The Submission - Amy Waldman [48]
“Well,” she said, “why don’t you tell me a little about that friendship.” He looked warily at her. “Help us understand who this man is.”
“Right now I don’t entirely understand that myself,” he said, and she reached for her notebook. Could she use that? She would.
“Mo’s got a strong personality,” he said.
“Mo?”
“That’s what everyone calls him.”
Everyone but her. Mo didn’t have the ring—theological, historical, hysterical—of Mohammad.
“Look, I’m not pleased he didn’t bother to fill me in on this whole thing.” A good sound bite. “But as far as I can see, he won the competition fair and square.” Not so good. “There’s no argument for taking it away from him.”
“Is he religious?”
“Mo? Hardly.” Thomas chuckled at the thought. “He’s way more decadent than I am.” She underlined “decadent.”
“Decadent in what way?” she asked, as if they were sharing a joke.
“Normal,” he said, cocking his head to examine her from a different angle. “That’s the better word. Normal.”
“Like with girls? Drugs? Alcohol?”
“My point was, he isn’t religious,” Thomas said, the eyes now mistrustful slits. “He isn’t some crazy Muslim. And he’s fucking talented—make sure you print that.”
Somehow she was prompting Kroll to rally to Khan’s defense. She wanted his disappointment, Khan’s backstabbing, his compromising of a friendship and this all-American family. She wanted the wife, who she guessed would be happy to plumb those depths with her.
“So he never told you he was entering? Isn’t that a little odd—I mean, you’re planning to start a firm together, such good friends, right?” There was shrieking from the bedroom; she let it play out. “I would guess you collaborate on everything.”
Thomas reddened a bit and began to slide his wedding ring on and off. The masculine ego—one had to handle it with tongs. She couldn’t go too far in the interview with the humiliating aspect of this, the best friend who was duped by his buddy. “I mean, I’m sure he had his reasons,” she said, “but what do you think they were?”
“I don’t know,” he said, wearily. “I’d like to ask him that myself.”
The phone had begun ringing during their talk. Alice ignored it, and Thomas finally rose to answer. “How many?” Alyssa heard him say. “I see. No, no—don’t let them up.”
The competition had arrived. The interview was over. Alyssa coached Thomas on how to fend off the other reporters, suggesting he talk to their co-op board about hiring temporary extra security and training the doorman to be more vigilant, as if her presence were his fault. “The two words ‘No comment’ are your best friends,” she instructed. “You have every right to use them, and nothing to gain from talking. To anyone else, I mean.”
She said goodbye, patting the head of the little boy, the eldest, who had come out from the back. He twisted away and looked at her with suspicion. Those clear blue eyes, their seraphic reproach. She never had been good with children.
In the lobby reporters were pestering the doorman, who had grown so flustered he was mixing up his “sirs” and “madams” and threatening to call the police. They recognized her and hurried over. “What apartment? What apartment?” She shrugged as if she didn’t know, then said, “Don’t bother, there’s nothing, it’s a dry sponge.” She emerged from the dark lobby. The sunlight made her blink. Across the street she saw green—Prospect Park, Brooklyn’s lungs. She breathed air into her own.
10
At Mr. Chowdhury’s fish-and-grocery store, Asma loaded up on wheat flour, rice, tomatoes, milk, cooking oil, four kinds of vegetables, and the Bengali-language papers. There seemed to be a new paper for Bangladeshis every week, which made her proud of how literate her people were, unless she was in a dark mood, in which case it only reflected their divisiveness. She paid for her papers along with her groceries, pleased not to be one of those cheapies who stood at the checkout counter reading the papers for free