From the Memoirs of a Non-Enemy Combatant: A Novel by Alex Gilvarry Page A

man’s door. There you have it—an outward sign of hesitation. Actions, or in this case inaction, can sometimes speak volumes, as I’ve told my interrogator.
    And how could I have turned away? To abandon my course at this stage would have been cowardly. I am many things to many people, as you will soon learn, but one thing I am not is a coward. This man was my neighbor, after all. The least I could do was conduct the fitting. Imagine the embarrassment I would suffer by not showing up and having to see him around the building after. He lived on the first floor. I’d have to pass his apartment twice daily at the absolute minimum.
    This
was
opportunity, as they say, and so…I knocked.
    “I was about to start taking bets with Yuksel on how long you were going to stand out in the hall,” Ahmed said. “I was watching you through the peephole.”
    Ahmed stood in the doorway in what looked like the same dishdasha he had worn the night before. The three buttons at his neckline were undone, revealing a nest of white chest hair in the shape of a large diamond.
    I actually admired the gown’s free-flowing elegance. It was airy and had a lot of movement. It somehow covered up the fact that underneath was a hairy, stinking man. This was fashion’s power, after all. To disguise our most hideous weaknesses. I took a mental note of the way the dishdasha draped over his shoulders and belly and how, even though it was white, it was surprisingly slimming.
    “Come in, Boy, please. Make yourself comfortably at home.”
    I entered the foyer. Ahmed wrapped his free arm around my shoulder and pulled me in for a friendly cuddle. His body odor was rancid.
    “Are you a betting man, Boy?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Betting. Are you a betting man?”
    “I suppose not,” I said.
    “How about horses? Do you like horses?”
    “I like horses, yes.”
    “What am I saying? Everybody likes horses. I can get us an owner’s box in Saratoga. You don’t believe me?”
    “No. I didn’t say that.”
    “If I wanted to I could make a phone call and we’d bein Saratoga instantly, betting on all the thoroughbred beauties. Ever see those brunettes in their big fucking hats?” He spread out his arms to demonstrate the width. “Like this.”
    “We’re talking about the horses?”
    “Ha! Yuksel, you see what I was telling you about this guy? Yuksel. Yuksel!”
    I heard someone gag and hack and spit in the far room. Then I heard a stream of urine and deduced that Yuksel was a man. The pee came from a considerable height.
    The apartment itself was a horrific mess but sizable enough to house a small sweatshop. The four original first-floor units had been gutted to form one giant temple of disorder. Only a dilapidated wall remained as a division between two main rooms. The foremost had several large wooden crates marked FRAGILE . Now, I won’t simply play the victim of my own tale. Here was a man who I knew had been concealing something about his origins. Much more than that, he was a Muslim in the year 2002. I tried my damnedest not to give in to stereotypes, but with respect to the truth—for this is a confession—I was not at ease in this man’s home. I won’t go so far as to make accusations, but I did curiously inquire as to the contents of those “fragile” crates, and the sacks of earth that lined the walls in between small piles of sheetrock and copper. “Cedar,” he said of the sacks throughout the apartment. And in truth, yes, I picked up on their woodsy scent. It overtook Ahmed’s rancid body odor. As for the crates, I was told they were packed with art. Paintings and sculptures by Pakistani artists. “I can move anything within reason out of Pakistan,” he said, which confirmed my suspicion that he was Pakistani.
    A carpet of bubble wrap with all of the bubbles decompressed led us into the far room, the living quarters.
    “Pardon our appearance,” Ahmed said. “We’re renovating.”
    The centerpiece was a grand piano