Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 6

Another wall displayed framed magazine articles about development projects Lewis had led. It didn’t include articles about Lewis himself. The absent six-page National Geographic feature on Lewis’s career had inspired Perry to join the Development Service and to seek out the most difficult posting on the planet to learn directly from him.

On the last wall was a black-and-white photograph of a Bedouin man sitting in the gravel beside a road, looking up at the camera in surprise. One foot emerging from his robes wore a black dress shoe. The other leg ended in a goat’s foot. His expression was haunted. In the background, farther down the road, a woman in a niqab looked back.

Lewis grimaced. Perry shifted.

“Perry, honour killings are down 7 percent and prosecutions are up 4. We’ve got to think bigger. I would have expected a young development officer to be ready to handle this.” Lewis set down his pen. “This afternoon, I’ll bring you along again to show you what a strategic intervention looks like.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lewis.”

“Not everyone can handle the suffering we see in the Service, Perry. In the beginning, I didn’t know if I could. You have a lot of potential, Perry.”

Lewis handed him the stillborn proposal.

An armoured Bronco four-by-four took Lewis and Perry from the capital at Sayhad to Parim, a farming town. The driver rattled them over corrugated roads. Lewis reviewed the newspaper like he was still in his office waiting for tea. Perry gripped the worn door handle, scanning the cracked countryside through the fishbowl of the bulletproof glass. Hard yellow grass defied the sun. Low cinderblock houses punctuated the road. Everything was so exotic. It was exciting to be in the middle of nowhere, riding to the rescue like knights. Perry had a digital camera in his pocket, but didn’t want Lewis or the driver to see him taking pictures.

Lewis laid the newspaper between them. Perry wondered what might go through the mind of a genius like Lewis. Perry had read the newspaper three times. Had he seen what Lewis had seen?

The front page of the Hadhramaut People’s Voice chronicled Akram Abdullah, a farmer and father to fifteen-year-old Amirra. About a month ago, Abdullah had woken to find his right arm, from the elbow down, turned into a dog’s paw. He’d hidden the paw. Weeks later, he’d gotten his son to chop it off, so that he could claim he’d lost it in an accident. He’d barely survived the amateur amputation. The next day, he’d woken in the hospital. His left arm, from the elbow down, had become a dog’s paw.

They slowed. Rude houses of cement and dirty stucco squatted over broken pavement, wind-scoured cars and quick, flinching dogs with dangling teats. Perry affected Lewis’ calm. At the end of a dirt laneway, they settled in front of a one-storey cinderblock house with a cement roof. Perry sprung into the hot air. The driver hopped out to open the door for Lewis. He smoothed his shirt, walked to the door, and rapped sharply on the metal. It cracked open, revealing a sad, middle-aged face nestled in a slate-grey hijab. Lewis held up his embassy identification. It dangled between them, rotating. Lewis spoke in Arabic.

“I’ve come from the embassy in Sayhad to speak with your husband, ma’am. May we come in?”

A stricken look darkened her expression. She’d likely spent the last days turning away journalists and had probably never expected her husband’s shame to attract diplomats. Lewis’ stance and expression softened. His posture curved, descending from authority and status to empathy. Brilliant.

“I’m here to help, ma’am,” Lewis said. “This has been a hard time for you. I’m a friend.”

Tears ran suddenly down her rough, rounded cheeks. She wiped them in embarrassment. Her retreat left the doorway free. Lewis stepped in gently. Perry followed. The darkened home smelled of cumin. The door creaked shut, sealing out the day.

Ochre cushions were set on the floor. An unvarnished table bent under a black television. A newscaster spoke silently while Arabic script ran across a bright red line at the bottom of the screen. Closed red curtains soaked the sunlight with a bloody tinge. Mr. Abdullah sat on one of the cushions, staring at the television. His bandaged stump rested on a blanket that covered his knees. His other arm hid beneath the cover. A brass ashtray sat beside him.

Lewis sat on the cushion beside Mr. Abdullah. Mr. Adbullah turned away. His lips trembled. His shoulders shook. Lewis pulled a metal cigarette case from his pocket and lit an unfiltered Brazilian cigarette before holding it out to Mr. Abdullah. After long seconds, Mr. Abdullah took it in his lips. Lewis lit one for himself. Perry stood beside Mr.Abdullah’s wife. She made nervous little fists with her hands. Perry held his breath, learning.

A cloud of grey smoke grew around them. Tears leaked from Mr. Abdullah’s eyes. Lewis put his arm around him and took his cigarette to dash off the ash. He left the cigarettes in the ashtray.

“You are a great man,” Lewis said in Arabic.

Abdullah shook his head.

“You have a big heart,” Lewis insisted, “and I’ve come to help you.” Choking sobs burst from Mr. Abdullah. His shoulders trembled.

“Tell me why you cut off your arm,” Lewis whispered.

Abdullah’s browned lips pressed into a damp line.

Lewis sighed. “Show me your arm.”

Abdullah turned his head sharply away.

“These marks are a sign,” Lewis said, “nothing more. Show me.”

Abdullah shook his head, but Lewis held him and lowered the blanket slowly. Mr. Abdullah’s wife squeaked and turned away. The edge of the blanket revealed a dog’s paw, furred in brown, with black pads under the foot, hugged close to Mr. Abdullah’s chest. Lewis gently pulled at the paw. He stroked the fur.

“We can fix all this,” Lewis said.

Abdullah’s plump lip trembled.

“I love her,” he finally said. His voice cracked.

“This isn’t your fault,” Lewis said, “but it’s your responsibility to fix this.” Abdullah sobbed. “She’s my little girl.”

Lewis shook his head. “She’s a woman now. No father should pay for the sins of his child. Any more than a child should pay for yours.”

Lewis held the paw higher, between them. “This is not a price you can pay like a dowry,” Lewis said gently. “This is a reminder of what has to be done.”

Abdullah wiped at his tears with the bandaged stump of his right arm. “I can’t do it,” Abdullah said. “Not my little Amirra.”

“Look here,” Lewis whispered, stroking the fur of the paw again, in front of Abdullah’s eyes. “This shame is not just yours. It is not just your daughter, your son, and your wife who have to bear this with you.” Lewis swung his arm expansively. “All of Parim bears this shame with you. All your neighbours feel this shame. Each one of them waits for you to make this right. You do not have to face this alone.”

“Amirra is my little girl,” Abdullah moaned.

Lewis pulled the paw in front on Abdullah’s face. Adbullah turned away.

“What shame will your daughter bring on Parim next? Will your wife wake up with a goat’s hoof for a foot? What will you say to your neighbour when his son has a sheep’s head? What restitution could you possibly offer to make that better? Would you offer to shake his hand with this?” Lewis shook the paw.

“Once the stain spreads, it is harder to clean. It has stricken you twice. The behaviour of your daughter has brought you to hiding in your house, unable to light your own cigarettes.”

Abdullah cried. His shoulders hunched.

Lewis released the offending paw, but Abdullah would not bring it close, even to hide it. It trembled before him. Lewis put his arm over the man’s shoulders and pulled the blanket back up over the paw.