Free The Holy Bullet by Luis Miguel Rocha Page B

remembered the previous day and the fortunate visit to the Muslim’s house, as well as what happened afterward.
    “You brought back the dead and whoever was with you in the Haj, after the monstrous flood that drowned thirty people, around . . .” the foreigner repeated for the fourth time. “Where are these living dead?” he asked sardonically.
    “Around,” he said. “I don’t walk around counting the life of each one.”
    “That we’ll have to see . . . we’ll have to see,” the other replied. “Can you imagine the work you’ve made for me?” An almost imperceptible look of irritation crossed his face.
    “You’re more than used to it. Someone has to do it.” The voice remained calm, unaltered. Somewhat patient.
    The foreigner left the window and sat down on the edge of the bed. He watched Abu Rashid with a certain reverence he wished to hide, which left him even more upset. He felt himself blush. The color rose in his cheeks. He hated this happening, especially when he was working on something important.
    “When did you see . . . the Virgin?” Not without some fear he evoked the name of the Mother of God.
    “Every time she appears.”
    The foreigner reacted as if it were blasphemy. He felt as if Abu Rashid were insulting his own mother, which is true, since the Virgin is the heavenly mother of every Christian.
    “And when is that?” He decided to calm down. There was nothing to gain in losing control.
    “It depends.”
    “On what?”
    “On what she has to say to me.”
    “She’s the Mother of Christ, a Christian icon. Do you believe in her?” Don’t lose patience, don’t lose patience .
    “I believe because I see her.”
    “It could be no more than a hallucination, man of God . . . of Allah,” he corrected himself.
    “Allah is God,” the Muslim countered.
    “But not mine,” the other replied decisively.
    “Only one God exists. Mine could be yours.”
    “Leave the dogma. You believe because you see her.”
    “Correct.”
    “But she could be only a hallucination,” he suggested.
    Abu Rashid shook his head, denying it.
    “No. Hallucinations are like mirages. They deceive.”
    “And she doesn’t deceive?”
    “Never. Everything she tells me is always true.” The word reflected the respect he had for the visions.
    The foreigner got up again and paced from one side of the spacious room to the other. He sighed deeply, his hands behind his back.
    “What has that vision told you?” he finally asked.
    “Oh, many things . . .” He smiled.
    “For example,” the foreigner insisted.
    “She spoke to me of the flood and the drowning.”
    “How many years ago was that?”
    “Ten.”
    “You’ve had this vision for ten years?”
    “More,” the Muslim agreed, with the same smile on his face.
    “When did you have the first vision?” the foreigner inquired, halfway between the bed and the door in his nervous demand. “Do you remember?”
    “As if it were today,” Abu Rashid announced with a melancholy, nostalgic look, and remembered that day, his birthday, the eleventh, when she appeared at his side on the Mount of Olives, dressed in pure white, so brilliant that he had to shield his eyes with his hand. He was running back to the city to the same house he lived in today on Qadisieh Street to go with his father to pray at Hara mesh-Sharif.
    “Where are you going in such a hurry?” she asked him in a calming, melodious voice.
    Contritely, respectfully, the boy explained his duties to God and his family.
    “God is always within you. It is enough to hear and feel Him,” she replied like the song of a nightingale. The melodious reply had made the boy stop to see her better.
    “Who are you?”
    “I have many names. Maria of all wishes and ideas. The Virgin, anything you want to call me, including Lady.”
    The boy found that very strange. A lady with any name you want to call her?
    “Okay, okay, okay,” the foreigner said, calling him back impatiently to the present. “So,