And I sign my note, “I have beauty within, Mama. I do. I do. I do.” Although I know now that physical beauty is not the measure of a woman, I want my mother to know in saying this that I will always cherish her words to me. Even the first ones that I can remember. But it is the beauty she held within herself. And I will dress the way I need to dress for the worlds that I am to enter. For I will always respect myself.
And for my grandmother Roza, I add, “Rest assured, your great-granddaughters will have beauty within. They will. They will. They will.”
Chapter 15
Love, to be real, must cost—it must hurt—it must empty us of self.
—Saint Teresa of Calcutta
1:48 p.m. GMT+1, May 15, 2021
MoxWorld EU Headquarters, Luxembourg
“I’m a nice guy. Really, I am.”
He stands there shaking, quivering, and certainly not boldly so, with his hands over his eyes as he tries to politely back out of the room. But not born a bat with sonar, he trips on something and falls. Something bangs his head. Something not so soft.
Thinking that woman clobbered him with something ferociously hard—thinking that she must have thought him a sexual pervert—he puts his hands around his head, hoping she will stop hitting him.
“Get up,” she yells as she softly kicks him with her foot.
And like an armadillo, he holds his hands to his head even tighter, rigid and cold.
She kicks him again in a different spot. No good. She’ll have to coax him out. And she kneels down, having hiked her skirt up again, but carefully drapes the pleated fabric to achieve more modesty than she had shown before. In a way, perhaps it was her fault. She let her guard down, assuming the room was secure and didn’t need to be locked. The old Zara would never have made that mistake, for errors in the field cost lives. Errors in faith costs souls. And she had lost neither on her watch as unit commander.
His sniffling and crying is driving her crazy. What kind of peeping Casanova is this? And then she sees the blood clotting in his hair. She looks around for something to put on his head wound and finds a drying cloth near the wash bowl, which she compresses on his head.
“You, in the ball. Put your hand on this tightly and you’ll stop the bleeding.”
And the armadillo pokes his head out to see if it is safe. He puts his hand upon hers and presses.
“Dînê. Fool. Not my hand, this cloth. Press that on your wound.”
He slowly comes out of the curled ball into a sitting position, holding her hand still on his head. Without his glasses, he tries to focus to see who this woman is. One moment on the attack, the next on the mend.
He’s dizzy. Fuzzy. Even foggy. And her image becomes clearer. And he says, “Nanshe.”
“No, dînê. My name is Zara. And I would appreciate it if you would give me my hand back.”
Letting her hand go and reapplying pressure, he realizes lightning did strike twice as he was hit in the same place Randall had clobbered him. Still foggy, groggy, and not fully himself, he says again, “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only looking for the men’s room.”
She realizes he cannot see well as she spots and reaches for his glasses. This time, she makes sure her body is fully covered before she puts them on his nose and adjusts the temples across his ears.
As she brushes his temples with her fingers, he feels it. The same feeling as when his mother rubs his temples. He tries to focus, and he sees a woman of great presence who is taller than he, even sitting.
Her body stiffened, she says sternly, “You should be ashamed, walking in on a woman in her private moment. You have offended God with your actions. And if you are not afraid of offending God, you should be afraid of offending me.”
“I am so embarrassed,” he says. “My mother raised me better than to treat a woman with such disrespect. And she would be even more appalled if I offended God as I inadvertently disrespected a woman.” He tries to focus through his fog but only sees that dark-haired woman, the one who said it was baby night. He is certainly not going to utter that.
“I suppose you did not mean to look up my dress.” She shakes her head again, making sure her attire fully covers her. “But you should act with greater respect for a woman’s modesty.”
Taking her hands away from his temples, she puts her headscarf over her right cheek scar, for as close as he is sitting, one could count all the ridges. For she would not let a plastic surgeon repair her. One more visible sign of what was done to her. Outside and inside.
“I would appreciate it if you would not stare at me so. I know I am hideous. You do not need to remind me.” And she stares down and sighs.
“I am so sorry again. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just you remind me of someone. A woman of great warmth, compassion, and faith.” He takes the cloth from his head and feels to see if his wound is still bleeding.
She hears his words, but does not know what to make of him. She stares back at him. And his eyes—she realizes she has seen eyes like these before. Four of them, to be exact. He has eyes like her baby lambs. So innocent. Could he be telling her the truth?
She softens her defensive stance towards this intruder and puts her hand back on his to continue the pressure on the wound. “We better get you to the infirmary and put an ice pack on that spot.” And she helps him stand up while carefully ensuring her skirt falls across the right places.
Sitting where she had been earlier today, Peter holds the ice pack she prepared. It must be an unlucky spot on his head. A spot of embarrassment. A spot to remind him that he cannot take care of a woman in need.
“You didn’t get that wound today, it looks like. Did you get injured there recently?” she asks as she sees if she can wash his blood out of the cloth.
He wiggles on the table’s edge as he hems and haws again. “It’s nothing I’m proud of.”
She turns and with her eyes darkened, she stares into his. Still innocent as before. And she offers, “I have had a few of those myself.”
“Oh, I couldn’t imagine that,” he says. “You have the air of a person who is very capable of taking care of herself in any situation. I wish I could do that.”
She drops the red-soaked cloth in the sink to soak and walks back to him, standing square in front. “I believe it is better if you are not able to take care of things as I have. Tell me. What happened to you?”
He stares down, but realizes he is staring into her skirt, so he stares to one side. “It’s embarrassing. My neighbor’s ex-husband was dragging her to her bedroom against her will, and I tried to intervene. Not so successfully.”
The edges of her mouth have the slightest of uplifts at hearing his story. Maybe she misjudged this fool. And that spot on his cheek.
“Your cheek. That spot. How do you explain that?” she asks somewhat tersely.
His eyes light up. “Oh, my dimples. I usually only get those when I’m smiling or happy.”
“No, it is a mark that a woman makes on a man when she is trying to signal others she is involved with him. Perhaps intimately,” she asserts, shaking her head.
Looking confused for a second, he says, “Oh. Oh, she must have left a…I’m so embarrassed again. You must think the worst of me. It was just Mei’s good luck kiss before I met with Alexander. I guess she was a little aggressive with it.”
She shakes her head again, but hearing that man’s name, she asks, “Are you the man Alexander has flown here to search for the object? Are you the reason why I was rushed out here?”
“I’m so sorry. I should have introduced myself before. Hi, I’m Peter Gollinger, from San Francisco, California. New copyeditor in MoxMedia’s Middle East correspondent unit. Well, that’s where I hope he’s going to put me.” He holds his hand out to shake. “And, yes, I wish to help find the object—the dying wish of my grandfather.”
She stares at his hand. California? No, it cannot be. How could Sara know? She pictures the two one-hundred-dollar bills her great-grandmother had given
her just before she was kidnapped by that monster who brought this little editor with the big coral-red lipstick mark glaring from his cheek.
“Peter. I found you, finally,” cries Mei as she enters the infirmary. “I have been looking all over for you. Alexander is waiting. How did you get here?”
And Mei gives Peter a huge hug. Which does not escape Zara’s notice. Maybe her intuition was correct all along.
To Zara, she gives a quick greeting and turns to retrieve a filled syringe in the refrigerator. “This is perfect, we had a booster vaccine ready to give you.”
Eyes wide open, Peter hedges. “Uh. Didn’t you already administer a vaccine on the plane?”
As Mei returns with an alcohol swab for his shoulder, she says, “What did I say, Peter? Once we are in Luxembourg, you need to trust me. Explicitly.”
She jabs him as he lets loose an ouch. “Remember the God Genes we discussed? I had a sample of your body fluids processed by the lab here to better engineer new viral vectors containing DNA-altering enzymes that are even more targeted to the specific dormant areas in your genes related to the God Genes. Both Jean-Paul and I believe these God Genes came from those who originated the oral traditions of your family, of the families of the afflicted.”
Mei turns to Zara. “Jean-Paul tells me you had your vaccine earlier today.”
Eyes very dark, watching Mei’s and Peter’s every move, Zara nods in acknowledgment but stays quiet. She retrieves a new ice pack from the freezer and replaces the now watery one Peter holds.
“Oh, Peter, what happened?” Mei asks with a modicum of surprise. “I was so engrossed in what we have to do. How could I have missed what happened to your head?”
As Peter tries to find the words to explain his indiscretion, Zara steps in. “He had a little accident. We should be careful of that area of head as he has a previous wound there. I hope he did not injure your God Genes by accident.”
Wiggling and writhing on the table’s edge, Peter blurts out, “If you two could excuse me, I really need to go to the men’s room.”
Pointing the way right out the door, Mei says, “Of course, Peter. It’s two doors down the hallway to the left.”
He looks at Zara apologetically as he gets up to leave. “Oh, left. That’s where I got it wrong last time.”
Now the two women are alone together, both having had very different interactions with Peter. Mei opens up. “Zara, isn’t it? We met a few years ago, did we not?”
“Yes, we did. It was at Alexander’s birthday party. He briefly introduced us. You introduced you as his new find, his new girl,” Zara says with a raised eyebrow. “I am impressed that he allows you to dress with such modesty and professionalism.”
Mei squints at Zara with head turned slightly to the side. “I don’t know what you mean by that comment. I know you have a long history with him, and what you imply must be significant.”
Zara smiles, but not the nice kind. “Sasha has only two uses for women. If you have not found that out yet, then your time will come quickly. He starts by making sure you are obedient. You are very attractive and charming. I am sure Sasha must have noticed as well.”
And before Mei can ask her to clarify her veiled comment, a booming voice calls out, “Ladies, we are late. You need to get dressed. Now.”
Still angry about her abduction and his conduct on the flight here, Zara launches into him. “I am appropriately dressed already. You even complimented my bayramlık as you ripped me away from home.”
“Mei, take my dear little Zara to the dressing room,” he commands. “I will be down there shortly.”
*
The walls of the dressing room are lined with racks of dresses. Some Mei recognizes, and many she does not, as she would not have designed or ordered such articles of nothingness.
Zara, on the other hand, simply nods her head, pointing to certain garments and saying, “As I said, only two uses for women. He has not changed.”
The giant man returns, screaming, “Ladies, why are you still dressed? Quickly now, strip down.”
This time Mei pushes back. “Alexander, I agree with Zara. My outfit is fine for what we need to do. Peter likes it.”
“We’re not going to a board meeting, Mei,” he says with frightening piercing eyes, which makes Mei cower. “Here, I took the liberty of having your favorite tailor Giancarlo make this for you two.”
One of the two gasps. And that one says, “Sasha, those clothes—they are not appropriate. They are not the clothes a respectable woman wears in public.”
Mei takes the dress in her size and stretches it out in front of her. Clearly Giancarlo’s signature. A deep V-cut coral midi sleeveless shirtdress with black trim and raspberry accent buttons down the entire front. Poking her finger into the soft, stretchy vicuna fabric, it is clear it hides nothing of the wearer’s form, top or bottom. But with the right bra and panties, at least her lady part zones wouldn’t be protruding.
Zara, on the other hand, is not willing to be so accommodating as she continues to rip into her Sasha. “You can see yourself. It shows too much flesh above and around the bust. And it shows my arms, my thighs. You, more than anyone else in this building, should understand our modesty guidelines. Anything that could create sexual interest should be covered.”
Siding with Zara, but from her scientist persona, Mei pleads, “Alexander, we discussed this with Jean-Paul before I left Shanghai. With the God Gene–enhancing vaccine and the five-sense algorithm, we should be able to get what you need out of Peter. You saw yourself the evidence on his cheek. He’s smitten with me. I already got him to visualize the originators.”
The monstrous man only flashes a monstrous grin back at her. “But you had to sleep with him to get that information. Tell me I’m wrong?”
Zara’s jaw vibrates as she stares first at him, then at this Chinese woman. Is she his mistress, or is she a victim? Either way, Zara was right. He has only two uses for women.
Mei is silent, staring at the vacant floor between her and her boss. Silently shivering.
Towering over both of them, the world’s most powerful man, at least in this room, commands, “You two know better than not to trust me, especially on affairs of the dreams, the affliction. I know better than anyone what an afflicted man wants, desires, needs of a woman. First, he will need to see, feel, smell, hear, and taste both of your breasts. Then we will see what else he will need of your femininities. I need to tend to other affairs. Ten minutes. When I get back, you two better be dressed in the right clothing.”
Zara just seethes at him, clenching her fists. Mei closes her eyes, exhales, and then goes to the undergarment rack and pulls out a selection that might cover her enough.
And from the door out, Alexander turns and yells, “And no underwear.”
In near tears, Mei puts back the lovely brassiere-and-panty set. Not even the meagerest of bralette or thong would that man allow.
In total defiance, Zara grabs a rack of clothes, the most offending ones, and tosses them across the room, screaming all sort of things in Kurdish. Not satisfied yet, she repeats this again and again and only stops at seeing Mei disrobing.
“You’re not going to dress in that, that immoral garment, are you?” she asks.
Mei meekly nods, not stopping her actions. “You’ve known him longer than I. But I know you do not disobey him. People disappear. Especially those who fail him. I value my family. They are everything to me.” And she removes her bra and panties, slipping the soft vicuna dress around her shoulders and buttoning up.
As Zara stares at her in defiance, Mei says, “Zara, I completely understand your situation. If I comply, perhaps he will allow you to make an exception. He seems to favor you anyhow. I am not so fortunate, I guess.”
Softening her stance, Zara replies, “I apologize for what I was thinking. I was thinking you had slept with him. But that was rash of me, and I ask for your forgiveness.” And Zara blanches, seeing Mei’s body’s complete transparency in Alexander’
s instrument of their submission.
Catching herself from falling victim to Sasha’s will, Zara stiffens her back. She will not cower in that man’s presence. Nor let this unfortunate woman cower either – a poor woman who did not know what she was getting herself into when she signed up with that man.
“Mei, I don’t know you. But I think you are not the type of woman Alexander normally subjugates and diminunizes into mere visceralness, nothing more than moist flesh. We will dress in a way that befits us. I will stand up to him. He knows I can and will. We both can stand up to him. But you know what our choice of garments are in this room. Find something else that will cover us, but still be attractive—our one concession to him.”
At first, Mei stares at her in disbelief. In her three years working with Alexander, no woman, no man, even, has stood up to him without penalty, severe visceral penalty. She has heard of Zara, incredulous stories of the confidence Alexander had in her. Should she place her life in her hands as well? Will her family forever suffer the penalty of her trust in this woman?
Nodding her head, Mei answers back, “I know just the things.”
A series of undergarments and a long black vicuna sweater coat later, Zara smiles at how she is covered. Mei puts on four-inch black-and-coral suede ankle-strap stilettos. She brings a pair for Zara, who turns white again. No, no, and no. She shows Mei the scars on the soles of feet, at which Mei gasps. They match the scars along her calves and thighs. Not to mention under her bra. Mei pets her feet compassionately and finds another solution.
And to Zara’s delight, to her feet’s joy, Mei holds up a pair of pair of black suede ankle-wrap flat sandals. Mei leans down to help her tie the bows around her ankles. Zara, elated, lifts her heels to admire her new best friends.
Out of a small black box, she pulls out a pair of yellow banana slug earrings. One with the most adorable ruby eyes. Zara shakes her head no. And Mei simply gives her the “come on now” look. Zara points to her ears, which are unpierced, and Mei turns the banana slugs over to show they are clip-on. And Zara complies.
The Matriarch Matrix Page 20