The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
much harder expression than disdain momentarily rested on his blank face—
but Ostrov again was Ostrov when he rejoined Murat.
“What have you done?” the guide asked splenetically. Abulfaz could not
tell if Murat was angry or terrified. “You were provoking them? I told you,
Comrade Professor, for your own safety, look at them slowly. Do not draw
their attention. What have you done?”
“Ahmot, Ilham, and Mundir are now my protectors.”
“My cousin and I are your protectors,” Murat spit, “and you have insulted
us, insulted our honor.”
“I intended to do no such thing, but I do need insurance. In case you
decide to leave me to chance.”
“Why? Did I not show you my gun? Do you not see my cousin standing
ten paces from us, watching watching watching, for you? Why them, too?”
“Murat, I want you to take me to your cousin.”
“What? He is right there, you can—”
“No, your other cousin. I want you to take me to the Legend Seller.”
after passing the fourth spice seller—all women, all with the same
blank, bemused expression, all with their neutral-colored head scarves
wrapped two and a half times around their middle-aged heads—Abulfaz
began to think that the market was a labyrinth of mirrors. There was one
lamb and one butcher, one glass-eyed hawk seller, and Murat was guiding
him in concentric circles away from the market’s center of activity. Fortunately,
his three protectors followed behind them; he need only throw his
glasses to the ground and they would cut Murat’s throat and lead him away,
to safety for him and riches for them. Abulfaz’s entire career was witness to
what wonders could be accomplished with rudimentary knowledge of the
local language, a modicum of charm, and an inexhaustible supply of Benjamin
Franklin portraits in black and green.
Murat sucked his teeth, turned his head, and spit. He let go of Abulfaz’s
arm to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, and as soon as they fell out of step,
Ahmot shoved him forward, roughly, and gestured for him to take Abulfaz’s
arm again.
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