Exiles in America(140)

air, but also relieved, pleased. If he wasn’t here for sex, then his concern was

purely disinterested, his friendship admirably selfless.

Abbas removed the last staples, and the canvas began to slide off the

frame. Daniel hurried over to catch it. He held two corners while Abbas fin-

ished and then helped him carry it to the pile. A canvas off its stretcher is such

a strange object, stiff and floppy, no longer solid but not quite disposable ei-

ther. They laid the green canvas over the orange one.

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

3 1 9

“Are you going to ship these to Iran?”

“Iran would be a good home for them. I could roll them inside a carpet

tube and send them to Hassan.”

“And you and your family can follow?”

Abbas frowned. “I do not know. I cannot decide. Not yet anyway. But

being ready to go will make me feel better.”

Against the wall behind the sofa leaned a dozen or so older paintings, all

face out: the less abstract work that Daniel preferred: Clemente-like animals,

paisley Klee men, alphabet people.

“What about those?” said Daniel. “What will you do with them?”

Abbas shrugged. “They are trash. I can put them in the Dumpster. Or

maybe pull off the canvas and let students work on the backs. It doesn’t

matter.”

“But I like them. It’s some of your best work.”

Abbas could not have looked more disgusted if Daniel had farted. “No.

These are bad paintings. They are garbage.”

“You might think that now. But you can change your mind.” Daniel was all

too familiar with how artists thought about old work. “Let me take them. I

can store them here or at the house in our basement. I’ll take good care of

them.”

“No. They are no good.”

“But I love them.”

“That doesn’t make them yours!”

The anger in his voice stunned Daniel. The contemptuous look in his eyes

was even more damning, more hurtful.

Daniel stepped back. “Forget it. Do with them what you like. What do I

know? I’m just a Jew in self-denial. But we all change our minds about what

we love and what we hate.”

f 2

That night Daniel told Zack a little about the department meeting, nothing

about the quarrel with Jane, and a lot about his conversation with Abbas.

“I think he’s having some kind of nervous breakdown.”

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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

Zack said it was possible but that it also sounded like the natural agitation

of someone who’d been through a terrible ordeal. “His reality has been badly

shaken. It makes perfect sense for him to turn to religion. He doesn’t know

what to do next, so he’s going to be angry at his friends, including you. He

can’t trust anyone right now, including himself. We just need to give him

time.”

Daniel was surprised Zack wasn’t more concerned, but he feared that it

was his fault for not describing the encounter better.

41

The president delivered his State of the union   address on Tuesday,

January 28, 2003. Zack watched it on TV, alone. Daniel couldn’t bear to

look at the man who represented everything he hated about rich people, the

South, and evangelical religion. But Zack was cooler, more detached. He lis-

tened for the entire hour while the president smirked and frowned and lifted

his eyebrows, like a bad actor practicing a speech in front of a mirror. The in-

competence of his delivery only added to the unease produced by his words

on weapons of mass destruction: nuclear warheads, sarin nerve gas, botulism

toxin—things that already worried four or five patients. But war was no

longer just rhetorical; it had become inevitable. There was no denying that

Saddam Hussein was a vicious shit—Zack kept thinking of a line from a Marx

Brothers movie: “Hey, you big bully. Quit picking on that little bully”—but

the war against him felt faked, rushed, and unnecessary.

Zack spoke to Elena every day that week. She called him or he called her

or sometimes they exchanged e-mails. She kept Zack posted on how they

were doing, especially Abbas. He couldn’t sleep at night. He was restless dur-

ing the day, often quiet and withdrawn, then abruptly angry.

“He’s like a different person since his FBI meeting?”

“Oh no. He is like always. But moodier. If only he were still painting, his

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C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

moods might not swing so much. But he has stopped painting. He goes often

to the mosque, with Osh, which worried me at first, but he always comes

home calmer, more gentle.”

They had met with Zack’s lawyer, but Jeremy didn’t put their minds at rest

with his endless worst-case scenarios. On some days Elena wanted to stay put,