Fic: What Country, Friends, Is This? (int. 2 and ch. 5 of 12)
Title: What Country, Friends, Is This?
Author: Katta
Fandom: Heroes
Characters (in order of importance): Nathan Petrelli, a whole lot of OCs, Peter Petrelli, other canon characters
Rating: PG-13
Chapters: This story is written in 12 chapters and 5 interludes. Future chapters are written, but in the beta process. This post has 1 interlude and 1 chapter.
Author's note on spoilers: This story was written during the summer, based on rumours and speculation. As you can see, I kind of got things backwards. :-) So, spoilers up to 1x23: How to Stop an Exploding Man, and complete AU for everything after.
Summary: The flying man has lost his home, his family, everything he knew about himself - and his clothes. What is left for him now?
Previous chapters: Chapters 1-2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4
Interlude 2: Peter and Noah
Peter woke up, and for the first time in days it wasn't from a nightmare. On the contrary, he found himself laughing with relief, a relief he couldn't quite place in his waking state.
”Nathan?” he said out loud, but no one answered.
He got out of bed and started rummaging through the drawers, looking for his address book. Since the explosion, he had only talked to Claire once. After his appearance on television, standing behind his mother as she explained to the public that Nathan had suddenly taken ill, he had gotten a phone call. It started with a breathless ”Thank God!” and ended with her urging him to take her number, in case of emergencies if nothing else. The Bennets still weren't safe, that much he'd been able to tell, and he'd never called her back. Had even written her as ”Jennifer” in the book.
He found the number and dialled it on his cell phone - he wouldn't put it beyond his mom to listen in to the regular phone. It rang for a long time, and then cut to voice mail. He turned off the phone, waited a few minutes, then tried again.
”Hello?”
He blinked at first at the sound of a male voice, and then his mind made the connection. ”Noah? It's Peter.”
”What's wrong?”
”Nothing. I mean, I don't think anything's wrong, as such, I just... is Claire awake?”
A pause. He gripped the phone hard.
”You shouldn't call here.”
”I know. I'm sorry. It's kind of important.”
”We've had a rough day, I don't like to wake her, but if it's urgent...”
”It's not, well, it's kind of something I need to talk about.”
”Peter.” Noah's voice sounded calm and reasonable. ”If you tell me what this is about, I can wake her up if need be, or give her a message.”
”Do you think Nathan might be alive?” Peter blurted out before the other man had even finished speaking.
The pause this time lasted so long Peter feared Noah had hung up on him. Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore and gritted out, ”Hello?”
”Have you heard something?”
”No. Not heard, as such. I had this dream. Thing is, my dreams have come true before. But when I... when it happened, he was so close. I couldn't make him let go early enough, he was still really close, and afterwards I couldn't find him anywhere.”
”You figured he'd died.”
”At first, yeah. This dream was really vivid. But if he's alive, why hasn't he called?”
”Even if he is alive, he could be injured.”
Peter was very grateful that Noah didn't use the word ”dying”, though the implication was clear in his voice. He'd seen pictures of radiation victims, same as anyone else, and he fought the image in his head for all he was worth.
”He didn't feel injured, though, in my dream. Which is impossible, right? That explosion would have taken out half of the city, and he wasn't more than a hundred yards away, max.” If only he could have kept the power in for another minute, chances were Nathan could have made it home free, but the struggle of making him let go in the first place had been so exhausting that Peter had lost control almost instantly.
”How fast was he flying?”
”What?” he asked, surprised. ”I don't know. Fast.”
”Supersonic?”
”I guess.”
”It shouldn't be humanly possible, flying that fast. The speed would tear the flesh straight off the bones. Not to mention what the pressure would do to the internal organs.”
”Okay, I get the picture,” Peter interrupted, not particularly wanting to hear more details on the subject. ”So how come he can do it? He doesn't heal the way Claire and I do.”
”No, but Thom... theoretically speaking, a human being flying at supersonic speed would have some sort of insulation to protect them during flight. Something that only kicked in during those times.”
”Like a force field?”
”In that general area, yes.”
Peter considered this information. He'd never heard Nathan mention a force field, but then, getting Nathan to talk about his ability at all was like pulling teeth with tweezers. ”So he could be alive.”
”Theoretically.”
”Then why haven't we heard from him?”
”I don't know. Seems to me the person you really need to talk to is Molly Walker.”
”Who?”
”Molly Walker. She tracks people. You tell her the person, and she finds them. Anywhere across the world. Hell of a power in the wrong hands.”
”Is hers the wrong hands?”
”She's just a kid. Dr. Suresh is taking care of her at the moment. He's trustworthy enough. Do you have his number?”
”I do, yeah. She can find anyone?”
”Anyone, anywhere. If Nathan is alive, she'll find him.”
”And if he's not?” Peter asked, dreading the answer.
”Then I guess you'll find that out too.”
Peter swallowed hard. This girl, this child could find his brother. Or not, which would mean that at least he knew for certain. Knowing for certain had to be better, didn't it? Did it?
”Peter?”
”Yeah,” he said automatically.
”Wait a few hours before you call them, okay?”
”Yeah, sure.”
”She's been sick. From what I understand, her powers are still on and off, so if she can't tell you right away, you'll just have to be patient.”
”Okay, I will. Thanks.”
”You're welcome. I'll tell Claire you called.”
”Mm.” Hanging up, he felt stunned, half wanting to call Dr. Suresh right away even though he'd said he'd wait. The other half said, Do you really want some child to tell you cold that your brother is dead?
He took off his watch, lay it on the table next to him where he could keep an eye on it, and sat back, waiting for morning.
***
Chapter 5
He was surprised to see Qais in the kitchen washing dishes, since he'd been under the impression that the kid was still at that long work trip. ”Hey. You're back.”
”Yes, this morning. I will leave again in a couple of hours.” Qais took his hands out of the soapy water and threw over a towel. ”Help me, please?”
He caught the towel and started drying, by now at home enough with the cupboards to put at least half of the dishes and utensils in their place without having to ask where that was.
”Can I keep the book a while?” asked Qais. ”I'm not finished yet.”
It took him a moment to realize what book Qais was talking about, but then he raised his eyebrows. ”Oh, so you're the one who has the book. I was wondering what had happened to it.”
”Yes. I had it with me.” Qais's ears took on a reddish hue. ”I thought you knew. I borrowed it from Rim.”
Rim hadn't bothered to borrow it in the first place, but he didn't say that. After all, he hadn't been reading it, just kept it on the nightstand wanting to read it without ever quite taking the step.
”Is it any good?” he asked instead.
”It's boring. Or it would be, if it wasn't about us.”
He slowly wiped the last few drops of water from a pitcher. ”So. What does it say? About us?”
”It says there are many others like us. Maybe hundreds and thousands. They're all different, and all different from each other too. Some might have the same abilities, but there are so many...” Qais's voice was shivering with excitement. ”To heal when you're hurt. To read minds. To move from one place to another without being in the place between.” He held up his hands, moving them apart, to show what he meant.
”Teleportation,” he filled in, feeling odd saying that. He knew for certain that teleportation shouldn't be possible - but he also knew for certain that it was. The simultaneous certainty of those two rivalling facts made him queasy.
”Yes. That's what it said. It's genetic. Our brains have mutated, to work different. It can happen to many in the same family.” Qais frowned. ”Do you think it will happen to my family?”
He shrugged. How was he to know? To avoid the question, he held up a pair of salad tongs and asked, ”Where do you keep these?”
”Down there. The things we can do will be different, even in the same family. The author believes - it's a theory - that we have needs, deep down, to do one special thing, and we will.” At this, Qais made a grimace of humorous annoyance. ”I would have liked something better, in that case.”
”You don't have a deep need to tell lies from truths?” he asked sarcastically.
”I'm a train steward,” Qais said with a smile. ”Of course I do. People don't buy their tickets every day. Now I am so good they want me to be a train master. This is good for me, but it is not very cool.”
”Hm,” he grunted. Cool or not, there were things to be said for an ability that could be used without danger of anyone finding out about it.
”And you? Do you need to fly?”
He thought of soaring high above the ground, leaving the streets and the buildings far behind. Travelling across the ocean at a speed even a plane couldn't manage, so that the water turned into a glittering blue blur below.
”I need to get my life back on track,” he said. ”Find a job, get my memories back, and be normal.”
Qais watched him with so much sympathy and understanding it gave him the jitters. ”If you need to fly, we can ask Dad to drive you somewhere where you can do it and no one will see you.”
The desire ached in his bones, begging him to take off, lift his body far up and let it do what it was meant to do.
”Sure,” he said, using all his energy to sound dispassionate.
”And if you want a job, you can talk to Rim.”
”Rim?” A high-school kid definitely wouldn't have been his first choice as a career contact.
”Yes. She can ask at the restaurant. We have had guests who have worked there before.”
”Illegal immigrants?”
Qais smiled. ”Don't throw stones in a glass house.”
”I'm not. I'm just asking. That's what they were, right?”
”Yes.”
”What happens to them? I mean, you don't have any living here now.”
”Except you,” Qais pointed out again. ”Some are found and sent home. Some complain...”
”Complain?”
”So they get to stay.”
”Appeal.” Saying the word was like finding an old receipt in your pocket, the same faint, disinterested recognition.
”Appeal. Yes. And some move somewhere else.”
”How many have there been?”
Qais shrugged. ”Lots. You're the third this year. The third case. The first was a family. Children everywhere.” He rolled his eyes. ”If we do that again, I will move out.”
”You don't like kids?”
”Yes, I like kids, but not seven or eight living here. Ugh.”
He tried to imagine seven or eight kids, with their parents, with the Mansours, all in this four-bedroom apartment. Well, he could certainly see Qais's point.
”Who was the other one?”
”A woman. But she wasn't illegal, she was divorced. She works at the restaurant some nights, perhaps you will see her there.”
”I haven't even agreed to work there yet,” he protested.
”I thought you said you wanted a job.”
”I do, but I can't really see myself as a waiter.”
Qais gave him an odd look. ”Good, because you won't be one. They like waiters who speak Swedish.”
”So what job will I get?” he asked, figuring out the answer while he was still talking.
Qais just smiled and handed him another dish to dry. As he took it, it suddenly seemed to grow bigger, while everything else faded away. He had to lean on the bench for balance, feeling seasick.
”Are you okay?” Qais asked.
”Yeah, I'm fine,” he replied automatically. The sensation only lasted a few seconds, but it left him shaken. What the hell...?
***
In the end, he didn't seem to have much choice. All the jobs he could think of required working skills, or knowledge of the primary language, or both. Staying in all day wasn't an option - even with the books, TV and occasional household chore, what it amounted to was pretty much playing hide-and-seek with his memories. At least if he washed someone else's dirty dishes for a change, he'd get to meet people.
Rim didn't seem the least bit surprised when he asked her, and in fact brought him over that very same night. The restaurant had a fair amount of customers and a sign on the window that declared in English and Swedish that tthey also hosted a nightclub twice a week. Inside, there were light wooden tables and bright bowl-shaped ceiling lamps. Fresh and minimalist, but the waiters wore plain clothes, and the discrepancy between the food on people's tables and the price for today's special made him frown until he remembered the worth of a Swedish krona.
Rim went up to the bar and started talking to the people behind it, and after a moment, she waved for him to follow her into the kitchen.
It was notably less bright and tidy than the dining area had been, and also so small it was hard to move without bumping into someone - especially the waiters, who were rushing in and out very quickly despite the hot contents of the plates they were carrying.
Rim moved with practiced ease and dragged him along to a tall man who was deep in conversation with a guy in an apron.
”Marcus!” she said, and the man turned around, giving them a quick frown.
After a week of meeting mostly Arabs, it felt strange to see someone so blond. Marcus's slicked-back hair was almost white, and his eyes were a washed-out blue that didn't fit the intensity of the gaze with which he scrutinized them. His suit was spotless and stylish, but cheaper than it looked at first glance, and he gave off an air that suggested this was true about much in his life.
Rim started speaking very quickly, and while she did, Marcus kept watching him in a way that made him want to punch the guy in the face, or take a thorough bath, or both.
”So,” Marcus said when Rim paused, ”Kalle Mohammad, was it?”
”That's right.” It struck him that the name was perfectly ridiculous, and that they really should have changed it - but it was too late now, and Marcus didn't seem to care one way or another.
”Do you speak Swedish?”
”Not really. Just a few phrases.”
”Do you have any experience?”
He shook his head and offered a half-smile. ”I'm afraid not.”
”What did you do before?”
They hadn't included profession in their backstory, but he answered, ”I was a salesman,” without any hesitation. That was vague enough to be credible both for his personality and for the job in question.
Marcus paused, gave him a last, quick brush-over with those eyes, and then suddenly smiled, holding out his hand.
”Nice to meet you.”
He found himself forced to give a radiant smile in return and offer his own hand, and he was surprised when Marcus turned it over and - was he inspecting the nails? Seeing that, he had to fight an urge to snatch his hand back.
”Busboy,” Marcus said after a moment's pause, and now he seemed to have lost all interest in them. ”Learn some more Swedish and we'll see what else. Rim, fill him in.” With that, he returned his attention to the chef.
”Busboy,” Rim said slowly. ”Huh. All right, then, come with me.”
She jerked her head at him, and they made their way through the crowd back to the dining area.
”I didn't like him,” he said under his breath as soon as they were out of hearing distance.
”He liked you.” She sounded less than pleased about the fact. ”You get to work in here.”
”And that's good, is it?”
”You're new and you don't even speak Swedish. It's very good.” She shook her head. ”I should have known. That accent, and the way you act - you may look like one of us, but you're still just like him.”
His head whipped around. ”I am what?”
”Like him. You know. Fancy, slick people with too-wide smiles.” She smirked, clearly teasing him, but he still felt offended.
”Trust me, we're not alike.”
”You're much nicer, of course.”
”That's not what I meant.” What he did mean was that Marcus was someone he should have been able to crush completely without a moment's thought. But that didn't seem like the kind of thing you could tell an impressionable kid, and in any case it was a moot point. Whatever he had been before, he no longer had the upper hand.
The chores Rim showed him were simple enough - set up the tables before a customer arrived, clean them off afterwards, repeat ad nauseam. The members of the staff were harder to learn. Several of them introduced themselves, and he smiled and traded a few words, but he didn't think he'd be able to learn all their names. Fortunately, they all seemed to be on a first-name basis, which meant less to learn as well as his own not sounding quite so unlikely.
”Salaam Alaykum.” Yet another person coming up to him just as he left for the kitchen. This time it was a woman, a few years his senior or prematurely gray. Her nose was a bit too long and her curves, while nice, headed slightly downwards, but there was something in her gaze under thick, long eyelashes that made his smile soften as he greeted her.
”Wa alaykum Salaam.” It was one of the few phrases he had managed to learn in Arabic. ”Most people stick to 'hey'.”
”I wanted to do things right,” she said, giving him a cocky grin that revealed a row of very white teeth marred by a missing one on the left. ”My name is Rawan. Nice to meet you.”
”You too. I'm Kalle.”
”I know. Rim said that. How many hours will you work?”
”I don't know.” He added wryly, ”It wasn't really included in the negotiations.”
A beat, and then that grin was back, even wider. ”It wouldn't be, no.” She nodded towards Rim, who was noting down orders. ”Rim only work three hours. Schoolgirls need their sleep. If you work longer and you need help, you can ask me.”
She wasn't the first person trying to help him out, nor was she the first one who had flirted with him, but he still let his eyes linger. He could tell that she had been a beautiful woman once, but it was less that than her self-assured attitude that made him say warmly, ”I'd like that.”
After she had left, he looked down at his hand, at the burn mark from the wedding band. Whatever had happened to him, it had made damned sure he knew he had a wife somewhere. Maybe one he loved dearly. Still, he couldn't live his life pussyfooting around a memory he didn't even have anymore. He looked up, seeing a couple of women throwing him appreciative glances, and gave them a slight smile in return. All right, then. If the opportunity presented itself - whether with that Rawan or someone else - he wouldn't say no.
Author: Katta
Fandom: Heroes
Characters (in order of importance): Nathan Petrelli, a whole lot of OCs, Peter Petrelli, other canon characters
Rating: PG-13
Chapters: This story is written in 12 chapters and 5 interludes. Future chapters are written, but in the beta process. This post has 1 interlude and 1 chapter.
Author's note on spoilers: This story was written during the summer, based on rumours and speculation. As you can see, I kind of got things backwards. :-) So, spoilers up to 1x23: How to Stop an Exploding Man, and complete AU for everything after.
Summary: The flying man has lost his home, his family, everything he knew about himself - and his clothes. What is left for him now?
Previous chapters: Chapters 1-2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4
Interlude 2: Peter and Noah
Peter woke up, and for the first time in days it wasn't from a nightmare. On the contrary, he found himself laughing with relief, a relief he couldn't quite place in his waking state.
”Nathan?” he said out loud, but no one answered.
He got out of bed and started rummaging through the drawers, looking for his address book. Since the explosion, he had only talked to Claire once. After his appearance on television, standing behind his mother as she explained to the public that Nathan had suddenly taken ill, he had gotten a phone call. It started with a breathless ”Thank God!” and ended with her urging him to take her number, in case of emergencies if nothing else. The Bennets still weren't safe, that much he'd been able to tell, and he'd never called her back. Had even written her as ”Jennifer” in the book.
He found the number and dialled it on his cell phone - he wouldn't put it beyond his mom to listen in to the regular phone. It rang for a long time, and then cut to voice mail. He turned off the phone, waited a few minutes, then tried again.
”Hello?”
He blinked at first at the sound of a male voice, and then his mind made the connection. ”Noah? It's Peter.”
”What's wrong?”
”Nothing. I mean, I don't think anything's wrong, as such, I just... is Claire awake?”
A pause. He gripped the phone hard.
”You shouldn't call here.”
”I know. I'm sorry. It's kind of important.”
”We've had a rough day, I don't like to wake her, but if it's urgent...”
”It's not, well, it's kind of something I need to talk about.”
”Peter.” Noah's voice sounded calm and reasonable. ”If you tell me what this is about, I can wake her up if need be, or give her a message.”
”Do you think Nathan might be alive?” Peter blurted out before the other man had even finished speaking.
The pause this time lasted so long Peter feared Noah had hung up on him. Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore and gritted out, ”Hello?”
”Have you heard something?”
”No. Not heard, as such. I had this dream. Thing is, my dreams have come true before. But when I... when it happened, he was so close. I couldn't make him let go early enough, he was still really close, and afterwards I couldn't find him anywhere.”
”You figured he'd died.”
”At first, yeah. This dream was really vivid. But if he's alive, why hasn't he called?”
”Even if he is alive, he could be injured.”
Peter was very grateful that Noah didn't use the word ”dying”, though the implication was clear in his voice. He'd seen pictures of radiation victims, same as anyone else, and he fought the image in his head for all he was worth.
”He didn't feel injured, though, in my dream. Which is impossible, right? That explosion would have taken out half of the city, and he wasn't more than a hundred yards away, max.” If only he could have kept the power in for another minute, chances were Nathan could have made it home free, but the struggle of making him let go in the first place had been so exhausting that Peter had lost control almost instantly.
”How fast was he flying?”
”What?” he asked, surprised. ”I don't know. Fast.”
”Supersonic?”
”I guess.”
”It shouldn't be humanly possible, flying that fast. The speed would tear the flesh straight off the bones. Not to mention what the pressure would do to the internal organs.”
”Okay, I get the picture,” Peter interrupted, not particularly wanting to hear more details on the subject. ”So how come he can do it? He doesn't heal the way Claire and I do.”
”No, but Thom... theoretically speaking, a human being flying at supersonic speed would have some sort of insulation to protect them during flight. Something that only kicked in during those times.”
”Like a force field?”
”In that general area, yes.”
Peter considered this information. He'd never heard Nathan mention a force field, but then, getting Nathan to talk about his ability at all was like pulling teeth with tweezers. ”So he could be alive.”
”Theoretically.”
”Then why haven't we heard from him?”
”I don't know. Seems to me the person you really need to talk to is Molly Walker.”
”Who?”
”Molly Walker. She tracks people. You tell her the person, and she finds them. Anywhere across the world. Hell of a power in the wrong hands.”
”Is hers the wrong hands?”
”She's just a kid. Dr. Suresh is taking care of her at the moment. He's trustworthy enough. Do you have his number?”
”I do, yeah. She can find anyone?”
”Anyone, anywhere. If Nathan is alive, she'll find him.”
”And if he's not?” Peter asked, dreading the answer.
”Then I guess you'll find that out too.”
Peter swallowed hard. This girl, this child could find his brother. Or not, which would mean that at least he knew for certain. Knowing for certain had to be better, didn't it? Did it?
”Peter?”
”Yeah,” he said automatically.
”Wait a few hours before you call them, okay?”
”Yeah, sure.”
”She's been sick. From what I understand, her powers are still on and off, so if she can't tell you right away, you'll just have to be patient.”
”Okay, I will. Thanks.”
”You're welcome. I'll tell Claire you called.”
”Mm.” Hanging up, he felt stunned, half wanting to call Dr. Suresh right away even though he'd said he'd wait. The other half said, Do you really want some child to tell you cold that your brother is dead?
He took off his watch, lay it on the table next to him where he could keep an eye on it, and sat back, waiting for morning.
***
Chapter 5
He was surprised to see Qais in the kitchen washing dishes, since he'd been under the impression that the kid was still at that long work trip. ”Hey. You're back.”
”Yes, this morning. I will leave again in a couple of hours.” Qais took his hands out of the soapy water and threw over a towel. ”Help me, please?”
He caught the towel and started drying, by now at home enough with the cupboards to put at least half of the dishes and utensils in their place without having to ask where that was.
”Can I keep the book a while?” asked Qais. ”I'm not finished yet.”
It took him a moment to realize what book Qais was talking about, but then he raised his eyebrows. ”Oh, so you're the one who has the book. I was wondering what had happened to it.”
”Yes. I had it with me.” Qais's ears took on a reddish hue. ”I thought you knew. I borrowed it from Rim.”
Rim hadn't bothered to borrow it in the first place, but he didn't say that. After all, he hadn't been reading it, just kept it on the nightstand wanting to read it without ever quite taking the step.
”Is it any good?” he asked instead.
”It's boring. Or it would be, if it wasn't about us.”
He slowly wiped the last few drops of water from a pitcher. ”So. What does it say? About us?”
”It says there are many others like us. Maybe hundreds and thousands. They're all different, and all different from each other too. Some might have the same abilities, but there are so many...” Qais's voice was shivering with excitement. ”To heal when you're hurt. To read minds. To move from one place to another without being in the place between.” He held up his hands, moving them apart, to show what he meant.
”Teleportation,” he filled in, feeling odd saying that. He knew for certain that teleportation shouldn't be possible - but he also knew for certain that it was. The simultaneous certainty of those two rivalling facts made him queasy.
”Yes. That's what it said. It's genetic. Our brains have mutated, to work different. It can happen to many in the same family.” Qais frowned. ”Do you think it will happen to my family?”
He shrugged. How was he to know? To avoid the question, he held up a pair of salad tongs and asked, ”Where do you keep these?”
”Down there. The things we can do will be different, even in the same family. The author believes - it's a theory - that we have needs, deep down, to do one special thing, and we will.” At this, Qais made a grimace of humorous annoyance. ”I would have liked something better, in that case.”
”You don't have a deep need to tell lies from truths?” he asked sarcastically.
”I'm a train steward,” Qais said with a smile. ”Of course I do. People don't buy their tickets every day. Now I am so good they want me to be a train master. This is good for me, but it is not very cool.”
”Hm,” he grunted. Cool or not, there were things to be said for an ability that could be used without danger of anyone finding out about it.
”And you? Do you need to fly?”
He thought of soaring high above the ground, leaving the streets and the buildings far behind. Travelling across the ocean at a speed even a plane couldn't manage, so that the water turned into a glittering blue blur below.
”I need to get my life back on track,” he said. ”Find a job, get my memories back, and be normal.”
Qais watched him with so much sympathy and understanding it gave him the jitters. ”If you need to fly, we can ask Dad to drive you somewhere where you can do it and no one will see you.”
The desire ached in his bones, begging him to take off, lift his body far up and let it do what it was meant to do.
”Sure,” he said, using all his energy to sound dispassionate.
”And if you want a job, you can talk to Rim.”
”Rim?” A high-school kid definitely wouldn't have been his first choice as a career contact.
”Yes. She can ask at the restaurant. We have had guests who have worked there before.”
”Illegal immigrants?”
Qais smiled. ”Don't throw stones in a glass house.”
”I'm not. I'm just asking. That's what they were, right?”
”Yes.”
”What happens to them? I mean, you don't have any living here now.”
”Except you,” Qais pointed out again. ”Some are found and sent home. Some complain...”
”Complain?”
”So they get to stay.”
”Appeal.” Saying the word was like finding an old receipt in your pocket, the same faint, disinterested recognition.
”Appeal. Yes. And some move somewhere else.”
”How many have there been?”
Qais shrugged. ”Lots. You're the third this year. The third case. The first was a family. Children everywhere.” He rolled his eyes. ”If we do that again, I will move out.”
”You don't like kids?”
”Yes, I like kids, but not seven or eight living here. Ugh.”
He tried to imagine seven or eight kids, with their parents, with the Mansours, all in this four-bedroom apartment. Well, he could certainly see Qais's point.
”Who was the other one?”
”A woman. But she wasn't illegal, she was divorced. She works at the restaurant some nights, perhaps you will see her there.”
”I haven't even agreed to work there yet,” he protested.
”I thought you said you wanted a job.”
”I do, but I can't really see myself as a waiter.”
Qais gave him an odd look. ”Good, because you won't be one. They like waiters who speak Swedish.”
”So what job will I get?” he asked, figuring out the answer while he was still talking.
Qais just smiled and handed him another dish to dry. As he took it, it suddenly seemed to grow bigger, while everything else faded away. He had to lean on the bench for balance, feeling seasick.
”Are you okay?” Qais asked.
”Yeah, I'm fine,” he replied automatically. The sensation only lasted a few seconds, but it left him shaken. What the hell...?
***
In the end, he didn't seem to have much choice. All the jobs he could think of required working skills, or knowledge of the primary language, or both. Staying in all day wasn't an option - even with the books, TV and occasional household chore, what it amounted to was pretty much playing hide-and-seek with his memories. At least if he washed someone else's dirty dishes for a change, he'd get to meet people.
Rim didn't seem the least bit surprised when he asked her, and in fact brought him over that very same night. The restaurant had a fair amount of customers and a sign on the window that declared in English and Swedish that tthey also hosted a nightclub twice a week. Inside, there were light wooden tables and bright bowl-shaped ceiling lamps. Fresh and minimalist, but the waiters wore plain clothes, and the discrepancy between the food on people's tables and the price for today's special made him frown until he remembered the worth of a Swedish krona.
Rim went up to the bar and started talking to the people behind it, and after a moment, she waved for him to follow her into the kitchen.
It was notably less bright and tidy than the dining area had been, and also so small it was hard to move without bumping into someone - especially the waiters, who were rushing in and out very quickly despite the hot contents of the plates they were carrying.
Rim moved with practiced ease and dragged him along to a tall man who was deep in conversation with a guy in an apron.
”Marcus!” she said, and the man turned around, giving them a quick frown.
After a week of meeting mostly Arabs, it felt strange to see someone so blond. Marcus's slicked-back hair was almost white, and his eyes were a washed-out blue that didn't fit the intensity of the gaze with which he scrutinized them. His suit was spotless and stylish, but cheaper than it looked at first glance, and he gave off an air that suggested this was true about much in his life.
Rim started speaking very quickly, and while she did, Marcus kept watching him in a way that made him want to punch the guy in the face, or take a thorough bath, or both.
”So,” Marcus said when Rim paused, ”Kalle Mohammad, was it?”
”That's right.” It struck him that the name was perfectly ridiculous, and that they really should have changed it - but it was too late now, and Marcus didn't seem to care one way or another.
”Do you speak Swedish?”
”Not really. Just a few phrases.”
”Do you have any experience?”
He shook his head and offered a half-smile. ”I'm afraid not.”
”What did you do before?”
They hadn't included profession in their backstory, but he answered, ”I was a salesman,” without any hesitation. That was vague enough to be credible both for his personality and for the job in question.
Marcus paused, gave him a last, quick brush-over with those eyes, and then suddenly smiled, holding out his hand.
”Nice to meet you.”
He found himself forced to give a radiant smile in return and offer his own hand, and he was surprised when Marcus turned it over and - was he inspecting the nails? Seeing that, he had to fight an urge to snatch his hand back.
”Busboy,” Marcus said after a moment's pause, and now he seemed to have lost all interest in them. ”Learn some more Swedish and we'll see what else. Rim, fill him in.” With that, he returned his attention to the chef.
”Busboy,” Rim said slowly. ”Huh. All right, then, come with me.”
She jerked her head at him, and they made their way through the crowd back to the dining area.
”I didn't like him,” he said under his breath as soon as they were out of hearing distance.
”He liked you.” She sounded less than pleased about the fact. ”You get to work in here.”
”And that's good, is it?”
”You're new and you don't even speak Swedish. It's very good.” She shook her head. ”I should have known. That accent, and the way you act - you may look like one of us, but you're still just like him.”
His head whipped around. ”I am what?”
”Like him. You know. Fancy, slick people with too-wide smiles.” She smirked, clearly teasing him, but he still felt offended.
”Trust me, we're not alike.”
”You're much nicer, of course.”
”That's not what I meant.” What he did mean was that Marcus was someone he should have been able to crush completely without a moment's thought. But that didn't seem like the kind of thing you could tell an impressionable kid, and in any case it was a moot point. Whatever he had been before, he no longer had the upper hand.
The chores Rim showed him were simple enough - set up the tables before a customer arrived, clean them off afterwards, repeat ad nauseam. The members of the staff were harder to learn. Several of them introduced themselves, and he smiled and traded a few words, but he didn't think he'd be able to learn all their names. Fortunately, they all seemed to be on a first-name basis, which meant less to learn as well as his own not sounding quite so unlikely.
”Salaam Alaykum.” Yet another person coming up to him just as he left for the kitchen. This time it was a woman, a few years his senior or prematurely gray. Her nose was a bit too long and her curves, while nice, headed slightly downwards, but there was something in her gaze under thick, long eyelashes that made his smile soften as he greeted her.
”Wa alaykum Salaam.” It was one of the few phrases he had managed to learn in Arabic. ”Most people stick to 'hey'.”
”I wanted to do things right,” she said, giving him a cocky grin that revealed a row of very white teeth marred by a missing one on the left. ”My name is Rawan. Nice to meet you.”
”You too. I'm Kalle.”
”I know. Rim said that. How many hours will you work?”
”I don't know.” He added wryly, ”It wasn't really included in the negotiations.”
A beat, and then that grin was back, even wider. ”It wouldn't be, no.” She nodded towards Rim, who was noting down orders. ”Rim only work three hours. Schoolgirls need their sleep. If you work longer and you need help, you can ask me.”
She wasn't the first person trying to help him out, nor was she the first one who had flirted with him, but he still let his eyes linger. He could tell that she had been a beautiful woman once, but it was less that than her self-assured attitude that made him say warmly, ”I'd like that.”
After she had left, he looked down at his hand, at the burn mark from the wedding band. Whatever had happened to him, it had made damned sure he knew he had a wife somewhere. Maybe one he loved dearly. Still, he couldn't live his life pussyfooting around a memory he didn't even have anymore. He looked up, seeing a couple of women throwing him appreciative glances, and gave them a slight smile in return. All right, then. If the opportunity presented itself - whether with that Rawan or someone else - he wouldn't say no.