On the fourth day of the heat wave assaulting southwest Houston, Hashim Gashi returned to his apartment in the sagging building with the dumpster out front just as the sun was slipping behind the western wall of the complex. He paused to kick a decapitated Barbie head, hair flaxen and face dewed with heat, over the banister of the railing that ran along the horseshoe curve of the courtyard below. He moved with a rolling swagger, the motion of the left hip locking against a tendon, or perhaps a bone chip floating in his pelvis - a painful remnant of a war injury he'd suffered as a teenager in Yugoslavia. Although he could still smell the heavy tarred smoke from the gun, the rod heated by the coal fire; in the shower, back home on the promenade, in the certian section where the prison covered the river, he never let it stir a thought that could lead to a memory. Likewise, he could have winced with every step, but pulled his lame leg alone with an unsentimental deference.
Bujar had written phrases Hashim was to say to the non-profit lawyer who was sitting on a cardboard box in his living room. They included a careful phrasing of statements that dulled implication, such as, "I was a surgeon in the war", and "my mother's paperwork was burned when our Serbian neighbors burned our house down". They required little follow up, had some element of truth behind them and most importantly, had untraceable origins.
The door of the apartment was open, momentarily sending a shivered rush through Hashim's core. Inside, a woman sat on a cardboard box fanning her legs with her clipboard. An accordion file of paperwork sat beside her, and when he entered, she was staring through the sliding glass door at the warm flush of the sunset against the sky.
"Hello?" he asked
She turned quickly but without expression. For a moment Hashim wondered if he had the correct apartment. "Mr. Gashi?" she asked. Her make-up clung to beads of sweat on her upper lip. "I'm Mira Lexington. Your attorney." She wore a black skirt suit, and square-framed glasses that obscured her eyes as though two coke bottles might.
"Is anyone else home?"
"Oh you mean," she pulled out her files,"Ibram and ..."
"Liridona."
"Yes, Liridona, your..." she scanned a sheet and flipped it.
"Niece."
"That's right," she said. "And there are others."
Bujar had written phrases Hashim was to say to the non-profit lawyer who was sitting on a cardboard box in his living room. They included a careful phrasing of statements that dulled implication, such as, "I was a surgeon in the war", and "my mother's paperwork was burned when our Serbian neighbors burned our house down". They required little follow up, had some element of truth behind them and most importantly, had untraceable origins.
The door of the apartment was open, momentarily sending a shivered rush through Hashim's core. Inside, a woman sat on a cardboard box fanning her legs with her clipboard. An accordion file of paperwork sat beside her, and when he entered, she was staring through the sliding glass door at the warm flush of the sunset against the sky.
"Hello?" he asked
She turned quickly but without expression. For a moment Hashim wondered if he had the correct apartment. "Mr. Gashi?" she asked. Her make-up clung to beads of sweat on her upper lip. "I'm Mira Lexington. Your attorney." She wore a black skirt suit, and square-framed glasses that obscured her eyes as though two coke bottles might.
"Is anyone else home?"
"Oh you mean," she pulled out her files,"Ibram and ..."
"Liridona."
"Yes, Liridona, your..." she scanned a sheet and flipped it.
"Niece."
"That's right," she said. "And there are others."
