I’ve got a chance to be rescued, I know. I’ll be able to wake one morning and speak - and someone will listen. I’ll be able to wake one morning and talk - and someone will notice. I’ll be able to wake one morning and walk, and someone will follow me.

But until then, there’s me, and me, and me.

It’s cold outside, or at least down here, three floors under the penthouse flat that’s now somewhere around ground level. How I used to env y the Mazurskys for owning a penthouse flat. Now I env y them even more - they were probably the only ones who made it out alive.

W hen a building collapses, who’s got a better chance of surviving? The folks on the first floor? The top floor? Some floor in between?

Those are the kind of things you think about when you’re trapped under a ton of concrete.

But not at first. At first you spend a lot of time freaking out and trying to wake yourself up from the nightmare that happens to be your life.

‘There’s no way this is happening to ME,’ you keep thinking.

That goes on for a few hours, maybe even a day. Then you become angry.
In my case, I was particularly mad that I hadn’t backed up my computer. I had just gotten a lot of work done on my book, and at least half of it, the only existing half of it, was on that stupid laptop.

Not every thing was bad, though - I was also lucky enough to have Lowenstein as a target for my anger. Lowenstein was the only neighbour in our building who refused the building committee’s plan to replace the gas unit which fed our central heating system.

‘The chutzpah of these people! Two hundred shekels for a gas valve?! I bet you I can make one of these valves for twenty shekels, if not less.’

So he did. And now most of the people who lived in this building are dead, or injured, their life course altered by some idiot pensioner who used to be an orthodontist before he retired twenty years ago.

Or maybe Lowenstein has nothing to do with it. Maybe it was the Hamas avenging the death of their leader. Mind you, why they would choose a building such as ours, which houses no one of any importance, was beyond me.

Lowenstein dissented, of course. ‘Ask yourself for a second,’ he shouted during the first and only conversation we had after the building’s collapse, ‘if you wanted to hurt a people, I mean really hit them where it hurts - wouldn’t you take out all the orthodontists?’

‘Yes, Lowenstein,’ I yelled back, not unhappy that I had someone to direct my anger at. ‘I can’t think of a more painful way to hurt the spirit of a nation than having its children grow with crooked teeth!’

Lowenstein muttered something that sounded like, ‘Here goes another one with an ugly smile,’ but I didn’t have time to ask him to repeat his words. A block of concrete or steel must have come loose and crushed him. From then on I was on my own.

On my own. That’s something I thought I’d never be again. We’d been together for five months now, going on twenty years, and I knew she was the one, forever. Now all this shit happens and the only positive thing about it is that she’s not here. Thank God for nieces that need babysitting.

‘Remember all those things I promised I’d do? All those great plans for the business - that stuff that was just on the bottom of my to-do list? Those things that somehow got delayed for month after month? Well I’ll do them now!

Straight after I get out of here. Even… even in the hospital!’ I was talking to no one in particular, as if negotiation was an effective technique for getting rescued.

‘I promise, I’ll change! I will!’

‘Yeah, right,’ the voice in my head answered. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. Here I am, trapped without food, water or light for, what is it, two days now? Yet I still have full capacity for treating myself like shit. As if now was the time.

The third day was the worst. I know it was the third day because someone’s alarm clock (Lowenstein’s?) had gone on for the third time. This time I didn’t care when it rang for an eternity before it stopped. On day one I amused myself with the thought that someone might actually reach over and turn it off - and they did. But by now everyone is dead.

So why aren’t I?

‘Give it time,’ I say to myself. ‘All things come in due time, and your time seems to be more and more due.’

Nothing is going on in my head. I’ve gone through it all: past, present and future plans. And I have to admit, most of it wasn’t that exciting. Sure, there was that time when I learned how to windsurf, or the time I won my first customer, but you know, all that seems a bit, well, insignificant. Except for one thing…

‘So, when are we going to kiss?’ she says, two hours into our first date.

‘How about now?’ I ask. How about now.

‘Morris, I’m tired of all this shit. I’m tired of moving every six months. I’m tired of these trailer parks. I’m tired of working at Burger King with some 15 year-old telling me what to do.’

Morris is sprawled on the Lay-Z-Boy, watching TV. He is wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and white underwear. On his belly are three objects: a can of beer (Miller Lite), a bowl of popcorn and the TV remote control. He’s been picking his ear for the past few minutes. If he’s hearing his wife, Darlene, he isn’t showing it.

‘Look at me when I’m talking to you! Can’t you stop watching that stupid TV for one second and talk to your wife?!’

Morris flips through the channels and takes a sip from his beer. He can’t feel the liquid on his lips, so he raises the can higher, but without results. He stretches his hand a bit and shakes the can, as if hoping some liquid will miraculously materialize from it. Nothing. As Darlene continues to talk in the background, Morris is caught in a dilemma. If he gets up from the sofa to get another beer he might send Darlene the message that he’s actually interested in talking to her. Yet if he stays on the sofa, the alcohol’s effect will soon run out and her words will become even clearer.

‘…should have listened to my mother and left you a long time ago. To think that I could be married to Phil McGraw today, living in Phoenix, playing tennis in the afternoons, taking yoga classes… but no, here I am stuck with Mr. Nobody, who doesn’t even understand the concept of selffulfillment.’

Morris realizes that inaction is also a form of action, and that Darlene is treading into the dangerous territory of psychological syllogism. If he doesn’t act quickly, soon after she finishes talking about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, she’ll move to Freud and explain to him how his ID is stronger than his Superego. Usually, that’s when all hell breaks loose and someone gets hurt. Usually, that’s Morris.

‘Baby?’

It takes Darlene a few more seconds to understand that a. Morris has spoken and, possibly more importantly, b. he might have used a term of endearment.

‘Baby, why are you so angry?’

‘What?’ Darlene answers. Obviously she’s been caught off guard.

‘Why are you so mad? You know I love you… don’t you?’

Darlene is perplexed. Morris hasn’t said anything in the past three years that would lead her to believe that he cares about whether she’s angry or not. To make matters even more confusing, the word ‘love’ hasn’t been used, as far as she can recall, for over 12 years.

Morris leans back in his recliner and pulls up the foot support, carefully balancing the popcorn bowl on his stomach. He stares at a distant point on the ceiling and takes advantage of Darlene’s silence to add an air of importance and drama to his words.

‘I was thinking to myself the other day: how long has it been since we took some time off? Went on a holiday, you know, just you and I? Like in the good ol’ days.’

Eleven years was the answer to his question, and as far as Darlene could remember, there was nothing good about the ‘ol’ days’ but she’s interested in seeing where this is leading to.

‘So the other day I called up my uncle Leo, you know, the travel agent. He said there are great deals to Florida. We could go for a week. Heck, why not two?’

‘We… we’re going to Florida?’

‘Sure, why not? You’ve always said you wanted to see Miami.’

Darlene has heard enough to convince her that a miracle has happened. She takes three quick steps to Morris’s recliner and embraces him.

‘Whoa there, tiger,’ he says as he balances the popcorn bowl. ‘At this rate we won’t be going anywhere.’

Which is exactly what Morris has in mind. A trip to Florida isn’t really in the plan, and Morris can’t afford to take Darlene to the drive-in theatre, let alone to Miami. But that’s OK. Because Darlene knows that. She knows his uncle Leo isn’t a travel agent, but a used car salesman. She knows Morris won’t take her anywhere. But that’s OK. Because right now, as she holds the man who is her husband in her arms, she can make believe for just a little bit longer.

If you could avoid one mistake in your life. If you could go back in time and take a right turn instead of a left. Show up to a meeting instead of staying in bed. Say what you really wanted instead of remaining silent. What would you change?

Tariq Zawari knew the answer to that question. In fact, a day hadn’t passed that Tariq hadn’t prayed to wake up and discover that the death of his brother was all just a nightmare. Yet everyday, for the past 13 years, he woke up to the sad reality that was his life.

The Zawaris emigrated from Tunisia in the late 60s and opened ‘Fattoush’, a small traditional Tunisian bakery, shortly after their arrival. Though small and hidden in an alleyway, tales of the bakery’s magnificent bread soon made their way across the community. Within two years the bakery had to be relocated to a larger building, adding Bejma and Ten-Layer bread to its selection.

Each morning, Tariq and his brother Ajmi would wake up at 3.30, make their way to the bakery on their bicycles, and begin baking the bread. At 5.30, after finishing his morning prayers, Abdul Zawari would join his two sons. Together the three would bake until the late afternoon hours. Every day at 5pm the three would sit around a heavy oak table, drink mint tea, and eat some of the day’s Baklava, a traditional sweet made from chopped nuts and honey, wrapped in delicate pastry. ‘This was their little treat,’ says Zawari senior. ‘We were never a rich family, and I always felt bad about not sending the kids to school. So this was my little way of showing them I respected their work.’

Hearing the same account of the story from his eldest son, Tariq, would lead you to believe that the two were talking about a different bakery. ‘My father has no conscience. No compassion. No love. Not for his children, not for his wife, not even for himself,’ says Tariq, sipping from his milk-white glass of Araq, an alcoholic beverage he became addicted to soon after his brother’s death.

‘This is a man who would send his children to work at 3 o’clock in the morning, every day, every year,’ says Tariq. ‘Do you know how it feels to see all your friends go to school, then to high school, and instead of joining them you go to work for your father? Do you know what it feels like to become stupider and stupider each year?’ he adds, emptying his glass.

Aden Zawari refused to be interviewed for this story, but friends of the family report that she sides with her son, Tariq, though she would never say so in front of her husband. ‘This community is still very conservative. Women here are expected to do two things - raise the children and run the household,’ says Nadia Sachnin, the owner of a small beauty salon in the village centre. ‘Not a lot has changed in the past 30 years.’

But a cold morning in January 1979 changed this community forever. Neither Tariq, nor his father Abdul, are willing to recount in detail what had happened that morning. People familiar with the event told me how the two brothers had hatched a plan to burn the bakery down. They would fabricate a malfunction with the bakery’s large steel oven, ensuring a fire would break before their father would arrive.

‘They knew Abdul had no insurance,’ says a reliable source. ‘They knew that if the place burned down, he would never have enough money to rebuild it.’

Police logs from the morning show that at 4.23 an unidentified member of the community called to report a loud noise. The police dispatched an officer to look into the matter. The police log then shows that at 4.45 an ambulance was ordered to arrive at the bakery (at that time, all village emergency services were handled from the same station).

‘When I got to the bakery… well, it was a mess,’ says Yusuf Al-Shafi, the ambulance driver who arrived at the scene that morning. ‘There was Baklava everywhere. Thousands of pieces… on the walls, on the floor, even on the ceiling,’ adds Al-Shafi between puffs from his Hookah. ‘It was a mess, a big mess.’

The coroner’s report is a concise document written in shorthand. The cause of death is listed as ‘Asphyxiation’.

‘The boy didn’t stand a chance,’ says Dr. Farouk Majid, the village doctor at the time. ‘I remember this as if it were yesterday. He had eight pieces of Baklava, you know, the small cylindrical type with the pistachio on top, lodged in his pharynx,’ he says, pointing at his throat. ‘I’ve never seen a case where anyone with that amount of Baklava in their throat had made it through the night.’

Ajmi Zawari didn’t make it through that night. At 21.23, as the coroner’s report reads, he was declared dead. The morning after he was brought to burial.

So what really happened during those early hours of that cold January day? The villagers are vague when it comes to details. One can’t escape the feeling that there is some code of silence that is strictly enforced, ensuring the real events of that day are never made public.

‘It’s pretty clear what happened there,’ says Walid Walid, a technician for Cinelli-Esperia, the company that manufactured the oven installed in the Zawari bakery. ‘The 510 could never handle long cycles…’ added Walid, referring to a model similar to the one used for baking sweats at Fattoush, ‘…especially not with the high heat required for Baklava. The kids must have forgotten to turn the oven off and BOOM!’ adds Walid, clapping his hands for dramatic effect.

Thirteen years later life seems to be back to normal in this sleepy village. Children wake up in the morning and go to school. Women, most of them at least, still stay at home and take care of the house. And men, most of them at least, gather at 5pm in the village café, for a little glass of mint tea and a puff from their Hookahs.

But no one eats Baklava.

Dear Miss Eisenstein. I promised I would write you a letter when my writing gets better. So here I am writing you a letter.

I like candy. When I grow up I’m gonna work for a candy factory. I bet I could be a really good worker in a candy factory. That’s what my Daddy said. He said I could be the CTO - the Chief Tasting Officer. I think that’s supposed to be some kind of joke, cuz my Daddy and Mommy laughed really hard when he said that. I laughed too, but I didn’t get the joke. Grownups can be strange.

Next week school is over and my summer holiday begins. I’m a bit scared of the summer. I made all these friends at school this year, like Matt (who likes to be called Matty) and Patricia (who doesn’t liked to be called Patty). Matt and Patricia are my best friends ever. Mom said I could invite them over during the summer holiday but that’s not going to work because they’re both going overseas. I’m not sure what that means, but I think it means they are learning to walk on water or something.

Miss Eisenstein, can you come over and visit me? I really miss you. Why did you have to move to the universe city? Was it because there are astronauts there and you want to be an astronaut? Mom told me that it’s a place where people study all day so they can get smarter. But, Miss Eisenstein, you are the most smartest person I know. So what can they teach you that you don’t already know?

I still have the t-shirt you gave me (the one that says ‘Go Bears’ on it). All the kids at school wanted to know how I got the t-shirt. I told them Mickey Bailey personally gave it to me. They asked me why I didn’t have his autograph on the shirt or something like that. I told them that Mickey and I are close friends and that you don’t ask close friends for autographs.

I still have the autograph notebook you gave me, except now it’s a bit full. The first page I kept empty, with only your autograph on it. But the other pages have more than one autograph on each since I figured I’ll have hundreds and hundreds of them in no time. So far I have the following autographs:

Mr. Wu from the corner deli.

Mrs. Spielman from the second floor.

Arnie, the doorman.

Jose, the super.

Aunt Michele and Uncle Jason.

Lakisha - who does Mommy’s hair.

Art - the delivery guy.

Mr. Clarkson, my sports teacher (all the other teachers I asked said no. Maybe they don’t want to be famous.)

I thought about putting my own autograph in, but I can’t figure which one I should use. I spent one whole afternoon trying to copy the signature off a $20 bill, but all I got was waves and waves and waves. Besides, my name is Tom Cohen, not Reginald McKenzie III. Who gives their kid a name like that anyhow?

My friend Patricia says that names are really important. She says that people either grow into their names or they don’t, but they can’t escape them. I’m not sure what that means. My name never ran after me or anything like that. And I don’t understand how you can grow into your name. Anyhow, I’m sure I’ve already grown into mine since it’s only three letters long and I’m already seven years old.

I had a big fight with Patricia over her name. She said that her name means ‘Noble One’ in Latin. I told her she was lying. If her name was ‘Noble One’ then why doesn’t everyone call her that instead of calling her Patricia? And what kind of name is ‘Noble One’ anyhow? Patricia said that I’m miseducated and that I don’t understand anything. So I got angry at her and made up a new name for her: Noble Two.

The next day at school I got all of our class to call her that. After recess, Mrs. Cunningham asked to see me. She said that it’s not nice to make fun of someone’s name. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t make fun of her name, that I could have called her Potty or Pooty, but Mrs. Cunningham looked kind of angry, so I said nothing.

Miss Eisenstein? If Mom says it’s okay, can I come and visit you in the universe city? Do I have to bring my astronaut suit? Do I have to buy an oxygen mask as well?

Thank you for reading my letter.

Your friend,

Tom Cohen.

‘We get our inspiration from African music. You know, the drums and the beats.’

‘But you guys play piano.’

‘Well, yes, but isn’t a piano just another form of a drum?’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘Well, that’s just an example of how the Western world is stealing our musical heritage.’

‘But you’re two white guys from New Jersey. Who’s stealing your musical heritage?’

‘See, there you go again, it’s all about White supremacy. You know, there comes a time when brothers got to get together and fight.’

‘Right… well, I’m afraid that’s all we have time for folks. Stay tuned for Rodney Duncan’s Classy Classics coming up after this announcement from our sponsors.’

He shuffles his papers together and gets up from his seat.‘Nice try, guys,’ he says to his two guests, and leaves the studio. John Nolan is 42 years old. He’s been working at WXBX (‘Your kinda station’) for 11 years and can feel each one in his ears. He never thought it to be scientifically possible, but he’s actually losing his hearing, selectively. It’s like his brain would shut down whenever the person he’d be interviewing would sound too new-agey or too pretentious, or too anything.

He was a DJ in college, but his father convinced him that working in a radio station had no future. So he became a lawyer and for 10 long years he wrote and rewrote contracts. Contracts that no one cared about, that no one understood. Contracts that were so boring he actually caught his secretary asleep a few times while typing them up. When his first wife left him on account of ‘not being there, and when you were there you were boring as hell’ he seized the opportunity to take stock and figure out what his real passion in life was.

Nolan failed miserably at that and ended up working part-time doing legal work at the local radio station. His love of music and hatred of the legal world was clear enough for the station manager to offer him a deal. He could work as a DJ as long as he kept on doing the legal bits every now and again. Nolan said yes and so began his second career. Years passed by. There was a string of failed relationships, followed by another one. John Nolan was not a happy man. He takes the elevator down to the parking lot. Suddenly he feels a wave of cold sweat on his back. He can’t remember where he parked the car. Worse than that, he can’t even remember if he brought the car today, or whether he hitched a ride with Angie, his producer. A quick check in his pockets reveals a set of keys to his house. No car keys. He must have come with Angie.

This happened to him twice before. Not with car keys, though. The first time was the scariest. He woke up at 3am to find himself curled up next to the elevator of his apartment building. He had no idea how he got there, how long he had been there or whether any of the neighbours had seen him. The second time he lost himself like that was a week ago. He went out with Angie for a quick bite after work. Three hours later she called him at home, worried crazy that he was abducted by aliens or the mafia. He had no idea what she was talking about, had no recollection where they had eaten lunch, and worse, had no idea how he got home.

He takes the stairs back to the main entrance and steps out to the street. Standing on the curb he hails a yellow cab. ‘How are you this afternoon?’ the driver asks in a deep, raspy voice. ‘I’m well, very well,’ Nolan answers.

‘Where can I take you, Sir?’ the driver asks with a smile that exposes a neat row of white teeth, save for one golden tooth.

‘I’m sorry?’ asks Nolan.

‘Where do you want to go?’

And then he feels it again. As if someone had turned on the air-conditioner to maximum. He closes his eyes. ‘This is stupid,’ he says to himself. ‘Completely stupid…’

‘Sorry, Sir, could you speak up please, I didn’t quite get that address.’

‘I don’t know,’ he answers to the driver. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Is it a restaurant, Sir? I know most of them by heart. Just try me.’

‘No, no,’ says Nolan. ‘I need to get home. It’s just that… I don’t remember the address.’

The cab driver turns around and looks at him, as if making sure he’s not pulling his leg. Looking at Nolan he can see that he’s not joking.

‘Did you just move there? Maybe if you tell me the neighbourhood I can drive there, I’m sure you’d recognize it when we get closer.’

‘I’ve lived there for 8 years,’ Nolan answers. The driver looks at him, trying to decide what to do next. Nolan reaches for the door. ‘Look, I’m sorry to have taken your time…’

‘No,’ says the driver. ‘It’s OK. Stay. We can just go for a drive, right? Who knows, we might find your home on the way.’

And so it happens that John Nolan is sitting in the back of a cab that’s taking him back to a home he doesn’t know the address for.

‘You like movies?’ asks the driver after a few minutes of driving.

‘Yeah, I guess,’ answers Nolan, still shaking from his inability to remember where he lives.

‘You ever see Deliverance?’ asks the driver.

‘No,’ answers Nolan, ‘though maybe I have and I can’t remember,’ he says and chuckles, as does the driver. ‘Some sick humour I got…’ he says to himself.

‘Sometimes you have to lose yourself before you can find anything,’ the driver says to Nolan, catching his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

‘I dunno, man.’

‘What?’

‘That thing she does. I don’t know what to do.’

‘The burps?’

‘Yeah. Oh come on. Stop laughing. I thought I could trust you.’

‘You can trust me, all right. I just think it’s hilarious that your girlfriend burps.’

‘Great! I’m happy my love life is providing you with entertainment.’

‘Dude, what are you talking about. I’d kill for a girlfriend that burps. That’s like the coolest thing ever.’

‘Cut it out, man. I’m trying to tell you I have a problem with her and I don’t know what to do about it.’

‘Oh, poor baby. It’s natural to burp you know. Everybody does it.’

‘Girls don’t.’

‘Hello?!’

‘What?’

‘Of course they do.’

‘What?’

‘Shhhyeah! And they fart, too.’

‘Get outta town! Girls don’t fart!’

‘Earth calling Kevin! Hello, is there anybody home?!’

‘Rita doesn’t fart.’

‘And she’s never had sex before you either.’

‘Well… I didn’t say that…’

‘But that’s what you’d prefer to believe.’

‘No, I don’t prefer to believe anything. I just don’t care.’

‘Bullshit!’

‘What?!’

‘You want to tell me you don’t care how many sexual partners your girlfriend had before you?’

‘Who said it was more than one?’

‘Hello?! Kevin, the woman is 27! It’s safe to assume that she’s bedded anywhere between 10 and 50 guys by now.’

‘You make me sick!’

‘Wake up and smell the coffee, Kev, this isn’t the 1930s you know.’

‘Yeah, and my girlfriend isn’t a nymphomaniac.’

‘Man, if you prefer to live in a parallel universe where girls don’t burp, fart or have multiple sexual partners, then be my guest. All I’m saying is, that chances are your girl has tried everything you can imagine by the time she hooked up with your sorry ass.’

‘Wha… what do you mean “everything”?’

‘Are you for real?!’

‘What?!’

‘What, do I look like Dr. Ruth? Everything as in EVERYTHING!’

‘Rita isn’t like that.’

‘Oh, she isn’t. Well my condolences. You must have a miserable sex life.’

‘Excuse me?! We have great sex, thank you very much.’

‘And where do you think little Rita knows everything she does? Do you think she was born with the knowledge?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Gee, Kev, aren’t we slow upstairs today. What’s gotten in you? We talk about your girlfriend’s past and suddenly you’re all weird and shit.’

‘I dunno man, that stuff freaks me out.’

‘Freaks you out? How so?’

‘I don’t want to be thinking about all her partners when I’m with her.’

‘You’re thinking about her partners when you’re having sex with her? Man, we’ve got a bigger problem on our hands than I thought…’

‘No, no, it’s not like that. It’s just like… that I never thought of her in that way…’

‘That way? as in “not the Virgin Mary” way?’

‘Look, if you can’t be serious, then we don’t have to talk about it.’

‘Kev, take it easy. I’m just trying to help.’

‘I know. It’s just that I prefer not to think about all this stuff.’

‘Dude, you should be grateful to her partners.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah. Like think about the way she goes down on you.’

‘Hey!’

‘What?! Oh now you’re going to tell me she doesn’t go down on you?’

‘No, no. I mean yes, yes. She does.’

‘Right. Now, you know how she does this little twist in her wrist every time she moves her hand up and down?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, that’s something she learned. That’s a piece of experience handed over by one of her partners, a piece of experience that you, Kevin Bailey, must be enjoying tremendously.’

‘Hmmm… I haven’t thought about it that way. I did wonder where she… What the? What the fuck man?!’

‘What?’

‘How did?! How did you know about the little wrist thing?!’

‘Oh that? Emmm, well, that’s actually something all girls do. But you get the point. Emmm… listen… I really gotta go now. I’ll talk to you later bro? Keep it real.’

It was simple plan. Call Igor Ilyushin and ask $1 million dollar or we kill his little boy. Ilyushin he son of son of great aero plane engineer Piotr Ilyushin. He maybe $30 million rich.

The plan was for me to make phone call and ask for money. I would be negotiator. I came up with name. Before, I’m just little guy supposed to call Ilyushin on the phone. But after I see movie with Kevin Spacey, I say myself - me and Kevin, we look the same. I have black hair, he have black hair. I am losing my black hair, he is losing his black hair. He is cool guy, I am cool guy.

So when my boss Nikolai tell me that I am a telephoner, I say to him, ‘Nyet. I am not a telephoner. I am negotiator, like Kevin Spacey.’ My boss, Nikolai, he very ignorant man. He never watch American movies. He not know who Kevin Spacey. I say to him, ‘Kevin Spacey he negotiator for FBI.’ When my boss he hear word ‘FBI’, he look at me and say, ‘Da. FBI is good. You can be a Kevin Space for me.’

I say to my boss Nikolai, ‘No, I be negotiator, not Kevin Space.’ So he say, ‘Da, you be Kevin Space Negotiator.’

So I have two week to practice for my role. I watch movie maybe twenty or thirty time. I watch so well, I know what Kevin Spacey is say every minute. Like example, the bad guy who is acted by Samuel L. Jackson, say Kevin Spacey, ‘You were wrong about me. What if I’m right about them?’ And Kevin Spacey he answer to the Samuel L. Jackson, ‘But what if you’re wrong about me?’ Ha! I tell you, this FBI guy is very smart.

So after one week my wife Dasha say to me, ‘Tolya, you say you are working on special project. But all day you sit in front of TV and watch same movie again and again.’ Dasha, bless her souls, is a patient woman. If not that Samuel L. Jackson he is acting in the film, Dasha would tell me stop watch movie many day ago. But Dasha like Samuel L. very much, so she say nothing.

After one week, even Dasha start worrying. I don’t like my woman ask me question, so I think, if Kevin Spacey his wife ask him difficult question like Dasha, what would he say? And believe me, all the answers is in the film, The Negotiator. So I say to Dasha, ‘Dasha, I will give you answer, but not now.’ Later, after I finish watch the movie again, I come to Dasha and say, ‘Dasha, I have answer for you. The answer is this: I once talked a guy out of blowing up the Sears Tower but I can’t talk my wife out of the bedroom.’ This is what I say, because this is what Kevin Spacey say in difficult situation in movie.

Dasha not like my answer and I had to make dinner formy own.

But I am tough guy, and very cool, so I keep watching the movie very close. Again and again, until I feel that I becoming Kevin Spacey. I am not Kevin Spacey, because I am Anatoly Alexandrovich, but I am very like Kevin Spacey so that even my friends tell me, ‘Tolya, why how much have you changed.’ And this is to me signal that I am ready for job.

So I come to my boss, Nikolai, and I say, ‘Nikolai, your negotiator is ready.’ Nikolai, he look at me funny, but I know it is because he see in front of him not Tolya, but Kevin Spacey, negotiator FBI.

On day of mission I sit at home and wait for phone call from my boss, Nikolai. I sit for many hour, never leave the phone. My wife Dasha, she ask me, ‘Why you sitting next to phone like teenage girl?’ I say Dasha to be quiet. I say her that I work on very special project for FBI. Dasha, she not know what FBI is, but think maybe is like KGB. We not have KGB anymore, but Dasha think maybe better for her not to ask question. So she go kitchen to make dinner.

At 7.03 I get phone call from my boss, Nikolai. He say, ‘Tolya, you have permission to call Ilyushin.’ I say to my boss, ‘Give me green light.’ My boss, Nikolai, he not know what green light is. So he say, ‘Tolya, make call now or you in trouble.’ My boss, Nikolai, he dangerous man. So I say, ‘OK boss, I will make call now.’

I pick up phone and call Ilyushin. His secretary ask, ‘Who is this?’ I say, ‘The Negotiator.’ She ask me wait. After one minute she come back and say, ‘We not have Mr. Negotiator here.’ So I say to her, ‘Listen cow, I am not looking for Mr. Negotiator, I am Negotiator. I like Kevin Spacey.’

When secretary hear I say, ‘I like Kevin Spacey’ she begin all excited. She ask if I see K-PAX and if I see American Beauty. I say American Beauty is best movie ever. And she agree. We talk about Kevin Spacey for many many minutes and I forget why I call. After half hour I remember I suppose to negotiate with Ilyushin. So I explain secretary what happens and ask to speak with her boss. So secretary say to me, ‘We no have Mr. Ilyushin here. This is office of Mr. Plotnitsky, you make mistake.’ I feel bad. I feel like my boss, Nikolai, he find out, he kill me. I tell secretary I feel bad. So she tell, ‘I advice for you’. I ask her, ‘What advice?’ She say remember what Samuel L. Jackson say to Kevin Spacey, ‘When your friends betray you, sometimes the only people you can trust are strangers.’ I say to her very much thanks and go and eat dinner Dasha makes me in kitchen.

‘How many times do I have to tell you?! I’m not doing it! I’mnot going into that machine again!’

‘But, Eddie dear, you know it’ll make you feel better’, his mother says.

‘How do you know?! Are you a doctor?! You’re not a doctor! You’re just feeding me all the shit they’re feeding you!’

He’s breaking down in front of us as his Mom looks to me for support. What am I supposed to say? Tell her that he’s right? Tell her that the survival rate for his type of cancer is less than 15%? Tell her that it’s better to have all of him for the next three months than a third of him for a year, maybe two?

Last night Abigail asked me why I do what I do. ‘Why am I a doctor?’ I asked her. ‘No silly, I know why you’re a doctor. But why did you choose to work with people you can’t really help?’

I didn’t have an answer for that one, something she picked on immediately. She made me a cup of hot chocolate and left me alone in the kitchen without saying a word. Statistically, she’s right. Last year I treated 86 patients. Of those, about 40 have died so far. By March of next year, a dozen or so will join them. So why do I do it?

I ask his mother to wait for us outside, and she leaves us alone in my examination room. The first month was relatively easy. Hardly any reactions. But now the nausea is kicking in, and he’s losing his hair. Now he’s not only feeling ill, he’s looking ill. Sometimes I think we invented chemotherapy and radiation to ensure that this disease feels and looks as dramatic as its mortality rate. It’s like adding a strong odour to cooking gas to ensure that if there’s a gas leak, we’ll notice it, even though cooking gas is odourless by nature.

It’s the first time he’s not looking into my eyes, which is a bad sign. He knows his eyes can’t lie. Knows that if they meet mine they will tell me that he’s ready to give up. That he’s had enough.

I look at his baseball cap. It looks awkward and oversized.

‘What do you miss most?’ I ask him.

‘Being normal,’ he answers without raising his head.

It’s funny how we spend all our lives trying to be unique, different, original. Yet when something happens, when disaster strikes, all we want is to go back to the humdrum of our regular lives. To that steady beat of boredom. What he wouldn’t give up just to spend another afternoon slouching in front of the TV, knowing that tomorrow he can do exactly the same thing.

‘I miss the excitement,’ I say.

He looks at me as though I just made an attempt at being funny.

‘You get excited watching your patients die? Some doctor I got…’

Sometimes I forget how sharp 17 year-olds can be.

‘I miss the excitement of going to battle,’ I tell him. ‘The rush of fighting together with my patients against this thing. I miss that sometimes.’

‘Don’t all your patients fight anymore?’

‘Some of them do. Some of them don’t. It’s not for me to decide.’

‘What difference does it make? Either they’re gonna die, or they’re not. It’s not like they have a choice or anything. In fact, you’re probably just planting false hopes in most of them. They think they can beat it, but we all know what the survival rates are…’

‘Are you going to die, Eddie?’

‘What?!’

‘I want to know what you’re planning to do? Are you going to die?’

‘Shit man, what kind of doctor are you? I should be asking you that fucking question! How the fuck should I know if I’m gonna die?!’

He’s scared now. I can see the fear in his eyes. I can see the anger.

I get up from my seat and leave him in the room on his own. Outside his mother hangs her face at an angle, trying to read from my expression whether I managed to persuade him to continue his therapy.

‘Will he be okay?’

I look at her. I want to tell her something good, something positive. Something that will give her the strength to make him stronger.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I can’t get no, satisfaction. I can’t get no, satisfaction! Cuz’ I try and I try and I try. I can’t get no! I can’t get no!’

‘Nicholas! Nicholas!’ She’s pounding rhythmically on the bathroom door. He’s at it again, taking his morning shower.Him and Mick Jagger.

‘Baby, you’re out of sync, the song has four beats…’

‘There are other people in this house, you know!’ she shouts, though she can’t resist smiling as well. There’s nothing like being married to an aging rock star. There’s the singing in the bathroom, the hair that gets more attention than a bride on her wedding day, and of course, those leather pants. He might be well over forty, but one thing he’ll never give up on are his leather pants. And what drives her really crazy, is that girls still recognize him on the street. Girls less than half his age come up to him for an autograph. And the leather pants only seem to excite them more.

Nick steps out of the shower, wearing nothing but a towel around his head. ‘Nicholas! Why do you have to walk around like that?!’

‘Because it turns you on, baby…’ he answers, slapping her ass. She blushes and goes into the bathroom. The steam from his shower is still hanging in the air. She looks at the mist-covered mirror. ‘You rock my world!’ is written across it. He does stuff like that. Surprises her every once in a while. Makes her feel like a teenager. And that’s probably the reason she puts up with him.

‘Daddy?’

‘What’s up, bro?’

‘Can I get a dinosaur for my next birthday?’

‘Pasquale? We talked about this before. You know that dinosaurs don’t exist, don’t you?’

‘They don’t?’

‘No, they don’t, and stop acting as if you don’t know that.You’re being silly.’

He sits down at the table and drinks his coffee. On the cover of the magazine is a shot of Madonna and Britney Spears kissing. He didn’t have to kiss anybody to get on the cover of a magazine. He just had to be himself, the ravishing Nick LeGrand.

‘LeGrand’. He made up that name just before they released their first record, twenty four years ago. ‘Nicholas Fothergill’ just didn’t sound right for a rock star. He wasn’t sure what ‘LeGrand’ actually meant when he came up to their manager with his demand to change the name on the album sleeve (even though 10,000 of them had already been printed), but no one seemed to care. As long as he delivered the goods he could call himself whatever he wanted.

‘Daddy?’

‘Yeah, dude?’

‘Can I learn ballet?’

He drops the magazine on the table, shaking his coffee mug enough to spill its contents.

‘What did you ask?’

‘I asked if I could learn ballet.’

‘Pasquale, what are you talking about?! Only girls learn ballet! Do you want to be a girl?!’

‘No, Daddy.’

‘Then stop with all this bullshit. Besides, I told you. You’re going to learn some martial arts.’

‘Do you get to paint in martial arts?’

‘No! Martial arts is about fighting. Fighting like a man. Not dancing like a little girl.’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

At some point in our life we realize that we’re probably not going to make much out of ourselves, so we might as well make someone else. Then we have kids, and suddenly, the only thing we care about is how to make sure they turn out exactly like us.

She joins them at the table.

‘What’s going on around here?’

‘Your son wants to be a girl.’

‘I do not!’ says Pasquale, pounding his spoon on the table.

‘Pasquale, calm down. And so can you, Nicholas. Just because OUR son doesn’t want to be a rock star doesn’t make him a girl.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Don’t whatever me!’

‘OK, but don’t come complaining to me when he’ll get beaten up at school.’

‘He won’t get beaten up at school.’

‘Not if he studies martial arts he won’t.’

‘Oh, won’t you just drop it? When will you get it into your head that he doesn’t want to learn martial arts?’

‘He does and he will, won’t you Pasquale?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘That’s a good boy. We’ll make an Aikido master of you.’

‘What’s Aikido, Daddy?’

‘It’s the art of overcoming your enemy by using their size and energy. It’s the art of knowing where they will throw you a punch or a kick, and moving before they do.’

‘Something Daddy is very good at,’ she adds.

The traffic is terrible as Nick makes his way to pick up Pasquale from school.

‘I spread my love like a fever!!! I ain’t ever comin’ down!!!’ He sings at the top of his voice, competing with the radio. He’s late and Pasquale is waiting for him at the school gate, clearly in a foul mood.

‘My man!’ he tries to high-five Pasquale as he enters the car. Pasquale offers a feeble hand in return. ‘Are you psyched about going to your first Aikido lesson?’ he asks, showing much more enthusiasm than his son. Pasquale nods.

‘Daddy?’ he says after a few moments of silence.

‘What?’

‘Do you think Wendy knew how to fly before she and Peter Pan met Tinker Bell?’

He swerves to the right and stops the car. ‘Pasquale! Stop with all this fairy tale crap! I don’t want to hear any more about Peter Pan. I don’t want to hear any more about Tinker Bell, and…’ and here he grabs Pasquale’s sweater close to his neck, ‘…I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY MORE ABOUT FUCKING WENDY!!!’.

He lets go of Pasquale. Both of them are shaking. They spend the rest of the drive in silence, and when they reach the gym Pasquale gets out of the car and marches towards the entrance without waiting for his father.

‘Pasquale,’ he calls after him. ‘Are you sure you still want to do this course?’ Pasquale doesn’t answer. He simply marches through the sliding doors. Inside it’s white and quiet. A little girl, barefoot and dressed in a white uniform and a yellow belt, approaches them.

‘Hello!’ she says cheerfully. ‘Are you a new student?’ she asks Pasquale, who is moving his head around as if he’s following a butterfly.

‘Pasquale, the girl asked you a question. Stop acting like a retard.’

‘What’s your name?’ the girl asks in her angelic voice.

Nick looks at Pasquale, feeling ashamed and angry at the same time.

‘His name is Pasquale,’ he says, looking at his son with hatred.

‘Hello, Pasquale,’ the girl says, holding her hand out. ‘My name is Wendy.’

There were 97 advertising executives in the hotel, all competing for external telephone lines. Their mission was simple: come up with an advertising campaign for a war that hadn’t taken place.

They had 12 hours to prepare, and they used them to call friends, family, assistants and anyone who ever fought in a war, or simply served in the military.

The challenge was given by the firm’s founder, who over the course of 30 years had built an empire employing thousands of people and serving some of the most prestigious companies in the world. Each year, the firm’s top executives would gather in an hotel and discuss the firm’s results and its plans for the year ahead. Each year, the chairman issued a new challenge, and each year 97 or so executives would pour their years of experience into 12 concentrated hours of creativity.

The competition wasn’t one taken lightly. The previous year, the winner was made vice-chairman of the firm in less than a month, and the year before the winner was given a bonus of over $10 million. The firm’s current CEO won his position three years ago by developing the best advertising campaign for an imaginary company that sold air (‘Because you deserve to know whose air you’re breathing’). The methods used by the advertising executives to develop their campaigns were as diverse as their numbers. One executive sent a helicopter to fly in a former chief of staff. Another drove for three hours to interview a known militia leader who had been imprisoned during a previous war. And yet another executive meditated with his spiritual advisor.

The winner of the competition was set to be announced by 9am. The timing was intentional. Executives were expected to spend the 12 hours before the ceremony working, not sleeping. Their commitment could be quickly ascertained by even a cursory visit to the hotel’s kitchen. There, one floor beneath the ground, a staff of 15 kept refilling coffee pot after coffee pot, before whisking them off to 96 rooms. And with all this activity it was not surprising no one noticed that one room was conspicuously missing from kitchen’s food order log: room 1903. If one were to peek into room 1903, one wouldn’t see much that would be of interest. It was a spacious room, much like the others, boasting a TV set, a large bathroom and a king-sized bed. But unlike the other 96 rooms, room 1903 was dark, its sole occupant tucked in bed. Like his colleagues, the executive in room 1903 was present hours earlier at the main dining room, where he too had heard the chairman issue his challenge. Like his colleagues, he too wanted badly to win this year’s competition. But while his colleagues had left the dining room in a flurry of activity, each running his own race against time, the executive from 1903 went to his room, took his clothes off and slipped into bed.

Sleep did not come easily. He tossed and turned, got up to take a shower, then another one. But nothing could stop his mind from racing. To lose this year’s competition would be unfortunate. But to abstain from it would be a disgrace. When the phone rang the sun had already risen. For a brief moment the executive in 1903 broke into a cold sweat, worried that he had missed the ceremony altogether. But when the voice on the other end of the line turned out to belong to one of the hotel telephone operators, announcing his wake-up call, the executive calmed down, if only for a while.

The executive from room 1903 stepped out of bed and began dressing. He put on a fresh pair of socks, a new pair of underwear, a starched white shirt, polyester suit and blue tie to match. He looked at himself in the mirror one last time and left the room.

Downstairs, the main dining hall buzzed with activity. Placards, signs bearing slogans, and even a small group of soldiers in fatigues, were all assembled.

At precisely 9am, the chairman of the firm took to the stage and congratulated the executives on their effort to develop the best pro-war campaign. It was hard to keep the room quiet, but the chairman’s closing remarks did just that. This morning, said the chairman, in addition to the winner of the competition, there will also be losers. Ten losers, in fact, that would pay for their sub-standard campaign with their jobs.

The executive from room 1903 lowered his head, as did most of the other executives. Though each had convinced himself of his own victory, all knew that their peers were highly capable individuals. Capable enough to do a job that was as good, if not better, than themselves. By the time the executive from room 1903 was called up to the stand, twenty of his colleagues had given their brief presentations, with three of them discharged from their positions, there and then. So it wasn’t without trepidation that the executive from room 1903 climbed the stairs to the main stage.

‘If your client had hired you to launch a pro-war campaign,’ asked the chairman for the twenty-first time, ‘what would you do?’

The room was silent. Each executive in their own mind was asking whether they were about to see another one of their colleagues lose his job, and whether they themselves wouldn’t be next in line.

The executive from room 1903 remained silent. The chairman, who was eager to finish the whole event as soon as possible, began showing signs of impatience. ‘If your client had hired you to launch a pro-war campaign,’ repeated the chairman, ‘what would you do?’ The executive from room 1903 moved closer to the podium, almost touching the microphone with his lips. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I would do nothing.’