Free Dark Clouds by Phil Rowan

guests into the house, Sharif comes over to join me.
    ‘What did you think, Rudi?’
    ‘It was interesting … although I did find what the Ayatollah was saying rather hard to take, especially his rant about the Great Satan in our White House. A little extreme – no?’
      I’m ready to walk down the winding tree-lined avenue to try to call a cab with my mobile. I have numbers for the US and British embassies, but Sharif is enveloping me with a warm smile. He follows it with a squeeze around my shoulders when he sits beside me on the garden bench.
    ‘You’re taking offence too easily, my friend.’
    ‘Really? ‘
    ‘Yes – you are. Our holy man was only saying what we all believe, Rudi. It wasn’t meant as an insult to you personally.’
    ‘And you think we really are the bad guys?’
    Sharif pauses and looks down at the lake. There are strong loyalties from a past friendship in the States, but he needs to express how he feels.
    ‘After 9/11,’ he says, ‘I think most of us were together. I wanted to avenge Faria’s death just as much as you did. I believed the hijackers and those who supported them were all lunatics, and I thought that for about a year afterwards.’
    ‘So what changed your mind?’ I want to know, and my guard drops for a moment when Sharif touches the back of my hand.
    ‘The way things evolved in the aftermath,’ he says. ‘I woke up one morning on Madison Avenue and felt that as a Muslim with US citizenship I was now viewed as an enemy of the American people. I resented that, Rudi – so I came here, and when my father died last year Sulima took over the business. I think she now wants to move on in her life, so we’ll probably sell up and go our separate ways. If you’re wondering where I am now – I’ll tell you … I’m a hijacker … and I won’t give up on Islam or my god until your President genuflects and apologises for what you people, your puppets and your allies have done to us.’
    I’m finding it hard to contain myself. I want to swear at Sharif; to tell him that he’s a misguided fuck who’s got everything totally wrong. I’m veering rapidly over to Carla Hirsh’s view of my former friend as a mass killer in the making. It’s difficult to stay cool, but I have to. I grind my teeth together while squeezing my fingernails into the palms of my hands.
    ‘I’d really like to take a sail in your Laser,’ I say calmly, ‘only I couldn’t manage it on my own … do you fancy an hour out on the water?’
    A few years ago, it would have been whisky or beer down on the Lower East Side in New York, followed inevitably by a party in SoHo. If there were problems, anxieties or prospects to celebrate, we shared them together. I want a little of this now, but a wall has gone up and Sharif’s shaking his head.
    ‘I can’t, Rudi … much as I would like to. There are people who have come back from the Foundation, and you have your interview tomorrow.’
    It’s not happening. ‘ That was my excuse for coming here to check you out, you crazy fuck! ’ But it’s irrelevant. Sharif’s already on his feet and Sulima’s approaching from the house.
    *  *  *  *  *
     ‘I have to go to Paris,’ she says. Her eyes are fixed on the lake as she speaks. Her brother’s looking beyond her head, and it’s clear that there are unresolved issues here.
    ‘OK,’ he answers brusquely. It’s almost as though he doesn’t care about her plans. ‘I’ve got to see our guests … and I hope you’ll join us, Rudi.’
    ‘Sure – ’
    Sulima waits until Sharif disappears before taking my hand. ‘So – until next week in London, Rudi … it is important that we speak then.’
    I’m nodding. Of course – maybe she just wants an emotional confidante: someone with whom she can talk about the lover who left her for Osama. She isn’t giving anything away in advance though as we walk back to the house. She takes both of my hands before we part. It’s a moving moment, and my