The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2016 Read Online Free Page B

atmospheres that produce nostalgia. In cities without the correct combination of—for example—hills, streetlights, and coffee, it is difficult to get laid. A playbill in a gutter, bleeding color, the image of a famous actress blurring slowly into pulp: This would be perfect. The word
playbill
is perfect. There are many ways to achieve the desired conditions. Iram has none.
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    No continuity without desire. There is no desire in Iram; the time of Iram is
not yet.
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oh do you remember when we were courting
    when my head lay upon your breast
    you could make me believe by the falling of your arm
    that the sun rose in the west
    â€”
American folksong
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    The reversal of time expressed in these lines is impossible in Iram. In Iram, there is nothing to reverse. Every time I go there, I see my uncle on the same bridge, and he raises his hand to greet me in the same way. He always tells me not to say
every time,
but I can’t help it; it’s a habit. He wishes I had come to visit him in Jeddah. I couldn’t go, I tell him. It would have meant an expensive trip. I would have had to wear an abaya. I couldn’t do it.
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    My uncle is not at all angry. Well, he says. He pats my shoulder. Well. He’s wearing the most magnificent orange suit. Like my father, who is waiting for us at the restaurant, my uncle has style. The men in my family are all very beautiful.
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    When I say that Iram is lacking in domestic objects, I mean that we haven’t gathered enough. I try to bring something with me every time. Last time it was a collection of my father’s audiotapes, crammed into a pair of black plastic bags. The tapes are dusty with cigarette ash and poetry. It is only possible to listen to them in the worst light. A white, ugly, institutional light that, despite its harshness, is too weak to travel more than a couple of feet.
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    Fortunately the tapes create the sort of light they need.
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    At the restaurant, my father has already ordered. As always, he’s gotten the huge appetizer plate, more than a hundred appetizers arranged around a bowl of blue flame. I kiss his cheek. He waves, expansive: Sit down! It’s important to order the biggest thing. The entire restaurant must smell my father’s cologne. In Iram, this makes me happy. This is the good life. I don’t know what the blue flame is made of, but it keeps everybody warm.
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    You can stop there.
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    My mother says: Your father had beautiful skin. This was before he began to suffer from psoriasis. Now he goes out in a hat and gloves, even on the hottest days. My father has become allergic to sunlight. How is that possible, my mother asks. He’s a Somali—he grew up in the sun! My father puts on his hat and goes out to his car. His beautiful skin, my mother says sadly. The car starts up: a throbbing sound that remains, for me, after all these years, synonymous with fear.
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    The car pulls into the driveway. The children hear its long, low note. They hear the door slam. The children run upstairs and hide inside their rooms. They’re giggling because it’s beautiful and exciting to be a child. They’re smart; like bugs, they can squeeze into any kind of space. The children make bug-nests for themselves out of torn-up letters and photos. They squirm around in the nests and eat a lot of paper. The children are going to turn out fine, but they’ll be the kind of people who do not have many things they can take to Iram.
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    In a city where one could find—for example—dogs, graffiti, and palm trees, it would be possible to fall in love.
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Have you not considered how your Lord dealt with Aad, with Iram—who had lofty pillars, the likes of whom had never been created in the lands? And with Thamud, who carved out the rocks in the valley? And with Pharaoh, owner of the stakes? All of whom oppressed within the lands, and increased therein the corruption. So your Lord poured upon