Ghazi’s latest girlfriend waitress was his third romance at Del Fuegos. She knew an immigration lawyer. His name was Charlie Stone. He spoke Arabic. Charlie knew Algeria. No one before Charlie knew Algeria. The first girlfriend waitress thought it was near Panama. The second one thought it was Nigeria. But Charlie, he knew the Groupe Islamique Armé, the Front Islamique du Salut, the Front de Libération Nationale. To make Ghazi happy, Aziz went to Charlie’s office. It smelled like insecticide. They spent a long night drinking bad tea and talking. Charlie said the GIA were terrorists; Ghazi said the GIA were terrorists but the FIS was not. Aziz was quiet. Charlie pounded on his desk. Says who? Says Ghazi. Every so often Aziz smiled at Charlie approvingly. He did the same to Ghazi. Mostly, Aziz looked around.

The top of Charlie’s scuffed desk was empty. The shelves had cardboard boxes but no books. He had no secretary. His phone was on the wall, not the desk. Ghazi had gone gullible. Maybe this Charlie was a spy from home. Maybe he was the secret police of the Americans. His name and talking Arabic did not match, of that Aziz was sure. He looked Arab, but his Arabic was sometimes Lebanese, sometimes Egyptian. Textbook Arabic, Aziz believed. Charlie’s explanation for his name was from a book too. Had to change it, he said; his real name was hard for Americans to say.

When Aziz told Ghazi the office was fake, Charlie untrustworthy, Ghazi laughed and patted Aziz’s cheeks. “I am playing him,” he said. For what? Aziz’s expression asked. But Ghazi ignored the look.

“He does not use the Algerian word khandji, or even irhabi. Always mujahideen. Always jihadists.”

“Irhabiya, khandjiya mujahideen, jihadists, terrorists. Same, same, same, same.”

Aziz knew they were not the same. Even the smartest one, he concluded, could act like a grasshopper. When Ghazi started filling out the forms Charlie gave him, Aziz knew it was Charlie who was playing Ghazi, though for what, Aziz could not exactly imagine. It was an application for asylum. Apply, Ghazi told Aziz. Charlie knows how to word these things. He knows the home country. He has made a story about me the Americans will like. With asylum, we get the green card. We become like Mourad.

Aziz said the same thing he said all summer when Charlie Stone came up. “How do you know he is an immigration lawyer?”

Aziz and Ghazi were waiting for the bus after work. It was past midnight, the street emptied except for a traffic light’s green, yellow, and red. They heard nothing but crickets. Something felt sad to Aziz. Ghazi was inside himself, his clowning put away.

“Aziz,” Ghazi said. “Did you ever believe you could leave?”

Dread would have come a few months ago. But Ghazi had shed mysteries all summer. He was as hapless as any of them.

“To be honest, no,” Aziz answered.