon.”

Inside the dark of that cupboard, I saw God disappearing.

“Jesus, that’s one hell of a bad dream,” Chandler said. “But how did that dream make you decide to stay here?”

“Who says it was a dream? I was awake. It wasn’t a dream.” Chandler started coughing again, and then he started to laugh.

“Come on, Jake. You think it was real? You don’t really think it was real.”

“I don’t think. I know it was real. I was awake.”

Chandler’s laugh got a little more nervous. “So you moved here with Eva and had the kid and raised him? I don’t get it, Jake. Why would you do that if you thought it was real? If God told you the kid was going to kill you, why didn’t you flush him down the toilet the first chance you got? And why would knowing that make you move here? You said you didn’t even want to live here in the first place.”

I could hear Dad drumming the fingers of his good hand on the table.

“I’m not scared of God. I don’t even believe in God. That’s why I moved us here. How else was I gonna prove to him that I don’t believe in him?”

There was this long moment of silence where you could hear the birds singing outside, and then Chandler laughed so hard that after a while he started coughing again and it took him a long time to stop.

“Whatever you say, Jake. Whatever you say.”

I talked to Caroline’s nanny with the pierced nose out by the garbage bin after school today. Pretty young to be looking after her, but she seems nice enough. Not sure what Caroline’s mother’s thinking, putting her life in the hands of someone so young. Black hair, dark complexion. I thought she was Mexican, but apparently not. She told me Caroline had lost her red toque and wondered if she’d left it in the playground and if Choppy or I or one of the teachers might have picked it up and put it somewhere. I went into the school and looked through all the lost and found boxes, sifting mounds of smelly boots and shoes and coats and hats and dirty lunch kits. Couldn’t find it. What I did find was a sunhat I remembered her wearing the day I first saw her in September and a few days after that. I thought about taking that out to the nanny, but realized it wouldn’t be wise. I went and hung the sunhat on her hook in her empty classroom and went out and told her nanny I couldn’t find a red toque.

“Oh, fuck,” she said. She saw me flinch. “Excuse my French. Her mother always gets on my case when she loses something. She’s constantly losing her hats, and I’m constantly getting blamed. As if there was anything I could do about it. She doesn’t like wearing them, but her mother insists on jamming them on her head every morning as she’s going out the door. And then she tosses them off anywhere and I’m supposed to keep track of them and I’m the one who gets blamed when she loses them.”

“Maybe it’ll turn up. Her mother must be . . .” I didn’t know where to go with that, and she was standing there looking at me. “I guess I’ll have to make allowances for your French, considering you’re not even French,” I said.

“I am,” she said, without so much as a blink. “Nez Perce.” She gave a little tug to the ring in her nose.

I shrugged and scratched at a sudden itch on my own nose before I got embarrassed and dropped my hand.

“I have no idea what I am, really,” she said. “I was raised by foster parents. My mother was some variety of Indian, but she gave me up. After I read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, I always wanted to be Nez Perce. You heard of them?”

“Don’t believe I have,” I lied.

“They were this tribe from the west coast of the U.S. who had their land taken away and fought the cavalry halfway across the continent trying to join up with Sitting Bull in Canada to help overthrow the white invaders. But eventually the cavalry slaughtered most of them and they had to surrender. So I always wanted to be Nez Perce, even though my white foster parents were very good to me. Actually, Caroline’s parents are good to me too. I get paid better than any of these other nannies. But I still complain. I’m such an ungrateful little dirtbag.”

I shrugged and scratched my nose again. “I thought you were Mexican,” I said.

She looked at me like I was a bit of an idiot. “Shows what you know.”

She smiled a smile that showed me her crooked white teeth and walked away.

I took the Queen streetcar home after work, as usual. Home is a room above a barbershop on Queen East that I imagine isn’t much different from the apartment where I was conceived. I sleep on a pullout couch. The bathroom’s not in the hallway, though. There’s this desk I’m writing at in the corner by the kitchen. I have a computer they were throwing out at the school.

Caroline’s my daughter, and I wish I could be a real father to her. But I can’t even tell her who I am or how I feel about her because if I did they’d fire me and I couldn’t be close to her anymore. I’ve already missed too many years to allow that to happen again. I want to leave this account of myself so that she can read it someday when she’s old enough. I want her to know the truth about where and whom she comes from. There’s too much that her mother and her family wouldn’t want her to know. I’m afraid that otherwise she’ll never even know I existed.

I guess I’ll begin by telling about the day I killed her grandfather.

After I’d done it, I drove straight to Broken Head to tell the police. Past stubble fields bleached white by herbicide. No tillage. Poison and fertilizer instead of leaving the land fallow, the higher purpose supposedly to avoid disturbing the earth so it wouldn’t blow away, the real goal to squeeze a crop out of the soil every single year.

At the rural detachment of the RCMP, I pulled into the parking lot, walked inside and told the man behind the window that I had another death to report. Two officers came to question me, but all I’d tell them was that my father was dead. After taking me to the hospital, where a doctor looked at my ear and a nurse bandaged it, the police asked me to direct them back to where they’d find his body, and I did that well enough, though I had a feeling he’d be gone when we got there. He wasn’t. The flies were already at the blood and mess. I was glad that the day before I’d taken my mother straight to the hospital.

Even though I believed he’d killed her, I no longer felt the least bit of pleasure in his look of surprise.

Instead of arresting me, they asked me if I’d be willing to see a psychiatrist, and I said that I would. The psychiatrist asked me many questions about my mother and father and how they’d both died, and I told him everything I knew. He had me admitted to the psychiatric wing of the Broken Head Union Hospital. The police did not charge me immediately, as they said they needed to complete their investigation. These men were friendlier than they’d ever been before. It was because I’d killed my father. They didn’t like my father. I didn’t tell them anything about the duel because, when one of them asked me about the duelling pistols, another told me it might be better for me to talk to my lawyer before I answered, as if they didn’t want to hear what I might have to say. It was as though in the killing I had become my father, telling the story he’d told me just before I killed him, the story about how he’d been trained to kill over there in Europe – trained to seek out the movement of a man from a great distance and draw his crosshairs on that stranger’s chest or head and pull the trigger. And the policemen looked at my father’s body, with the bullet hole through the forehead and out the back of the head, and they nodded and said they understood. They showed more mercy to me than I had shown to him, my own father.

In the hospital, I had my own soap-green-walled room with a barred window. There were fluorescent lights and a single metal chair for visitors and a washroom by the door and my own personal officer outside to make sure I did not try to escape. It was very hot, and a pretty nurse put a fan in the room that blew a breeze at me. There was a woman next door who talked constantly, and so loudly, even when she was alone, that sometimes I wondered if she was speaking to me.

“Time to be a-goin’ home now. Frank’s waiting for me. Get his supper ready. Better be goin’. You’ve ben so nice. I like the soup. Good soup. Very good soup. Wonderful soup. I like the carrots too. Frank doesn’t like carrots, but I’ve always liked ’em, ever since I was little. Used to steal the carrots from Mom’s garden. And the peas. Nothing better than fresh peas right out of the pod. Oh, Mom was mad when she caught me. She paddled my bottom, she did. I really should get home. She’ll be very mad. Or, I mean, Frank will. Mom’s dead now. I know she’s dead now. I know that. I know my mother’s dead. I know that for sure.”

My ears rang. My father’s bullet had taken a large piece of the left one. The remains were bandaged so that when I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror I saw a veteran of some simple, perfect war. I believed Dad had killed my mother, and I had avenged her death and discovered that vengeance would not return her. She was gone and everything about her was gone, and no matter how much I expected her to walk through the door and take me in her arms, she would not be coming back. Sometimes the nurses came and gave me pills, which I took, and asked me questions nurses ask, like “Have you had a bowel movement today?”

The pills didn’t help the ringing in my ears, which was beginning to drive me insane. It wasn’t a long drive. I wished that, instead of going to the police, I’d got another of my father’s guns and put it in my mouth and pulled the trigger. How stupid to have given up that chance. Sometimes I imagined getting up and getting dressed and walking out of the room and past the guard and all the way to the farm and finding a suitable tool and finishing the job properly. I didn’t want to be locked up and forced to live out the rest of my miserable life.

Other times I wondered if it might not be so bad in jail. This hospital room with the barred window was not so good, but maybe I could learn to be happy in a cage, like those animals you see in the zoo that are watered and fed and care for nothing. I’d have plenty of time for reading Dostoevsky. The thought of the other prisoners worried me, but could it be any worse than high school?

Please try to understand. I believed my father was evil. I believed he’d killed my mother. I wouldn’t have killed him otherwise. I wouldn’t have left him lying there for the flies. Though flies are beautiful in their way: the iridescence of their wings. Like feathers and silk. And oil and gasoline. As a janitor, I’m not supposed to have any place in my heart for flies, but I can’t deny their beauty.

A man not all that much older than me who called himself my lawyer came to my room, shook my hand and sat down in the metal chair, with his briefcase resting on his knees. He said it was good to see me again. I didn’t admit that I had no recollection of ever having seen him before. He started asking me strange questions: “Are you sure that five minutes passed between when he shot you and when you shot him? Couldn’t you have been mistaken? Maybe it just seemed that long. Time seems to slow down at times like that.”

I gave him a long, steady look that made him squirm. “How would you have any idea what time does at times like that? It was five minutes. But how did you know it was five minutes?” I asked, and he looked at me through his Coke-bottle lenses.

“You told me,” he said. “You told me the whole story. I hope you didn’t say that to the police. Are you sure you didn’t tell the police?”

He had painfully combed hair and a smattering of acne on his forehead. When I didn’t answer, he looked even more worried. He wasn’t quite able to look me in the eye.

“The thing is, I have unfortunate news,” he continued. “Your mother’s death has been ruled an accident.” He looked out the window at the elm tree growing across the street before switching his gaze to the floor. There were bars on the window to make sure I didn’t jump out. Not just me: every person who’d ever been in that room had wanted to jump out that window. Even my lawyer wanted to jump out that window. “According to the autopsy report, she must have been standing on the bank of the river and fallen backwards and hit her head on a rock and drowned.”

“Creek,” I corrected him.

My lawyer cranked his eyebrows a notch higher.

“Fell into the creek,” I said.

He nodded. “Fell into the creek and hit her head and drowned.”

“What report?”

My lawyer opened his briefcase, as if to check his notes for the answer. “The autopsy report.”

“And how would they know what happened? Were they there?”

He handed me a few sheets of paper clipped together. “Here’s the report. You can read it over yourself, and you’ll see how they reached their conclusions. It’ll complicate things. But in the end, it doesn’t change the fact that you had good reason to believe your father had murdered your mother. That’s very important. And your injury is also very important. He tried to kill you.” My lawyer pointed to the bandage on my ear to show me what he meant.

I looked at the cover of the report. It was written by Dr. Andrew Irvine. I knew who he was. Everyone in Broken Head knew who he was. The father of a girl I had been in love with for many years and who mostly did not know I existed. The father of Caroline’s mother, Gloria Irvine.

“I want to talk to him,” I said. “I want to talk to Dr. Andrew Irvine.”

My lawyer looked puzzled. He smiled and nodded and stammered that he didn’t think that was possible.

“Of course it’s possible. Why wouldn’t it be possible?”

He shrugged his shoulders in a way that made me want to crush him into the floor and sweep him away. My lawyer had an unfortunate talent for making people want to crush him.

“Go and tell him I want to talk to him,” I said.

“He’s likely to be a witness for the prosecution. Professionally, he can’t . . .”

“Go and tell him. He must work here somewhere. Wherever they keep the bodies. In the basement?”

My lawyer said he’d speak to him. He closed his briefcase and shook my hand again, all the time looking at the food tray beside my table in a way that made me wonder if he was hungry. To be hungry for that congealed mess, he’d have to be a very hungry man. I suspect he was only trying to avoid my eyes. He said he’d see me again soon and hurried away.

That evening the door opened and Dr. Andrew Irvine walked in and sat down in the chair where my lawyer had sat. He didn’t speak. I was lying on my side, facing the door, but the light was out, so he might have thought I was sleeping. He wore a sleek black suit and a very sad expression. I even wondered if he might begin to cry. He sat looking at the fan in the corner panning slowly back and forth. From the next room, we could hear the woman talking, and Irvine tilted his head to listen.

“Emily, you’re a fool. Don’t know what to say to ya. I’d just as soon you was dead. We go on and on like this and nothing changes. Remember that dog? Daddy gave him to me for Christmas and he disappeared. Never knew what happened. Fell through the ice, maybe. That’s what Daddy thought, ’cause the last time he saw him he was chopping a hole in the ice for the cows to drink from. But it could have been coyotes too. They like eating dogs. They’ll eat anything. They’re hungry beasts.”

While we were listening, I raised myself on my elbow and looked Irvine in the eye.

“Hello, Dwight,” he said. “Andrew Irvine.”

He stood and offered his hand, and I pulled myself to a sitting position. It was a hand made for holding scalpels, with long fingers and soft skin. Nothing like Dad’s hand.

“My father killed her,” I said.


“You’ve made a mistake,” I said. “My father killed my mother.”

Irvine sighed and nodded as though considering what I’d said. “You don’t need to worry about the arrangements. I’ve handled things for both your mother and father. There’s a plot for them in Memorial Park, and they’ll share the same headstone. It’s not a large stone, but it’s very tasteful. I hope it’s okay I did that?”

Dr. Andrew Irvine was well known in Broken Head for his causes and general philanthropy. His donations and acts of grace and brotherhood. What I mean is, he was a churchgoing man and famous for his Christian charity. I was flooded with a terrible shame that I had not even considered my parents’ final arrangements.

“My father wanted to be burned,” I said. “He told me that. He didn’t tell me much, but he once asked to be burned. They shouldn’t be buried together. He killed her.”

The woman next door interrupted. “A pretty little dog. Black and white.”

Irvine looked away from me, listening to her voice.

“She’s talking to herself,” I told him. “She’s all alone.”

“Yes,” Irvine nodded. He lowered himself once more into the metal chair. “I understand how you feel right now, but I think that in time you’ll be glad they’re together. Your father didn’t kill your mother. It was an accident. I hope you’ll forgive me for making the arrangements without consulting you first. Of course, if your father expressed other wishes – if you want it done differently, there’s still time. The funeral, as they’ve told you, will be tomorrow. You’ll want to be there.”

No one had told me, or if they had I didn’t remember.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to be there. My mother’s gone. It doesn’t matter where she’s buried. Even with him. But you’re wrong. He killed her. That’s the important thing. I want that straightened out.”

“That’s not what you told the police when you brought her body here. That’s not how it appears.”

“I didn’t want the police to arrest him. I wanted him for myself. I’m telling you, my father killed her.”

He put his hand over his mouth before he let it drop to his lap. “I understand your insistence, but I also think you need to know it isn’t true.”

“What makes you so sure it was an accident?”

He studied me through the gloom of the room, the fan ruffling his hair as it pivoted in his direction.

“I shouldn’t tell you this. I’m not supposed to be talking to you at all. Do you understand that?” I nodded, though I didn’t understand. He looked towards the door and leaned forward and whispered, “The contusion was caused by a stationary blow: her head hit the object and not the other way around. She wasn’t struck. There’s no sign of a struggle. There was only one other sign of trauma, which was to her right leg. It indicates that she stepped into a hole, fell backwards into the creek and struck her head on a stone. A badger hole. I went out with the police, and we searched upstream from where you found her, and we found the hole and the stone with traces of her blood on it. The stone was below a steep embankment, and it was just big enough that the tip was above the surface of the water, and there were traces of her blood. I took samples. And her lungs indicate that she was unconscious when she drowned.” He looked away. “She fell and hit her head and drowned. Your father had nothing to do with it. I’m sorry.”

I stared at him until he crossed his legs.

“Did you see something?” he asked.

“How do you know my father didn’t push her?”

He gave me a long look and cleared his throat before speaking. “You saw your father do this?”

“I heard him threaten her many times. I know he did it.”

“Did your father tell you he killed her?”

“No. He didn’t tell me anything. He never told me anything.”

He sighed and nodded. “Your mother fell. Her death was an accident. You should be at their funerals tomorrow.”

He closed his mouth and stared at the floor, and I became all too aware of the ringing in my ear.

“An accident,” I said. “Could have happened to anyone.”

He held his silence for another moment, looking at me strangely – looking as if he were a little afraid of me. “Yes. It was an act of God.” He reached up and rubbed one of his temples with his fingertips.

“God? God? And where does that leave me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I had to kill my father to avenge my mother’s death. If she died by an act of God, where does that leave me?”

“Avenge? I see. I’m sorry. I’m not sure. I can’t answer that. I accept that you did what you did because you believed your father was guilty. But it was not for you to judge or seek vengeance. And I can’t tell a judge or jury that your father was guilty. Maybe he was guilty of other things, but not of your mother’s death. I suppose you mean legally? Where does that leave you legally? I really don’t . . . I can’t say your father was guilty. I know that he wasn’t.”

Abruptly, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. He flinched, and the police officer was immediately on his feet and standing in the doorway.

“You say it was an act of God. So where does that leave me?”

Irvine turned to the police officer and nodded, and the police officer looked me sternly in the eye and disappeared from sight. Irvine stood and closed the door. “As I said, I’m not a lawyer. But I do think perhaps we should find you a better lawyer. I’m already looking into that.”

“What does a lawyer have to do with it? Where does it leave me with God?”

Again his nod, as if he were expecting all along for me to say just this. “You could pray.”

“Pray? You tell me God killed my mother. Why would I want to pray to Him?”

He stopped nodding. “You’re on the wrong path,” he said. “God doesn’t murder. It isn’t for us to understand the acts of God. And certainly it’s not for us to judge them. That’s pride. Not that I don’t understand what you’re feeling. I’m a proud man too, and sometimes it feels to me that God isn’t just. I have the same kind of thoughts myself every single day. Believe me. But you have to accept that there are reasons beyond our understanding for God’s actions. You should be there with your parents tomorrow. If you can’t pray, would you allow me to pray for you?”

“No. He killed my mother. God killed my mother.”

He looked away, and I wanted him to meet my eyes, but he wouldn’t.

“My father’s death was an act of God too. Did you know that? Before I was even born, God came to my father and told him I’d kill him. I had no choice. God set me up to kill my father.”

Irvine coughed and looked up at the ceiling. “You should be at the funeral,” he said.

“No,” I said. “How can I?”

“Just ask the Lord’s forgiveness and go.”

“Not until He asks for my forgiveness.”

“He already has. He died for you and was born again.”

I pulled myself up straight again to look him in the eye. “Good. Then tell God I don’t forgive Him. How could I possibly pray to such a disgusting . . . “”

His eyes shamed me enough that I did not finish the sentence. He shook his head. “I’ll have that lawyer come to see you as soon as possible.”

He pulled himself to his feet, nodded once and walked out the door without looking back. The fan swivelled to watch him go.

On that day, I was forced to consider the possibility that my father had not killed my mother. I didn’t want to believe it, but Dr. Andrew Irvine poured some small drop of faith into my ear. God pointed His finger at me and stuck it through my heart. I thought of my father once telling me I was special in some way, and I saw that this was what he had foreseen. He knew I had been chosen. He’d done his best to refuse to believe in God, but what good had it done him?

I slept all the next day. They didn’t wake me for the funeral. Nobody but Irvine really wanted me there anyway. How could I go and let everyone watch me make a spectacle of myself saying goodbye to the father I’d killed? I told myself that they were parting together and heading in opposite directions: my mother to heaven and my father to hell.

Very likely there wouldn’t have been many to watch me if I had gone. My parents were likely almost alone as they were lowered into the ground. Who would have gone to be there with them? Those whose duty it was to be there: a minister, one or two representatives from the funeral home. And maybe Irvine.

From the Hardcover edition.

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In retrospect, I loved Selah for reasons anyone can understand. First, she loved herself more than she loved me. And this led me to think that I would get some respite from the world, and at the same time receive the little affections I required to complete my life’s work: my dissertation.
I wanted Selah to spare me only a few glances and gestures while she took care of her most singular concern—her body. I imagined her thoughts passing over me briefly while she did her eyes or painted her nails red. I believed this oblique affection, like the affection one has for landscapes or animals, would be sufficient for my needs.
I don’t require much in the way of attention, you see. All my life I’ve sat at an angle, observing the back and forth of other people’s lives. Even as a child I found myself on the diagonal to events in the living room and the kitchen. I used to sit crouched with my arms around my knees, trying to watch and listen and not be noticed. I used to summon all my stillness to do this because if I were observed, all events would cease and I would become the object of commands to do some job like cleaning a shoe or finding a book to read. Or worse, I would be upbraided for listening in on conversations beyond my years, which it seemed was a sign of immorality. My childhood was spent inhabiting this angle nevertheless, at the risk of beatings and other sanctions. I enjoyed this vantage point because it provided me with a view of the tumult of people’s lives without the involvement. And so I perfected this geometry, I excelled at finding just the right distance from actions and conversations. From there, I learned a great deal about human beings, first at home and then in the world where, I discovered, it was much easier to conceal oneself.

Anyone would be forgiven, I think, for loving Selah. After all, in this world there is a shared aesthetic, however oppressive, however repetitive, of loving a certain manifestation of a woman, and Selah inhab­ited that manifestation. One finds oneself compelled to take part in the aesthetic, no matter the tedium of its repetitions. It is so anaesthetic—well, actually, it is like a hammer and a crowbar, opening your skull and your heart. You can see its manifestation all over the world on billboards—interpretations of a certain symmetry, or to be exact, an asymmetry. Although Selah, I must admit, was not an interpretation; she was the object, the object of interpretation. She was voluptuous, truly. That word—Selah was its owner. A smooth, sumptuous human being. Even-fleshed, tall, athletic, bracing, supple. Her skin, a burnt almond, yet smelled of cinnamon. I do not mean here to invoke the Brazilian writer Jorge Amado’s Gabriela, Clove, et cetera. And I don’t mean to dissociate Selah, the body, from Selah, the intelligence, in the way that most people do. We are mainly body after all, and the body is intelligence. We turn it into this petty panto­mime of gender, so its beauty is lost on us. I try every day to break out of the pantomime. Nevertheless, I spent hours smelling Selah’s right shoulder. Her skin is so smooth there. She didn’t appreciate my dog’s nose sniffing her, but the cinnamon is most noticeable there, warmed in the bowl of her clavicle. I asked Selah if she rubbed herself in cinnamon. Did she roll around in cinnamon powder each morning, or did she walk through burning branches of cinna­mon trees at night? She looked disgusted with me. Of course not, she said.

Back to the body as intelligence: the body is, after all, a living organism—with its own intention, sepa­rate from the parsed out, pored over intentions that one can say come from the mind. The mind’s inter­pretation of the body is irrelevant. The body pursues its own needs and its own desires with fibre optic precision not even yet detailed by scientists. Selah’s body, for example, has decided on cinnamon and it has, to my way of thinking, synthesized all of the atmosphere around it to the smell of cinnamon. Or let me withdraw that previous statement. Perhaps it is my body, my olfactory nerve, that decided on cin­namon at the appearance of Selah, and so it collected the smell of cinnamon around the presence of Selah. On the other hand, there might be a third theory unknown to both Selah and me that accounts for the cinnamon. Whatever the truth of this, Selah smelled of cinnamon.

Let me say at the beginning that I do not know anything about Selah. I do not know where she was born, I do not know about her upbringing or her schooling. Nor do I know any detail about her father or mother. Selah kept all this a secret from me—or not so much a secret as she thought it was none of my affair. I would pry and poke around, asking her about her life before me—to which she would give elliptical answers, not filling in the true details. When I inquired further, in that way I have of forecasting that I am trying to dig out a secret, Selah immediately grew suspicious and stared at me like a star from a distant constellation. It was as if she already saw my plan for superficial analysis and found it boring. Selah also did not care that I analyzed her silence in this same pathetic way. At least, she said, there was nothing in the silence except my imagination, so I could specu­late all I wanted.

Back again to the idea of the body itself as intelli­gence: when I made love to Selah—for that is what she said I did—Selah’s body was discerning in every (for want of a better word) touch. In those moments she could tell if I was sincere or not in my life and in my intentions. In those moments life is truthful, it has a core, an honesty; it is a plain act and there is no deception. The body then is like a surveillance machine with nerve endings and light scanners, sound detectors and particle analysis. Whatever is transmitted cannot be reinterpreted or taken back. Selah pointed out to me that it was on her body that these acts took place, not on mine. That is, I made love to her, she did not make love to me. This euphemism, make love, is not how she put it. She said, “It is my body that is at work.” This statement was at once stunning for its clarity; somewhat embarrassing for me, as it pointed out an unobserved tendency on my part; and truthful. My embarrassment at these words is still present even a decade later. Selah’s body was the body at work. I preyed upon Selah’s body. Her body was the central terrain and I, like some bird with taloned feet and beak, attacked her flesh and bones. Or I was like a forensic scientist, but a scientist of love, or an undertaker or a surgeon of love—whatever I may call it, I was dissecting her muscle from her blood vessels in my experiment of love.

I thought Selah liked my lovemaking, my atten­tions to the most minute areas of her skin. It had seemed this way to me until her declaration. I said as much to Selah, in an unavoidably wounded tone. I did not catch myself before that tone emerged and so I foreclosed whatever else Selah had to say. I regret this, but her declaration had confirmed a doubt I always had, namely, What did Selah see in me? Why had she acquiesced to being with me at all? Still to this day I cannot fathom why Selah took me on as a lover.

I am not avoiding the question of why Selah rarely made love to me, but there is so much more to say about her and about our life together that it would be unworthy to dwell on that or to suggest that it was in any way pivotal to the outcome. Selah always told the truth. That is certain. I, however, never truly listened to her until I was faced with my self-delusion. And meanwhile, I always lied to Selah. I thought I was saving her from the harshness of situations. She, to her credit, never believed me. She went on in her own reality. Selah was much better at being in the world than I was. She knew and assumed the conventions of normalcy that I only paid lip service to, which brings me once again to the question of why I was in love with Selah. I cannot confirm that Selah was in love with me; I could never tell. Sometimes she dis­played a great warmth for me. She would leave off her preening and embrace me, especially when I brought her a gift of some kind, or when I suggested, desper­ately, we go on a trip to a warm place.

Once we went to Seville in August. Selah fought me the whole month, but she also picked figs in the mornings and walked through the Sierpes in the late afternoons looking gorgeous. In Seville, we house-sat for a professor of mine, a professor of philology with whom I had taken a graduate course and had become quite close. Selah and I would emerge each day from our house-sit at the wrong hour—the hour when the sun was strongest and all of Seville was asleep. We drifted through the orange-hot streets trying to find a café, the sun baked us, we felt glorious and invin­cible. Then, finding a shaded resto, we would eat pes­cado a la plancha and I would drink a beer while Selah examined her skin. I would try to engage Selah in some talk about Spanish colonialism, or the obvi­ous Arab qualities of Seville, and she would barely respond, as if to say, What does that have to do with my holiday? Selah, of course, was right: it had noth­ing to do with it. My overbearing teaching often leeched the pleasures of the moment. Selah merely wanted to “be.” And how could I blame her? I wanted to “be” also.

Selah had a beauty that was unanswerable, unlearnable. After all, what is the response to beauty? I had nothing to offer in response to this beauty. How do you answer the smell of cinnamon? How can smoothness have a reply? What do you do when you glimpse Selah in a far-off store window crossing a cobbled square with a gnome beside her? You see Selah, she is wearing black, she has dark glasses, she is carrying a bag, she is like a sharp dagger or a bolt of lightning striking the air and you are struck in the forehead, you lose sight in one eye. And then you observe the gnome beside her, the gnome who is you, and the gnome is arguing with Selah. “One month,” the gnome is saying, and the sight makes you shut up. But the gnome goes on nevertheless, “One month, you cannot give me one month of peace!” The gnome is haranguing Selah and Selah is indifferent, so the gnome shuts up and creeps along beside Selah. Why is Selah walking with that gnome, you remark out loud to no one. Our days in Seville invariably con­tained a moment like this. Selah had the dissatisfac­tion of beauty, because of course beauty can never be satisfied and can never be satisfactory to the beauti­ful. The imperfect is always more rewarding, more active, since it is striving for perfection. So Selah always seemed dissatisfied to me. Though I could be wrong and perhaps it is my probing personality that casts a doubt on beauty. Yes, my own dissatisfaction infected Selah’s contentment.

Selah was content, I realize now. I came home sometimes to find her singing along with the radio, the sound of some inane popular song booming against the walls. Ashanti, Mary J. Blige and Nelly. Selah would be cooking one of her specialities—the pots bubbling on the stove, the smell of smoked corn, fried grouper, all the aromas I loved—yet I could not help myself, the stupid songs dominated my atten­tion. They annoyed me immediately and I could not resist asking Selah how old she was, and when would she let go of that teenage stuff? Clearly I loved Selah much more than I loved her ways. Though, to take that back, I loved Selah’s ways, despite my objections to them. I loved how Selah remained attentive to pop­ular things while I made up theories for them. Selah ignored me. She said how old-fashioned I was, how out of time, how queer. She was right. I know I am out of time. Everything about our different tastes made me question why we were together, but I still ignored this question.

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Beirut Hellfire Society

One sunny day at the start of a ceasefire, a father drove with his son down towards where the fighting had been.

A cadaver had been lying on the ground for days, muti­lated. The son, who was named Pavlov, and his father, an undertaker, loaded the remains into plastic bags and carried them to the hearse. The cadaver’s belly had been opened by a bullet wound and vermin had claimed it and multiplied inside the soft organs, gorging on the entrails. Father and son gathered the scattered items that belonged to the dead: a loose shoe, a bag filled with mouldy food, broken glasses.

Now, the man told his son, you’re sixteen—old enough to become a member of the Society. The Hellfire Society, the father added. He switched on the car radio, and drove towards the coast and then up into the mountains of Lebanon.

They arrived at a secluded area in the high summit, and finally at a small stone house that looked to be abandoned. But the father picked up a key from under a potted plant, opened the door, and together he and his son entered. The house was simple and humble, cold and damp. Neglect and dust could be seen everywhere. The floor was bare, and through the soles of their shoes father and son felt the touch of leather against grains of dirt and sand. Walking across the room was slippery but manageable—two pairs of feet grinding little particles into the floor. The walls of the house were peeling, expos­ing straw mixed with clay, an ancient technique for efficient insulation that the villagers had used for centuries. There was a bed in the corner of the main room and, in the middle, a stove with a chimney that extended its charcoal tube towards the ceiling before the cylinder shifted at the end, a perfect ninety degrees, to reach the top of the adjacent wall and cough out its smoke.

Welcome to the Society’s mansion, the father said.

Pavlov followed his father into the second room. This was a later addition to the house, separate from the main area. Its cement floor was bare and unpolished and the room’s main feature was a large metal door in the centre of the back wall, with a smaller door beneath the large one. Beside the doors, two large gas tanks were linked by tubes. To Pavlov’s eye, they resembled the garden hoses often seen trailing like ser­pents around villagers’ houses.

Eventually we may have to change the pipes, his father said. It’s a simple procedure. You make sure to cut off the gas from its source there—he pointed at a handle embedded in the wall—and before you proceed, lock it firm. Look here, son. You twist this knob on the top in a counter-clockwise motion. Are you cold, son?

Pavlov nodded.

In no time this house will burn like hell, his father replied, and smiled. But let’s eat first, and then we’ll bring our unknown soul into the abode of fire, light and eternal warmth.

They washed their hands with cracked bars of soap under cold water, then roasted chestnuts, heated bread, set out thyme and olive oil and cheese that the father removed from a jar, and drank alcohol. When they were done, they brought the body inside, laid it on a wooden stretcher that the father had made himself and carried the cadaver to the second room. The father opened the metal door and Pavlov saw what looked like a deep, long oven.

The father turned to the cadaver, and with a singing, wailing voice he uttered these words: They say ashes to ashes, but we say fire begets fire. May your fire join the grand lumi­nosity of the ultimate fire, may your anonymity add to the greatness of the hidden, the truthful and the unknown. You, the father continued, were trapped, lost, ignored, dejected, but now you are found, and we release you back into your origi­nal abode. Happy are those rejected by the burial lots of the ignorant. The earth is winter and summer, spring and fall . . . We heard your call and we came.

Father and son lifted the bed off the stretcher and slid the cadaver into the stove. The father twisted the knobs of the gas tanks—bonbons he called them—struck a match and lit a fire inside. Then he asked his son to close the furnace door.

In time, the house became warm. It stood alone in its surroundings, a ball of heat against the chill of the mountains. Pavlov, bewildered by the rituals, sat in silence and listened as his father talked and drank and sang incomprehensible songs that had the rhythms of hymns. Then his father, drunk and tired, stumbled into bed and fell asleep.

Pavlov stayed awake and gazed at the wooden stove, watch­ing the glow of a few persistent coals coating themselves in grey dust on the outside, burning red and orange at the core. Heat percolated from the second room, so strong it made Pavlov loosen his wool coat and remove his socks and extend his toes. He studied the downcast moustache drawing a line around his father’s open mouth below a triangular Byzantine nose, long and curved, and thin at its tip. Pavlov wondered about the singing, and about the burning of stray corpses, unclaimed and bloated, about orphaned cadavers and their capacity for music and dance long lost. My father has done this before, alone. What strength, Pavlov thought, what willpower must have been required to lift the heavy bodies and load them into the car. Pavlov examined his father’s shoulders, strong from digging the earth and carrying hardened, blue bodies; and his father’s fingers, infiltrated by dust beneath the nails. From the balcony at home, Pavlov had often seen his father digging, and waving to him when he straightened to stretch his back, and drinking water from the bottle at his side. Tonight’s long, esoteric monologue and affectionate words made Pavlov wonder if his father was addressing him or some other distant son, or if he was simply filled with life and liquor. The incoherent speeches about death, ephemerality, the Iliad’s fallen heroes, and quotes from various saints and philosophers from Heraclitus to Ephrem the Syrian; the disquisitions on ancient burials, fire, and epics from antiquity; and the disdain for the earth, the body . . . it all made Pavlov wonder if his father might be a madman, a deranged heathen. All these years, he had thought his father’s criticism of the clergy was because the priests meddled in matters of burial grounds and money. Now he realized that his father disliked earthly burials on principle. He preferred fire.

And then his father woke, and liberating the words inside him, told his son that he dearly wished he could have burned his wife, Pavlov’s mother, when she had died a few months past—but she had insisted on being buried in the ground, and he had respected her wish. As for myself, the father said, you, my son, will bring me fire.

Pavlov looked at his father again and saw a gentle, eccen­tric man, and he pitied him and loved him all the more.
At dawn, the father woke the son, gathered ashes from the furnace, mixed them with water, and pasted them all over his face and hands.

Pavlov brushed his teeth and washed his face, and went to stand outside beside his father. He was both embarrassed and filled with wonder. It was cold that morning—the cold of soldiers marching towards battle, stomping across farmers’ fields, cold in the way vengeful villagers steal dead soldiers’ shoes after defeat in battle, cold like that rosy dawn in which the wounded trip over vegetables, roots and dead branches, bruised, shot, stabbed and hallucinating of a wedding with a farmer’s girl who will lead them towards their warrior heaven. Pavlov looked at the vast empty mountains while his father chanted. Then his father kissed Pavlov on the forehead, took his hand and led him in another dance, singing in a foreign language. Pavlov danced and smiled, bewildered but surren­dering to his father’s wishes and following his steps.

Afterwards, he helped gather the ashes from the crema­torium and fold them in a cloth. The two of them walked along a narrow path, through bushes and between tall, pre­historic rocks until they reached a cliff that looked out onto a steep valley. The view was sublime and the wind passed over them, just as it had passed over the succession of round green hills and into the valley. Pavlov’s father flipped the cloth open, and the ashes were taken by the wind and the dust scattered in one direction. The northern wind, his father said, leads south, and the easterly wind leads west and carries with it the scent of time.

Inside the house, his father washed his hands and face, dried them with a cloth, fed the cloth into the stove in the middle of the room and let it burn.

Then father and son drove back to the city of Beirut, once more they drove, in silence under the falling bombs. The war had resumed.

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