War Porn by Roy Scranton

Author:Roy Scranton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literary Fiction
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 2016-06-01T23:50:39+00:00

Some hours later, Qasim sat at his desk fuming, trying to puzzle out a particularly knotty equation, unable to focus. He’d called Baqubah earlier to talk to Lateefah and it had gone disastrously. His mother wouldn’t speak to him, and when his wife picked up the phone, she wouldn’t answer. Qasim was solicitous at first, gently asking questions, but each time Lateefah refused, his anger redoubled. When he finally asked, “What’s wrong with you? Why are you silent?” she said, “I’m grieving because my husband has abandoned me.” Qasim exploded, screaming into the phone, berating her faithlessness, and calling her names until she finally hung up on him.

Qasim told himself he’d called to entreat her, to comfort her, to promise her he’d send for her, and that it was her unrelenting selfishness that had provoked him. Sitting in his room, going through the same handful of variables over and over, his mind raced along the well-worn track of his indignation, chronicling the story of how put-upon he was, how beleaguered by fate, how neglected and how beaten down. His pained hand, his headache, and the fever in his ears made it all that much worse. From the Gulf War to his exile in Edinburgh to his father’s death, from his meddling aunt to his bullying uncle to his thankless wife, his life appeared to him as a succession of struggles against a despotic fate that had unfairly singled him out among all the others, he, Qasim, son of Faruq, for tribulation.

There was a knock at the door.

“I’m working,” Qasim shouted.

The door opened and Qasim turned to glare at Nazahah, who meekly watched at the floor.

“Cousin . . .”

“What? What do you want?”

“There are men here to see you, Cousin.”

“What men?”

“They say they’re from the university.”

“From the university?”

“Yes, Cousin.”

Qasim stood. “I’ll come down.”

“They said they’d see you here. They’d like to speak to you privately.”

“Well, alright. Send them up.”

Nazahah bowed and left, closing the door behind her. Qasim faced his chair into the center of the room. Two? He supposed both could sit on the bed, or one at the desk. He smoothed his blanket and arranged his papers and pencils.

There was a new knock at the door and as he turned, it opened. One man scanned the room and sat easily on the bed, the other closed the door behind him and stood in the corner. Qasim knew at once they weren’t from the university.

“I . . .” Qasim began, but was interrupted by the sitting man, who waved his hand and clicked his tongue. He looked around the room again, taking in Qasim’s modest furnishings, his many books on his few shelves, his bureau, the picture of Lateefah he kept near his bed, his handful of shirts and trousers hanging in the open closet. Eventually the man turned and looked at Qasim like he was measuring the size of the hole he’d need to bury him in. Qasim realized he was trembling, his skin turning clammy, his mouth going dry.

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