Surely, you don’t think he deserved that kind of bullying? Wali said.
Of course not! I said. I could feel myself getting heated.
Then you could have protected him a little, couldn’t you, Wali said. His life could’ve been in danger! And in a way, only you understood him.
Really, I said. And how exactly could I have helped him? Please enlighten me.
A little quieter, please, Wali said.
I raised my voice in defiance. He could have asked for my help, I said. I never turned my back on him. I didn’t go with the boys to his house.
But you didn’t warn him of their raid either, man!
Raid? What are you talking about. As far as I know, he didn’t even come out of his house. And again, how was Osama my responsibility? I might have listened to him if he hadn’t blamed me for his tireless quest to be humiliated by everyone in our class. Speaking of which, who knows how many other boys in the class were, or are, in the closet? Why are you assuming it was just the two of us?
Yes, Wali said, his eyes darting over my shoulder at the counter. But—
But you don’t understand. You grew up here. The state could protect you. And Osama was protected too. He still is—I told you, he’s a doctor now, he makes big money. People probably call him “doctor sahib, doctor sahib” as if he’s their god. His parents will probably find him an obedient and clueless wife and maybe he’ll even manage to have a child with her.
But he will remain very lonely, Wali said softly. And guilty on top of that.
By then I could see that Wali was only using Osama to look at himself. I regarded his face: the sagging cheeks, the toum smeared on the corner of his mustache.
Well, babes, I said in a poor imitation of a British accent. Join the queue.
Don’t be a heartless bastard, Wali said. Regardless of whatever sorry lot you’ve had in life. And for God’s sake, learn to speak quietly.
This is just how I talk, I said. I’m going to the car.
Sure, Wali said, tossing his keys at me. Off you go.
We held hands in silence on the drive back to our B&B, and I pointedly kissed him when we parked the car. In the lobby we shook ourselves like wet dogs, then I grabbed Wali’s arm and rushed him up the three flights of stairs to our room. I had picked this room because it was at the very top of the house and had sloping walls and a sunroof. You want to stay in the garret, Wali had asked with his usual amusement while making the booking.
Let’s get comfortable, he suggested now, his hands kneading my shoulders. I’ve to take a wee.
He stepped in the bathroom and closed the door behind him. I stripped down to my underwear, letting my clothes fall where they did, and crawled under the covers of our bed. I waited, hoping to surprise him. He came back in a pajama suit, picked up and folded my clothes, set them on the armchair. He sat on his side of the bed, looked at me as he reclined against the headboard. He stroked his finger on my nose, until I lifted my face and gently bit his index finger. Wali sighed and removed his hand. Then he leaned over and swiped his book off the side table.
Just a minute, darling, he said. There are only fifty pages left. I’m burning to find out who killed the duchess.
He didn’t respond when I suggested he read out loud to me. I turned away from him, his silence having extinguished all the coziness of being snuggled in a garret in a rainy English town. I felt guilty about creating a scene in the restaurant and childish for still feeling disappointed. Maybe Wali was right. But the air was spoiled now. I blamed the drinks. My head swam, and when I felt again the edge of a slow quiet sorrow nudge against the skin of my nape, I grabbed it and draped myself with it. So much for being a bright young thing.