The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
promises of heaven or anything like that, but to this one verse from Ecclesiastes”—and
here Art read from the scrap of paper: “‘Whatsoever thy hand
findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor
knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.’”Art looked up at
me. “He said that it reminded him that faith came and went, even in priests—
even we cannot believe all the time, he said—and that actions, not pure belief,
matter more. I remember he looked up at me—a practicing Catholic can
always tell a lapsed one—and said, ‘You came for a bullet, but you would not
have come for mass.’ He was right.
“Now, what the hell that has to do with the Panda, I don’t really know. But
this scrap of paper—see, it’s in Arabic on this side and translated into
English for my benefit here—that he kept with him in the shack, I always read
it when someone I know dies. And believe me, kid, that’s going to be more
often than you can imagine. Only if you’re lucky, though, and it’s not you.”
He gave me a tired wink, stood up, and put on his lumpy green coat, patting
down each pocket ritually. “I’m going to go home and cry. Then I’ll head out
and see Ananya. See you back here in the morning.”
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