Homeland Elegies(38)

“Oh, I’m sorry. How do you say it?”

What was I doing? How was insulting her going to help me? I forced a laugh and pivoted to humor: “Akhtar, actually. But it was close enough. You’d be surprised. I get called everything from Iran to Yoda.”

“Yoda? That’s a good one, Mr.—Akh-tar—is that right?”

The hint of warmth in her voice encouraged me. “Yes,” I said, telegraphing warmth back.

“So how can I help you today?”

I explained the situation I was in, stranded in Scranton with an unexpected repair, the dispute, the need to get my car back. I told her about the letter I’d received with the offer of a credit increase on my card. I was hoping, I said, the offer was still valid.

I heard her punching keys on the other end. Then a pause. “Can I put you on hold?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

When she returned, it was with good news. Her supervisor had approved a $2,500 increase on the card. The increase would take effect immediately to cover the repair. I listened as she hurried, flatly, through the terms of the new agreement. It informed me of what I already knew: that the balance my card was carrying—something north of $15,000—would now accrue 22 percent interest. I could have taken a cab to the local loan shark and saved money. When she was done with the boilerplate, I thanked her profusely and hung up.





An Epiphany (of Sorts)


Back on I-81 heading south, I’d just crossed into New York State when my cell phone rang. It was my mother. She was worried. Why hadn’t I called yesterday? I apologized, told her about the problem with the car. I hadn’t wanted to concern her. My father overheard the mention of trouble with the car and picked up another receiver:

“What happened to the car?”

“Blew a head gasket.”

“It’s a lemon. I told you it was a waste of money.”

“I know, Dad.”

“How much did they charge you?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No. How much?”

“Just tell him, honey,” my mother said.

“Guys, it’s fine.”

“Gasket can cost you,” he said.

“It did. But don’t worry about it.”

He insisted: “Beta—just tell me how much it cost you. We can help.”

“It’s fine. Please. Guys, I know you want to help. You already help so much. I need to deal with this on my own.”

“Okay,” my mother said, quietly. My father was quiet, too.

Despite my protestations, I knew they were hearing the need, the distress in my voice. I knew they wanted me to say more. But what to tell them? That I was lost and broke and felt persistently humiliated and under attack in the only country I’d ever known, a place that the more I understood, the less I felt I belonged? What was the point? My father would see an opening, quote Tony Robbins or Robert Kiyosaki, lecture me about the only obstacles worth taking seriously being the ones I put in my own way. My mother would stay silent through it all; this silence would irritate my father, make him strident and, eventually, accusatory. Later, when she was alone again, she would call and concur, complain, commiserate, promise the extra nightly prayers on my behalf, and, of course, remind me that my bedroom was always free if I needed some time away from the city. Deluded admonitions, however true; futile tenderness, however comforting. There was no point.

After hanging up, I drove in silence. The wheels grumbled along on the blacktop. The wind wheezed at the cracked window. Inside, too, I heard something—distilled and dour, the quiet rumble of a gathering truth. It would be another hour before I got to the city limits, but by then my mind would be made up: I was going to stop pretending that I felt like an American.





V.





Riaz; or, The Merchant of Debt




I left Scranton owing more money than I would make for the next two years, but the decision I came to during that drive home would be conclusive: I would soon begin a series of works founded on my new unwillingness to pretend I was not conflicted about my country or my place in it. Paradoxically, these were the works that would lead to me finally finding my way as a writer in my American homeland and to the success that would earn me enough money to settle my debts and start making the monthly ends meet.

But Scranton wasn’t done with me:

Nine years later, this grim corner of the Keystone State would play a role in making me wealthier than I had any right to be—and through no effort of my own. I set no hit play or book there, inherited no parcel of coal-rich land, purchased no winning Powerball ticket from a local gas station on another fugitive trip through the Lackawanna Valley. No, it was Riaz who made me rich, and Riaz was from Scranton. From what I gathered, he had no better a time growing up there than I had passing through, though the depth of his enmity for the place would shock me. I know I’m getting ahead of myself here, but Riaz’s tale would make me wonder if what William Gaddis once said about a writer needing a sufficient store of rage to sustain the will to write also held true for anyone chasing down his (or her) first billion. Maybe so. Maybe there’s no way to get anything significant done in the world without anger. All the same, I still find it hard to fathom how anyone could nurse a grudge for so long, sustain for so many years the kind of focused rage required to execute as meticulous a plan for revenge as Riaz did against his native soil.