The Antarcticans by James Suriano Page A

skin, black hair, an engaging smile, and fractal green eyes. Most of the men in the room were wearing some form of tuxedo. This man wore a green velvet Pashtun dress, with a bright-yellow Peshawari turban.
    “Oh, hello, my friend.” His voice was deep and joyful, and he was holding out his hand.
    Leo stepped back so they could see each other. “Mr. Ruftan, this is Pastor Pennings. I believe Lucifer wanted you two to meet.”
    The music in the ballroom stepped up a beat from a lazy blue jazz to an upbeat full orchestra piece. The crowd reshuffled, and the dance floor became visible to Gavin. Sequined and sparkling ball gowns billowed; tuxedo tails caught flight; and the cocktails poured from the bars stationed at the perimeter of the room with the help of what seemed like an army of waiters. The lighting from beneath the floor turned the room a cool pink, which gave everyone a strange hue; the lights on the centerpieces pulsated with the drum of the music. The atmosphere was bordering on a disco.
    Ruftan leaned over to Gavin and quietly said in his ear, “I’m sorry to hear about your son. I have a similar story. Mr. Lucifer thought we might be able to commiserate.” He looked up toward his turban. The corner of his lip followed, and his index finger went into the air. “Maybe not the right word?”
    “Don’t worry about it. I’ve gotten over all pretension since the first time my son tried to kill himself.”
    Ruftan gave a surprised chortle. “You’re living life with abandon, no?”
    “More like a cocktail of fear, apathy, and hope.” Gavin held his drink up in the air. “Cheers.”
    “Do you know who we are seated with for dinner? Quite an impressive group. I think you’ll enjoy them.”
    “Really? I’ve always found the more impressive someone is supposed to be, the more I’m let down. Does Lucifer go all out for every event?
    “This is nothing.” Ruftan waved his hand around.
    “You’d think if he was really interested in helping people, the money could be better spent elsewhere.”
    “It’s not my place to judge him. Not after all he has done for us.” Ruftan interlaced his fingers and pushed his thumb tips against each other.
    “So tell me about your son.” Gavin said.
    Ruftan tugged his fabric of his Pashtun into alignment, stood up straight, and looked out at the dance floor. “You sure you have the time, Mr. Pennings?”
    “I’ve got all night,” Gavin said.
    “Luftan was the perfect boy, you see, from the moment he came from my dear wife, Nazia. He knocked at the door to this world while we were thirty-eight thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean, making our way to America from our home in the Pakistani city of Lahore for the first time. Or so we thought. We were crossing that part of the ocean where the winds of the earth wind together and exchange hands, and the air was bumpy. Up and down, careening all over the skies. The flight attendants were even buckled tightly in their seats. I could see one of them from my seat. Pretty, young, her blond hair pulled back with a sparkly barrette I had seen a hundred times at the bazaars, and her uniform snugly embracing her bosom. I remember that because, never having been to the Western world…” He paused. “…I found that hairstyle and color to be so intriguing.” He laughed at his own insinuation.
    “Nazia let out a holler. Now this is a quiet woman, and I hope you meet her someday. One thing you’ll know about her very quickly is that she speaks only when spoken to and keeps deference to me. But this time, when I looked over at her, she was clutching her belly, one hand above and one beneath. The distinct resemblance of her abdomen to a basketball protruding straight out into this world had convinced all the women in our town this was without a doubt a boy. Now my wife was holding our son as if she were ready to pass the ball at any moment.
    “‘My dear, what is it?’ I said.
    “‘Oh, Ruftan, it’s time. He’s