The sun was now directly overhead, turning the sky white with heat. The shadows disappeared and the desert became a single flat plain, a skillet of sand. Behind them, the military convoy stretched out along the highway for many miles. Ahead, a war was under way, one that would not end soon. Henry wondered if his friend would survive it. He could not imagine that a personality as vivid and valuable as Majid’s could be extinguished by a foolish military adventure, but amid so much arbitrary death the horizon of one’s own existence seemed alarmingly near. They were both mindful that this might be their last conversation.
“I promised some days ago that I would tell you my story,” Henry said. “What I am about to say I have told only a few people ever. They were so alarmed that I decided I would never talk about this again. I despise having people judge me or pity me, so I pretend to forget the details of my childhood, or I make up an alternative history that people accept without question. Even those who are closest to me don’t know the full story. Who would lie about his parents and the disease that has marked himself all his life? But I have lied, over and over, as if the lie would chase away the truth.
“The evidence of my parents’ neglect is obvious. I was starved. Not intentionally. They did not mean to be cruel—the very opposite. They were idealists who got caught up in a movement. Social justice, racial equality, nonviolence, these were the tenets of their group, a mixture of Marxism and evangelism. They were going to make a paradise on earth, or so their leader told them. He was grandiose, paranoid, always fleeing imaginary enemies. He relocated his movement to San Francisco, and then to a small country in South America. In the jungle where I was born.
“My parents were true believers. To them, their leader was a prophet, like Jesus or Muhammad. They were good people, I’m sure—kind and considerate—but they didn’t have time to take care of an infant, they were too busy saving the world. I was often placed in the colony’s nursery, but occasionally they simply forgot about me—at least, this is my supposition. I only remember the loneliness, the hunger, the fear that no one would come for me.
“Looking back now, as a doctor, I can diagnose the physical problem. Just imagine, we were in the tropics, but I was kept inside a hut most of my early years, fed on bananas and porridge. I didn’t grow. My legs bowed, my bones broke easily and often. No one in the camp was capable of diagnosing or treating a disease as outmoded as rickets. Once, I was taken to the leader to be healed. I remember only his terrifying black eyes staring at me, while he invoked some language that was supposed to straighten my limbs and make me grow. But, of course, that didn’t happen, and I became an embarrassment, a rebuke to the leader’s healing powers. Finally, when I was four, it was decided that I should be sent back to Indianapolis where my grandparents lived. And that was the only thing that saved me—my disease turned out to be my salvation. I suppose you could call it a curse that carried a blessing inside it. Two months later, everyone in the camp died. My parents would have been among the first.”
“How did this happen?”
“Cyanide. They all drank it. More than nine hundred people.”
“This was Jonestown!”
“Yes,” said Henry. “This was Jonestown.”
“Oh, Henry.” Majid’s eyes were full of tears. He didn’t know what else to say.
“I beg you, don’t feel sorry for me. I have hidden this story for so many years because I know it changes how people see me. It’s like saying your parents were Nazis or lepers or worse. I am who I am despite my background. I don’t want to be judged as some helpless victim. I’ve learned that it is better just to keep that part of my life in the dark.”
Majid was still too stunned to reply. He wanted to be consoling, but he was overwhelmed with grief for his friend. Finally he said, “I can’t help being furious at your parents. I’m sorry, Henry, I’m just too angry at them for what they did to you.”
“It’s my struggle, not yours. One day, maybe, I’ll be able to forgive them, but the older I become, the more I