Cold Snap (25 page)

"I am most grateful," he said to Howie, who
would have preened had he not already taken up the bag.

River Road was not really the straight line
inferred by Howie's directions but a twisting two-way road that
plunged and rose like waves from the James. Nonetheless, Ari
treated it like the shortest distance between two points on a
geometric diagram. It did not occur to him that the police might be
so frivolous as to pull him over for reckless driving. There were
far more serious crimes to attend to. He knew that for a fact.

Crossing Lee Bridge was a visual treat. The
James was far more vibrant than the brown, sluggish twins of
Baghdad, the Tigris and Euphrates, choked with debris and bodies.
Of course, Ari and Abu Jasim had made their own contribution to
Richmond's channel cats, but that particular body must be far
downriver by now—and much the worse for wear.

Once over the bridge, he passed the Virginia
War Memorial. He was about to make a U-turn to go back for a look
when he spotted a sign for Hollywood Cemetery. This was where
Elmore Lawson had taken his boy years ago, where those who had
fallen were very resistant to getting up again. He turned left.
Cutting across two blocks of what had once been a blue collar
neighborhood, with houses a hundred years old or more, he came to
the cemetery entrance. Several bearded men who reminded Ari of
Taliban sentries were standing next to an adjoining stone mason
shop that specialized in grave markers. They were being watched by
a uniformed police officer who appeared both amused and wary. Ari
stopped next to the three men, who glowered down at him. He lowered
his window.

"Is this the resting place of the great war
hero, Jefferson Davis?" he asked.

Taken aback, the man holding a Confederate
flag lowered the butt of the staff to the ground. He was shivering.
In tattered gray, their uniforms provided little protection against
the cold.

"Who wants to know?"

"Only a visitor from another land."

"No kidding."

"Since my arrival, I have heard of two
heroes, Jefferson Davis and Frank Drebin. Would Mr. Drebin happen
to be buried here, also?"

The re-enactors exchanged glances, their
bushy eyebrow twisting in confusion. The flag man looked at the cop
and decided niceness was the best policy. For the interim.

"Yeah, President Davis is buried here, up
next to the river."

"Was he every bit as great as they say he
was?" He gave the uniforms a meaningful glance. "Is that why you
are standing here in the blistering cold? Are you an honor
guard?"

"Confederate States Constitution Day. And
yes, he was a great man."

"I'm not standing out here for him," groused
one of his companions. "He wasn't so terrific."

"What do you mean?" countered the flag
man.

"Well, he lost the dang war, for one."

"All right," said the flag man, losing some
of his Southern twang. "He had some issues."

"That Varina was a foxy issue," the third man
said, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Get serious," barked the second man. "We're
here because the Confederate flag represents pride, not
prejudice."

"Jefferson was a great man, for all
his..."

"'Issues'? There was only one loon loonier,
and together they busted the South."

"Don't bust my chops unless you want the
favor returned."

The next thing Ari knew, they forgot about
him and his dark complexion and began arguing about some fellow
called Braxton Bragg. This alerted the policeman to imminent
trouble. He nudged his radio, as though cautioning the men against
letting the debate get out of hand.

Leaving them to their arcane scholarship, Ari
drove through the entrance. A guard stood in a small parking lot
across from the gothic-style building that held the cemetery
office. He was staring up the hill, a worried expression on his
face. Ari pulled up next to him and asked the same question he had
asked the flag bearer.

"Sure, sure...best just to look at the map."
He nodded over his shoulder. Ari stepped out and walked over to a
plaque set in a boulder almost half the size of his car. Etched in
bronze was a map of Hollywood Cemetery, with prominent internees
numbered and footnoted. John Tyler, Ellen Glasgow, Fitzhugh Lee,
James Monroe, George Pickett, James Branch Cabell, Douglas
Freeman…. He located Davis and picked out his route.

"Is there trouble brewing up there?" the
guard asked. Rather than take his hands out of pockets, he pointed
by nodding beyond the bars of the tall, iron wrought fence.

"I think those men are too cold to desire a
fight," Ari observed.

"It's too cold to be standing out there in
the first place." The guard shook his head. "Pesky
re-enactors."

"Re-enactors?"

"Dressed up like they're part of the Army of
Northern Virginia. Usually they wait for summer and reenact battles
at one of the historical fields around here, but every so often you
run into a group that wants to make a point."

"Which is?"

"Hell if I know. I don't think they want to
bring slavery back, not really. Maybe they want to make eating raw
corn and possum the national pastime. The South lost the war over a
hundred years ago, but you still get these devotees of the Lost
Cause."

"'Lost Cause'?" Ari inquired politely.

"Like when you lose a big fight and can't get
over it."

"Ah," said Ari, understanding completely.

"I'm a good 'ol local boy myself, but I got
over that fight long ago—before I was born. You read too much
history, you start mooning over the fall of the Roman Empire."

Ari wondered if, in a hundred years' time,
his Iraqi descendants would charge blindly in all directions in
celebration of the beating they had taken at the hands of a once
great superpower. That was the worst thing about defeat. Losers
possessed a vaguely ridiculous taint—until, of course, they
redressed the situation.

Down one hill and up the next, Ari found
Jefferson Davis' crypt in a pleasant circle overlooking the river.
He got out and looked at the statue. It was not oversized, and the
one and only Confederate President came across like a man patiently
waiting for a train, hand on hip, the other hand holding a hat. An
image of Saddam Hussein's statue being toppled in Firdos Square
came to mind. Ari had watched the proceedings with mixed emotions.
He was sickened by the ease at which the Iraqi Army had been
defeated. He was grieving for his family. He was feeling hopeless,
desolate...a very rare experience for him.

Had this Jefferson Davis been, so to speak,
an Ur-Saddam Hussein? A despotic sadist who brought a tormented
stability to his country? Or a benevolent bureaucrat whose dreams
had dissolved in the rush of modernity? The marble did not speak,
and Ari did not know enough to draw any conclusions. Obviously the
re-enactors, allegedly representative of Davis' followers, had
mixed feelings about him. Just as Ari, in spite of the monolithic
revulsion of the world when confronted by Saddam, could point at
the turmoil and occasional wickedness of his homeland and say: What
else could you expect?

The great man's memorial was surrounded by
prominent satellites, headstones and crypts almost as elaborate as
Davis' own. There must have been a fine squabble for precedence
after his death. Who would be close enough to accompany the
Confederate president into the Hereafter? Obviously, the question
had carried weight with some people of means. Ari had been in the
States when Saddam was executed at Camp Justice in Iraq. Was a
similar tussle taking place even now, at his burial site in
Al-Awja?

Hollywood Cemetery was no Pere Lachaise, but
it had its own aura of charm. One could spend many hours exploring
its historic niches—on a warmer day. Right now, Ari was eager to
race back to his despised xB and its essential warmth. The little
car was tossed about in the wind as he made the turn around Davis
Circle and bolted downhill.

Neither the policemen nor the re-enactors
were in evidence when he pulled out through the gate. They had
probably decided no cause, even a much cherished lost cause, was
worth a symbolic bout of frostbite.

Ten minutes later, Ari entered Lowe's. The
paint department was near the front of the store. Ben Torson was
behind the counter, an open can of freshly mixed paint sitting open
before him. On the other side of the counter stood a woman almost
cross-eyed with wrath.

"That is not the color I gave you!" she
shouted, not entirely unpleased by audience of customers within
earshot. "I wanted burnt umber. This is...umberish. It looks like
raw meat!"

Ben wore a look of stoic politeness, his
workplace smile slightly stiffened by concern. "I can scan your
sample again, Ma'am, but this looks like a perfect match to me.
See...when it's finally dried..." He smeared a sample from the can
on a pad and played a blow dryer over it until it dried. He slid it
onto the countertop next to a flake of paint the woman had brought
in. "There..."

The woman did not look down. "You already
showed me. Wrong once is wrong again. I'm not going to pay good
money for something that is not only overpriced but wrong. You need
to bring out a new can and start over."

Ari edged closer for a look. The two samples
perfectly matched the swatch of flaked paint.

Ben had served two tours in Iraq, had seen
the worst war has to offer, and had been present when his battle
buddy committed suicide. To Ari's thinking, such an experience
endowed a man with the inalienable right to crush obnoxious
civilians in word and deed. He realized this had always been the
viewpoint of aggrieved soldiers when confronting a spoiled
citizenry, and that such notions should be nipped in the bud in
boot camp. But that did not lessen his ire over the woman's
behavior.

She was dressed neatly in slacks and a coat
that emphasized slimness. Her knitted wool cap added a deceptively
childlike slant to her appearance. Her bombast did not jibe with
her look of sober intelligence. Was this all a performance? A
premeditated attack? If so, was she attacking the brand...or this
specific man?

He reached forward and took up one of the
samples. Ben and the customer glanced at him. The veteran's
expression of surprise and mild dismay was to be expected. After
their last meeting, he must have thought they had a tacit agreement
to keep their distance from each other, for their own safety. But
the woman's slight charge of recognition was unanticipated, and
brief. When Ari had first encountered Deputy Marshal Karen
Sylvester at a downtown art studio, he had thought, 'She knows me.
How can she possibly know me?' He was experiencing the same
sensation at this moment.

"This reminds me of the red ochre of Aegean
frescoes. In fact, at Knossos you'll find ground hematite that
resembles this greatly. Of course, the whole world admires the
griffins couchant..."

This was about the extent of Ari's art
appreciation.

Ben, the woman, and all the customers who had
gathered to watch the confrontation between them had now switched
their collective gaze to Ari, who had a knack for drawing unwanted
attention.

"I've always wanted to visit Crete," Ben
smiled dreamily, then turned to the woman. "Can I seal up the can
for you, now, Ma'am?"

She was in her mid-thirties, trim, her black
hair appearing to be cut shoulder-length, though it was hard to
tell under the cap. She handled her punctured certainty uneasily,
as though she had dropped her script and could not stoop to pick it
up without being punished by laughter from the spectators in the
theater. She gracelessly resigned the fight, gyrating on her flat
heels and walking away.

With pursed lips and a sigh, Ben tapped the
lid onto the paint can with a rubber mallet and slid the can into a
hidden space under the counter. As he did so, he murmured, "4:30,"
then turned to his next customer. Ari returned to the parking
lot.

With an hour to kill, Ari walked about five
blocks to a VCU campus book store he had passed on the way in.
Strolling through the aisles, he noticed there were far more
novelties than titles. Sweatshirts, backpacks, Nalgene bottles,
mugs, footwear, bed risers, splash goggles for the safety-conscious
art student…the clutter was overwhelming. A clerk noted his
bemusement and tried to dodge away. Ari found this interesting. At
the Amis Discount Furniture Universe one almost had to beat off the
salesmen with a baseball bat, but in a bookstore customers were
treated like tainted meat. Ari had abundant experience as a tracker
and had no problem intercepting the reluctant clerk in the next
aisle. On finding his path blocked by an Arabic mountain, the young
black man braked on his heels and stuttered, "Can I help you,
sir?"

"I can't help notice there are precious few
books in your book store."

"Well...it's a campus bookstore," the clerk
said, as if that was explanation enough.

"You mean a university book store."

"Right."

"Where there should be books in chaotic
profusion."

The clerk looked from side to side. "I don't
think there's any chaos."

"Nor is there profusion."

"Sir, most of the business here is in
textbooks. The teachers assign them, the store orders them, the
students buy them. But we've got some non-textbooks here..." He
looked around. "Oh, yeah, down there at the far end. Plenty of
books."

"I've been down there and didn't see what I
was looking for," Ari complained mildly. "Perhaps you can assist
me?"

"Uh...I'm just a stocker."

"You shouldn't demean yourself. You are proud
of being a good stocker, right?"

"Uh..."

"In all of your stocking assignments, do you
recall placing a book about Jefferson Davis on the shelf?"

The stocker frowned thoughtfully. "I think
we've got some tourist guides for Monticello somewhere."