The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [44]
Rashid was wearing a crisp white shirt with rolled-up cuffs, blue suit pants, and worn green house slippers. He looked terrible. Barely five feet tall and maybe a hundred and ten pounds on his heaviest day, he hadn’t had any weight to lose when he’d taken his recent turn for the worse, but the wiry definition he’d had in his neck and forearms was gone, degenerated into a slack-toned frailty. When I’d last seen him, three or four weeks back, I’d been shocked by how aged he seemed.
“As-Salāmu ‘Alaykum,” he said, hanging up the phone and struggling to his feet.
We went through the whole ritual, kissing each other on both cheeks. He shook me by the shoulders as he inquired about my health, barely jostling me. In the old days he’d made my teeth rattle.
“And Claire and Katherine?” he inquired.
“Both fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Bring them to see me,” he ordered. “There’s a Lebanese in the kitchen downstairs who makes proper qatayef. You know qatayef?”
I nodded. Crepes filled with cheese or nuts, ubiquitous at Ramadan.
“So, bring them,” he said, giving me another feeble shake. “They’ll eat. It would make me happy.”
Rashid had met Claire and Kate exactly once, when he’d turned up at my apartment unannounced ten days after Kyle had vanished, bearing a tin tray filled with grilled lamb kebabs and rice. We hadn’t had many visitors, save for family and police. Nobody knew what to do or say. He stayed an hour, weeping when I wept, and leaving only after I promised to call him if there was ever any help he could provide.
“I will,” I said, realizing I’d been remiss.
“That’s settled, then.” He let go of my shoulders and glanced at his watch. “Excuse me for a moment. I have to go and take some medicine.”
He didn’t look strong enough to go anywhere. The effort of standing had raised a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his breathing was rapid and shallow.
“Can I get it for you?”
He straightened slightly, looking offended.
“It would make me happy,” I said, playing my trump card as a guest.
“In the bathroom,” he acquiesced grudgingly, pointing with a finger. “Off the bedroom. There’s a cup with the time written on it.”
I followed a rust-colored carpet around a corner and down a narrow corridor. Both the bedroom and bathroom doors were open. Twelve paper cups were arranged neatly on a plastic tray to the left of the sink, each containing four or more pills and marked with a time in black felt-tip pen. It seemed incredible that someone of Rashid’s size could even swallow that much medicine on a daily basis, let alone metabolize it. I searched for the cup labeled nine a.m., thinking ruefully that I’d best bring Claire and Kate soon.
Exiting with the medicine in hand, I noticed a mezuzah fastened to the frame of the bedroom door. It was a Jewish religious thing, an ornate, flattish metal container about the size of a pack of gum, with a verse from the Torah tucked inside. Every third doorway in my apartment building had one. I smiled, assuming a previous guest had left it behind and wondering if Rashid knew what it was.
“Tap water okay?” I called.
“Please. Not too cold.”
I poured a large glass of lukewarm water in the kitchenette and carried everything back to the alcove, where Rashid had reseated himself behind his desk. There were six pills in the cup I handed him. He put the first in his mouth, closed his eyes, took a sip of water, and then swallowed with effort, repeating the procedure mechanically until they were all gone. It took him a good two minutes, and he looked even more exhausted when he was done.
“You okay?”
He nodded silently, eyes still shut.
“I noticed the mezuzah on the bedroom doorway,” I said, hoping to cheer him up with a little banter. “Don’t tell me you’ve converted?”
He sighed heavily.
“When you’re as sick as I am, you’ll try anything.”
I felt uncomfortable until he opened his eyes and grinned, and I realized he was joking.
“Actually,” he said, “it was my grandmother’s. An old family secret. Don’t tell anyone.”
I smiled back, wondering if he was telling the truth. I knew his grandparents