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It hadn't always been that way. At one time, he had only one passport, one identity. He was Rivers, at least that's the name he remembered the best. But then the ground shifted, like moving tectonic plates. Religious wars erupted, followed by political wars. Or political wars erupted, followed by religious wars. And then tribal wars. Family wars. Wars fought for no reason other than that men (and increasingly women and children) were willing to fight. Famine followed. Migration followed, wanderers setting off to new lands, new countries that might or might not exist when they arrived, since countries kept dividing and combining and dividing as pieces orbited off to form new constellations that were themselves often unstable and short-lived.

Rivers had been witness to it all, creating new passports and new identities as circumstances "on the ground" dictated. Which was constantly, for countries continued to fragment and coalesce in new combinations as he traveled. Although adept at forging passports, and conjuring up new narratives of individuals he had never met and never would, he was finding it increasingly difficult—and increasingly perilous—to feel confident that whatever identity he was claiming would be recognized and, more important, favored in the country or district or tribal area he was entering.

He was tired. He was now the third in line and would soon be called up by the agent. He looked down at his stained pants and scuffed shoes. If clothes make the man, he knew he was in trouble, for he looked like a man who had lost a bet, a large bet. Down on his luck. Falling down. Down the economic ladder, the social ladder. How far down could he fall? He didn't know, but he knew he had lost focus and had lost fear and no longer cared who he was. Abdul Salaam would be satisfactory for today, and if not... he would live or die with the consequences. He remembered the prostitute in Z who, after calling him by a name he did not recognize, asked why he traveled continuously, seemingly a man without a home, without a family, without an identity that was his alone. Rivers did not answer her, but tried to remember why she had used the name she had used, what country that name was from, and whether he still had a passport for the person she thought he was. When he did not respond, she stared hard at him, lit a cigarette, dressed and left. He remained on the bed, puzzled, and finally, he stood, naked, and walked to the curtained window to peer through a small jagged clearing in the grime that covered the window to see where he was. If he could determine the city, he knew he might be able to figure out the country. And once he determined the country, then perhaps he could remember why she had called him by a name he did not recognize.

That was several years earlier. Now he heard the screeching sound of luggage being dragged across the concrete floor and looked up to see the family in front of him move to the counter. He was next. He wondered how many passports each member of the family had. He was not the only person on line with more than one passport. Probably everybody had at least two. Some had dual citizenship and traveled freely without fear or the need to resort to deception. If their countries still existed. But others had multiple passports from the same country, different names required when traveling to different places in the country. Or when traveling immediately after a civil war or a coup. These travelers were the most fearful, understandably so.

His reverie was interrupted by the agent at the ticket counter who raised his voice, gesturing wildly. The family in front of him stood quietly, the eldest with his head down, his wife moving her lips without speaking, her eyes, barely visible through her burka, lidded and wary. The agent disappeared through a door behind the counter, and when he returned, he was accompanied by an older man, turbaned, and dressed in a military uniform. The older man held the family's passports, shouted out questions that were answered in a low, murmuring voice, then gave the agent the passports, who stamped them hurriedly, pointing toward the far end of the terminal. The family, leaning forward, shoulders raised as if to ward off imaginary blows, walked quickly toward the gate. The agent signaled to Rivers who moved to the counter, his only bag on his shoulder, striding purposefully, having long ago learned never to hesitate, never to even suggest he was unsure of what he was doing or, more important, who he was.

Rivers removed his passport from the pocket inside his jacket along with a driver's license for Abdul Salaam. He looked directly at the agent and smiled.

Weather's a little unsettled, wouldn't you agree, he said, not expecting an answer. Is the flight going to leave on time?

The agent ignored him but kept staring at his passport. He flipped the pages, then picked up his glasses, resting on his side of the counter, and put them on. He looked at the passport again, focusing on Rivers' photograph and signature. Then still not smiling, he looked at Rivers again.

Excuse me, he said, I'll be just a moment, and he left through the door behind the counter.

Rivers did not move, intent on not giving any indication that he was at all concerned about the delay. He drummed his fingers softly on the small ledge protruding on his side of the counter, convinced that this slight physical movement could not be seen or, if witnessed, would be considered a reflection of his boredom and nothing else.

Minutes went by, and Rivers became concerned. He tried to recall the last time he had been delayed at an airport or border crossing. It had been years, perhaps a decade. He continued to drum on the ledge and became aware that he was probably being observed. He put down his bag, removed a magazine from the outside pocket and began to turn the pages to suggest to anyone observing him that he was unconcerned.

Rivers kept turning the pages of his magazine, all the time resisting the temptation to glance at his watch. He looked up slowly, hoping there was a mounted clock that he could see without turning very far. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the clock: 20 minutes had gone by. He closed the magazine, convinced now that any impatience on his part could be interpreted as the normal irritation of a traveler delayed by thoughtless and perhaps incompetent bureaucrats.

He breathed deeply, trying to maintain both his focus and his composure. His back and legs began to ache from standing in one position. Finally, he turned around and looked at a well-suited and coiffed businessman who was immediately behind him on the line.

Sorry about this. I have no idea what the problem is. Perhaps there's no problem at all. The agent probably just wanted to take a break and is sitting back there playing cards.

He smiled, but the other man looked straight ahead, ignoring Rivers.

Finally, Rivers decided enough time had passed that he could afford to look at his watch. Not to do so might be regarded as peculiar. But just as he pushed the sleeve of his jacket back to check the time, the agent returned to the counter, followed by a young woman, dressed in a military uniform with a holstered pistol strapped to her waist.

Monsieur Salaam. I apologize for the delay. It seems there may be a problem. Please follow this young lady. And thank you for your patience.

Rivers nodded, masking his irritation and his concern that he might miss his flight, and followed the woman across the terminal to an unmarked wooden door with peeling paint, a large gash running diagonally up from the doorknob to the top of the door, smaller random cracks where the door had been splintered. Someone must have used a battering ram or rifle butt trying to crash in, Rivers suspected, confident that a violent entry wouldn't be necessary now.

His female escort knocked and after a guttural response, opened the door and stepped back, allowing Rivers to enter. A sallow-faced, bald man in a dark suit, white shirt and an "I ♡ New York" tie with a depiction of the Twin Towers sat in front of a mahogany desk, its well polished veneer at odds with the rest of the room: concrete floor, cement block walls, a single light dangling directly over the space between the desk and a straight-backed metal chair. Rivers thought the scene was familiar, but he couldn't remember the movie. It was probably a French film, black and white, grainy and seemingly shot through a smeared lens. Or did they use a fog machine? At any rate, it was film noir. Film gris would be even more appropriate. Film gris. Pinot gris. That's what he would like now. A glass of pinot gris. Served by a waiter with a towel over his arm while he sat at a table at an outdoor café, reading a well folded newspaper and occasionally peering over to watch the women walk by. Saunter by. Slink by. Rivers was free-associating, and he knew it was unwise.

The man in the suit nodded at Rivers and waved him into the chair: Parlez-vous français?

Rivers nodded, but the man abruptly switched to English.

I suspect your French is not as good as your English. At any rate, I need to practice my English. A facility with language is so important these days. You never know which ones you will need. Of course, I assume your Arabic is almost perfect.

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