The Unquiet Dead Read online

  Rachel considered this in silence. She barely knew Nathan Clare, really only knew him through the veneer of his public persona as writer and commentator, yet she felt that she owed him whatever she could bring to bear. Perhaps that was kindness. “It can’t be as bad as you’re imagining. He came tonight. By the morning, he’ll know that Laine’s being there wasn’t your fault. He just needs time to think.”

  “That’s the most dangerous time, when he’s thinking.” His smile was brief. “Read Apologia. Then you’ll know what I did.”

  * * *

  On the day of the hearing, Nate had been the last to leave the room. He had shaken Laine’s touch from his body but why, why had Esa not told him? He had the answer a moment later, agonizing in all it revealed of himself: he shouldn’t have had to.

  They had known each other since they were seven years old. They had weathered every storm, shared every confidence, loved each other’s families, loved each other.

  Known each other.

  And Laine Stoicheva had detonated a grenade within the stronghold of their friendship.

  Esa had left without a word, without a glance. That had been two years ago, and even Apologia had made no difference.

  On the night he’d driven to Esa’s house to stumble through whatever apology he could try to make to rescue the only friendship that mattered in his life, Esa had said simply, “I thought if there was anyone in the world who would know what I’m capable of, it would be you. It can never be the same now.”

  “Rahem,” Nate had dredged out of nowhere. The plea to recognize the Islamic concept of life-giving mercy. He knew there were a lot of things Esa could have said in response—don’t you dare drag faith into this now when you’ve betrayed it so utterly—but what he said with a look of regret was, “I could never wish you ill, Nate.”

  And the door had closed.

  On thirty years of friendship, it had closed.

  It hadn’t opened again, even when he’d written his dedication: To EK, whose friendship I valued too little, too late.

  15.

  While the Serb soldier was dragging my son away, I heard his voice for the last time. And he turned around and then he told me, “Mummy please, can you get that bag for me? Could you please get it for me?”

  With no word from Khattak and no clear direction on what to pursue next, Rachel’s instincts told her to revisit Melanie Blessant. She had called Khattak and been unable to reach him. She had tried the Blessant house with the same result. And the days until Zach’s exhibit were passing, not in suspended animation, but with a concentrated intensity, every hope and whisper magnified until her head began to ache from the pressure of her thoughts.

  It was a relief to knock on Melanie Blessant’s door, despite her awareness that as poorly tended as the house was, it was still more presentable than her own. A wan light seeped through the canopy of maples that bordered the walk, a reflection of the diminishing day, a reminder that as swiftly as time passed, it offered no reprieve from her restlessness. She didn’t know if that long-anticipated moment of reunion with her brother was a source of creeping dread or solace.

  No one answered the doorbell or her more insistent knock. Whatever she had tried to make of it, this was a dead end, a lost afternoon. There were no games on the schedule, no extra time she wanted to spend at home with her parents, no diligent partner to be found pursuing his own leads. She returned to her car and rolled the windows down, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. It was one of those rare afternoons free of the rain that had made the fall so miserable, and yet her expectations made her wretched.

  The sound of a car pulling up interrupted her thoughts. A luxury vehicle slowed in front of her Neon to park in Melanie’s driveway, flattening the weeds that sprang from cracks in the stone. Rachel recognized the passengers as Hadley and Cassidy Blessant. The man who stepped out to open Cassidy’s door resembled them so closely, he could only be their father.

  “I’m sorry girls. I think it’s better if I don’t come in.”

  There were signs of tension in his otherwise pleasant face as he squeezed his daughter’s hand.

  “Daddy, you promised!”

  From where she was parked, Rachel could hear the longing in Cassidy’s voice, could hear them all, an unforeseen opportunity.

  “Don’t be a baby, Cass.” Hadley unbuckled her seat belt, her manner brisk. “You know what’ll happen if Mel has to deal with him.”

  She grabbed her bag and took a moment to glare at her sister in the backseat. “Come on, get out.” The smile she turned on her father was unexpected. So expressive of warmth and trust and utterly unlike the front she had presented to Rachel and Khattak earlier.

  “You know we love you, Dad. Don’t believe anything the Grand Narcissist tries to tell you.”

  One of her nicknames for her mother, Rachel guessed, more in keeping with what she’d perceived as the girl’s sardonic nature. Her father tried to hold back a smile and failed.

  “I wish I didn’t have to leave you here. I thought this would all be over once your mother married Drayton.”

  “What would be over, Dad?”

  Hadley answered her sister, her voice tart and impatient. “The child support. The spousal support. The never-ending demands. The custody battle, Cass. Mel didn’t want us once she had Chris. We could have gone back to Dad once and for all.”

  “Chris wanted us,” Cassidy protested. “He made room for us. He said it was our home.”

  “I want you more, honey. Your home will always be with me.”

  Dennis Blessant sighed and Rachel could well imagine his thoughts. He was a handsome, well-dressed man whose careless appeal had suffered more than the usual depredations of middle age. His sandy hair was graying, and there was an air of general fatigue about him that she attributed to the divorce, along with the custody battle—although she marveled at the thought of a man for whom responsibility and family meant everything. A man who chose the company of his daughters. To Dennis Blessant, fatherhood was a source of ceaseless fulfillment—not an affliction, which was all Rachel knew of the matter.

  If Drayton had indeed been planning to marry Dennis Blessant’s ex-wife, Dennis’s freedom had been close at hand. Any financial strain caused by Melanie’s tactics also would have ended. Rachel puzzled over the custody decision: How had Melanie done it? Had her plea for her children been sincere and well-reasoned? Or had her exaggerated femininity done more to sway the family court judge than any show of saccharine devotion? Leaving Dennis Blessant and his daughters shattered and undone.

  They seemed in no hurry to leave their father, leaning against his car, warming their legs against the hood.

  “Is that boy still hanging around you, Had?”

  Hadley grinned. “Marco, Dad. And yes, he is. I’ll bring him with us next time, if that’s cool.”

  “Bring him,” Dennis said, his hands relaxed in his pockets. “Just make sure he knows I carry a gun.”

  Both girls laughed, and again Rachel wondered at Dennis Blessant. He looked at his girls as if they were the only things that mattered in the universe; moon, sun, and stars combined in one celestial profusion.

  And then Melanie Blessant descended on them from a considerably less elevated plane, the screen door slamming shut behind her.

  “Your time is up, Dennis,” she said, weaving her way toward them. “You’re not allowed to overstay, so I want you gone right now.”

  Whatever the very real loathing on Dennis Blessant’s face gave away, he responded mildly enough. “All right, girls. I’ll see you next weekend, then.”

  “Not next weekend, Dennis,” Melanie contradicted sharply. “It’s every other weekend, as you very well know. Don’t try to mess with the custody arrangement or I’ll have you back in court by the morning. And I’ll be making a motion for the adjustment of child support.”

  “Still torn up over Drayton, I see.”

  He would have been wiser to resist, thought Rachel. Those were words to light
the tinderbox of Melanie’s temper.

  “Mel,” Hadley interrupted before her mother could go off. “Cass and I are at a museum dinner next weekend. Dad’s taking us there and picking us up. We’ll be back on Sunday, we talked about this.”

  Melanie fiddled with the string of her midriff-baring tank top. The temperature was starting to cool off, a fact that didn’t appear to have registered on her decision to reveal nearly as much flesh as her outfit concealed. Sugary pink lip gloss and a skin-tight pair of cutoffs completed her ensemble.

  How grateful their father must be that his daughters had chosen not to emulate their mother’s style of dress.

  “I’m sick to death of that museum,” Melanie said. “That used-up librarian wanted Chrissie’s money and she invented that museum to get it. I knew what she was from the moment I met her.”

  Hadley made no effort to hide her contempt. “I’m sure she knows what you are too.”

  “Don’t you dare take that tone with me, Hadley! I knew why she was sniffing after Chrissie, but her pathetic little plan failed. He didn’t leave her a dime. Everything comes to me.” Her face beamed with gratification. “I’m the only beneficiary of Chris’s life insurance policies.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that,” Dennis answered. “It should make all the difference to your spousal support.”

  “You bastard,” she hissed at him. Then she rounded on the girls. “You’re not going to any party and if he tries to take you, I’ll call the police, don’t you think I won’t!”

  Hadley shoved her sister toward the house. “Get inside, Cass. You don’t need to hear this.” She turned on her mother. “I’d have thought you’d prefer us to go with Dad than Riv. Your choice, either way.”

  “I knew this was about that boy!”

  “Yes,” Hadley drawled. “That same boy you slobber over every time he comes by. Could your top be any lower, Mel? Or your shorts any tighter?”

  “You’re just jealous of what I have. And really, who could blame you?”

  Dennis’s “Don’t you talk to my daughter that way” overlapped Hadley’s “Isn’t that a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Mel dear?”

  And then Melanie slapped her.

  Dennis grabbed her wrist.

  The entire family was oblivious to Rachel across the street in her car. She knew she should intervene, just as she knew that intervention would cut short the family’s revelations. She hesitated, her hand on the door handle.

  “Don’t, Dad. Once the will is read and those policies are paid out, she’ll clear out of our lives for good. And if she takes you to court, ask the judge what happened to the money you gave her for our laptops.”

  He was torn, Rachel realized. He didn’t want his daughter to talk about her mother this way. Especially when everything she said was true.

  Spittle gathered in the corners of Melanie’s mouth. “It was never about the money with me and Chrissie,” she spat at them. “I loved him! I loved him and she can’t stand that because no one will ever love her the way that Chrissie loved me.”

  “I hope not,” Hadley said, her face deadly serious. “I wouldn’t want a man who called me a whore every time he climaxed.”

  Melanie gaped at her, thunderstruck.

  “What? You didn’t think we heard you those nights you made us stay over? And obviously you liked it or why else would you put up with it? I have a hell of a lot more self-respect than that.”

  Melanie’s nails bit into Hadley’s arm.

  “I want you out of my house right now!”

  Hadley stood her ground, picking off her mother’s fingers one by one. “Can’t,” she said without humor. “Custody arrangement, remember? How else will you get your money?” She stepped between her parents, urging her father back into his car. “You’d better go, Dad. Cass and I have a shift at Ringsong anyway. We’ll see you again on Friday.”

  She turned to her mother, her tone derisive. “And I don’t think you’re going to be a problem, are you, Mel? Otherwise, I might have to tell Dad the real reason Chris wanted us to move in with him. In case you thought I didn’t know.”

  She kissed her father calmly and walked to the door to talk to her sister.

  Only Rachel noticed that her hands were shaking at her sides.

  16.

  The National Library of Sarajevo is burning.

  A radio broadcast instructed Muslims to put white ribbons around their arms, go outside, form columns and head towards the main square.

  He was in love, he decided, with the house. It wasn’t a museum to him. It was a place of restful beauty, a space that his layered identities could lay claim to as home. He waited for Mink in the second courtyard reached through a colonnade of Andalusian arches, its tiled fountain at play beneath a stately turret. The white stripe of the Bluffs broke off from the darkness, the lake a gleaming shadow beneath them. Stars and sky stretched above, a timeless motif on an illimitable canvas.

  The green coins of Andalusia extolled the courtyard’s virtues.

  He sat still and calm between the palms and orange trees, waiting for the woman whose presence breathed life into all.

  When she came, it was as if she detached herself from shadow, bringing with her a pale and rarefied light. After a moment of fancy, he realized she held a candle between her hands. She placed it on the table beside him, sliding easily onto his lounger, tucking her delicate feet beneath her. It had been like this between them from the start: a hushed and glowing intimacy, where if he wished, he could reach out and unclasp the golden knot of her hair or lay his hand upon hers, upheaval in so simple a gesture.

  “Esa,” she said. “You’ve been enchanted by Andalusia.”

  “Or by the woman who breathed it into being.”

  She brushed his words aside. “Look what I’ve brought you.” She placed a dish of fresh dates in his hand.

  He knew he should rise, find another seat, place some distance between them, but Mink was as sweetly scented as her garden. It was its own magic, that and the soft words that painted for him a distant civilization, a time of grace and elegance, a grand achievement.

  The Library of Cordoba.

  Of course a librarian would cherish such a memory.

  “Paper was the beginning of it all. From Baghdad it was shipped to all the capitals of Islam. It was a competition of knowledge—who could build the grandest library, fill it with the most books—who would read and translate and comment. They were experts at classification. Such a catalogue they had—the thought of it makes me envious.”

  “Those words transformed the world.”

  “Think how little we know of such marvels. How little we appreciate those moments of history where differences were glories yet to be discovered, synthesizing a greater creation. This tribalism we worship now is an ugly thing.”

  “Tribalism?” he questioned.

  “Patriotism, nationalism,” she said impatiently. “Call it what you wish. Mine the only flag, mine the only way. All else is inferior, trample it underfoot. Despise it, detest it.”

  “We’ve come some distance since then,” he suggested. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to talk. He was here because of Christopher Drayton, but he thought that what he wanted was for Mink to sit at her table, quietly intent, turning the pages of her manuscripts in her hands. And he would do no more than absorb the luxuries of Andalusia and watch.

  “Have we?” she asked him. Her hands did what he had longed to do, unraveling the gold coil of hair, letting it slip down to caress her shoulders as gently as a folio of wind. “You’re an adherent of Islam, yes, Esa? Your name,” she said, with the curve of a smile. “It declares it for you. So, what of the Ground Zero mosque?”

  “A volatile situation.”

  “Indeed. And what of Murfreesboro, Tennessee? And all the other places where your people are unwelcome. Welcome to live, just. But not to worship or declare their way of faith.”

  “There’s fear and ignorance everywhere. It’s not exclusively practic
ed against Muslims. Look at Rwanda. Or Nazi Germany. Or the barriers Hispanic immigrants face.”

  “Or the Inquisition,” she finished. “The culture of power versus the power of culture. One side consistently loses.”

  “We’ve a kind of Andalusia in this country,” he teased, hoping to lighten her mood.

  “Yes,” she said seriously. “That’s very true, but less true I think across the border. Inquisitions, pogroms, genocides—those are endpoints. Demonizing, fear, the passing of laws of exclusion, the burning of libraries—these are beginnings. Historians are vigilant as to beginnings. Too often we fail.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought that was their calling,” he said. “I imagine them lost in ancient worlds like the palace of the Alhambra or Madinat az-Zahra.”

  “It’s dangerous to be so comfortable—to live in the past alone.”

  “Isn’t that what museums are? Halls of the past?”

  “Reminders,” she said, reaching for a date from his hand. “Of things that could be, if we dared to dream a little differently. If we opened ourselves up.”

  “You’ve made this very personal.” He gestured at the great room beyond the colonnade.

  “I suppose I like to imagine this time of Muslim princes whose Jewish viziers conducted dialogues with Christian monarchs, reliant upon one another, influenced by one another, respecting one another. The Convivencia. In love with language, learning—what shouldn’t I admire?”

  He laid his hand on hers.

  “Shall we talk about Drayton?” he said gently. “I would like to understand his attraction to the museum.”

  “You’ve just praised it yourself. Why wouldn’t Christopher have felt the same? He was an educated man.”

  Khattak hesitated. He’d been coming to the museum for more than a week, finding excuses to stop by and linger beneath the palms, attracted by something he couldn’t name. His heritage was neither Arab nor Hispanic, yet he laid claim to the intertwined identities of the civilization of Islam.