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In the roommates’ secret language, Martin Mills suddenly said, “Frightfully.” He thought Arif would understand; Martin was indicating that his own mother merited an “F” word. But Arif was taking Vera seriously.
“An embassy is entrusted with a mission to a government and is headed by an ambassador,” the Turk explained. “A consulate is the official premises of a consul, who is simply an official appointed by the government of one country to look after its commercial interests and the welfare of its citizens in another country. My father is the consul general in New York—New York being a place of commercial importance. A consul general is a consular officer of the highest rank, in charge of lower-ranking consular agents.”
“That took just thirty seconds,” Martin Mills informed his mother, but Vera was paying no attention to the time.
“Tell me about Turkey,” she said to Arif. “You have thirty seconds.”
“Turkish is the mother tongue of more than ninety percent of the population, and we are more than ninety-nine percent Muslims.” Here Arif Koma paused, for Vera had shivered—the word “Muslims” made her shiver every time. “Ethnically, we are a melting pot,” the boy continued. “Turks may be blond and blue-eyed; we may be of Alpine stock—that is, round-headed with dark hair and dark eyes. We may be of Mediterranean stock, dark, but long-headed. We may be Mongoloid, with high cheekbones.”
“What are you?” Vera interrupted.
“That was only twenty seconds,” Martin pointed out, but it was as if he weren’t there at the dinner table with them; just the two of them were talking.
“I’m mostly Mediterranean,” Arif guessed. “But my cheekbones are a little Mongoloid.”
“I don’t think so,” Vera told him. “And where do your eyelashes come from?”
“From my mother,” Arif replied shyly.
“What a lucky mother,” said Veronica Rose.
“Who’s going to have what?” asked Martin Mills; he was the only one looking at the menu. “I think I’m going to have the turkey.”
“You must have some strange customs,” Vera said to Arif. “Tell me something strange—I mean, sexually.”
“Marriage is permitted between close kin—under the incest rules of Islam,” Arif answered.
“Something stranger,” Vera demanded.
“Boys are circumcised at any age from about six to twelve,” Arif said; his dark eyes were downcast, roaming the menu.
“How old were you?” Vera asked him.
“It’s a public ceremony,” the boy mumbled. “I was ten.”
“So you must remember it very clearly,” Vera said.
“I think I’ll have the turkey, too,” Arif said to Martin.
“What do you remember about it, Arif?” Vera asked him.
“How you behave during the operation reflects on your family’s reputation,” Arif replied, but as he spoke he looked at his roommate—not at his roommate’s mother.
“And how did you behave?” Vera asked.
“I didn’t cry—it would have dishonored my family,” the boy told her. “I’ll have the turkey,” he repeated.
“Didn’t you two have turkey two days ago?” Vera asked them. “Don’t have the turkey again—how boring! Have something different!”
“Okay—I’ll have the lobster,” Arif
replied.
“That’s a good choice—I’ll have the lobster, too,” Vera said. “What are you having, Martin?”
“I’ll take the turkey,” said Martin Mills. The sudden strength of his own will surprised him; in the power of his will there was already something Jesuitical.
This particular recollection gave the missionary the strength to return his attention to The Times of India, wherein he read about a family of 14 who’d been burned alive; their house had been set on fire by a rival family. Martin Mills wondered what a “rival family” was; then he prayed for the 14 souls who’d been burned alive.
