Summer 2009 • Vol. XXXI No. 3 Fiction |

Seven Captains

From the Farsi.    I had written: You miserable slob, at least you're alive overseas. Just have fun, don't come back … I had written: I don't want to get caught up in this hell. And I had written: Twenty-two years is nothing, even a hundred years won't be enough to simmer down the bad blood and the tribe's rage … don't come back! In the small arrivals hall of the airport, I couldn't find him among the passengers of the beat-up Fokker. When everyone charged toward the pile of suitcases, I saw him. He was standing like a statue next to the entrance. His beautiful hair has turned thin and gray, but like old times he has kept it long. He has aged much more than I imagined … much older … with dark glasses that hide his eyes. I couldn't tell if he was scared, nervous, or just repentant. I said: "Your suitcase … go get it and let's get out of here." He wasn't budging. I was short of breath. He said: "It's a small blue suitcase." "I'm not that kid lac

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