Exiles in America(50)

each other’s brains.”

The Green Leafe Cafe stood across the street from the football stadium. It

was bright and noisy and hectic. There was no music; the noise was all talk.

The place had been full of potted plants when it opened twenty years ago—

hence the name—but the plants had died. The front half was full of students,

the back half—the smoking half—full of faculty. Daniel had forgotten tonight

was Friday and most of the English Department would be here. He greeted a

couple of friends while he looked for a table. Then he saw Jane Morrison sit-

ting alone with a man who wasn’t her husband.

“Daniel!” she called out. “We were just leaving if you need a place to sit.”

Daniel cautiously approached. Then he recognized “the other man”—

Samuel Clay Brooke from the department, their old-fashioned confirmed

bachelor. Hardly a candidate for cheating, but that’s where Daniel’s mind was

tonight.

“Samuel,” said Jane. “You haven’t met Mr. and Mrs. Rohani.”

Samuel rose from his chair and twisted around like a tall tree in a tweed

jacket. “Our Purrrr-sians,” he cheerfully growled in his rumbly baritone, a ce-

ment mixer full of gravel. “So glad to meet you. Are we having a war?”

Elena looked startled. “A war? My husband and I?”

“No, our countries. Our countries!” he shouted through his grin, as if vol-

ume could translate his words.

“Samuel, that’s Iraq,” said Jane. “Abbas is from Iran. They’re two differ-

ent countries.” The White House had been threatening war with Iraq ever

since August, but it remained only talk. Even the Republicans in Congress op-

posed a new war so soon after the invasion of Afghanistan.

“Iraq isn’t Persia?” growled Samuel, rolling his r’s in gravel.

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

“No, Iraq is Mesopotamia,” said Ross. “Iran is Persia. It’s right next door.”

“We are not the same,” Abbas said sharply. “We are so not the same that

we fought a bloody war with Iraq. Millions were killed.”

“You don’t say?” Samuel nodded. “Two different countries, huh? Learn

something new every day.”

Jane grimaced in embarrassment, then turned to Elena. “I’m sorry I

haven’t called. Jack and I keep meaning to ask you and Abbas over to dinner,

only the semester has been so busy. But I hear that Daniel has been taking

good care of your husband.”

Jane said it innocently enough—she wouldn’t have mentioned it if she’d

suspected anything—but Daniel could feel a nervous exchange of glances

around him, like the snapping of tiny mousetraps.

“He has,” said Elena drily. “He and Zack have made us both feel very

much at home.”

“Good then. Very good. Well, I better be going. Did you want a ride back,

Samuel? Good night, all. Have a good weekend. See you on Monday, Daniel.

Abbas.”

“Damascus?” said Samuel as Jane led him away. “Is that Iran or Iraq? All

I know is the Arabian Nights. ”

They sat down at the big oak table—the Rohanis on the outside, Zack and

Daniel on the inside, Ross at the end—and they ordered their drinks—Elena

wine, Abbas scotch, the Americans beer.

“Good old Samuel,” declared Ross. “Just when you think the absent-

minded professor is ancient history, along comes Samuel Clay Brooke to bring

the stereotype back to life. But talk to him about something he knows, Ho-

garth or Blake, he can be brilliant.”

“Dead white men,” said Abbas with a sneer. “That is no surprise. He is a

dead white man himself.”

“Darling, don’t be an ass,” said Elena. “You are very fond of several dead

white men.”

He gave her a cold, hard look. Then his mouth broke into a thin smile like

a crack in plaster. “No, I prefer live white men.” And he stared across the

table at Daniel.

They all noticed the stare. Only Ross didn’t know what it meant.

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

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Daniel was glad that Jane and Samuel were gone. Abbas was in a strange,

unpredictable mood. He could feel Zack beside him, watching with his usual

warm, wary concern. Part of Daniel wished that Zack weren’t here either.

Elena turned to Ross. “Another movie about Paris I love? Last Tango in

Paris. Do you know Last Tango?”

“Know it?” Ross laughed. “Lady, I’ve lived it. Everything except getting

shot while chewing gum.”

“Yes. I can see that. You are like Brando,” she teased. “But you are much