T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

Strange that he could sit there and speak calmly. As though his physical body felt nothing, his nerves already numb, his emotions suffocated. “I ran away. Somebody tried to stop me, but I got away. Only things got worse. I ran downstairs looking for a way out, but instead I wound up in a children’s ward. Two kids to a bed, sometimes three, their heads at either end and their feet touching in the middle. Relatives camped on reed mats between the beds, fanning away the flies, holding hands, whimpering with the kids. The place was full of stink and noise. All the kids had these big dark eyes, and I knew they knew. They’d never get better, never get out.”

“Cairo was not a good place to be hospitalized,” Nabil agreed. “It still isn’t.”

“I freaked. Totally, utterly wigged out. Then suddenly Sybel was there. She hugged me fierce enough to break the spell, then pulled me outside. She brought me back to America and cared for me ever since.”

Nabil watched and waited, offering no false comfort, no empty words. Just a man listening to another come to grips with the impossible.

“The family learned never to talk to me about Egypt, or Mom and Dad, not ever. I would scream at them, shout anything that came into my head. Sybel was my only constant.” Wynn forced himself to meet Nabil’s gaze. “Do you remember anything about that time?”

“I am about the same age as your sister. I remember everything. My father spent his every waking day down the hall, your parents’ unofficial mourner.”

“Did they ever figure out what made my parents sick?”

“They think poison. Egypt was going through an agricultural upheaval, trying to move from medieval farming methods to modern, all in one giant leap. Some farmers never could understand pesticides. They were given jugs that should have been poured into barrels of water. But water was precious, so they sprinkled it full strength onto the closest rows. Then they complained that those plants grew sickly, and never used the pesticides again. But still the farmers took those poisoned plants to market.” Nabil might have shrugged, or maybe just winced. “You see?”

The futility of compounded loss threatened to swallow Wynn whole. His only lifeline dangled madly out of reach. Wynn raised his eyes. “I need to know what else the monk of Wadi Natrum told Sybel.”

“She did not say.”

“You were talking with her when you left the building. I saw you.”

“I stayed with her, yes. I asked several times. But she would not speak of it.”

“She didn’t say anything?”

“I am sorry, Wynn. I would tell you if I knew.”

It was the first time Nabil had ever used his name. Even in the depths of his remorse, Wynn recognized the moment and took note. It gave him the courage to ask, “And what the hermit said to me, did you understand that?”

Though the features were smudged deep as bruises, still his eyes remained alert, dark, penetrating. “Your father and mother were missionaries as well as teachers. This you know.”

“Yes.”

“For the government and most people, they were here only to teach at the university. Their mission work remained secret. Speaking of Christ to Copts, that was one thing. We were persecuted from time to time, but not too much here in Cairo. Not then. But preaching to a Muslim, that was a crime. It still is. At that time, a foreigner who converted a Muslim could be put to death. A Muslim who prayed to Jesus, the same. Your parents ran secret home churches for believers among the Muslims. Very secret. My father, he was one of their messengers. The churches, they grew and grew. This was why your parents did not leave when Nasser declared that all Americans were enemies and must leave the country. They stayed for their secret flocks. Nowadays, every time I come home, I meet some of these people. The churches are tended by others now, but still they grow. A forest rising from seeds your parents planted.”

Wynn sat and waited for more. Staring at the floor by his feet, wishing he had listened better, spoken with his sister differently, learned enough to be whole now. When he looked up, Nabil was asleep.

Defeated and empty, he rose and left the room.

By midafternoon, when Kay and Wynn had both given their statements to the security officer at the Gamal and returned to the ambassador’s suite, the wind had stopped. The office windows were encrusted with a patina of grit, filtering the light a sickly beige. The suite was empty save for Wynn and Kay. The chargé was off somewhere and the ambassador’s secretary was arranging Wynn’s travel documents, everybody busy and scurrying for the congressman and senator. Kay had spoken twice with the ambassador, assuring him that he should remain at the ministerial meeting, and that she would pass on his condolences to Congressman Bryant. Wynn’s two suitcases stood by the desk, waiting for the limo to take him to the airport. Kay was taking a flight the next day, hoping to personally shepherd Nabil out of danger.

A young aide appeared, possibly one of those at the hospital the previous evening, Wynn could not be sure. He had not taken any more of the tablets, but now and then he drifted away, as though his body was producing its own chemical veil. The young man explained that they had to put out a press release, and it would be taking the official police line, which was that the attack had been the work of local fundamentalists. Wynn observed how the filtered light cast the man’s features a sickly tan, as if he had emerged from some dismal netherworld to expel more bad news.

When they were alone once more, Kay offered, “You don’t look too good. Are you sure you’re up for the flight?”

The flight was not the problem. He would take his pills and sack away the hours. He forced himself to form the tumbling thoughts. “I’ve got to do something, Kay. I can’t just let this pass, like it doesn’t matter, like Sybel never stood for anything.”

“You saved our lives back there. That should do for a start.”

He looked down at the floor between his feet. There was no need to say what they both knew.

Kay eased herself farther into the sofa. She extended her legs, massaged one knee, and said, “I was born and raised in Oakland. The city’s basically a poor stepsister to San Francisco. Always undergoing one revitalization project or another, but nothing ever works. It’s got the naval yards and Berkeley and everything the rich San Francisco folks just refer to as East Bay. All the poor, tired working jerks who have to live on the other side of the bridge and spend their mornings and evenings stuck in the worst traffic you ever saw. My dad was a surgeon, which meant I was raised in Oakland Hills, nice house with a pretty view out over the bay. But when I go back, I like to spend time down in the low-rent areas. There’s a church down there I’ve been visiting for years. Keeps me in touch with the little people. You know what I mean?”

“I know.” Giving her what she wanted, which was a signal he heard her at all.

“I was elected to the state legislature right in the middle of the savings and loan debacle. Entered the Senate just as we were sweeping up the last of that mess. I watched as banks began gradually growing ever larger, claiming that size was necessary in order to compete. Only large financial institutions, they argued, could withstand the difficulties that had closed down most of our S and Ls, or allow them to compete on an international scale. Let’s be perfectly honest here. I had every reason to want to believe them. They were financing my campaigns in a big way, especially when I got myself appointed to a couple of key committees. But these little people down in that Oakland church, I tell you, it was hard to shut out what I was hearing and seeing on a Sunday morning. Like I was getting hammered by a message at my most vulnerable moment. Otherwise I’d have just turned away. Something every politician learns to do. Every successful politician, that is, who aims on getting reelected. The key to success in Washington is, choose your battles wisely.”