“At home. At home. There is a very strict line.”
“I see. So because Thurayya hasn’t yet made an assault on your office, you consider it well defended,” Othman said.
“True enough,” Mohammed said, wiping his hands and holding up his palms. “And she won’t ever try, God willing. Now, if you two are done vexing me with your daydreams, let’s finish up and get out of here.”
Qasim wiped his trowel on a brick and dropped it in his tool bucket. Mohammed tied up the last pile of contracts and set them on a corner of the desk. Othman closed up the last empty cabinets. Mohammed sent Othman to check on the other workers, then turned to Qasim. “Nephew, a word.”
Qasim faced Mohammed. His bad hand ached, and he felt feverish and dizzy. “Uncle, I know I was short with Aunt Thurayya.”
“Yes.”
“It’s just that… It’s not just her. I can’t take all this feminine meddling. My mother, Lateefah, Aunt Thurayya… I have to make important decisions, and all their fussing is… they don’t understand. They have no right to question me. They’re just women.”
Mohammed rubbed his mustache. “It’s true, nephew, that women are women. And it’s true that you must be firm with them. You can’t let them treat you like a boy. But a man’s wife… Well, things aren’t always so simple.”
“My wife is my Fatimah, Uncle. She’s my servant.”
“No, Nephew, you are hers. Lateefah is the one who will bear your children. She’s the one who carries your family in her hands. In her belly. You must protect and cherish her. You must stand by her.”
Qasim winced. “Now you are meddling!” he shouted.
Mohammed stepped across the room and slapped Qasim hard, knocking him back against the bricks, sending his glasses clattering to the floor. Qasim cried out, tears leaping to his eyes.
Mohammed exhaled through his nose with a snort. “I’ve nearly had my patience with you, boy,” he said. “Indeed, were it not for my obligation to your father, I’d have sent you from my house a long time ago. You blacken your father’s face. If you want to stay, if you want to curl your tail and hide in my home, then I will suffer it because your father was my brother. But don’t think you get to call yourself a man in my home. I know what you are, and I know a man who abandons his wife out of fear and pride is nothing but a dog. When we get back home, you’ll beg your aunt’s forgiveness, or you’ll leave. Now clean yourself up and meet me outside.”
Some hours later, Qasim sat at his desk fuming, trying to puzzle out a particularly knotty equation, unable to focus. He’d called Baqubah earlier to talk to Lateefah and it had gone disastrously. His mother wouldn’t speak to him, and when his wife picked up the phone, she wouldn’t answer. Qasim was solicitous at first, gently asking questions, but each time Lateefah refused, his anger redoubled. When he finally asked, “What’s wrong with you? Why are you silent?” she said, “I’m grieving because my husband has abandoned me.” Qasim exploded, screaming into the phone, berating her faithlessness, and calling her names until she finally hung up on him.
Qasim told himself he’d called to entreat her, to comfort her, to promise her he’d send for her, and that it was her unrelenting selfishness that had provoked him. Sitting in his room, going through the same handful of variables over and over, his mind raced along the well-worn track of his indignation, chronicling the story of how put-upon he was, how beleaguered by fate, how neglected and how beaten down. His pained hand, his headache, and the fever in his ears made it all that much worse. From the Gulf War to his exile in Edinburgh to his father’s death, from his meddling aunt to his bullying uncle to his thankless wife, his life appeared to him as a succession of struggles against a despotic fate that had unfairly singled him out among all the others, he, Qasim, son of Faruq, for tribulation.
There was a knock at the door.
“I’m working,” Qasim shouted.
The door opened and Qasim turned to glare at Nazahah, who meekly watched at the floor.
“Cousin…”
“What? What do you want?”
“There are men here to see you, Cousin.”
“What men?”
“They say they’re from the university.”
“From the university?”
“Yes, Cousin.”
Qasim stood. “I’ll come down.”
“They said they’d see you here. They’d like to speak to you privately.”
“Well, alright. Send them up.”
Nazahah bowed and left, closing the door behind her. Qasim faced his chair into the center of the room. Two? He supposed both could sit on the bed, or one at the desk. He smoothed his blanket and arranged his papers and pencils.
There was a new knock at the door and as he turned, it opened. One man scanned the room and sat easily on the bed, the other closed the door behind him and stood in the corner. Qasim knew at once they weren’t from the university.
“I…” Qasim began, but was interrupted by the sitting man, who waved his hand and clicked his tongue. He looked around the room again, taking in Qasim’s modest furnishings, his many books on his few shelves, his bureau, the picture of Lateefah he kept near his bed, his handful of shirts and trousers hanging in the open closet. Eventually the man turned and looked at Qasim like he was measuring the size of the hole he’d need to bury him in. Qasim realized he was trembling, his skin turning clammy, his mouth going dry.
The man looked away, past Qasim, through the window to the darkened city outside, the distant lights of the Um Al-Tobool Mosque. “Nice view,” he said. Qasim jerked back over his shoulder, looking in surprise at the same view he looked at every day, then turned again to face the man.
“You…”
The man waved, clicking his tongue. He turned to Qasim’s nightstand and picked up the photo of Lateefah.
“That’s…”
“Shut up,” said the man by the door.
“Professor al-Zabadi,” the sitting man said, still holding the photo of Lateefah.
“Speak when you’re spoken to,” said the other.
“Uh… yes, sir.”
“Professor Qasim al-Zabadi.”
“Yes, sir.” Qasim thought he might throw up.
“Please sit down,” the man said, turning to Qasim, who sat, looking from one man to the other. “This is your wife Lateefah?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She’s not here?”
“No, sir.”
“She’s in Baqubah?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know, Professor al-Zabadi, we’re not from the university.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know where we’re from?”
“I think so, sir.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re from the police.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you seem fearless.”
“Is that it? Or is it because of what you know?”
Qasim’s ears began to ring. The air seemed to be leaking out of the room. “What I… I don’t know what I know.”
“Professor,” the man said, “you have not joined the Party, is that correct?”
“I… no. Not yet, sir.”
“Why is that?”
“I wanted… I needed to finish my dissertation. I’m not… I’m not one for politics, for all those political… things. I’m just… a mathematician. Just maths. So, I thought, what do politics and maths have to do with each other? I’ll join later, of course, but I didn’t.”
“Just maths.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see. And who do you do maths for?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Who do you do maths for?”
Was this about his uncle? Was this about the accounts—the bribery, black-market deals, shady negotiations with officials? It was all run-of-the-mill stuff, the only way to get things done. He couldn’t believe they’d be here about that. Had his uncle made enemies? Was he going to have to… ? Qasim blinked. The room dimmed and blurred.