London Twist: A Delilah Novella

suit, then poured them each another. The wine was wonderfully warm in her belly, and she felt a slight, welcome fuzziness at the edges of her perception.
    They settled back into the couch side by side. The sounds of laughter and conversation around them were comforting and convivial, a cocoon of warm sound that made their end of the couch feel personal, private, a refuge from the world.
    “May I ask a question?” Delilah said as they sipped the wine. “Not for the interview. Just as a friend.”
    Fatima looked at her, her eyes slightly unfocused. “Of course.”
    “When you said before, ‘This is the choice they impose on us,’ how did you mean it?”
    Fatima took a swallow of wine. “I meant… when someone hurts you. Really hurts you, irreparably hurts you. You have to fight back, or you’ll die inside.”
    “Fight back… you mean, hurt them back?”
    “Sometimes it means that. Like those men tonight. Do you wish you could hurt them now?”
    “No. That one guy who got hit with the baton, he might be past hurting, I don’t know.”
    “Yes. And why don’t you want to hurt them? They certainly wanted to hurt us.”
    “But they didn’t.”
    “Again, yes. And that man—I’m assuming it was a man—who attacked you in Paris. Do you wish you could hurt him?”
    “No.”
    “Because, as you say, you got lucky. He didn’t hurt you. But what if he had? What if he had raped you? What if he had raped your own sister, your own brother? Would you want to hurt him then?”
    “I’d want to kill him.”
    “And what if
he
blamed
you
for the rape? Told you it was your fault, you provoked him, you were asking for it?”
    “That would be even worse.”
    “Well, now you can imagine what it’s like for families like mine. You’d think there could be nothing worse than America murdering your brothers, your sisters, your children with drones. But there actually is. It’s when afterward, as you gather to mourn your murdered child, America sends
another
drone to bomb the funeral. It’s when a White House advisor tells you your child was murdered because you weren’t a good parent. It’s when some overprivileged
Time Magazine
columnist tells you your child had to be murdered so his could live. It’s when America’s Ambassador to the United Nations tells you a half-million dead Iraqi children was ‘worth it.’”
    Delilah nodded. “Yes. That would be even worse.”
    “You say you’d want to kill him. And if you had the opportunity?”
    “I don’t know. But… what about ‘hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that’? The things you were saying in your address to the American defense secretary?”
    “I think it’s a beautiful aspiration. But sometimes… I don’t know. Sometimes I think the need for revenge must be there for a reason. It’s so natural, so universal, so deeply ingrained. So maybe at some point, fighting it might be unwise? I mean, going against something that fundamental to our nature is like teaching yourself to walk on your hands instead of your feet. Yes, it’s possible, you can do it for short distances, but does it make sense? It’s not the way we’re built.”
    Delilah sensed that whatever pressurized contents kept this woman tossing and turning at night were now swirling alluringly near the surface. The trick now was to elicit, without ever seeming to press.
    “I understand what you mean. But isn’t our reason, the quality of mercy, also deeply part of what it means to be human? You know, the better angels of our nature.”
    “But the real trick is knowing what aspects of our nature the situation calls for, isn’t it? You quoted Shakespeare—well, here’s another quote, from Henry the Fifth. ‘In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man/As modest stillness and humility/But when the blast of war blows in our ears—’”
    Delilah continued the line. “‘Then imitate the action of the tiger/Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood—’”
    Fatima nodded, her expression grave. “‘Disguise fair nature with hard-favour’d rage.’” She drained her glass, closed her eyes, and exhaled deeply. Then she looked at Delilah. “I’m glad you like Shakespeare. And I’m sorry I’m being so heavy.”
    It was disappointing to have Fatima close off what felt like a promising line of discussion, but Delilah knew to push no further. At least, not directly.
    “No, not at all. I asked. And besides, I like you when you’re heavy. Well, not heavy, necessarily, but