Akhmed and the Atomic Matzo Balls. Gary Buslik

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      Tahir considered. “Perhaps you could arrange it.”

      The president screwed him a glare. “I’m speaking rhetorically, you traitorous imbecile.”

      “Traitorous? Me? Oh, no,Your Stubbleness. Ask anyone here. They will all vouch for my complete devotion to your health and well-being. Why, just the other day I was telling Faizal—”

      But the president was no longer paying attention to the head scientist. He was standing with his face pressed to the observation glass, gazing at his smashed matzo ball as if it were a pound puppy. He loved the little guy more than ever. The runt had given its all-too-brief life in full devotion to its master. There it lay, broken and alone in a melting ring of chicken fat, crackling rads in dying fealty to its nation and faith. Well, not faith, to be sure, for the brave little fellow was a Hebrew heretic, though in the end he had given himself to the one true belief, and there was no doubt, no doubt at all, that there awaited him in paradise seventy-two potato latkes.

      He turned to Hazeem with tears trickling down his cheeks. “Life is good, my friend,” he whimpered. “I did you an injustice this morning, and I am sorry. May I give you a hug of contrition?”

      Hazeem hesitated. Tahir and his assistant watched the leader and interpreter with more than passing curiosity. Hazeem’s glance darted from one scientist to the other. “Perhaps a heartfelt handshake would suffice,” he suggested to his president.

      “No, no, nothing short of an apologetic embrace will do,” Akhmed replied, crossing the floor, clasping his interpreter, and burying his wet face in the crook of Hazeem’s neck, as his friend-interpreter squirmed with embarrassment.

      “There,” the tyrant exclaimed, letting go and wiping his cheeks with the back of his wrists. “All forgiven?”

      “Of course,” Hazeem assured him.

      “Then all is well.” The president glanced back at the observation window. “And this is indeed an early birthday present.” He turned to Tahir. “Tell me, would you all mind leaving me alone for a minute?”

      “Of course,” the scientist agreed, ushering out his assistant and Hazeem.

      When he was alone with his matzo ball, Akhmed considered the fragility of life, the transience of happiness, the injustices of this world, the capriciousness of fate. He decided that, apart from devotion to God, the noblest existence was in service to one’s people, but that, as there were many who were self-serving, ungrateful, and carnal, the true martyrs had to be eternally vigilant. Was not essential loneliness, silent suffering, the fate of all great men?

      Perhaps, he decided as he gazed blurrily through the observation window, he had been too sentimental for his own good. Perhaps in letting down his guard, his sensitivity had been mistaken as weakness. Perhaps he had let his loyalty to Hazeem cloud his judgment. Did the rascal think his veiled comments about Akhmed’s height did not register? Did he think his repeatedly turning down his president’s invitation to join him in the sauna went unnoticed? Did Hazeem really believe he could cop an attitude with his great leader the way he had regarding his niece Samreen? That he could speak to Akhmed so snippily about a what…a female?

      Blinking teary-eyed at his matzo ball, Akhmed was suddenly very aware that by having taken Hazeem into his confidence, he had exposed his own vulnerability… not only of feelings but, apparently, of life and limb. This morning’s fright had perhaps been a wake-up call in more ways than one.

      Kissing his fingertips and pressing his palm to the glass, he bade his matzo ball farewell and decided that, yes, he had trustingly revealed too much of his sensitive side to Hazeem—what a fool he had been!—and that a plan of remedial action was most assuredly in order.

      He would pick his time and place. There was no hurry. He would toy with Hazeem as it pleased him before administering justice. Before lowering the blade.

       Two

      ONE YEAR LATER

      “IT’S NOT YOU,” LESLIE FENWICH EXCLAIMED, SPRINGING from his desk at DePewe State University in Chicago. He offered his hand, politically correct-wise, even though the last time he saw Diane they were both as naked as mole rats. “Tell me it’s not literally you.”

      “In the flesh. More flesh than ever.” She glanced around his messy office, ran her eyes over his rumpled corduroy blazer, threadbare polo shirt, crinkled Dockers. His still-thick reddish mane now sported distinguished gray streaks over his ears. She shook his hand politically correct-wise back, hoping he couldn’t detect her nervousness. He pumped it once and dropped it quickly, as if afraid of a sexual-harassment lawsuit, and nudged his half-reading glasses back from the tip of his nose.

      “So,” she said, not quite sure what to do with her cantilevered arm. “Head of the English Department. Big-time scholar. I’m not the least bit surprised.”

      He motioned for her to sit. “How long has it been?”

      “Twenty-seven years, five months, three weeks—roughly.”

      He plopped into his high-backed chair. He cleared his throat. “I moved back to Florida,” he bumbled, apparently referring to his having sneaked out in the middle of the night, twenty-seven years, five months, three weeks before, leaving her a note saying he’d call her later that day. “I had a superlative job offer. Tenure track position at—”

      “It’s okay, Les. I forgave you a long time ago. I’m cool with it.”

      “You did? You are?”

      “We were both young. I didn’t take it personally.”

      “I was peripatetic. In the Aristotelian sense of the word.”

      “I moved on, too.”

      “Think of me as Auguste Rodin, in a manner.” He spoke more formally than she had recalled, more carefully. And where did he get that Cary Grant faux-British accent? “I saw my future in this giant block of academic marble, and it was my calling to chisel it out. As the German philosophers would say, gesamtkunstwerk. I speak metaphorically, of course.”

      “I’m not going to sue you.”

      He stared at her worriedly, his thumb stabbing his chin cleft. If he had smoked a pipe, he would be puffing like mad. But when she broke into a smile, he relaxed—a little. On his credenza, his CD player was spinning Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen. He reached over, brushed aside some administrative detritus, and turned down the volume.

      “In the old days, it would have been the Beatles,” she said.

      “And rusted-out VWs and love beads,” he sniggered. “Well, some of us grew up.”

      She pictured him stark naked, except for his Viking horned warrior helmet and fringed vest, running around the motel room role-playing Leif Ericsson discovering Newfoundland.

      “Please, have a seat. Care for some tea?”

      Instead of sitting, though, she padded in her Birkenstocks to the window. She gazed down at the campus triangle, its СКАЧАТЬ