PART SIX: Breakfast at Corleone's -- Thanksgiving morning

I didn’t sleep that night, not at all. Every vibration of the windowpane was for me an explosion. Every creaking in the hallway was someone smoking out Americans in hiding. And though I wanted desperately to sleep, every time I turned off the television, the silence became deafening and I had to turn it on again. The head of counter-terrorism for the Maharashtra police was dead: shot three times in the chest as he was pulling his bullet-proof vest on. Did any sane person actually think this was a random killing of a policeman?

Two of the assailants were photographed carrying machine guns, yet the media insisted on warning viewers over and over again that they “could not be sure whether these people were not undercover policemen.” What undercover policeman has a demonic grin on his face? Were these reporters clueless? Didn’t they realize what was happening? Didn’t they realize what my mother knew all along? Pulling off two coordinated actions of any kind in the same city requires training and preparation. My last recollection that night was that Mumbai had been attacked ten different times in ten different locations. This would have required months and boatloads of cash and logistical support. Was a ragtag bunch of disgruntled youth wearing sneakers and fake Versace t-shirts, acting alone, capable of this?

I drifted off, or so I imagined. I knew that what I had experienced, what the television had infused into my mind during those graveyard hours, had not been a nightmare. No, it was real enough. But, maybe I was dead. My right shoulder and arm were numb all the way down to my wrist. Maybe I was paralyzed. Maybe this was a dream.

In those moments of confusion, I reached behind my head. It ached. My neck was stiff because it had spent hours in the same unnatural position against the headboard. My cheek was red with the heat of pressure. I gathered the feather pillows from the floor and the foot of the bed and propped my head against them. I couldn’t even muster the strength to go to the bathroom. I flipped channels again. I sat that way for an hour or two more, mesmerized by the reports, the same reporters, the same pictures (marked “LIVE” in the upper right-hand corner) that I had seen six hours earlier. I was waiting for some glimmer of light, and when finally the sun rose and began to curl a path over the top of the Intercontinental, peeking into the small opening I had left in the rudely drawn curtains, I felt some sort of relief. Why? Did I really believe that demons, like vampires, can’t come out when the sun is up? Why are we so afraid of darkness, only to overlook the evil committed in broad daylight?

It was 6:30 or so. I called the reception desk and asked whether they had succeeded in reaching Oman Air. Not, of course, that I expected them to say yes…after all, the office was not scheduled to open for another three-and-a-half hours. But, I wanted to be proactive. I couldn’t just lie here waiting to doze off again.

“No, Mr. Ball Sir, we’re trying. We’ve had no luck.” I didn’t believe him in the least. I know that he had done nothing. I demanded to speak to the manager.

“She’s not here, Mr. Ball Sir, can I help you?”

I would have loved to unleash my frustration at him – to let him know that I just spent 300 rials (about $800) to fly to Mumbai for a few days’ off only to land in the midst of an unprecedented terrorist attack, that I would not accept this, that I could not just calm down and wait for it all to go away. But, I thought better of it.

“Is breakfast being served in the restaurant?”

“Yes, Mr. Ball Sir, yes, until 10:30.”

“You mean, there is no interruption?”

Silence. “No, why would there be, Sir, everything is fine, we have no problems.”

Had I missed something in all my channel surfing? Was the attack over? Had they killed all the invaders?

I watched some more. They were still referring to the gun-toting madmen as potential undercover law enforcement officers. Do you remember “Poltergeist,” the 80s thriller where the little girl hears a sound coming from a television after programming had stopped and finally gets pulled physically into the fuzz, only to be lost in a parallel dimension? That’s exactly how I felt at that moment. I remember this very clearly. I began to wonder whether what I was experiencing was reality or illusion.

I stood up from the bed and limped over to the window. The woman on the mildewed balcony was gone. In fact, there were no people, no cars, no cats, nothing. Mumbai…the city that is always fuming, pulsing, thick with sounds…was dead. Nineteen million souls had vanished. I felt so alone. I wanted my city back. I yearned to be in New York, to be back in my apartment in Muscat, to be anywhere but here. I looked every which way. I began to feel cold and raised the temperature on the thermostat to 24.

At some point, I wound up in bed again, and I listened to the report of the rabbi from Brooklyn and his wife who were holed up in Nariman House. This made me so sad. I knew they were going to be killed. Throughout this whole experience, I felt sorry for three people: the anti-terrorism chief Hemant Karkare and this couple who came to a country of a billion to tend to a Jewish community of 5,000.

The phone rang. I hesitated in answering it. I was confused: I had dozed off again. The middle of my lower back ached so badly that I nearly cried out in pain as I rolled over to pick it up. I thought it was the duty manager, and I asked again whether he had succeeded in speaking to Oman Air, but it turned out to be Mr. Arif, the local travel agent who wanted to tell me that I should not go out today and that he would cancel my appointment with the driver.

Shouldn’t go out? “I CAN’T go out,” I insisted.

“It’s for the best. And don’t open the door to anyone.”

I needed something to eat. I was still getting over a nasty cold, and one of the worst features of any cold of mine is that I lose my sense of taste. It had began to come back last night, and I wanted to make sure that things were better today, at least as far as taste was concerned. I brushed my teeth. Hmmmm, I thought, about 50%.

Walking into the Corleone restaurant (what a name for a restaurant in post-invasion Mumbai!), the waiter smiled broadly: “How are you today, Mr. Ball Sir?”

Was he trying to be funny or cute?

“How do you expect me to be?” I motioned towards the window overlooking a deserted Marine Drive.

“Everything is back to normal, it’s OK now, Sir. Would you like the same cheese omelette you had yesterday?”

I nodded.

In the corner sat two Greek men fidgeting with newspapers and napkins. They kept asking one of the hotel staff questions about a paper that they showed to him and pointed at.

At a table roughly twenty feet from me were two Americans. The older one, with salt ‘n pepper hair greased back and blow-dried, had a crispy white shirt and tie on. I remember thinking, "how did he get the creases to stay put"? He must have demanded the laundry to do it for him that very morning, express service, no expense spared, even though 90% of the hotel staff couldn’t make it to work, and the ones who did has slept in the lobby next to the stranded guests. For he was a busy man, he had an agenda printed on his face, and every few minutes he typed something into his Blackberry. He was earnest, diligent, ready to go to work, and would not be deterred by some Third World country failing to control its ports or slay its invaders. There was money to be made. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t place him.

He was determined to be the life of the somber breakfast show, laughing loudly, pounding the table, turning red, flailing around the morning newspaper as his friend, a nerdy missionary type with a blue Oxford shirt and pressed but brand-less jeans, chuckled on cue. They could have been Mormons except that they were loudly slurping coffee, so they must have been investment bankers or business consultants. I hated them instantly.

The older one had reading glasses that he perched on the tip of his nose as he stabbed the paper with his index finger: “These people really don’t have a clue how to deal with terrorists. This place is so fucked up.” He started laughing so hard that he coughed. “Can you believe a whole city shuts down when a boatload of guys shoot their way into a hotel? Unbelievable, just unbelievable. Some economic powerhouse this is, huh?” This time his laughs become convulsive. I thought, hoped, he might keel over. One death I wouldn’t have regretted.

Then it hit me: Steve Wynn, the owner of some Vegas hotels. That’s who he reminded me of.

Steve called over the waiter, then the duty manager, then the chef came out. He was pointing again, this time to the chef’s hat. “I want one just like that, just like that. Got it? For me and my friend.”

Some murmurs.

He pulled out his wallet. “If it’s a question of money…”

They all chimed back in chorus, but I couldn't make out what they asked him.

“Of course I’ll wear it. We’ll both wear them to the airport. Now come on. It’s Thanksgiving, you know, and there’s no turkey here, so my friend…well, we’re gonna make him look like one.” The group was mirthful, but visibly confused over which way to go.

After breakfast, I passed the Mormons right by and they didn’t even glance at me. I have grown accustomed to being overlooked by my compatriots. And I was glad in this case. These two nauseated me.

The last vision I had of Corleone’s was marred by a hotel staff member (or maybe another duty manager?) bringing Steve and his missionary friend their fucking hats in a bag. They tossed the bag aside and put them on, glowing, like two kindergartners who have just fished a quarter out of a muddy puddle in the gutter.