Backstory: Umar
Umar had been his favorite cousin. He had only been a month older than Solomon, and that meant the world to two ten year old boys with half a dozen cousins in their late teens and twenties and then another score or so under the age of eight. He was his brother and his best friend. And that was that.
Umar was hefty and athletic. He loved rugby and football (the real kind, not that silly American kind with pads), and even that Australian style football where they tackled each other inside a big circle. He was dark, keeping his hair short and neat, and once he grew a beard, it was always neatly trimmed. He used to tease Solomon about his obsession with books, and Solomon would tease Umar right back about the three boxes of Sports Illustrated he kept hidden under his bed and in the bottom of his closet.
Solomon's uncle, Umar's father, had a vast compound in Iran where most of the family still lived. He and Umar used to ride motorbikes together across the vast stretch of desert between the main house and the poppy fields the family grew. It wasn't until he was in Rome, away from his own culture, that he learned that some people considered it wrong that his family made their money selling drugs and large arms to the Westerners or the Soviets. His uncle would sometimes catch them snooping about the guest house set away from the main compound, and he once made the two of them sit in on a meeting with a Saudi prince trying to buy refurbished Soviet tanks.
"That is what you do, Papa?" Umar asked after watching his father rip apart royalty over what he already knew was faulty equipment.
"This is what we do, boy." And Uncle Saad gave Solomon a pointed look before swatting at them with his camel hair riding brush.
***
When he was away in the all boys boarding school in Rome, Umar was the one that wrote him. His mother had written constantly the first month or two, then the letters came less and less. Finally, they became letters from both his mother and father, telling him what they were changing about the house, what rallies they were part of right now, some different ideas that Solomon should think about for a future paper or when he went on to study at the university. By his last year, they simply passed on information through Umar. The two boys had their own code for what was important, or what was just his mother's lasted obsession in her teaching lectures. It...helped.
Sometimes, there would even be letters from Farah folded neatly and smelling of perfume along with Umar's thick letters. That's how he knew this was his true brother. Who else would risk being called womanly by mailing off pink stationary with a girl's childish attempts at long distance seduction?
He just hoped his cousin didn't read the replies.
***
When he walked into the TLV international terminal for the last time, Umar was sitting just inside the front entrance.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Slowly, Umar stood up, making his way through the crowd. Solomon was afraid to move. That one of his uncles or bigger cousins had been sent as well, and Umar was the bait. But his cousin picked up Solomon's heavier bag and made his way toward the correct gate. They didn't say a word as the plane waited to board. When they made the last call for Solomon's flight back to Rome, Umar dropped his bag and grabbed his cousin in a bone crushing hug.
"It doesn't matter. You are still my brother," he rasped.
Solomon squeezed his eyes shut and hugged back just as tight. This would probably be the last time they ever saw each other.
One of the flight attendants tapped Solomon's shoulder and made encouraging gestures to the flight corridor.
"I will write you," Umar told him as he boarded.
Umar was hefty and athletic. He loved rugby and football (the real kind, not that silly American kind with pads), and even that Australian style football where they tackled each other inside a big circle. He was dark, keeping his hair short and neat, and once he grew a beard, it was always neatly trimmed. He used to tease Solomon about his obsession with books, and Solomon would tease Umar right back about the three boxes of Sports Illustrated he kept hidden under his bed and in the bottom of his closet.
Solomon's uncle, Umar's father, had a vast compound in Iran where most of the family still lived. He and Umar used to ride motorbikes together across the vast stretch of desert between the main house and the poppy fields the family grew. It wasn't until he was in Rome, away from his own culture, that he learned that some people considered it wrong that his family made their money selling drugs and large arms to the Westerners or the Soviets. His uncle would sometimes catch them snooping about the guest house set away from the main compound, and he once made the two of them sit in on a meeting with a Saudi prince trying to buy refurbished Soviet tanks.
"That is what you do, Papa?" Umar asked after watching his father rip apart royalty over what he already knew was faulty equipment.
"This is what we do, boy." And Uncle Saad gave Solomon a pointed look before swatting at them with his camel hair riding brush.
***
When he was away in the all boys boarding school in Rome, Umar was the one that wrote him. His mother had written constantly the first month or two, then the letters came less and less. Finally, they became letters from both his mother and father, telling him what they were changing about the house, what rallies they were part of right now, some different ideas that Solomon should think about for a future paper or when he went on to study at the university. By his last year, they simply passed on information through Umar. The two boys had their own code for what was important, or what was just his mother's lasted obsession in her teaching lectures. It...helped.
Sometimes, there would even be letters from Farah folded neatly and smelling of perfume along with Umar's thick letters. That's how he knew this was his true brother. Who else would risk being called womanly by mailing off pink stationary with a girl's childish attempts at long distance seduction?
He just hoped his cousin didn't read the replies.
***
When he walked into the TLV international terminal for the last time, Umar was sitting just inside the front entrance.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Slowly, Umar stood up, making his way through the crowd. Solomon was afraid to move. That one of his uncles or bigger cousins had been sent as well, and Umar was the bait. But his cousin picked up Solomon's heavier bag and made his way toward the correct gate. They didn't say a word as the plane waited to board. When they made the last call for Solomon's flight back to Rome, Umar dropped his bag and grabbed his cousin in a bone crushing hug.
"It doesn't matter. You are still my brother," he rasped.
Solomon squeezed his eyes shut and hugged back just as tight. This would probably be the last time they ever saw each other.
One of the flight attendants tapped Solomon's shoulder and made encouraging gestures to the flight corridor.
"I will write you," Umar told him as he boarded.