Streams of Babel (42 page)

"Need a hand?" Hodji asks.

I grip my bag, which contains a carry-along box that releases antibiotics into my blood constantly and looks like a small plastic briefcase. The tube that runs from it to my vein is almost hidden beneath my jacket cuff. Hodji has put the box in a gift bag under much tissue paper, with a card dangling off that reads,
FOR GRANDMA.
This was his good thinking, so that I will not appear to be carrying a device that resembles something my enemies would love to detonate.

"No help. I feel much good, thank you," I say as would befit a man.

We get out of the taxi a block away because Hodji wants me to see St. Paul's Chapel, which I recognize from many Internet photos. Its steep iron fence is consumed in a 9/11 memorial, so I can only see spikes at the top.

I can feel Hodji studying the large, square bandage that covers my cheek and the scabby scratch marks. I had asked for flesh colored, as neither he nor I want to make notice of ourselves in a place of anxiety and mourning. However, my scratches are not even itching today. It is like I cannot feel them. I don't want him fussing over me with my bandage and briefcase, and so I ignore him, studying instead the fence at St. Paul's, which is covered in flowers and pictures and colored drawings and toys and jewels and messages and every conceivable thing. I move close to this fence.

Hundreds of messages are strapped there for all to read: kind notes from a fifth-grade class in Japan, a junior high school in Thailand, the royal family in Madrid, a football team in Cairo, the nursing staff at an Ecuadorian hospital ... sympathies and encouragement pour out of the many scrawls. I have seen this place so many times in pictures. But pictures have no odor. They don't blow the wind in your face. This endless fence pulsates with words that both move and confuse me.

I raise my formerly unanswered question, as it lurks at the base of my confusion. "Are Americans the tired and poor? Or are Americans the rich and ridiculous?"

Hodji says, "We're both."

His answer displeases me. It is too easy.

"It seems to me that people show up here the tired and poor. They come to better their situation, and after they become rich, they turn ridiculous. So, why bother to come?" I ask.

"Maybe it's the view of the thing. Americans working hard out on the prairie love to buy Hollywood magazines, so they can revel in the bankruptcies and ugly divorces of movie stars. But if they had the chance to become a star, most would jump at it."

"I do not understand this place," I say, and add, "I will go home to Pakistan."

He need not repeat his news of the past three days, but he delivers it into my space regardless. "Your country won't let you in, not loaded up with viral toxins."

"I am not contagious."

"No, but they're not equipped to restore you to health, and they know about you. You have to stay."

"They do not make even flattering promises here." I turn and stare across the street into the side window of an SUV, at the reflection of Hodji and me stepping out of the line of sympathizers. I don't want to cross the street and view my bandaged face close up, for fear I will also see it break out in the lesions promised by what Catalyst had under his fingernails.

My coming to America has been in every way absurd—last minute, under the cover of lies, to sneak up on men whom only one sixteen-year-old can interpret. And now my body is in an equally absurd situation, unlike anyone's in the universe except Tyler's. I cannot find words to describe—in any of the languages I speak—what it is like to be in the seventh day with a bad germ that has a ten-day gestation period.

Now, with this monument behind me and an SUV's side window reflecting clearly in front, I rub my good cheek, wishing I could keep its smoothness. I have never accepted changes well—not changes or sitting still.

Hodji has been my constant companion, except when he is with his wife and his son, Twain, and yesterday when he spent a morning on the psych ward with Tyler. He got me permission to leave the hospital today and visit this site. I look, feel, and sound like a normal person carrying a gift bag—just another Ground Zero visitor—except for the supersized Band-Aid on my cheek.

"When these lesions break all over my skin," I ask, "how painful will it be?"

"They can manage the pain. Don't worry about that."

"How ugly will be the scars?"

"Think positive," he says. "It's a mutation. The only one who knows, I would guess, is Omar."

Last night, Hodji took a call from Roger, who confirmed their fear that Omar and VaporStrike had escaped across the border. They could be anywhere by now.

As well, Omar had left a good-bye note posted in a Yahoo! thread that was brazen, in Arabic, and attached to something comically irrelevant, a Mothers of Asthmatic Children's newsgroup, I believe. So, it was as if he wanted only his v-spies to find it, and now, he was probably joking with VaporStrike and other secret associates. I had read the post several times, and while it was galling to hear him speaking so frankly and glibly, I was distracted by the impending state of my health. I did not want to think of him now. Still, I could not help but imagine him and VaporStrike on the Polynesian beaches where my father so desperately coveted a visit. I think the best medicine I could have would be to get on the Internet and find them. For now, I am forced to face my computer withdrawal symptoms. I have not touched a terminal in over a week.

"For the time being, it would be better to focus on the bright side," Hodji replies. "The thing won't kill you. And it's
never
better to be dead."

Americans always think it is not better to be dead. Other cultures take solace in the approach of heaven. Many Americans have such a nice life, I suppose, that they need not dream of perfection.

However, I spin from my reflection and stare at a memorial picture of a firefighter and a message beneath signed Margie, Talia, Joshie, and Pooey, and it has also beneath a small picture of a mother with two little children and a cat. The missing firefighter looks a bit like Catalyst, only with shorter hair. Same nice smile. This world is absurd, and no man is God. USIC is not God, either.

I have nothing to say on this complicated thought, and I turn from the drawing, needing to settle the practicalities of my life.

"Has my aunt said yet that she will take me back?"

"I talked to her again this morning. I thought a few words from me might help," he says. "She hasn't changed her stance, and she assured me again that it has nothing to do with any impending health problems."

I almost wish it was the germ that frightens her. She says that by now I am too independent and stubborn-minded, and I will influence Inas to also disrespect every authority figure, from school to law enforcement. She took my Saturday escape with Tyler very badly, especially given its outcome and timing—just one day after I had cut the school. I wonder at the downsides of having been a business owner in my teenage years.

"You said you are home for two months," I hint. I do not ask outright, but I would very much like to stay with Hodji. However, there are Twain and Mrs. Montu to consider. They know me only by name.

"Don't I wish...," he says, reading my mind. "I actually asked Alicia. When USIC told me they were on to your real age and were letting you go, my first thought was 'Finally. He won't be undercover. I can introduce him to Twain!' Christ, you're both like sons. But Alicia said, um..." He clears his throat, and I can feel mortification rising off him while he delivers her thought. "...she said that there's nothing in Twain's past to prepare him for something like this."

He cannot meet my eyes. Mrs. Montu does not want Twain exposed to something horrific, as might be my skin, as might be my state of mind, as might be the schedule for the 101 pills I may have to take for months. Of course, I do not want to impose myself on any soul, given these factors, so I resist the urge to jealously state, "
You treat your children like sacred cows.
"

"I will live with Tyler," I say. "He will gladly have me."

I have not seen Tyler since Thursday night, because he is staying on the psych ward, but I know he shares my predicament of no relatives or willing parties. I also know from Hodji that he is feeling better and may be back with me in a few days. Yesterday, he talked at length with a psychiatrist, Hodji, and USIC, and the end result is that his mother was arrested as a spy. She had run to a hiding place in Philadelphia instead of staying to care for her son, but after spying on her for so many years, Tyler came up with the exact address where she might be found, Hodji said.

Tyler's often outrageous behavior makes sense to me now,
under the stress of so much disgrace. And from Hodji I understand that he is still quite sassy, but is much calmer somehow. I don't entirely understand how that could be, but Hodji seems to.

"We will start an Internet business, and nobody will have to look at us if we become badly scarred. We will make our way as men."

"I wish you would give some more thought to what I proposed yesterday," he says.

"I don't want to live for months in hospital," I repeat yesterday's answer.

"You're not hearing me. It's not a hospital. It's a house. It's a house that's being turned into a rehab facility."

"Rehab sounds much like hospital. I came to America to eat good food, not food that makes me long for home. I came here for nice, soft mattress, like I see on fancy hotel websites, not a plastic sheet topped with—"

"House," Hodji repeats. "H-O-U-S-E. The state can occasionally own a house, and the state of New Jersey owns this one. For years, it was a historic landmark that fell into disrepair. Now, it's been fixed up and they're opening it to anyone rehabilitating from a terrorist attack in New Jersey. That includes you. A nurse will live there, too. If you need anything,
kabala.
"

He clears his throat before continuing. "Uh ... You can have your own computer, too."

He had not said that part yesterday. I look in his eyes, expecting to see a trick. I would say his look is "resigned."

"You trust me with computer?" I ask.

"Not on your life. But I'm willing to say that, um, well, what I don't know won't hurt me. And I often take tips from anonymous sources."

I stare into his serious eyes to perceive if I am dreaming this. His making me out to be eighteen is not an item for us to discuss, as he will not even admit to me that he knew the truth all along. I am sure he feels his job was threatened by the discovery, and since then he has been hard-lining me with "playing by the rules." But his eyes seem full of sentimentality today. Perhaps the sentimental surroundings are influencing his logic. I repeat aloud what my heart has uttered over and over on this day and those preceding.

"I am a v-spy, now and forever."

"I know," he says.

We silently turn to stare at the memorial again, but I am certain he is doing what I cannot help doing—replaying in my head that final post from Omar with all its dastardly implications. It had been addressed to no one, but I had taken it very personally:

It appears my stay at Astor College is terminated early, which suits me fine. I am ready for a nice beach vacation before returning to work. The nature of that work will continue along the same lines as it long has been: to stand strong against the devices of Satan, especially those in Europe and North America, where mongrels have replaced the richness of tradition with the seduction of materialism. If we do not stand mightily against them, we, who are of high integrity and excellent descent, will have been absorbed into a world of meaningless, spiritless forms such as flourish in the Western world today.

I avoid the word "kill" and use the terms "stand strong against" in our rhetoric, not because I am a coward but because I am a humble man. ShadowStrike is a humble organization. We do not wish for recognition; we do not wish to make great displays of our very adept abilities to extinguish those who are errant and useless. We will meet our goals better long term without acknowledgments. We will strike without warning. We will strike with humility. We will strike and, unlike others you choose to call "terrorists," you will never be sure it is us.

A village will fall ill of a strange plague, and many will mysteriously succumb. Was it a new and unidentified strain of flu, or was it us? A vacation resort will empty as its guests suffer skin ailments and flulike symptoms from a germ that no one can pinpoint, and a dozen or two will die. Was the swimming pool water the culprit, or was it us? All attending a certain school or office building will require medical attention for sudden headaches, dizziness, and blurred vision. Many will die. Was it a gas leak, or was it us?

We plan to be around for many years. But you will never know quite where we are, who we are, and where we will turn up next. Greetings to you, my little friend ... OL.

While the post reeked with madness, that last line haunts me the most, because it leads me to think he is talking directly to me, the Kid. Perhaps God has a sense of humor. Perhaps
Omar had discovered what I looked like, and now, I can chase him with a whole new appearance that I did not have to pay for.

I repeat my statement, which gives me strength. "I am a v-spy, now and forever."

"I know," Hodji repeats also. "I finally had some time to think about it after the arrests. My only other option, I suppose, is to kill you."

I share his grin. "Where is this place, this
house
?"

"Just outside Colony One"

It is far away. But Colony One is quite beautiful. I liked the willow tree best.

"The Q3 victims from Colony One are being sent there until a recovery plan can be put into effect. At least three of the four. They're not happy about it, but the medication they're taking to try to clear that up is tricky. No one thinks they can remember how to take it all on their own, and if the state is providing the cure, the state provides the hospitality and housing. There's not a lot they can say about that."

I interrupt him. "You said only three. Do not tell me one has died."