Martyrdom Street

Injured Race Cars

99 Injured Race Cars Nasrin A dried rose petal drops on the table. We sit in the smoking section of the restaurant even though Hamid requested nonsmoking seats. Every ten minutes or so, he glances at his watch or turns his head to see whether the waitress has brought the food. “Why are they so slow today?” he asks as a way of avoiding conversation with me. When the waitress eventually serves his broiled tuna, Hamid relaxes his brows, relieved to be eating instead of interacting. He discusses his food, yes, the fish is so fresh today. Do I like my food? “Yeah,” I tell him, “I do.” When we have exhausted the subject of food, I ask him about his day at the office. “Tell me,” I say, “what’s going on with your Dallas project?” “Lots,” he says. “But I can’t stay long. Is there a reason you wanted to meet?” “Yes,” I say. “Do you need money?” “No.” “What then?” I pause for a minute. “Just tell me,” he says. “I won’t go through with it.” “What? Dallas?” “No,” I say. “The wedding.” By now, Hamid has stopped eating. He wipes his lips several times and drinks a full glass of water. “We were just engaged,” he says, and I apologize for not confronting him earlier. Hamid avoids my eyes as best he can, but it’s difficult because I’m staring at him. He opens his briefcase and pulls out a folder with yellow and green pieces of paper. He tells me that they are forms for him and Martyrdom Street 100 me. When he has finished showing them to me, he places the folder back in his briefcase. As the waiter puts the check next to his half-full plate, he dismisses my comments, insisting that I will probably change my mind tomorrow. “I won’t,” I say. “I’m sure.” “Why?” he asks. I don’t respond. The church bells chime baroque choral music. I open my purse and place a jewelry box on the table as Hamid hands the waiter our check. Before Hamid has a chance to notice, I take my belongings and leave. I walk in large strides through the streets, seeking crowded corners and busy boulevards. When I reach Broadway, I look back just once to insure that no one has followed me to the office. A truck lunges toward the traffic light but misses and hits the curb instead. A police officer rushes over to the truck driver to make sure he’s okay. I enter my office building and wait by the elevator. A well-dressed man walks in behind me and we make casual conversation. The elevator takes longer than usual to make its way down. I decide to go across the street and buy a cup of coffee before returning to the office. The deli is located beneath some scaffolding. When I return, the man is still there. As we step into the elevator, he politely asks for my wallet. “What?” I ask, wondering if I’ve heard him correctly. He takes out a knife and repeats his question. “Here,” I say. “Take it.” As he grabs my wallet, he twists my arm with one hand. Then he forces his body on mine. When the elevator door opens, he darts outside. Someone chases him down the stairs, and another person approaches me and asks if I am okay. I don’t know. I stare at the incongruous black-and-white tiles beneath my feet. As if a pawn on a chessboard, I imagine a series of moves on the tiles before walking out of the building. Yasaman Snowflakes drop from a gray sky, and a frail whiteness blankets the sidewalk. I leave a fresh trail in the snow as I pass the greengrocer, the post office, the florist. Footprints can reveal the unknowns about a person. The steep prints of the man in front of me, for instance, show a sense of mission. His gait flattens out only when he stops at the cash machine. But Ali’s are elliptical like his drawings. Footprints alone could not divulge his secrets. Injured Race Cars 101 I call his house but hang up when I recognize his voice. It’s his tone, a deep sound darker than the blare of rusty trumpets. Ali has a day off from work. I will surprise him. Maybe...