Endless Blind Passions - Chapter 5
“Where are you calling from?” asks Dave. “What’s all that background noise? It sounds like traffic.”“I’m in a phone booth,” Monty tells his brother.
“Why aren’t you calling from the houseboat? Doesn’t it cost a lot more to call Canada from a pay phone?”
“I think my home phone’s bugged.”
“What? What the hell is going on?”
“Jamal disappeared early the morning of the attack. Or the day before. I’m not sure,” Monty stammers, out of breath. “And I haven’t heard from him since. The FBI have come twice to ask about him. I’m totally freaked out.”
“Wait a moment. Asking about Jamal? The FBI? About what?”
“They won’t tell me exactly, but they must think he was involved in the plot one way or another. I’m sure that’s what it’s about.”
“What plot? You mean, what happened in New York and Washington? But that’s crazy,” says Dave. “That doesn’t sound like Jamal at all. What evidence do they have?”
“I don’t know. They won’t tell me anything. Maybe they’re holding him. But I suspect they’ve probably bugged my place. I can’t be sure. I know it sounds paranoid, but it wouldn’t surprise me. They seem to know so much about me.”
“Like what?” asks Dave.
“Like that I mentor students in Zen at Seattle State. Everything about my past. Trivial details, like our original family name. That I traveled to China during my sabbatical. Shit, they even know where I went there, like when I went right up to the border with Afghanistan, as if that could possibly have something to do with the attack, or with Jamal. I mean, how in the hell could they have discovered that? What, do they have spy satellites that can follow people? I know this sounds crazy, but how do they discover all this?”
“Calm down. Take a deep breath,” says Dave. “Maybe you wrote about it in an email or something. I’m certain they can monitor that. And I’m sure the intelligence services are all going crazy ’cause they fucked up and failed to nab those guys ahead of time. I read they were already on their radar. Can you believe it? So now they’re trying to cover their asses, going overboard probing every possible angle, going after anyone remotely suspicious.”
“You’re lucky you’re in Canada. It’s not a police state.”
“Not yet, anyway, but that could change. Ever since I fled here to escape the draft, I’ve thought sooner or later the US will invade Canada, probably for water.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing would surprise me,” says Monty.
“But do you really think Jamal could be involved in terrorism?”
“No, but …”
“But what?”
“Well, the agents wanted to search Jamal’s stuff, and I wouldn’t let them since they didn’t have a warrant. I said I’d search around and tell them if I found anything suspicious.”
“Well, did you?” asks Dave.
“I’m afraid so,” answers Monty, his voice cracking. “That’s why I’m calling you. I don’t know what to do about it. I looked everywhere and didn’t find anything. But then I remembered he still has the suitcase he brought with him when he first arrived here. There’re some Afghan clothes in it. But underneath I found a pile of Al-Qaeda propaganda, full of crazy accusations about the West, calling on people to join in jihad. The worst passages are highlighted in yellow marker.”
“You didn’t tell the FBI about what you found? That’s risky, Monty.”
“I’m afraid to tell them. It would seriously incriminate Jamal. But if I don’t tell them, it’ll incriminate me—withholding evidence. Jesus, I don’t know what to do. What do you think I should do?”
“Well, you’ve got to be careful, Monty. It could be bad if you don’t show them what you found, especially if it turns out Jamal is entangled in some kind of conspiracy, as crazy as that sounds. I mean, those pamphlets are suspicious, don’t you think? Highlighted in yellow like that?”
“Well, maybe. But I don’t understand what it’s evidence of. Maybe there’s an innocent explanation for him having this shit. I still can’t believe he’s guilty of anything. But I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’m so terrified of losing him. They could deport him or worse.” Monty begins to cry. “There are rumors they’re sending suspects to secret prison camps in other countries where they can be tortured. But of course if he’s guilty, then …”
“Okay. Calm down, Monty. Listen, apparently all the attackers were Arabs,” says Dave. “Sure, Al-Qaeda is based in Afghanistan, and they must have operatives there and maybe here, too, who could be Afghanis. I know it hurts to even suspect a tiny bit that Jamal might somehow be involved. I don’t believe it—no way. But you’ve got to be on your guard and protect yourself first and foremost.”
“Yeah, you’re right. And I think we’re heading to some kind of martial law. Like a police state. I never thought I would see that here. Mom and Dad sure did, but I didn’t, not exactly.”
“You were too young to remember what it was like when the whole Red Scare started, and they began firing people just because they once belonged to some organization, or wouldn’t sign a loyalty oath, or were gay and supposedly subject to blackmail. I think you were only five when Dad lost his job the first time. It was like a police state then. People were afraid to subscribe to liberal magazines. Dad stopped all his subscriptions. And then he got called by that state committee investigating alleged communists.”
“But he didn’t ever belong to the party, did he?”
“I don’t think so. But some distant cousin did, and so Dad was under investigation because he worked in the defense industry.”
“Did he testify?”
“No, he refused. That’s why he got fired. He sent them a letter declaring emphatically that their demands were against the Bill of Rights, that he refused to cooperate. I have a copy of it somewhere.”
“I’d love to see it some time. Dad was a real radical,” says Monty. “Speaking of which, do you still have your bushy beard? That and your monster head of Afro hair make you look like a terrorist. I don’t think they’ll let you back into the States anytime soon.”
“Very funny. What, are you jealous of me having hair?”
“No, bald is beautiful,” says Monty. “And far easier to care for. No wasting shampoo.”
“So you can shower fast and put on your expensive Italian clothes?”
“That’s just another style, Dave, like you and your sweatpants and plaid shirts. I think you’re the one, not Jamal, who looks like a fanatic.”
“I am,” says Dave, chuckling. “That’s what people here all think when they read my columns. And thank you, by the way, for sending me that Loden-green wool coat from Filson’s. I love wearing it. It keeps me really warm.”
“Glad you like it. Suits you like the gun-toting sportsman you are.”
“Haha again,” says Dave. “Anyway, what’s happening down there, all the paranoia, reminds me of the fifties. The same shit all over again. Except nowadays it’s Muslims instead of Reds.”
“Right, there’s always someone to persecute.”
“So what are you going to do about what you found?” asks Dave.
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll wait a day and decide. Or I’ll call the FBI later today.”
“Be careful. You can always hide out here.”
“Thanks, bro,” says Monty. “How are Dorothy and the boys?”
“They’re not boys anymore. Gerald quit his job and set up as a freelance designer. And Mark is working on his graduate thesis. I’m not confident he’ll ever finish.”
“Give him a chance,” says Monty. “What about Dorothy?”
“She’s still loving her work heading up the food bank.”
“She’s lucky to have a career she cares about.”
“For sure,” says Dave. “Say, do you remember our second or third cousins who lived in Pasadena?”
“The right-wing family? Yeah, I remember them. I haven’t heard a word about them for ages. I didn’t like the youngest boy at all. I remember one time, I must have been around five, he was three, and I just about slapped him when he made some remark about Beatrice, about her being a freak. But he was just a little boy.”
“Well, that little boy is grown up, a real sweetheart, I heard … and he’s a she.”
“You’re kidding,” says Monty. “When did she come out as trans?”
“Long ago. I only heard about it from some relatives who are still in touch with that part of our family. They said she was sixteen or seventeen when she told her parents.”
“They must have freaked out, considering how ultrareligious they were.”
“Yes, apparently they threw her out. She lived on the streets with a bunch of kids like her—various sexualities. She got hooked on drugs for a while. Came close to dying from an overdose. But eventually got her life together and became a successful party organizer. That’s what I heard, anyway.”
“So, out of curiosity, Dave, how would you feel if one of your sons announced he was transitioning?”
“Yeah, I thought about that after I heard about our cousin. I guess at first I would be shocked, particularly if there’d been no sign or even a hint before of gender ambiguity. I’d worry a lot about his—I mean, her—safety, though I guess it’s a lot better for trans people up here in Vancouver than most places in the US. But the main thing is, I would love her every bit as much as a daughter as I did when she was a son. You have to accept your child as they are. I love mine unconditionally.”
“Naturally, I’ve read up about trans things, not that I’ve ever felt that way myself.”
“Oh? I remember when you did drag at Jonathan’s fiftieth.”
“That was different,” says Monty. “Yeah, I loved doing that, a few other times too. But for me it was a performance. No, there are definitely people who realize inside themselves, often from a young age, that they’re in the wrong body. Sooner or later they have to come to terms with it. It’s physiological; it’s not fake or made up to join some trend or other. There have always been and always will be people whose gender is fluid or different from the sexual apparatus they had when they were born. It’s a fact. There have always been trans people, everywhere, only these days it’s more out in the open. People who deny this fact, who make fun of trans people—or worse, beat them up or kill them, even—they’re living in denial about reality. It’s mainly men who are often insecure in their own sexuality, so making fun or abusing someone different is a way of covering up their own doubts. Believe me, I’ve encountered that ever since I came out as gay.”
“I always forget how tough that must’ve been for you.”
“Not exactly. I was lucky I never felt guilty about it. Yes, frustrated by how to live as the person I knew I was.”
“I’m glad you’re you,” says Dave.
“Thank you. You too.”
“But this thing about bullies compensating for their own insecurities, it’s exactly the same with dictators—bullies gone big and berserk. I don’t care whether it’s communist tyrants, fascists, cult leaders, religious fanatics fanning hysteria or xenophobia—most of them are the same. All those despots who grabbed power when the Soviet Union collapsed, each snatching a former so-called republic. Saddam Hussein in Iraq. Assad in Syria. Petty dictators in Latin America and Asia. They’re all former schoolyard bullies whose narcissism and thirst for imposing their will on others masks some childhood trauma or other abuse they suffered as children, like their father always putting them down, belittling them. Dangerous on the street, like thugs, but watch out if they seize control over a whole country. Watch out.”
“At least that won’t happen here or in Canada.”
“That’s naive, Monty. Of course it can happen here. Isn’t that what Mom and Dad always warned us? Just like Hitler took control with barely a third of the vote, just over fifteen percent of the whole of Germany’s population, manipulating his way into the executive and exploiting the country’s democracy to destroy it—virtually overnight.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Jesus Christ? Even your Buddha can’t help you if that happens here.”
“Okay, I’m freaked out enough as it is, Dave.”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to alarm you. I get carried away. Listen, stay safe and keep in touch. And call me as soon as you hear anything about Jamal. Love you.”
“Love you too,” says Monty. “Oh, and by the way, about when Dad was fired from his job during the Red Scare … I do remember lots of things from when I was five.”