The Opium Prince Read online

Page 12


  Sutherland spoke. “Peter, no war is ever really about any god.” A memory stirred in his aging blue eyes, maybe a prayer he’d whispered at Omaha Beach. “They’re just there to help sell the fight.”

  The servants brought dessert, tea, and platters of fruit. Daniel had barely touched his dinner. He bit into an apple. It tasted sour, although he knew it wasn’t. Ian cursed a pomegranate whose seeds wouldn’t come out. “Screw this misshapen fruit.” Giving up, he dropped his spoon on the tablecloth. Laila helped him coax out the seeds.

  The night was dark, the open window like a white frame around a black canvas, a painting a modern artist might call Space. Or, since the nuclear arms race had the world on the brink of annihilation, Future. At some point, Peter mentioned that his hotel had no hot water, and might not for a few days. Rebecca avoided Daniel’s gaze, even as he sought hers. The result of their impasse was that neither invited Peter to stay, and Pamela awkwardly returned to discussing shoe stores. When the meal was finished, the housekeeper told Rebecca the garden was ready.

  “I had the croquet set up,” she announced to applause. “We can play without rules.”

  Greenwood looked puzzled. “What does that mean?”

  “It means nobody wins,” Daniel said, leading his guests outside.

  “Somebody always wins, whether you keep score or not.”

  As they walked toward the terrace, Peter asked Rebecca, “How’s your sister? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Nobody hears from Sandy unless she needs money.”

  The wickets were arranged on the lawn. Pamela asked to play first. She swung the mallet, spun, and nearly tripped. She caught her balance, but her spiky pink heels sank into the lawn, gathering tufts of grassy soil and tilting her backward. She let out a surprisingly bawdy laugh, then stepped aside, gazing out at the lush plants framing the yard.

  When Pamela asked the hostess how she grew such roses, Rebecca told her it was the work of the gardener. “I don’t have a green thumb,” she said. “I can’t keep anything alive.”

  She had only ever tried to plant one thing, but Daniel knew she wouldn’t tell the guests. She wouldn’t tell them that she had brought home a sapling pomegranate tree after Laila gave her the happy news, that she insisted she would plant it without the gardener’s help, that it had thrived for a month, and that she had never gone near it again after the morning that drained all her tears. Until Telaya came and showed her there were more.

  It was her turn next. She struck the ball with such force that it veered off course and nearly hit a visiting cat, who popped up from the lawn and bolted. A car door opened loudly and creakily just over the wall. The guests turned to face the sound, save Peter and Laila, who were dangling their feet in the pool, and Elias, who pulled a packet of Kents from his pocket and shook a cigarette loose.

  The car door slammed shut. The bruise on Daniel’s brow twinged when Telaya began to whisper her pleas. Daniel tried not to think of what would happen if she never, ever stopped. Then he would be like the man without arms, living in symbiosis with a ruined child—except that she could never grow up and he would never know peace. It would be the everlasting purgatory of which Dante spoke.

  Good night, Telaya whispered, padding away into dark desert sands.

  The doorbell rang.

  12

  The croquet players turned toward the stranger’s voice, which came from inside the house. The newcomer was admiring the architecture and decor while the housekeeper agreed politely with each remark. Daniel would have recognized the man’s voice anywhere.

  “Someone’s obviously lost,” he said, urging the others to go on with their game. But half of them followed him into the parlor, as if hoping the new guest had brought a game of his own.

  “Hello, my friend!” Taj was in the doorway. His voice rang of fond memories, inside jokes, and too much time gone by. Looking glossy and rich in his black silk suit, the khan held his arms out, but Daniel remained immobile. Taj laughed as if his paralysis were part of a long-running act. He held out his hand. He wore an onyx ring, and his nails were long but immaculate. The thought of shaking Taj’s hand filled Daniel with revulsion. A handshake was more than a greeting. It was a bargain struck, an understanding.

  Taj’s reply was loud enough to broadcast to the whole party. “I know I said I couldn’t attend, but I left my other engagement early so I could at least have the honor of calling on your most worthy wife and making the acquaintance of your esteemed friends.”

  Daniel glanced behind him. Rebecca wasn’t there. She’d stayed in the garden with Peter and Laila. Greenwood clapped Daniel on the back and introduced himself to Taj. The others fanned out in the room, their faces turned to their host, waiting for the introduction Daniel could not bring himself to make. Before he knew it, Greenwood had asked Taj his name, Ambassador Sutherland had asked a server for two cups of tea, and Elias was mixing drinks at the wet bar. Pamela dimmed the lights until the room felt like a nightclub. She danced over to the stereo and began flipping through a stack of records. She found one that made her clap.

  “I left this here on the Fourth of July!” She placed the LP on the turntable and dropped the needle. ABBA blew into the room like a sweet, sticky wind. Arms in the air, she sashayed about the floor in her peasant skirt. Ian and Elias encouraged her with applause, but no one seemed as excited as Greenwood, who whistled as she twirled.

  Daniel’s ears throbbed. Night air rushed in through the French doors. His sole objective was to expel Taj from the house. He was relieved Rebecca wasn’t in the room. The sour wetness of the apple rose from his gut.

  Elias pulled a lighter and a plastic baggie from his pocket. Soon, a pungent sweetness floated in the air. Ian took part, holding the joint like a cigarette. He tried to blow a smoke ring and pounded his chest before passing the weed to Pamela. She coaxed Bob Greenwood until the young man relented, agreeing to try it. After negotiating the joint with practiced hands, Pamela tried to share it with Taj, too, but he retreated. “I have enough vices, madam.”

  Ian lit a Marlboro. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Some more than others,” Daniel said as his guests fell into conversation with the opium khan, who now seemed disinterested in his host.

  “This guy’s cool,” Greenwood said, throwing a convivial arm around Taj and asking him how he knew Daniel.

  Standing in a loose circle, everyone listened as the newest guest wove a tale, the light catching the gleam of his Brylcreemed hair. He said he had met Daniel when they were just boys, when Taj’s father worked as a foreman at a gemstone factory in the 1950s. But oh, how the years had gone by! Wasn’t it destiny that Daniel and Taj should run into each other last week and know each other instantly? That was the way of old friends, he said. Of kindred spirits.

  He changed topics like a race car driver cutting between lanes, asking everyone about their lives. He talked to each guest in turn. Journalism was a calling on par with religious inspiration, he said. The Peace Corps was one of America’s greatest inventions, though there were so many it was hard to choose. Ambassadors were the trustees of peace, behind-the-scenes heroes who took no credit for the friendships they forged between rivals. Turning to Pamela, who was still floundering around in her solo dance, Taj said that it was seldom a man found himself in the company of a beauty queen who was also such a gifted dancer. Pamela thanked him, but Taj had already moved on. Bob Greenwood’s interest in Afghanistan showed vision and an admirable readiness for self-sacrifice, he explained, rare qualities in such a young man.

  As Daniel listened, he understood that the Manticore was not primarily a landowner or a poppy grower but a salesman. Taj Maleki was the kind of man who could convince you not only that the emperor was clothed but that you were the emperor.

  Greenwood spoke proudly of the Fortune 500 firm he worked for, of his success with coca fields in South America, and the brillia
nt defoliant that would replace Agent Orange. “But Mr. Sajadi here doesn’t agree,” he said, prompting Taj to raise an eyebrow.

  “Is that so?”

  “Luckily, he doesn’t get to decide,” Greenwood said. He cleared his throat. “Wow, my mouth is dry.” He grabbed a soda floating by on a tray. Taj asked him question after question until the others grew bored and fell away. The man was relentless, revealing his own knowledge of the poppy trade as he quizzed Greenwood, whose speech grew irregular and repetitive. He finished the soda and threw himself at a bowl of sugared almonds, then asked for his fourth soda of the night and nearly poured the Sprite down his throat. Daniel was tempted to let him keep talking about Dannaco-Hastings and the State Department, revealing to Taj the kind of organized power that lay behind the destruction of the Yassaman field. But men like Taj were best kept in the dark.

  “Taj isn’t interested in these details,” he said.

  “You’ve got that wrong,” Greenwood said, peering around for more sweet things to eat. “Your friend wants to know what’s going to be done about the poppies. He’s a big fan of your agency.”

  Ambassador Sutherland had been reclining on a sofa, claiming an achy back. Now he was on his feet. “Bob!” He made the name sound like an order. “Daniel’s right. Our new friend here has heard enough.”

  What happened next caught Daniel off guard. As ABBA sang about a lack of money they surely didn’t suffer from, Pamela took him by the hand and drew him onto her impromptu dance floor. He resisted as she flittered her fingertips in the air.

  The others were back to clapping and laughing, save for Taj, who was leaning against a wall with his arms folded.

  “You’re drunk,” Daniel quietly told Pamela.

  She told him to loosen up, grabbing the tip of his tie and twirling it around. She wrapped her arms around his waist. The audience played along. Unable to bear Taj’s stare, Daniel asked her to stop, but because he was whispering in her ear as a lover might, the game escalated. She pretended to be scandalized, covering her mouth with her hand, making her eyes wide. Ian feigned jealousy, threatening a punch before grabbing a drink from a passing waiter. Daniel attempted to gently pry Pamela from his waist, trying not to embarrass her while ending the dance. She stepped on his foot with those obscene girl-woman shoes.

  Looking bored, Taj unglued himself from the wall and explored the room. He paused at an armoire full of shiny things, a shelf displaying special-edition books, ornaments, and a portrait of Sayed. He held his hands behind his back like a gallery-goer. Daniel kept a constant watch on him from the corner of his eye. He finally pulled away from Pamela, harder than he meant to. Her lips formed not so much a smile as a rigid rectangle. When Ian approached, Daniel expected a reprimand, but instead, Ian staggered toward Taj and collapsed into him, spilling his gin and tonic on the Manticore’s shirt.

  “Woah! Sorry, buddy,” he said. But to Daniel, he sent a look that said, You’re welcome.

  Taj smiled. “No apology needed, my fine friend. I was just leaving, anyway. I was only waiting to say goodbye to the hostess.”

  The guests followed Taj’s gaze. Rebecca had come in from the garden. She stood by the French doors and looked from Taj to Daniel and back. Daniel went to her side and slipped a protective arm around her.

  Taj bowed from afar. “It is time for me to go.”

  He thanked Rebecca for her hospitality, then followed Daniel down the hall to the front door. Despite his composure, the khan’s complexion was sallow. Bags of skin swelled under his eyes, which were shot through with red. The smirk on his face looked strained. “I expected you at the Zoroaster last night,” he said as Daniel led him into the night-washed courtyard. “Normally, I might give you a few more days, but my lookout boy told me you were having a party. I was polite enough to wait until you finished dinner, of course, but how could I miss the chance to meet your friends while reminding you that I await your answer?” He tilted his nose up and inhaled. “You served lamb.” For a fleeting instant, he looked hungry. Taj pushed open the gates to Dollar Djinn Lane. Daniel followed.

  “I look forward to your answer on Wednesday night at the same time at the Zoroaster,” the Manticore said as he oozed out of his jacket and tossed it into the back of his car. “It really isn’t my sort of thing, but the big show happens then, so perhaps it will be more entertaining for you.” He left Daniel with a final thought before ducking into the Opel. “We are on the same team, Daniel Sajadi.” There was no mockery in his voice.

  The car receded from view, leaving behind a spray of dust. Inside, Daniel found his wife standing so still in the hall, it was as if she had always been rooted there and the house had simply come up around her. Her silence was almost worse than the tide of questions he had expected. She followed him to the parlor.

  “I’m sorry,” she told their guests, “but I’m not feeling well. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt like this before.” When prompted, she said she had a migraine.

  “If you don’t like weed, I have pills that’ll knock that headache right out,” said Pamela, lying across the sofa with one foot dangling off the side.

  But Rebecca had already gone, her heels striking the staircase as quickly as if she were running an uphill race. Daniel saw that the last person she looked at wasn’t him but Peter. In her eyes was a plea for something Daniel couldn’t give her. The guests began gathering their car keys and handbags. Sutherland left, taking Greenwood with him. Peter dropped into an armchair and rubbed his eyes, glancing at the clock. A moth had found its way in, moving in nervous circles until it found a sconce, beating its wings against the glowing bulb.

  “Do you know why a moth flies into a flame?” Peter asked the room. Pamela said she had always wondered.

  “Because moths evolved to orient themselves by the moon. The arrival of humans and artificial light is recent. When a night flyer sees a lamp or a candle, it can’t calibrate its path. It ends up flying toward its death.”

  “How Shakespearean,” Laila said. “It moves toward its tragic fate because it can’t help what it is.”

  Brothers and Sisters

  They ask him how old he is, but he doesn’t know. They laugh at him. The children standing around Boy are like the rich girls from the big house. They have better clothes than him, and they’re holding books in their arms. One of them is sucking on a lollipop like he doesn’t even care, like there are a thousand more lollipops in the world. His tongue is dark red, and the lollipop makes a sound every time it hits his teeth.

  When he runs away, they call him a name. “Hazara!” they yell. But he is not a Hazara. The servants in the big house were Hazara. His mother told him they were there to serve the rich people, but he and his mother were guests. That night, the first night away from the garden and Mother, he walks on big streets full of lights and people. Boy is not afraid of the dark, but night isn’t the same in the city. There are thin streets that disappear between buildings. He goes down an alley and sees children sitting together under the doorway of a shop that looks like it’s closed forever. Maybe they’ll offer him some of the naan one of the older boys is tearing into pieces. He’s tearing it carefully, making sure all the pieces are the same size. But the children don’t notice Boy. It’s cold, and he crouches against a wall and buries his face, and he starts to cry because he misses the wool jacket his mother made for him. He will sleep with no blanket tonight, no jacket, no fire. His feet hurt. They have never taken him this far before. A skinny cat glides past him, but when he reaches out to stroke its fur, it runs away.

  “Why are you crying?” one of the children shouts at Boy. “We’re in the same place as you, and we’re not crying.”

  “Come sit here,” says a girl.

  He gets up and walks slowly.

  “Can’t you go faster?” she says.

  When he is next to her, she gives him a piece of naan. “Eat.” She is smaller than he is, and her
voice is small, too.

  After many more nights like this, Boy feels lucky. He has brothers and sisters. They go everywhere together. He isn’t afraid of children with clean clothes laughing at him anymore. He’s learned all kinds of things to say to them, bad things about their mothers and grandmothers. Every night, he thinks about his own mother and says a prayer for her. He has more food than before; he can steal, because he is so small and quick. He makes it a game, runs away from grown-ups who try to catch him.

  He likes to steal from women who wear the chaderi because they can’t chase after him very fast. He remembers Mother clutching his hand and running across the street, how he could feel her sweat seeping into his palm, how she would say, “Hurry, Mother can’t see well.”

  Boy brings in more food than all the other children. Sometimes, he steals candy bars called Milky Way with white stars on their blue wrapper, and he looks up at the sky and dreams of a day he will have his own garden with its own stars. Most of all, he dreams of a place with walls. Sometimes he and the others play a game, pretending they are rich people who live inside houses, and they talk about how high the walls will be and take turns acting like they are the master or the lady of the house.

  Late one night, when he is curled up in a cardboard box outside a bakery, one of the girls crawls in with him and whispers, “How come you’re so good at getting food?” He shrugs and says, “Because I’m not afraid.” That night, he does not say a prayer for his mother. For the first time in his life, he does not say any prayer at all. The girl snuggles against him, and they fall asleep under a stolen blanket. She is screaming when he wakes up. Three boys much older than Boy are staggering around and laughing, dangling the blanket over them, just out of Boy’s reach. He yells at them to give it back, but they don’t. They run away with the blanket. The little girl leaves Boy’s side and curls up alone in another box. Boy realizes something for the first time: the entire world is like those rich little girls in the big house, coming to kill his bit of warmth.