Brock Clarke - The Happiest People in the World

“East versus West!” Lawrence shouted. “Old World versus the New! Democracy versus communism! Ex-husband versus future husband! The great game!” Matty didn’t say anything. He knew that no matter what he said, it would sound to his brother like Matty was saying, God, you’re weird. Why have you always been so weird? Meanwhile, Lawrence was looking at Matty, clearly waiting for some sort of response.

“Right, sure,” Matty said. “I get it now.”

And his brother really did seem to want that: he really did seem to want Matty to understand. Lawrence finished the rest of his raki in one gulp and then leaned toward Matty as though preparing to tell his brother an important secret.

But just then, Kurt came bounding down the stairs. His face was red and his lips were white, in the way of trumpet players. “I practiced, ” he said, and he hurled himself onto the couch, next to his uncle. His uncle leaned back, too, his empty glass resting on his chest. Matty got up to pour Lawrence some more, but Lawrence shook him off. Whatever he’d been about to tell Matty was gone. They were back to being the kind of brothers who’ll never quite get each other. Lawrence turned his head to look at Kurt. “I hear,” Lawrence said, “that you have an interesting theory about your future stepfather.”

“I thought he was a spy, but he’s not.”

“Well, what is he, then?” Lawrence said thoughtfully.

“I don’t know,” Kurt said. “I feel like it’s right here .” He then started pounding the side of his head, the way you do when there’s water in your ear. After a few moments of this, Lawrence stopped his nephew’s hand and gently placed it on the couch between them.

“My Civics Club has its weekly congress tomorrow afternoon,” Lawrence said. “Perhaps you’d like to join us.”

Kurt laughed at that. Matty didn’t blame him. The boys in the Civics Club were all freaks, dressed in their jackets and ties like they were perpetually trying out for the part of Little Nixon. But then Kurt seemed to get that his uncle was serious, and stopped laughing. And then Matty was proud of his son. If it were Matty, he would have kept laughing and laughing until his brother wanted to punch him in the face. But Kurt wasn’t like that. Kurt would end up different from his old man, maybe; he would end up better than his old man, maybe. “Maybe,” Kurt said to his uncle, and then he went back upstairs to practice his trumpet some more. And only once they began to hear the bleating sounds of Kurt’s trumpet again did Lawrence wonder, out loud, “Who did call Denmark from your office phone?”

Friday. The plane was in the air. They were well on their way to New York.

“If you want to ask any questions,” Locs said, but then she stopped. She couldn’t believe how loudly she was talking. Nor could she bring herself to stop. Wow, she hated to fly. And Locs hadn’t been able to score any of her usual calming narcotics before she’d gotten on the plane. Now, every hum, every rattle, every acceleration and deceleration, seemed to surge through her, through her bones, her lungs and heart, and up through her throat and into her mouth. Even with the drugs, she’d probably talked this loudly, but the drugs didn’t let her hear that. That’s what they were good for. “If you want to ask any questions,” she said again, shouted actually, “now would be the time.”

Mr. Korkmaz didn’t hesitate. “Why do you hate us so much?”

“Us,” Locs repeated, not really listening, fingers drumming on her armrest, looking around the airplane — not for anyone or anything in particular, just hoping that the sight of someone much calmer than she might make her much calmer. No one. Everyone else looked nervous, too. Fuck! Locs looked at Mr. Korkmaz. Now, he looked calm. He was drinking orange soda through a straw, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, like a businessman’s on vacation, although now that she was paying attention, Locs knew what he was asking her. “You mean Muslims.”

“Yes,” Mr. Korkmaz said. He pushed the straw aside with his nose and sipped directly from the cup.

“We don’t hate Muslims,” Locs said with a sigh. Capo, that asshole, had been adamant on this subject during her training. Muslims are good people, he insisted; Islam is a noble, peaceful religion with a long, rich history of intellectual inquiry and scholarship, he taught them; Muslims are not our enemies. He made them say that out loud, like they were kids in school. Locs had not liked that.

“They’re our friends except for the terrorist murderers who hate us and who you’re training us to kill,” Locs had said once and possibly more than once. Capo had not liked that.

“Why are you like that?” Capo had said.

“Like what?” Locs had said, although she knew what he’d meant, sort of, and sort of also knew the reason: she’d always been like that. Contrary. So unhappy. So angry. Matthew wasn’t the reason; Matthew, she’d felt, was her chance for not being like that, and that made it twice as bad when she’d twice lost that chance. But now. . “I don’t hate Muslims,” she said.

“You hate my son.”

“We knew who your son was. We knew what he’d done. And we still didn’t arrest him.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t hate him.”

This was true enough. But Locs decided to argue some more; maybe pointless arguing would calm her the way the drugs did.

“Your son was a terrorist-arsonist,” Locs said. “But actually, I kind of liked him.”

Mr. Korkmaz looked alarmed when Locs said this. She wondered why, until he said, “You said ‘was.’ You said ‘liked.’ As though Søren. .” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Locs had actually already been wondering whether Søren was dead. She’d not gotten any more e-mails since the initial four. She closed her eyes and saw all four of them — Capo, London, Crystal, Doc — and also Søren, who was in a chair, probably tied to the chair, probably with a hood over his head, and then that vision made her want to open her eyes, and when she did she saw herself on a plane from Copenhagen to JFK, just as a week earlier Søren had been on a plane from Copenhagen to JFK. And Locs had paid for Søren’s ticket; Locs had more or less made him get on that plane. Yes, she thought, Søren probably was dead.

“He’s not dead,” Locs said. “And I still do kind of like him. Even if he did try to kill that cartoonist.”

“And of course the cartoonist is certainly blameless.”

“The cartoonist is a fucking idiot,” Locs said, more loudly yet. She unbuckled her seat belt, stood up slightly, and looked around to see whether anyone was paying attention to her. No one was. Across the aisle from her was a thin blond woman wearing yoga pants, and in fact somehow her legs were crossed in a yoga position, even though the seats were so small. A pair of clogs was on the floor. She was wearing clunky black-framed eyeglasses and was flipping through a magazine that focused on modern design. There were at least a half dozen other women on the plane who looked more or less exactly like her. The woman might as well have a sign around her neck that said DANE. Locs sat back down and turned to Mr. Korkmaz. “A fucking idiot who drew a fucking cartoon. Which was bad enough.”

“The cartoon was very bad.”

“But not as bad as, say, burning a person’s house down.”

“I have known this argument,” Mr. Korkmaz said. He was smiling with his eyes. “This argument is at the time when you defend free speech.”

“It is.”

“This is when I must talk about the importance of you having the proper respect for our religion. And in response, you must talk about the importance of free speech.”