The Submission: A Novel by Waldman Amy

Author:Waldman, Amy [Waldman, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Published: 2011-08-15T16:00:00+00:00

14

The Committee to Defend Mohammad Khan, the Mohammad Khan Defense Fund, the Mohammad Khan Protection League—all of them lacked only one ingredient, which was Mohammad Khan. He didn’t want to compromise his independence, didn’t want to shoulder any donors’ associations, didn’t want to be some radical-chic pet, a Black Panther with a beard in place of an Afro, but they organized on his behalf even without him, staged press conferences, plays, fund-raisers, and seminars in his name. And parties, including one that Roi asked, or rather ordered, Mo to attend. Its host was a film producer whose Hamptons house Roi had designed. “People want to be in the room with you,” Roi said, then sent his regrets as soon as Mo agreed to go.

The party, in a vast, dimly lit, high-ceilinged apartment at the Dakota, was packed. Through enfiladed rooms currents of guests flowed onward without cease, carrying Mo and Laila—in a dress whose tornpetal layers made her look like a pink peony—with them. Strangers plucked Mo out of the processional to introduce him to other strangers, then returned him, like an unworthy pebble, to the stream. Champagne was passed for toasts no one could hear.

“You know Bobby, right?” De Niro nodded as if to say that yes, Mo did.

“I’ve been a great supporter of the Palestinian cause,” a British baroness told Mo meaningfully.

“This isn’t about the Palestinians,” someone said, overhearing.

“Always, this attempt to disentangle,” eye-rolled Mariam Said.

Rosie O’Donnell laughed behind him. Sean Penn was drunk.

I’m dreaming, Mo thought. Dreaming this is all happening to me. It was not unlike how he had imagined Frank Gehry’s or Richard Meier’s life to be, or his own if he reached their level. Except here was Meier now, waiting, like an acolyte, to have a word with him. The world was upside down. He was half god, half freak. He reached for Laila’s hand, then remembered not to. Russell Simmons squeezed by and jostled him against her. She smiled without turning to look at him. He imagined them home, lacing fingers in bed.

Green ribbons curled vivaciously from dresses and lapels. Mo drank more champagne and struggled toward the windows overlooking the courtyard. Admirers checkmated him to offer inexact praise or overdone sympathy. A woman displaying biceps to rival Madonna’s asked if anyone had bought the rights to his life.

“I didn’t know they were for sale,” he tried to banter. He was more than a little drunk.

“I know Shah Rukh Khan, a bit,” her companion said. “Cousin—?”

“Brother,” Mo said.

“He’s kidding,” Laila interrupted. “Khan is a very common name in India. And elsewhere.”

In the cab on the way home, Laila looked at him and said, “No jokes, Mo. Those people are on your side, even if you don’t like them. And you can’t complain about being misrepresented, then misrepresent yourself.”

His buzz was fading. “I wasn’t myself in there, in a good way,” he said wearily. “I was actually having fun. Every day I’m different, Laila. I’m not the person you met three weeks ago. If this keeps up, in two weeks I won’t be the person you know now.

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