Fire in the Unnameable Country Read Free Page A

perfect excuse. See him: running running toward the prize. Look, he shakes the tree, they fall to the ground, and he lifts them up out of the dust mound to see. And then the fire and the howling at these strange clusters of nectarines. A mere ten steps away, Hedayat is thrown back by an unnameable force and aside from a minor bruise on his forehead appears uninjured at first. You might say it was in consolation for his friend Niramish, who loses his right eye as well as three fingers of his right hand, pointer middle ring, and/or for the added reason of rebellion against father and father-prescribed humanity; whatever the case, Hedayat finds his hands curled up into hardened talons, unable to bend his thumbs and besotted by the added difficulty of fully working the digits of both right and left hands.
    Doctors who probe observe take samples of the tendons bones nerves interstitial tissues conclude, nothing wrong, Shukriah Ma’am, seems altogether like a psychological matter.
    The psychos, meanwhile, suggest all manner of cures, from hypno to shock therapy to antidepressant medication, all of which my mother refuses what we need is gently to pry open his mouth, she insists, this and nothing more, doctors sirs. Whether the loss is a rational decision or an effect of the blast no one can decide until Hedayat, too, forgets, content to take multiple-choice examinations since his writing appears to teachers like a private hieroglyphics, and not altogether worried about the future.
    Eyeless-fingerless-eyepatched and the other finger-gnarled, Niramish and Hedayat form quite the pair. During trips to Confectionarayan Babu’scandy shop, they stand in the shadows of the crowding children, the fat smelly pirate and his friend with talons and twisted hands, crackling laughter, whoops and hollering: they are the butt of all the mobile playground’s jokes. Narayan Khandakar, meanwhile, or Confectionarayan Babu, as he is known to everyone, is a gentle creature, and when the cete of badgering children leave after making purchases or get caught up in lights and buttons of arcade games, he invites, psst come on, you two, not out of pity or even to favour the son of one of his closest friends, Mamun M, but out of a spontaneous fatherly love, and pulls the string of the incandescent bulb in the cellar stairwell, and from dark corners the light spreads into bright shapes, the yellow fruits that break apart spilling candied seeds, the blue sugar packets that make you froth rabid at the mouth, the sweet toothpaste meant for eating, Confectionarayan Babu’s many succoured potables, his bars and candies of all shapes.
    That box over there, he never bestows a favour without first requesting they lend a nominal hand: please push it to this here.
    Though Hedayat is more or less crippled at such tasks, he leans with his weight against his elbows against the box.
    Here, let me do it, his friend remains better equipped despite the damage of the exploded nectarines.
    Never are they allowed more than one bowl or handful of candied almonds, but none of the other children are allowed to drink from the gushing fountain that feeds the vending receptacle for iced drinks or to try the newest American chocolate bars; just being in that wonderworld is tantalizing enough.
    Most important for Hedayat, he provided foil to his father/ there couldn’t be two individuals more dissimilar; Mamun M was perennially preceded by a sorrowful tune while Confectionarayan, with his round ball body and insatiable sweet tooth, was every chocolatier’s test subject and never had a sad word to say about anything. Confectionarayanadded questions to the son’s mind: Don’t be so hard on your old man, he would say, he’s not a bad man, and if you only knew, boy, what subterranean hallways he’s seen, what a thoughtreel looks like.
    Narayan Khandakar and my father would chatterbox in Xasan Sierra’s cigarette shop, talking talk and playing cards in