Azim and Zakir are beaming. They have brought me roasted goat and briyani, daal, pickle, even kaju barfi—the dense cashew sweets that remind me of the color of Kathryn’s skin. Since I moved my few possessions into the tiny living space at the back of the shop, they have been relieved of the nightly security detail they used to perform. They can’t understand why I am not married, why I am not trying to find a wife, but they don’t really care, since my solitary lifestyle allows them to return to their wives and children each night—even enjoying the full Eid holiday for the first time in years.
I eat the cold remains of their holiday feast. I tried my best to ignore the festival atmosphere, the gathering of goats everywhere in the city, the rivers of blood that ran in the gutters as families slaughtered the animals for the required sacrifice. I contrived elaborate justifications for why I couldn’t leave the shop—thieves, rivals, mafia, djinns. I would protect against all of these. I could not have left the shop, could not have gone out to reflect on the story of Eid, the relief of Ibrahim who, centuries ago, was spared the agony of sacrificing his own son on an altar by the divine appearance of a goat who could be slaughtered in the boy’s stead. How could I contemplate the good fortune, the faith, the fearlessness of a man ready to kill his own son when my own sons are living, but beyond my grasp? In Morocco, I will observe the holiday again, I will allow Michael to hold the knife himself, I will place my hand over his as he slices the goat’s neck, as we somberly give thanks for the look of fearful resignation in the goat’s eye and repeat an ancient ritual. But until then, I need not spill more blood.
A car pulls in as I sop up the last of the gravy with the bread—a dark green Mercedes, C class, several years old—not the best of the boss’ collection. The window rolls down, chilled air spills out. “You are good with cars, yes?” the driver says.
I nod.
“Even the complicated parts, the meters and dials?”
“Usually.”
He cocks his head, indicates for me to sit next to him in the passenger seat. I hesitate. “Let’s go,” he says, “the boss told me to fetch you.”
“I’ll need to gather some tools.”
“Fine. Do it quickly.”
I fill a bucket, assembling tools for unknown problems. From the passenger seat I can see Azim and Zakir gaping at me, silently staring at the car as we speed down the lane. I close my eyes and listen to the sounds of the engine, the acceleration and deceleration, the driver’s hands on the steering wheel. The leather smells of my memories of sitting in my brother Majid’s car, showing off for girls in our village.
As we turn off the Karachi 1 Ring Road, the driver tells me to bend down, to tuck my head between my knees.
“What for?” I ask, bewildered.
“You either have to drop your head down, or I will have to pull over and tie up your hands and blindfold you.”
My heart races, I feel like I have been duped, like I am the goat, walking to my own slaughter, perhaps sparing someone else’s son. “Are you kidnapping me?” I choke out.
The driver laughs, genuinely. “No brother, it’s for your own protection. If the boss knows you know the way to his house, or if somebody else knows you know the way to his house, it could be dangerous for you.” He reaches out with his hand and pushes my shoulder down, “so it’s better if no one sees you on the way to his house.”
So I tuck my head between my knees, breathing in the smell of my clothes—sweat and salty metallic vapors. I hope he is sincere, I hope he is not leading me to some location where ISI goons will interrogate me and torture me before throwing me to the Americans. I remember my father warning me not to turn my back on a man who was not bound by ties of clan. I start to lift my head. As the car turns the driver roughly shoves my head back down. “Bain chod! I’m telling you, this is for your own good.”
The car slows. The driver briefly exchanges a few familiar words with someone, perhaps a guard. The driver explains I have been as good as blind the whole way here. We are moving again, then stop. I brace myself, waiting for rough hands on my shoulders, waiting for shoves and taunts. My mind races through the lies I will tell, the identities I will claim or deny, the justifications and alibis I will explain. But as the air conditioning sighs to a stop and stillness settles into the car, the driver laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. “Enough now. Get up, we’re here.”
I uncoil myself without releasing my tension. I step out into a carport attached to a big house. Beyond the car I can see a courtyard—covered in concrete and glazed tiles—a fountain spouting water into the air through a gold nozzle, a covered gazebo. The sun beats down, only four spindly palm trees to diffuse the heat. I don’t see another person, but hear the hum of giant air conditioning units.
The driver waves me around with his hand, points to a beautiful silver Mercedes. A door from the main house opens into the carport and a man steps delicately toward me. My mind tumbles and my muscles contract to flee as I recognize the well-trimmed beard—Sheikh Omar.
With a restrained smile, he offers me his hand in greeting. “So it is you.” He takes a step closer to me when I don’t reach for his hand. “I heard stories about this excellent mechanic, a man who seemed to work miracles on the kinds of cars that leave most of our mechanics scratching like village dogs. I wondered if it might be someone with more sophisticated training, perhaps someone who had been abroad.”
I force myself to accept Sheikh Omar’s hand.
“You need not be afraid of me, brother…Ismail,” he drops his head in deference to this contrived identity. “If you are as good as your reputation, I may have a much better situation to offer you.”
I wipe my hand off on my kurta. “What do you mean?”
A little peep chirps repeatedly from his pocket. “I must take this call,” he explains. “We’ll talk more after you have a chance to work on my car.” And without another word, he steps back into the house.
The driver crosses his arms across his chest, looks at me more closely. “So you already know Sheikh Omar,” he marvels. “Then why would you live in that filthy shop, like a cockroach afraid of the light?”
I don’t answer, my legs threaten to give way. I lean against the car.
“Well, whatever your reasons, you shouldn’t disappoint the Sheikh. He’s always a man of his word, so if he can get you something better, he will.”
I look around, half expecting other men will appear and grab me. A fly passes in front of my face, an irritating intrusion, a reminder of rot and decay in the artifice of clean concrete. The driver continues, “Aren’t you going to look at the car? I hear the speedometer is broken.”
I retrieve my tools, careful not to turn my back to the driver, still not trusting this situation.
Inside the silver car I immediately ascertain the cause of the malfunctioning speedometer; a hole just the size of my little finger has punctured the dashboard casing, cracks splintering out from the center of impact like a spider’s web. I stick my little finger into the hole, seeing if I can feel the bullet still in the car. I feel nothing. So I pop the hood and look in the engine. I can just make out the hole where the bullet punctured from the interior through to the engine, but the rest of the trajectory seemed to pass amazingly through a series of small spaces in between essential parts of the engine. The bullet must be lodged in a road somewhere, an unnoticed artifact of some conflict within this car, just another grain of sand in the sediment of human suffering. I reach in, my fingers probing, and feel the prick of frayed wire. I reach further, feeling for the other end of the fray, the matching end, the pair that I could reunify. I turn on the ignition, the engine purrs, but the dashboard remains dark, the meters mute. My mind moves in the familiar ways; wondering if the problem is simply the electrical connection, or some error in the electronic circuitry, figuring out the angle I will need to see the wires, the way to jack up the front of the car.
I take my time, ensuring I do not scratch any part of the car or move anything that will cause me problems. The job is not difficult, as long as I reduce it to a series of the smallest possible tasks, completed in the appropriate order.
Just as I crimp the two wires together, I consider ripping them out by their roots. The Sheikh is not my employer. Whatever offer he might make will certainly suit his purposes more than mine. Who is he to me? Who am I to him? He is Sheikh Omar—a powerful man at the center of some nefarious web. I am Ismail Khan, a simple mechanic. He is the man that gave me my name. In some parallel universe of deception we are related, bound, like family, like father and son.
I restore all the parts, close the hood. After jacking up the rear wheels I turn on the ignition one more time, see the dashboard illuminate, carefully press the accelerator with my foot and see the speedometer register the speed of the travel the rear wheels imagine.
On a whim I press the button to turn on the stereo. The device resumes a melody where it had been arrested the last time someone turned off the stereo. A few notes reach me, amplified through the warm clarity of good speakers. I look around, surprised, disoriented. I know the fingers that pluck these strings, I know this melody as if it were a lullaby I heard as a child. I imagine Sheikh Omar—sitting in this car, just as I have sat on my cot—listening to the music of Hamyouk Hussain. The rubab has soothed us both.
The driver comes close, looks at me with a bemused smile. “You’re finished? The speedometer works?”
“Yes.”
The driver juts his chin and nods his head. “That’s good for you, the Sheikh will be pleased.”
As if summoned, the Sheikh appears again from the door. “So?” he asks, holding his hands crossed before him.
“The electrical connection had been severed,” I don’t mention the bullet, which must be obvious to him. “The speedometer’s working, though I can’t repair the dashboard casing here. Maybe I could fabricate something, but I’d suggest ordering a new piece from Mercedes directly.”
The stereo falls silent, pausing between tracks.
“Turn off the car,” the Sheikh says. He glances at the driver then back to me. “Let us talk inside.”
I follow him into the ostentatious chill of the house, imagining what he will offer me, sure in that moment of what I want from him.