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a funeral van to meet him on his arrival. Only Caloosha would be likely to send him such a veiled message, with a death threat threaded into its cloth. Alas, Jeebleh couldn’t tell whether he should take it lightheartedly, or with the heedfulness of a man being forewarned.
    â€œGood luck,” Af-Laawe said, and he was gone.

2.
    JEEBLEH WAS UNCOMFORTABLY SQUEEZED IN THE FRONT OF THE VEHICLE, pressed between the driver and a man responding to the title of Major. In the seat immediately behind them were three youths with assault rifles. Perched on the roof were several others with grenade launchers and belt-fed machine guns. That he was uncomfortable sitting so close to so many guns in the hands of teenagers was obvious; he remained alert, and watched for the telltale signs of imminent danger.
    As they moved, and once he was accustomed to his discomfort, his eyes fell on a young man lying in the rear. The handsome youth had the whole seat to himself, his right leg, which was in a cast, extended in the dignified attitude of someone showing off a prize possession.
    Perhaps mundanely, perhaps revealing more about how much more American he had become than he would care to admit, Jeebleh wished that the driver, the Major, and the youths in the back would all refrain from turning the vehicle into a smokehouse. He kept quiet about his preoccupations, doubtful that they would oblige, and feeling silly that he would expend more energy on their cigarette smoking than on the fact that they were so heavily armed. Instead, he asked the Major where he had been when the state collapsed and the city exploded into anarchy.
    The Major replied: “Here and there and everywhere.”
    â€œBut you were in the National Army, were you not?”
    â€œHow did you decide that?”
    â€œI assumed, because of your title, Major.”
    Saying nothing, the Major blew out rings of smoke straight into Jeebleh’s eyes, irritating him no end. The driver sensed the tension building up and stepped in. He addressed his words to Jeebleh. “We’re all shell-shocked on account of what we’ve been through—those of us who stayed on in the country. I hope people like you will forgive us our failings, and we pray to God that He’ll forgive us our trespasses too.”
    The Major cursed. “What fainthearted nonsense!”
    Minutes passed with only the sound of the engine. The youths engaged in agitated whispers in a hard-to-follow dialect commonly spoken in a southern region of the country where militiamen came from.
    â€œWhere do you know Marabou from?” the Major asked.
    Jeebleh looked from the Major to the driver and back, as he had no idea what this meant. His lower lip caught in his teeth; biting it, he mumbled, “Marabou?”
    The driver helped him out. “‘Marabou’ is the nickname by which the guy who runs Funeral with a Difference is known in some circles of our city.”
    â€œHe introduced himself as Af-Laawe,” Jeebleh said.
    â€œAnd you met him for the first time today?”
    When Jeebleh nodded and the driver vouched for him, this angered the Major. He turned on the driver, saying, “Why do you keep speaking for him?”
    â€œBecause I’m the one who offered him a lift, that’s why,” the driver said.
    And when the Major continued to stare furiously first at him, and then for a considerably longer time at Jeebleh, whipping himself into a giant fury, the driver was compelled to add, “I know this gentleman’s reputation, and of the high respect his name is held in, in many quarters. What’s more, I know this to be their first encounter, because Marabou told me so.”
    There was silence.
    A few minutes later, the driver said, “I am reminded of a story in which Voltaire, who is on his deathbed, receives a visit from Satan. Eager to recruit the French philosopher for his own ends, Satan offers him limitless pleasures that would make his