The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
was looking right at me, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, his hand frozen on
its way to the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. He shook his head but
said nothing, his expression still registering shock, fear, disbelief.
“I know. We’re all just shocked. He was such a dear man. We’re holding a
memorial service for him here at work. I don’t know what the family’s going
to do yet.” Her voice grew tighter, as though she was trying to restrain sobs
and only barely succeeding.
What could I say? I just wanted to get off the phone as quickly as possible.
“I’m really sorry.”
“Thanks.”
I thanked her again, hung up, and told Art. He held his right thumb and
forefinger on the bridge of his nose for so long that I thought he might have
fallen asleep. Like an ice sculpture under a hair dryer, he gradually stirred,
sort of slumping onto his desk in a puddle. I stood up quietly and was going
to put a hand on his shoulder when he sat upright.
“I’m just ...You know,you work in enough war zones and you start to
know more dead people than living ones,” said Art quietly. “Never makes this
any easier, though.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper gone soft and
tattered with age. “Bishop in Hebron gave me this about twenty, maybe
twenty-five years ago. I was living in Beirut then, covering the civil war. Miserable
time. I still remember . . .” He waved his hand and shook his head
quickly, eyes shut, as though he was declining something. “Another time.
Anyway, this bishop had built a little lean-to on a hill. The settlers’ movement
was just gaining steam under Begin, and he wanted to protest this idea that
God had promised land to people born this way and not that way. So he left
his church and moved to this tiny shack, where he planned to stay for forty
days and forty nights—he had water but no food—but after about three
weeks, this doctor who had come from Brooklyn to cash in the chips God
gave him shot the priest in the side, then took him to the settlement’s hospital
and operated on him—saved his life, actually. He didn’t want to kill the priest;
he just wanted him off the hill. So a few of us headed out there to interview
the priest. I’ll never forget this: he said anytime his faith was tested—which I
imagine was pretty often—he turned not to the Gospels or Revelation or
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