The Matriarch Matrix

by Maxime Trencavel

  And an eerie silence descends from the heavens and engulfs the jet. Each one does not look at each other, only out their window or, in Jean-Paul’s case, in meditative something, reading his MoxPad+.

  Jean-Paul retrieves a pill bottle from the lavatory and puts a pill with cup of water in front of Zara. “Alexander would like you to take this.”

  Very suspicious of anything linked to that beast, she reads the label. Doxycline. Why? The Peshmerga doctors gave her this when that betraying Zengo gave her chlamydia. But more importantly, Alexander had her take a daily dose for the two years she paid back her debt to him after her rescue.

  She slams the bottle in front of Peter. “I think there’s a mistake. He meant this for you, as you are the one who had unprotected sex recently.”

  Peter looks at the bottle. Hmm. Yes, it is often used for bacterial and fungal infections. But in the last few years, psychiatrists, like his Dr. Beverly, have been prescribing it for prevention and amelioration of PTSD. He takes two pills out, takes one and puts the other in front of Zara. “We both take it. Remember? You’re the one who kissed me.”

  Zara’s MoxWrap taps her wrist. She takes the pill and rises up to go to the lavatory area. She glances back at Peter. “This time, some privacy please. I do not enjoy your leering up my dress or at my naked feet.”

  And with that, they listen to the muffled crying emanating from the lavatory. Ten minutes pass and Jean-Paul spends some time on his MoxPad+, at different times seeming like he is having a chat session. Or is he playing a video game, muses the overactive mind of Peter. Jean-Paul puts in earbuds, closes his eyes, and smiles again.

  Remembering one of Dr. Fontaine’s discussion of PTSD among survivors of war atrocities, Peter searches on his MoxWrap for guidance on how he can be more sensitive and appropriate with his obviously tormented tablemate. A few articles later, he finds Beverly’s dissertation on Joan of Arc. At first, he thinks Joan of Arc’s description of her first vision of Saint Michael resembled an extraterrestrial interaction. He reads experts’ speculations that she suffered migraines, bipolar disorder, or brain lesions. And to the latter, he rubs that spot at the base of his cranium. Then the paragraph describing Joan’s short fuse rings true to Peter, who wonders what happened to the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman who just throttled him. A past that piques his curiosity, but he has learned in the past quarter hour that with her, curiosity could be lethal.

  After a half hour, first with muffled cries, then minutes of silence, and again the muffled cries, the door of the lavatory slowly opens. Zara is somewhat disheveled. Her eyes are reddened. Her sleeves are wet with her tears. And her headscarf only half covers her head.

  Jean-Paul stands, reaches his hand out to her head and softly says, “May I?” She nods. And he straightens out her headscarf. He lightly touches her hair and tucks it in where strands have tried to escape. He smiles at her. Zara nods in gratitude for his favor. Jean-Paul, very carefully reading her, holds his open palms out to her sides, but not touching her.

  “I am sorry about before,” she quietly says. “I was not appropriate, hitting your hand away so violently. You may touch me. But only because you are a priest. One that Alexander deeply trusts,” Zara responds apologetically as her body stiffens, readying her for his touch.

  Assuredly gentle and measured, Jean-Paul puts his hands on the outside of her upper arms. He looks at her as if reaching for her soul. She looks down, trying to hold back her tears. He slowly moves his hands to the back of her shoulder blades. And to his surprise, she leans into him, vigorously grabs him from the back, and hugs tightly.

  And Jean-Paul reciprocates, hugging her back strongly and tightly. They hug for what seems like a blissful eternity. A deep hug. A warm hug. And not the kind of hug a man and woman have when they initiate their passions, but a deep familial hug. For Jean-Paul was once a Father. And she misses her father so much and cries into his shoulders. And cries and cries.

  As the tears subside, Zara slowly lets go, with her head still leaning into his upper chest. She straightens, peers into his eyes and says, “Thank you. You are so kind.”

  She takes her seat and faces Peter. “You. You are not allowed to hug me.” She pauses, glances out the window. “But I accept your apologies.

  “I apologize for my outburst,” she calmly says as she watches the stars. “As you can understand, I worry for my family. And I miss my babies.”

  And that comment gets a distinct rise from Peter. This poor woman. Was she widowed? Her husband killed by terrorists? Or simply a misfortuned unwed mother? PTSD and alone with babies. He should be kinder and gentler to her no matter how much she lashes out at him. For she has suffered so much in her life.

  She turns to Jean-Paul, pointing to the diagram on the table, and asks, “What do we need to do when we get to this ancient temple?”

  “Two years ago,” answers the good Father, “as Alexander and I developed better intelligence around the oral and written traditions, he funded exploratory work at both this site and the Crimean pyramids. As we examined the ovaloids in these sampled sectors here, here, here, and here, we found these figurines.”

  On his MoxPad+, Jean-Paul shows several expertly sculpted figurines of a woman with a man, all of them showing a different stage of the five senses algorithm. And not escaping Zara’s notice, all the matriarchs have bare, modestly ample chests, not too dissimilarly proportioned to hers. Cult of the Breast. Pagan rites. She shakes her head as she once again folds her arms across her chest.

  Jean-Paul concludes, “And thus why I suspect what we are looking for is in one of these unexcavated ovaloids across these several hectares.

  “In the packs we carried onto the plane are chest-pack devices that will allow us to survey the area for electromagnetic radiation,” continues the priest. “With those devices, combined with the EM detectors in his satellites and the power of his vast network of processors, we should have the best chances of pinpointing one or more zones where we should dig.”

  “But what if we are not able to detect or discern the EM readings? Maybe they’re confusing,” says Peter.

  Jean-Paul smiles, blinks in his methodical way, and simply replies, “And there you have identified your role.”

  Zara, now more composed and appreciative of Alexander’s interest in the man-boy sitting across from her, interjects. “I think I am finally now comprehending. We have a saying, ‘When it is springtime, the grass will even grow under a big stone.’ You, Sasha’s boy. You will grow under the object. Or over it.”

  She turns to Jean-Paul with a terse eyebrow. “And just how are you expecting to shake loose what’s hiding in his head?”

  Jean-Paul simply smiles at her.

  “No. No. And no. Listen, you two. I am only going to say this once. What happened back in Luxembourg was a one-time deal only. My future forward deal with Alexander is very clear. And nothing stipulates he and I have any interactions. Physical, metaphysical, imaginary. Nothing.”

  With this briefing done, Jean-Paul returns to his seat and taps away on his MoxPad+. Zara is examining the site diagram and then what appear to be area maps on her MoxWrap. Peter is gazing out the window, wondering what Mei is doing, and hoping, praying, that magically she is actually on her jet, flying to the target, waiting for him with open arms, dressed in her fashion-forward khaki best.

  Then Zara starts tapping a lot on her MoxWrap, appearing somewhat agitated. Tap, tap, tap. She shakes her head. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, even faster. She shakes her head again. Tapping and shaking again, again, and again. She gazes out the window, wringing her hands, looking very apprehensive. She taps again. Shakes her head again. Wrings her hands over and over again. And then taps once.

  She looks up at Peter with her irritated eyes. “Put your hands out on the table.”

  Remember the threat she made about his misguided breast gaze, Peter violently shakes his head no. She gets even more irritated and demands, “Fool, put your hands out.” No, he wiggles his head, quite in a st
ate of perpetual terror.

  She kicks his shins under the table as she is getting madder and madder at his foolishness. And then, with her sensual black suede–sandaled foot, she spreads his legs apart and says, “Put your hands on the table or I am going to make your fondest dream come true. Right where your precious Mei fondled. Only with a lot more force as I drive it up into your intestines.”

  That gets a rise out of even the normally serene good Father, who crosses his legs.

  She offers her hands in peace, palms up on the table. Mystified by Alexander’s claims of her compassion, Peter closes his eyes, hoping nothing bad is going to happen, and slowly puts his hands out on top of hers. He thought his palms were sweaty from his apprehension, but hers are even more so. She wraps her fingers around his hand, and he wraps his around hers. Peter shivers, waiting for that something bad to happen to his hands. Maybe she’s going to pull my fingernails out, he frets. He remembers what Mei told him when she calmed him and starts to take slow breaths through his nose.

  And then it happens. Like when they kissed earlier, but even more intense now. He senses it first coming from their fingers, and then in their palms—something. A sensation he cannot yet describe, but one he wants to keep having as he gently squeezes her hands. And to his surprise, she gently squeezes back. The feeling slowly permeates up his arms, up into his thorax, into his heart. Like the Pavlovian dog, he opens his legs wider in habitual response from the five-sense routines he has been subjected to. But the inner wave goes not downwards, but upwards to his neck. And then his mind. He feels peace. Utter peace.

  And they float in a never-ending zone of lightness for an eternity of blissful peace and harmony until the plane shifts radically. He opens his eyes and sees the woman across from him, eyes closed, with the same expression he felt. She slowly opens her eyes and looks into his, in a way he never thought this lioness could ever do. She slowly takes her hands back, seemingly a little embarrassed, and slowly looks away.

  Seeing that it is now okay to talk, having watched what just happened with deep interest, Jean-Paul points out the window and says, “We must be approaching Ukraine. Our fighter escort has changed.”

  Hesitant to distract from this special moment, Peter peers out and sees the four F-16s have peeled off, wagging their wings as six T-50s come up to take positions in front and to each side of their aircraft.

  Zara, also looking at this exchange, peers serenely back at Peter while the corners of her lips lift slightly, and she says, “Alexander does not play around, does he?”

  She shifts her position in her chair, sitting with her back to her window, and pulls her legs up to her chest, holding them with her arms, and stares meditatively out the other window. A salve somehow has covered her deepest wounds, a feeling she does not want to dismiss. Peter gazes at her, which sustains a bit of that peace, hoping she doesn’t suddenly snap out of it and rip off his baby maker.

  As Jean-Paul taps away on his MoxPad+, his two companions extend their moments of peace for a while longer. Then Zara slowly gets up and excuses herself while she takes care of some “personal business.” Peter stares at the T-50s, which like the F-35s before them are the first ones he has seen live. His serenity is displaced by a growing apprehension as he ponders why Alexander needed to have six of Russia’s finest escort them.

  Jean-Paul, listening to his earbuds again, gives one to Peter. To his surprise, expecting some medieval prayer chants or something hyper-Catholic like that, Peter hears a woman singing something extraordinarily beautiful in French. He looks at Jean-Paul with a shrug, communicating, “What is this?” Jean-Paul says she is his favorite French singer, Mylène Farmer. Same generation as Alexander. But she is so beautiful—that is, her music and voice, as he as a priest should refrain from enjoying her physical beauty, he says, tongue in cheek. And Peter sees another side to this French priest, or ex-priest, as Jean-Paul just reminded him.

  The lavatory door opens slowly, and Zara emerges, straightening her tunic dress and sleeves. “Okay, gentlemen. We need to get a couple hours’ sleep before we land. The pilot is going to take the long way around the Black Sea, so we’ll have another change of fighter escort as we pass over Crimea and then again as we pass over Georgia. We are going to be escorted across the new Anatolian Kurdish State and land in Sanliurfa. Once we land, our vehicle, land-based equipment, driver, and guards will greet us and take us the fifteen klicks directly to the site.”

  She sits back in her chair and adds, “That is, God willing, if no one shoots us down before we get there.”

  Chapter 22

  Whenever Beauty looks,

  Love is also there;

  Whenever beauty shows a rosy cheek

  Love lights Her fire from that flame.

  When beauty dwells in the dark folds of night

  Love comes and finds a heart

  Entangled in tresses.

  Beauty and Love are as body and soul.

  Beauty is the mine, Love is the diamond.

  —Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī,

  thirteenth-century Persian Sufi mystic

  Friday, March 27, 1998

  Northern Iraq near border with Syria

  Leaving the mosque after the Jumu’ah are a simple man and woman. Yes, many other man-and-woman pairs leave this special weekly prayer as well. But this man and woman leave with their much cherished and beloved daughter with them, a youngster whose charm and persuasion has both of them holding her hands as they exit the mosque, heading down the road on the long trek to their simple house near the hills.

  Dressed in a dark burgundy ankle-length dress with a black scarf over her head, Maryam feels Xwedê’s blessing as she holds the tiny hand of her daughter, who joyously sings a song Maryam has taught her, as the two now follow behind her husband.

  Normally, a child of this early age does not come to this mosque. But at the exceptional request of her great-grandfather, a Sufi imam of local note, an exception was made for this one time. Her husband, Nawdar, thought it was more the logic of his father, a local mufti, that earned this exception. His father put forth that the Prophet had brought his grandchildren to the Masjid, and they climbed on him. That the Prophet was merciful and kind towards the children. Therefore, it must be permissible to bring young children to the Masjid as long as they behaved correctly. Either way, both sides of the family agreed that Maryam’s daughter, Zara, was someone exceptional who would benefit from early exposure to the religious traditions of their family.

  But only just having turned two, little Zara’s energy and bounce suddenly switches off, and she will need to be carried back home. Maryam looks to her Nawdar for help, as she carries another baby bump—Zara’s little sister, hopes Maryam, or brother, hopes her husband. And so Nawdar lifts the limp Zara into his arms. Maryam glances around to check if they are alone and puts her arm through her husband’s, walking by his side. She would not want others to think ill of her husband, for she understands that their local tradition of men taking the lead is to allow them to fulfill their role as the protector of their women. It is their duty to clear the way for their women. But her beloved husband is concerned more by the public display of affection that others might find objectionable. As long as no others are around, however, he too enjoys her arm in his as they walk. And for Maryam, sidling up to her Nawdar allows her to be next to her sleeping daughter.

  Once in their small but comfortable home, Maryam takes Zara from her father’s aching arms and puts her to bed. She takes off her headscarf, one of her favorites, given to her by her grandmother, Sara, black lamb’s wool with beautiful gold embroidery around the edges. She changes from her low-heeled black shoes into simple leather sandals and comes back into the kitchen/dining room to prepare afternoon tea for her husband.

  With two cups of tea prepared, she puts the steaming brew on the table in front of her Nawdar, who is opening a letter. She sits next to him and puts her head on his shoulder. She says she received a letter from her sister Leyla, who says she h
as successfully settled into the village of their childhood near Sinopli, Turkey. She laments the sadness of her sister’s life, as Leyla’s marriage was not one of bliss as is hers with Nawdar.

  She hugs her husband and gives him a kiss. She is blessed that Xwedê’s plan included him as her husband. She reflects upon how her sister Leyla’s life differed. For soon after her marriage, her husband, three decades older than her, showed a different side, and he who beat and abused her. Leyla stayed with him for years, battered and bruised, for she feared her family more than he. In the end, Leyla had to flee to live with their mother in Turkey in hopes of hiding from her male family members.

  Maryam kisses her Nawdar again and hugs him so tightly. “Nawdar, you are my blessing. I love you for not blaming her for her actions. I love you because you treat me and your daughter so well. But I must ask of what may not be of our traditions.”

  Nawdar peers into her eyes and kisses her eyelids. Then her nose. Then her lips. And he says, “Of course, my love, my beloved wife, mother of my beloved Zara.”

  “The traditional way we Kurds pick husbands for our daughters can be a real game of chance for the woman. It did not go so well for Leyla. My father’s friend’s son did not respect women at the root of it. I was so lucky. I was blessed by Xwedê that your father, one of the muftis from Duhok district, knew of and loved the Sufi poetry of my imam grandfather. And so I thank my grandfather each time I talk with him for the introduction of your father to my father. And praise be to Xwedê for his blessing of our family.” And she leans her head into Nawdar’s chest and wraps her arms around his back and hugs him as hard as she possibly can. “Our life is so beautiful. I thank Xwedê every day.”

  Maryam leans back and looks into Nawdar’s eyes. “I can only hope Zara will marry a man as good as you. I ask if at all possible that Zara be given the free choice of who she wishes to marry, with all our support and our love. And if Xwedê’s will does not allow her such a choice, then I ask that we do our best to accept only the offers of a man who can be a good husband as you have been to me A man of dreams. A man of heart. A man with a soul filled with love.” She takes Nawdar’s hand and kisses it, and Nawdar leans down to her baby bump and kisses her there.