Chapter 2197 - 881: The Fire Rises (Part 4)

"There's one more thing." The envoy took a photo from the briefcase and handed it over. "The President asked me to give this to you."

Alvarez took the photo. It showed a person standing at the entrance of the Presidential Palace, wearing a dark suit but no tie. His hair was grizzled, he was hunched, his face aged, eyes hollowed, cheekbones protruding. He stood on the steps, sunlight bathing his face, with the open door behind him, leading into darkness.

It was Assad. A man, standing before three hundred thousand people, saying, "I was wrong."

"The President says, he was wrong. He said it. Having said it, he's no longer afraid. Not afraid, he's living. Living, he won't die. Not dying, he has to live. Living, he has to continue being President. Continue being President, he has to continue killing. Continue killing, and people will continue holding photos at the Presidential Palace entrance. It's his fate. Fate, can't be changed."

The envoy turned and left. His leather shoes tapped on the bridge deck, clacking away.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, looking at the photo. Assad stood on the steps, sunlight bathing his face, with the open door behind him, leading into darkness. He placed the photo on the table, with the cup of cold coffee. Then he opened the letter. Inside was only one sheet of paper, with one line written in Arabic, the handwriting shaky, as if written while trembling:

"Mr. Victor, I said 'I was wrong.' They didn't shoot. They didn't kill me. They didn't kill me because they no longer want to kill. No longer want to kill because they have killed enough. Killed enough, it's enough. Enough, they don't kill. Don't kill, we live. Living, it's good."

Alvarez folded the letter, put it in his jacket pocket. Together with the white flag, the bloodstained paper, the plaque, and the photo of Hassan standing among trees. The pocket was very heavy, dragging down, he supported it with his hand.

He picked up the walkie-talkie. "Connect me to Mexico City."

The phone rang once, connected. Victor's voice was on the other end. "Lieutenant."

"Leader, Assad sent another letter. He said, 'I was wrong.' He said it, standing at the Presidential Palace entrance, before three hundred thousand people. He said it, they didn't shoot. They didn't kill him. They didn't kill him because they no longer want to kill. No longer want to kill because they have killed enough. Killed enough, it's enough. Enough, they don't kill. Don't kill, we live. Living, it's good."

The other end was silent for a long time. "Lieutenant, do you believe it?"

Alvarez was silent for three seconds. "Leader, I don't know."

"I don't know either. But I know one thing: the bridge stays, the water keeps flowing, people still need to live. Living, there's possibility. Possibly one day, Assad really won't kill. Possibly one day, those holding photos really won't hold them. Possibly one day, beneath the olive grove, no new bodies are buried. Possibly one day, names on the plaques no longer increase. Possibly one day—"

He paused.

"Leader?"

"Possibly one day, Hassan's coffee will be drunk."

The call ended.

Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the dial tone. The wind over the lake picked up, rattling the string lights on the bridge railing. The sun had set, clouds at the horizon turned a blazing red, reflected in the water like fire. The lights on the bridge turned on, a string of small bulbs, lined up along the railing, appearing faint in the firelight, like two nearly broken lines.

He turned around, walked back to the folding table, sat down. The coffee in the thermos was already cold, he didn't pour it out. He took the cup of cold coffee across from him, spilled it into the lake. Then he poured two fresh cups, one placed before him, and one on the opposite side of the table.

"General Hassan, Assad said 'I was wrong.' Do you believe it?"

No one answered. He looked at that cup of coffee, looked for a long time.

Then he lifted his own cup, took a sip. Bitter, very bitter, yet fragrant.

He put down the cup, stood up, walked off the bridge. At the bridge end, the SUV was still parked there, engine running. He got in, closed the door. The vehicle turned around, heading south. That was Haifa's direction, Tel Aviv's direction, the airport's direction. That was Mexico's direction. That was the direction home.

He drove a while, stopped, looked back.

The bridge was still there, the lights were still on, like two golden ribbons in the night.

The tent at the east end of the bridge was still there, the folding chair still there, the bottle of mineral water still there. The bench at the west end of the bridge was empty, pigeons perched in a row on it, cooing.

He turned back, looked at the road ahead. The road was long, colorless, stretching to the horizon.

He stepped on the accelerator. The car drove away.