34

I am so scared.

They are there, both of them—on stretchers.

The medical examiner hasn’t come in yet. He must be torturing some other body in some other exam room, trying to extract the truth behind its passing. I have been in this room with its white tiles so many times, but it has never felt this cold before. I shiver. I walk toward them without really realizing it. My feet don’t seem to be touching the floor.

Next to their bodies, clear plastic bags hold their personal belongings, most likely collected by the paramedics. Among their things is the tagelmust I gave my wife early in our marriage. I had bought it from a Tuareg guy at the Marché de Médine in Bamako. I pull it out. It’s stained with blood. Her blood. I bury my face in the piece of cloth and quietly sob, taking in the scent of a citrusy perfume. Her perfume. It mingles with the metallic odor of death. Slipping the chèche under my jacket, I step closer. They are still inside the body bags.

One small, one big.

I dry my tears and unzip the big bag part of the way. Through the opening, I can see her face. One eye is open and the other closed in an unholy beyond-the-grave wink. I close the open eye and gently brush her cold cheek. She almost looks likes she’s sleeping—if it weren’t for the blood under her nose and at the corner of her mouth.

I unzip the bag all the way.

She’s wearing hardly any clothes. The first responders had cut them off when they were trying to save her. They always did that. I look at her pale nakedness under the humming fluorescent lights. I stroke her glacial skin again. I can’t recognize the woman I loved in this body, the body I knew as though it were my own. The sagging breasts I had kneaded with passion. The pussy I had petted, licked, and penetrated while whispering dirty things. I loved her so much and betrayed her in so many ways. I inch closer, inspecting her fine features, which death hasn’t managed to make any less beautiful. I’m looking for something—I don’t know what. A residual trace of her soul, a spark. Something. But there is nothing, nothing but corroded flesh and dusty bones. I picture flies laying eggs. I close my eyes and open them again. I look at my hand and notice a vein in my wrist pulsating to the irregular beat of my dying heart.

Crying now, I walk over to the small bag. I seethe with hatred and despair, not knowing which one will win. I suspect it will be hatred. With me, hate always has the last word.

My hand trembling and my eyes closed, I unzip the bag. Eventually I open my eyes—and roar like a beast.