The Submission - Amy Waldman [7]
2
The piece of paper containing the winner’s name was passed from palm to palm like a fragile folio. There were a few gasps and “hmmms,” an “interesting,” an “oh my.” Then: “Jesus fucking Christ! It’s a goddamn Muslim!” The paper had reached the governor’s man.
Paul sighed. It wasn’t Bob Wilner’s fault they were in this situation, if indeed they were in a situation, but Paul resented him for forcing them to confront that they were, possibly, in a situation. Until Wilner spoke, no one had voiced what was written, as if to do so would bring the problem, even the person, to life before them.
“Ms. Costello.” Paul addressed the minute-taker in an almost musing tone, without meeting her eyes. “That will be expunged, naturally. We’d like to keep the record free of—of profanity.” He knew this sounded ridiculous: What New York City body cared about profanity? What minute-taker bothered to transcribe it? “Perhaps you could step out for a few minutes. Go help yourself to some more dessert.”
“Oh, Ms. Costello,” Paul called as she walked toward the door, his tone as light as her back was stiff. “If you could, please make sure no one’s hanging around outside the door. And let’s remember our confidentiality agreements, shall we?”
The door shut. He waited a few seconds before saying, “Let’s stay calm here.”
“What the fuck are we supposed to do?”
“We know nothing about him, Bob.”
“Is he even American?”
“Yes, it says right here under nationality, American.”
“That actually makes it harder.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How did this happen?”
“What are the odds?”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It’s Maya Lin all over again. But worse.”
“What are the odds?” the mayor’s aide kept repeating. “What are the odds?”
“One in five thousand!” Wilner barked at her. “Those are the odds.”
“Maybe more,” the historian mused, “if more than one Muslim entered.”
“We don’t know. Maybe it’s just his name,” Maria said. “He could be a Jew, for all we know.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” Wilner again. “How many Jews do you know named Mohammad?”
“It’s true though,” the art critic said; “maybe he converted to another religion. I became a Buddhist three years ago. Or a Jew-Bu, I guess.”
“Well maybe he’s a woman!” Wilner said sarcastically. “Maybe he had a sex change! Wake up; it’s on the page in black and white.”
“I think we need to assume the worst—I mean, that he’s a Muslim,” the mayor’s aide said. “Not that that’s the worst”—she was flustered now—“I don’t mean to say that at all, just that in this case it is.” Her name was Violet, and she was a compulsive pessimist, always looking for the soft brown spot in the fruit, pressing so hard she created it. But even she hadn’t seen this coming.
“It could be a healing gesture,” observed Leo. He was a retired university president, of sonorous voice and Pavarottian girth.
“That’s not the gesture that comes to mind,” Wilner said. “The families will feel very offended. This is no time for multicultural pandering.”
“Please don’t forget you have a family member right here,” Claire said.
“Fine, Claire, I apologize. Many of them will feel offended.”
“I ran three universities, and in none of them was I known for pandering to multiculturalists,” Leo said.
“There’s a lot of confusion,” Maria said. “We still don’t know what most Muslims think—”
“About?”
“I don’t know—us, or holy war, or—”
“We don’t know if he’s really the practicing kind—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Wilner said. “You can’t opt out of the religion. They don’t let you.”
“I didn’t know you had a degree in theology,” said Leo. “Whatever kind he is, he had the right to enter the competition.”
“But we have no obligation to pick him!” Wilner exclaimed. “Look, it’s not his fault, whoever he is, but we have to consider the associations people will bring to him. And what if he is one of the problematic ones? Would you still say he has every right to design the memorial?”
Violet sighed. “I … I need to talk to the mayor.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Claire said. Her words were tougher than her voice, which wavered. “The vote’s been taken. It’s over.