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Jamilah looked wildly around at the others. Muḥammad stood dumbly in the kitchen, holding the extra-large pizza. Layth and Kadija sat on the sofa, holding hands. Jamilah realized that they were all watching her.
“Isn't anyone going after him?” Jamilah demanded. “He said he was in danger.”
Layth shook his head. “Hassan is like a force of nature when he makes up his mind. But you might be able to bring him back.”
“Why me?”
“Come on. You know why. You broke his heart, Jamilah.”
“You don't understand my family history!”
“What about me?” said Layth. “I killed men in Iraq, before I became Muslim. Do you hate me? You're hung up on things that have nothing to do who Hassan is now. You have to decide what's more important to you: love or hate. Can you live a life based on hate? What does that do to your heart? Is that who you want to be?”
Layth's words struck Jamilah like thunder. Was she truly a hateful person? She'd hit Hassan, made him bleed, called him a Nazi. That was the last thing he would remember of her. The thought made tears well up in her eyes.
She sprinted out of the apartment, not bothering to put on her shoes. She reached the elevator just in time to see its door closing. Glancing at the digital display on the wall, Jamilah saw that the other elevator was stopped at 36.
She ran for the stairs. Her bare feet slapped on the tiles as she dashed down four flights of stairs, then barreled through the door at the 35th floor landing, where a larger bank of elevators ran to the lobby. No sign of Hassan. She pressed the elevator call button repeatedly. When the car arrived she hopped in. As it descended, people entered and exited, making the trip excruciatingly slow. A man in his twenties with thick glasses and a curled-up moustache noticed her bare feet and said, “Hang ten!” A well-dressed young woman looked Jamilah up and down and sniffed, as if she smelled something bad. When the car hit the lobby Jamilah leaped out.
There was Hassan, walking through the richly decorated lobby with its comfortable sofas, contoured light sconces and abstract art, heading for the front door.
She caught up with him at the door. She saw a blind panhandler on the sidewalk outside, carrying a sign that said, “God bless.” His head was tilted to one side, as if he were listening to some far-off music.
“Hassan, come back upstairs and let's talk.”
“There's no point,” Hassan replied flatly. “Go to Madera like you promised. That's all I need from you.” He turned to walk out the door.
Jamilah grabbed the messenger bag that was slung over Hassan's shoulder and yanked hard, stopping him in his tracks and causing him to almost stumble backward.
“But that's not all I need from you,” she said vehemently.
Hassan faced her. “Are you going to hit me again?”
Jamilah's vehemence collapsed, replaced by shame. “I'm so sorry about that. I swear it will never happen again. Please. I don't want you to get hurt. Come on, don't make me beg.” She heard a cough and saw that the doorman was covering his mouth, trying to hide a grin. She wanted to kick him in the shin, but restrained herself.
She tried another approach. “It's rude to walk out when food is being served. Isn't there anything in Islam about that?”
Hassan smiled. “Not that I know of. Though the Prophet, sal-Allahu alayhi wa-sallam, did say, 'Eat together and not separately, for the blessing is with the group.'”
“See,” Jamilah said. “There you go.”
***
The Partridge watched Simon and the Palestinian girl disappear into the building after their apparent argument.
“Help the blind,” he said to a group of tourists making their way up Market Street. A heavyset middle-aged couple stopped in front of him. They wore knee-length shorts and matching 'I (Heart) San Francisco' t-shirts.
“You could get a job, you know,” the middle-aged man said loudly.
“Harry, the poor man is blind, not deaf,” the wife said. “It's true though,” she said to the Partridge. “My second cousin's brother Robby is blind and he's a cook, can you believe it? Though I don't know how he can tell the salt from the sugar, since they're both white…”
“You know why blind people don't skydive?” the husband said.
The Partridge replied coolly. “No, why?”
“It scares the heck out of the seeing-eye dog!”
The couple moved away, not putting anything in the Partridge's change cup. He felt a powerful urge to follow the dolt and choke him. He could easily crush the man's trachea with the cane he carried as a prop. It wasn't the joke that bothered him, but the stupidity. Inferior people offended him. He was a Phoenician, a Kopis. It was repugnant that he even had to breathe the same air as such idiots.
To calm himself he closed his eyes and conjured an image of Simon strapped to the Partridge's steel table. He would begin his work with a number 11 scalpel – a fine instrument for small, precise cuts. He would start at the feet and work his way up, taking his time, and he would make the Palestinian girl watch. The image was relaxing.
He would have his victim sooner or later. Patience was perhaps the most important tool in the assassin's kit, for though patience was tedious, the fruit was sweet.
***
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