Unlikely. Unbelievable. Totally unreal. Dad was serving coffee, wanted to hear what Wisam was up to these days. The blatte gave a sketchy answer. “I work with venture capital, invest in different companies. I buy all or part of the stock and try to redesign a little.” Mahmud smiled. His dad probably understood Wisam’s so-called business about as much as he understood Swedish stand-up comedians on TV—but he loved it when boys from the block became successful the honest way. Too bad it was a lie. Dad prattled on. Buzzed about old memories. About excursions to the Alby public pool and the Malmsjön lake near Södertälje, a music festival with the Caravan society, Ramadan nights in the Muslim Cultural Center. Everything used to be better. Before. Before his wife, Mahmud’s mom, died. Wisam’s parents’d gone back to the home country. “Maybe we should all do that,” Beshar said. Wisam nodded along. Probably to be nice to Dad. Mahmud didn’t remember shit. But it was okay—this way he didn’t have to come up with what to tell Wisam.
