Hagar's Sons

cohen (at work) The call startled him. Cohen rarely received calls at work. The voice—silky, vaguely hostile—belonged to Mr. Vanderweghe’s assistant. “Mr. Vanderweghe will need to see you,” she said. “Of course,” Cohen said. “I’ll just, let me look—” He glanced at his desk calendar. It was blank, aside from a note in the lower right-hand corner, which read diapers, rubylicious (huggies ): Remember! “Now, Mr. Cohen.” Cohen wanted to ask whether he should bring the preliminary results from his currency project, but the line went dead. He carefully redacted the Huggies note and hurried to the bathroom to brush his teeth. fiction STEVE ALMOND Hagar’s Sons 414 Ecotone: reimagining place mission Vanderweghe was dressed in the dark wool of a minor Dickens villain; the suit collar bit into his jowls. Cohen had seen him only once before, on the day of his arrival. “Cohen.” “Sir.” Vanderweghe nodded for him to sit. “The sheik has asked to meet with you.” Cohen nodded. He had never heard of any sheik. He knew next to nothing about the firm for which he worked. He had been hired four months ago, plucked from the Foreign Currency Division at Salomon Brothers at the behest of someone, he assumed, much larger than himself, and installed in a small office and told to research yen mode differentials until further notice. He was happy to have escaped Wall Street, the vulgar, caffeinated masculinity of the place, the bellowing traders with their sirloin tongues. Cohen had a high-strung wife, a colicky newborn, significant debt. He did not, as such, sleep. “The sheik is a valued client, as you know.” “Of course,” Cohen said. “Valued.” There was a pause. “What might the sheik want with me?” “If I knew that—” Vanderweghe’s face twisted into an abrupt silence. “Get your suit pressed,” he murmured, and handed Cohen a file. Inside was a glossary of Arabic terms, cultural customs, and a history of the New Emirate. The only itinerary was a handwritten note informing him that he would be picked up at eight the next morning. cohen (at home) “I don’t unnerstand,” Chantal said. “They say you go, you just go? No plane ticket? No return date? It’s the year 2000, not medieval times. You The only itinerary was a handwritten note informing him that he would be picked up at eight the next morning. 415 steve almond are not a slave on the galley ship.” Chantal was the Wife. She was French Tunisian. Fine bones. Black hair. A quick temper that blotched her cheeks. “It’s my job,” Cohen said. “Your job!” Chantal dug her spoon into a pint of gelato. The baby was wailing. Cohen had met Chantal at a Salomon Brothers function. They had gotten drunk and done what young couples do. A few weeks later she was pregnant and Cohen, wanting to do right, married her. His father was dead, his mother was thrilled. His younger sister, floating somewhere outside Santa Cruz in an irritable lesbian phase, said, “Do yourself a favor and get a paternity test.” Now they lived in a one-bedroom in Brooklyn. Chantal was an aspiring model, but the pregnancy had ruined her skin. She blamed Cohen. Ruby was a pork chop, a doll face, she maybe had his mouth, he thought so, and a little Mohawk, but she cried so much. Cohen unstrapped her from the high chair and stared at her face. It was rutted with distress, a red pecan. “What’s the matter, baby?” Cohen said. “It’s okay, baby.” Chantal made a fart noise with her cheek. “That’s right. Reason with the baby. And what if you never come back? You go to this Arab place with your Jew name and your nose—” “It’s my job. He’s a major client. This is an honor.” He rubbed Ruby’s back and felt her begin to subside. “It could lead to things.” “And what if you never come back?” Cohen sighed. His apartment smelled of baby shit and artificial lavender . All the lamps were broken. “Stop being dramatic.” Chantal thwacked her spoon against the wall. The baby tensed. He...