Teddy Wayne: Kapitoil

“I’ve discussed with George promoting you and giving you a raise,” he continued. Then he stated a figure I never expected to earn in my life.

“Don’t answer now,” he said. “I’ll be away for Christmas, but my secretary will set up a meeting on the 30th with a new contract and all the terms spelled out clearly.”

He asked if I wanted to return to the fund-raiser, but I said I could walk home. Before I exited, he said, “Remember what I said about the goose, Karim.”

But as I walked home, instead of considering the goose or the rules of the game or if I was cut out to be in business, I thought about the toothpicks Mr. Slagle had deposited on the ground, and I wondered how long it would take until someone located them and picked them up, and how they would probably remain hidden for weeks or months with small pieces of dates and bacon on them and turn rotten. It was not the correct subject to be thinking about, but sometimes it’s difficult to control where your brain routes itself.

in the ballpark = an estimated value

man enough = possessing the strength and power to succeed

raw deal = a deal that is unfavorable for one party

The next day I still didn’t know what to do. I could consult with Barron, but (1)I still didn’t want to reveal what Kapitoil was, and (2)I was afraid he would think I was greedy for considering taking the money. And I had already not told the 100 % truth to Rebecca and couldn’t disclose to her all the details.

My mother would have also been a valuable advisor in this situation. She would not have judged me like my father would. And she would not have been as inexperienced as Zahira is in subjects like this. She also would be able to see multiple POVs, e.g., maybe the epidemiology proposal wouldn’t function and I might lose this program that would certify Zahira and I had sufficient funds for the future, or maybe it would function and some ventures like this merited the risk.

On the day of Christmas Eve I watched television for several hours. Most channels displayed shows or movies with Christmas as the subject. In one, a family invited a homeless man to their Christmas dinner, even though they were poor themselves. In the end he revealed that he was in fact a millionaire, and for their generosity he rewarded them. It was unrealistic and false although it still made me feel slightly enhanced at the end, but the more I thought about it after, the less I liked it.

By nighttime I felt quarantined in my apartment. I had seen advertisements on the news the entire day about Midnight Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and driving past it with Mr. Schrub had already made me think about attending it, and I had nothing else to do.

I walked along 50th St. to the cathedral. The black sky was littered with snowflakes like rays of sun underwater. I thought of how they would melt and sink into the ground for trees, and then the trees would eject water vapor, which produces more rain in return. The world can be so elegant when it is left alone to itself.

I wished I could share that moment and that thought with Rebecca, or with Zahira.

On a large monitor a few blocks from the cathedral, an anchorman was discussing a story about a famous female singer who sang for soldiers at an American base on Christmas Eve. Below it the scrolling font displayed: INSIDERS PREDICT “ANY GIVEN SUNDAY” WILL WIN HOLIDAY WEEKEND BOX OFFICE…

I followed the crowd entering the cathedral and powered off my cellular. The interior had long white pillars that curved at the top to form a ceiling that reminded me of the New York mosque’s dome. White lights looked like the snowflakes from the nighttime sky, and the blue glass windows were like the daytime sky. Although it wasn’t midnight yet, members of the church wearing white robes that looked like the class men wear in Qatar were singing in the front in Latin. There were no open seats, so I stood in the rear and closed my eyes and listened to the singing for several minutes. Of course it was a foreign language, but it was simultaneously not foreign at all.

The rest of the service was a combination of music, reading from the Bible, and rituals with candles. I imitated the people around me, and different religious ceremonies usually follow similar classes of algorithms and procedures, and although I looked different, I believe I merged well with the Christians, except when they launched the ritual of communion and I remained in the rear.

When I left, it was snowing more heavily and the frozen ground looked like a clean tablecloth. I didn’t want to ruin it, so I walked only in the paths other people had produced.

I woke up on the morning of Christmas and remembered I had powered off my cellular. I had two messages.

I was surprised to hear my father’s voice on the first one. He sounded volatile and all he said was to call him back ASAP. The next message was also from him and provided a different number.

I called, and a female voice answered “Hamad General Hospital,” and my lungs inhaled air too rapidly.

It took me several seconds to ask for my father. In a minute he was on the telephone.

“There has been an accident with Zahira,” he said.

I could not speak. My brain produced a series of images similar to the ones from the bad dreams I sometimes have about her.

A small bomb had exploded in a trash bin in the Mall early in the morning, he said, and Zahira was there. The bomb did not hurt her, but the explosion knocked her against a wall and she hit her head. She had a concussion and was taken to the emergency room.

“Is there any serious damage?” I finally asked.

“Not from the concussion,” he said. “But the doctors say they found something abnormal with her blood and are running additional tests.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“I do not know,” he said. “The way they speak, it is impossible to understand. We are allowed to talk to her in a few hours.”

I didn’t know what else to say. So I asked, “What was the reason for the bomb?”

He spoke slowly. “They say it was a group here that is protesting the development of new malls in Qatar.”

“Did anyone—” I paused. “Did anyone else get hurt?”

“A few other people had minor injuries,” he said. “But there was a boy standing between Zahira and the trash bin.”

“What happened to him?” I asked, and immediately I wished I hadn’t.

His voice became very quiet. “I think he was taken to the burn unit.”

We were mute for a while. I asked him to have Zahira call me at her earliest convenience.

I disconnected, then sat up in bed and looked out my window. The Schrub monitor displayed: MERRY XMAS…BRONCOS VS. LIONS 4:15 P.M. KICKOFF…MIX OF FREEZING DRIZZLE AND LIGHT SLEET THROUGH DAY…I watched for several minutes, but there was nothing about the bombing.

My eyes moved up to the neon-green Schrub hawk against the gray sky. It was strange. I always thought of it as setting down the S and E , but now it looked as if it were picking them up in its talons.

The solitary positive was that Zahira was too young to remember which hospital it was.

I didn’t leave the apartment because I wanted to certify Zahira could reach me. I prayed, but not for Zahira’s health, because I know that only frustrates you when it fails. Finally my cellular rang in the afternoon.

“It is me,” Zahira said when I answered it. She sounded exhausted.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’ve felt healthier,” she said, “but I’m okay.”

“Father said they were running tests,” I said.

“That is why I am calling,” she said, and again my stomach rotated. “They think I have something called ulcerative colitis. It’s a disease in the colon. I have been losing weight for several months, and this is why.”