Nonplussed, Abdul watched and listened, waiting for further proof that this random convergence was indeed all it presumed to be. Qazwini smoldered with resentment and disbelief, suspicious of all encounters not of his making, as if I were the upstart instrument of some pell-mell plot to undermine his eminence. Grady, the great manipulator, who but a moment ago had been thinking (Oh, I could read each dip and blister of that churning cerebrum—it took little imagination, considering our long alliance—so I knew, I knew) I’ve picked up the tab for this paragon, he’d been thinking, this pitchman’s dream. How can I use him? In a wink of time he had modified the question, seeking further advantage. Now he asked himself, How can I benefit from a consanguinity not my own?

As for Chatterton and his minions, they observed the unfolding scenario with a slit-eyed, tight-mouthed skepticism, uninterested in a discovery from which no foreseeable harvest could be reaped. Or maybe they were just having trouble hearing my joyful yelps—they must have been half-deaf from all their cacophonous harmonics experiments by now.

Now Abdul and Qazwini eyed me with a kind of uncertain suspicion, as if I had conjured him up with some kind of sorcery and unleashed him on Assama.

Only Valerie responded to the radiance of the moment. Unpuzzled, she accepted the reunion for what it was—just another goose by the fickle finger of fate. She was happy for me; possibly she figured I might share the Colonel with her. Certainly she had need of a father, even a surrogate one, and I would have been glad to oblige.

But there was nothing to share. His very remoteness was chilling. Perhaps I’m being unfair, for he could have been as shocked as I was by the encounter and, moreover, he must have been carrying a heavy bucket of guilt for having abandoned wife and son (was I projecting?), which my presence did nothing to assuage. Maybe he saw in me a discomforting reminder of that segment of his life he’d have preferred to forget. He did seem slightly embarrassed by our kinship. After all, I was the only imperfection, the only inelegance that could be grafted to Ish-Chayl (more projection?).

“Why do you make excuses for him?” Valerie asked later.

Her opinion of fathers had reverted to a minimal expectancy.

“He has a lot of good in him,” I insisted doggedly.

“Sure,” she said, “he just never lets it out. I think he’s kind of weird.”

“Why? Because he’s so superior to the general run of men?”

“No. I don’t know. Because he’s so stern and unbending.”

“Well, what the hell, nobody’s totally sane.”