The Secret History - Donna Tartt [178]
A small, dark man in shirtsleeves, who had been waving his hand in the air for some time, was finally called upon by Liz and stood up. “My name is Adnan Nassar and I am Palestinian-American,” he said in a rush. “I came to this country from Syria nine years ago and have since then earned American citizenship and am assistant manager of the Pizza Pad on Highway 6.”
Mr. Hundy put his head to the side. “Well, Adnan,” he said cordially, “I expect that story would be pretty unusual in your own country. But here, that’s the way the system works. For everybody. And that’s regardless of your race or the color of your skin.” Applause.
Liz, microphone in hand, made her way down the aisle and pointed at a lady with a bouffant hairdo, but the Palestinian angrily waved his arms and the camera shifted back to him.
“That is not the point,” he said. “I am an Arab and I resent the racial slurs you make against my people.”
Liz walked back to the Palestinian and put her hand on his arm, Oprah-style, to comfort him. William Hundy, sitting in his mock-Shaker chair on the podium, shifted slightly as he leaned forward. “You like it here?” he said shortly.
“Yes.”
“You want to go back?”
“Now,” Liz said loudly. “Nobody is trying to say that—”
“Because the boats,” said Mr. Hundy, even louder, “run both ways.”
Dotty, the barmaid, laughed admiringly and took a drag off her cigarette. “That’s telling him,” she said.
“Where your family comes from?” said the Arab sarcastically. “You American Indian or what?”
Mr. Hundy did not appear to have heard this. “I’ll pay for you to go back,” he said. “How much is a one-way ticket to Baghdad going for these days? If you want me to, I’ll—”
“I think,” Liz said hastily, “that you’ve misunderstood what this gentleman is trying to say. He’s just trying to make the point that—” She put her arm around the Palestinian’s shoulders and he threw it off in a rage.
“All night long you say offensive things about Arabs,” he screamed. “You don’t know what Arab is.” He beat on his chest with his fist. “I know it, in my heart.”
“You and your buddy Saddam Hussein.”
“How dare you say we are all greedy, driving big cars? This is very offensive to me. I am Arabic and I conserve the natural resource—”
“By setting fire to all them oil wells, eh?”
“—by driving a Toyota Corolla.”
“I wasn’t talking about you in particular,” said Hundy. “I was talking about them OPEC creepos and them sick people kidnapped that boy. You think they’re driving around in Toyota Corollas? You think we condone terrorism here? Is that what they do in your country?”
“You lie,” shouted the Arab.
For a moment, in confusion, the camera went to Liz Ocavello; she was staring, without seeing, right out of the screen and I knew she was thinking exactly what I was thinking, oh, boy, oh, boy, here it comes …
“It ain’t a lie,” said Hundy hotly. “I know. I been in the service station business for thirty years. You think I don’t remember, when Carter was President, you had us over such a barrel, back in nineteen and seventy-five? And now all you people coming over here, acting like you own the place, with all your chick peas and your filthy little pocket breads?”
Liz was looking to the side, trying to mouth instructions.
The Arab screamed out a frightful obscenity.
“Hold it! Stop!” shouted Liz Ocavello in despair.
Mr. Hundy leapt to his feet, eyes blazing, pointing a trembling forefinger into the audience.