The Matriarch Matrix

by Maxime Trencavel

Jean-Paul is very contemplative. He would equally love to express his undying love to her, but he wrestles with the prudence of making rash decisions, perhaps hormonally driven, at least by him. He kisses her hands, then each finger, and responds, “My beloved Sister, my cherished Magali, I cannot hide that I too find a love in you that beckons me to come to you, to come with you wherever you wish to go. You are my angel from heaven. As always, you are right that the time is now for each of us to decide either to go forward with our vows and commitment to the Lord or to go forward with each other, still with the blessings of the Lord.”

  Kissing her forehead in return, he strategically pauses before continuing. “We should go slowly with this decision, as the implications for us, those around us, and those in the future could be quite profound. We should meditate, reflect, and reach out to the Lord as we finalize our future.”

  He stands up out of his chair and lifts her off the desk. As his large, warm hands around her waist move to enwrap the soft mounds of her derrière, he kisses her, passionately and slowly. He pulls back and they look into each other’s eyes, losing touch with anything other than each other. He brushes her lovely scarlet and cerise tresses back behind her ear and leans in to nibble on her lobes and then lets her go. She blushes as she composes her clothing and her veil and mouths a kiss to him as she leaves.

  And as happened each evening at that coastal village, Jean-Paul’s guilt overwhelms him that evening as he tries to fall asleep. At first in rapture over having professed his love for his dear Sister, the guilt takes a turn for the worst, for he has not been fully honest with her. If she leaves her Order, if she leaves her life with the Lord, she will be doing so for a priest in training who has not been fully truthful with her. And how could a lifelong relationship be built if not on a bed, a foundation, of honesty and truth? He tosses all night in his angst.

  The next week is near condemnation in hell for the two of them, for different reasons. One in angst over possibly losing the only man she would ever love. The other in angst over lie after lie. And who first said that when it rains, it pours? For Jean-Paul, a drenching typhoon of guilt comes in an expected envelope. He receives a letter of commendation from the president of the Jesuit Conference of Provincials for Eastern Asia and Oceania for his work improving the morale and attendance at the school. His euphoria is quickly followed by his guilt.

  And the situation only worsens two days later when the school secretary comes running into his classroom to pull him away for a personal phone call from the same regional president of the Jesuit Conference. For ten minutes, they talk as he receives his personal plaudits for his innovation in education and peaceful resolution of the school’s attendance issues.

  The Machiavellian in Jean-Paul cries out that night, for he is a success, just as he excelled in the military schools. He could do very well in his life by his series of half-truths. He did not lie. He merely was not asked to provide the whole picture. He truly provided honest answers to the questions he was asked. Sort of. He could have the world’s most fabulous wife and research the secrets of her medallion. Or he could climb up in the Jesuit Order with a mere minor bending of the spirit of his and their faith. He prays for guidance.

  Over the next few weeks, Magali comes over many times each week to take walks with her new professed love. She finds discreet places to stop and kiss him. More than thrice each walk. Often a lot more than thrice. She tells him of her secret fantasies after she lightly rubbed his warm crotch that one night, and how every night of their life could be like that night. And she replicates what she did with him that night. Jean-Paul cannot summon the courage to tell her no, nor does he want to. His Regency ends in a couple weeks, and they need to make their decision soon. Very soon.

  As his beloved Magali parts with him that evening, he continues to walk in meditative silence. He thinks about his grandfather’s words about becoming a Jesuit rather than being a soldier. And he thinks of the moment when he found the courage to tell his commandant he was resigning his commission to become a priest. Knowing his junior officer’s exposure to the atrocities of that war, the commandant understood why he resigned, but he wanted to hear it fully from Jean-Paul.

  And Jean-Paul said he wanted to help the world. He wanted to prevent tragedies like the bombing of his parents’ flight, the World Trade Center, and so many other acts of terror. He had thought he could best do so as a soldier in the military, but he knew now that being a soldier of the pope would be far more impactful. He would save souls. And they let him out of his commitments to be that different kind of soldier.

  The next morning, Jean-Paul wakes up as a man on a mission. A priest on a mission. He calls the president of the regional Jesuit Conference and tells him he does not deserve his commendation. He has not told his superiors the full story about how he fixed the situation. He should have been fully truthful. Much to his surprise, he is not reprimanded. The president commends him for his coming forward with the truth, which he needed to speak to be honest to himself and to the Lord. They already knew exactly how he had fixed the situation.

  Then the president adds that there is a place in the Order for priests who are willing to innovate and take positive action as he did. His pathway through the rest of his formation will be followed with great interest. Accordingly, the Father General has personally assigned him a position in Rome, under the Society’s watchful eyes, to complete his formal theology studies in preparation for his priestly ordination. A plane has been arranged to take him back to Rome three days after his school year ends.

  And as he hangs up the phone, Jean-Paul realizes his true calling. He loves Magali more than any woman in his life, save his mother, and maybe his sister. She is his personal angel from heaven, his intellectual joy, his spiritual companion. But he loves his work with God even more.

  He planned to go to her convent and talk with her there, but she shows up at his office door before he can leave to see her. She closes the door, locks it, and comes over to him. Taking off her vest and veil, she removes his cassock, lifts herself up on her tippy toes, and kisses him. He hugs her in return, deep and strong. And she says she is ready to be his wife, to love him, honor him, and worship the Lord with him, forever.

  Jean-Paul reciprocates, torn about what he needs to do, desperately torn. He professes his undying love for her, for her spirituality, her intellect, her compassion, her beauty, and kisses her back. He then adds that he most admires and respects her love for the Lord, a love that is his own personal inspiration. He looks her in the eyes, full of passion and desire, and tells the truth, finally, the truth. He loves her so much, he could not bear to take her away from the Lord’s love.

  And Magali begins to cry hard, beating on his chest as she chokes on her tears, saying that is what a man says when he is trying to graciously dump a woman. She cannot even look at him as she turns away. Jean-Paul pulls her back and holds her tight, letting her cry into his chest. And she cries and cries until she feels her medallion hanging beneath his shirt. She opens up his shirt, exposing his chest and the medallion.

  Jean-Paul takes her head in his hands and leans in to blow on her ear and nibbles her lobe as he says, “Elle entend la voix de Dieu.” She hears the voice of God. He whispers to her that her calling to God is so strong. She is the woman in the medallion, and he cannot stand between her and the Lord. He kisses her again, and hugs her. He professes his love for her, always and forever, and he will be there for her anytime she needs.

  Sister Magali gazes at the medallion on his chest and then into his eyes. She realizes his love for the Lord is like hers and is part of why she loves so him so. She sees his trueness and honesty in his profession of his love for her and wanting only the best for her. She steps away from him and looks out the window into the sky. Jean-Paul stays still, letting her find her inner voice.

  Still looking out the window, she says, “Both your love and the love of the Lord, how can I say no?”

  She turns back to him and touches the medallion on
his chest. “But this means we will not have children to pass on this family artifact. My father will have to understand that I give this to you so you can find out what this means, and how we can fulfill the Lord’s mission, which is embodied in the partial story told here.”

  She puts her head to his chest and hugs him, saying, “And we will have children together. They will be the world’s children, who will inherit the peaceful earth we create from this medallion.”

  They kiss. The last one, maybe. Maybe not. She separates from him, walks to the window, pulls down the shades, and turns towards him with an inviting smile.

  Chapter 27

  A seeker went to ask a sage for guidance on the Sufi way. The sage counseled, “if you have never trodden the path of love, go away and fall in love; then come back and see us.”

  —Nur ad-Dīn Abd ar-Rahmān Jāmī,

  fifteenth-century Sufi mystic and poet

  4:45 p.m. GMT+3, May 16, 2021

  Hills outside Siirt, formerly Turkey, now Anatolian Kurdish State

  Did she hear correctly? Rohat? Zara leans her back against the door, trying to remember the last time she talked with him. Okay, he tried to marry her when she was seventeen, claiming his right as her oldest male first cousin. And then he led her paternal family to shun her five years ago, for acts of atrocity committed upon her against her will. Now what does he want?

  Zara makes sure the door’s safety latches are secure, opens the door ever so slightly, and peeks out. There indeed stands her cousin. A couple of centimeters shorter than her, strong defined bearded chin, broad shoulders, and imposing chest, with a little bit of a belly. He must be living well. What is he doing up here, so far away from their homeland in the former northwestern Iraq?

  She says, “Just a minute, cousin Rohat.” She puts her gun under one of the couch cushions and goes to open the door.

  Rohat greets her with a salaam, a low bow of the head and body with fingers touching the forehead, and Zara reciprocates, swinging her hand to show him into the house. Roza and Maryam have come from the kitchen, and each greets Rohat. Tradition does not allow her to ask the purpose or length of his visit, so she asks in Kurdish, “My nephew Rohat. We are pleased to see you. Your journey must have been tiring and long. May I offer you something to drink?”

  “The hour of Asr prayer comes upon us. We should pray as a family first,” Rohat suggests.

  Maryam leads him to their prayer room while Zara stays in the front room. Rohat turns to her and says, “I had understood you had returned to the faith and submission to Xwedê again.”

  Zara runs her hands outside her uterus and says, “It is that time when I am unclean. Please forgive me.”

  With a grimace and head down, Rohat goes with Maryam as Roza goes to fetch Sara, and they perform their Asr prayer rituals.

  After prayer, Roza returns Sara to her room, then comes to the front room and tells Rohat, “We are honored you have traveled far to share prayer with us. How else may we help you this evening?”

  Rohat says to Maryam and Rosa, “Aunt Maryam and my grandmother-to-be Roza, the borders are now open across all of Kurdistan. Now, Kurds can freely travel to see family in each of the four former countries that artificially separated us. Up until this week, these border restrictions prevented me from fulfilling my duties as the most senior male in the Khatum family. I express my sorrow again, Aunt Maryam, that your husband’s two brothers, and Grandmother Roza, that your two sons, were tragically killed. Honoring the traditions of our family and people, I am ready to fulfill my duties to ensure your family is taken care of properly.”

  Not unnoticed, Rohat addressed the two elder women at the exclusion of Zara, which does not please her as she is no longer the child he knew, and he is only three years older than her. Her pride getting the best of her, she steps in front of Rohat, and her grandmother extends her hand, begging her to show respect and move back.

  Zara speaks in a firm voice. “Rohat, I now take care of this family, and as you can see they are prosperous, happy, and most important, faithful in their submission to Xwedê.”

  Rohat pushes Zara aside and addresses her grandmother. “I will forgive my cousin’s transgression of her place, for I know she has been weak and feeble in her respect for our faith. I am prepared to forgive the past and take her as my second wife as per our tradition.” He looks at the angry Zara and says, “She is still young enough, barely, to bear your family children. And I will be able to take care of you and my aunt Maryam in the traditions of our people.”

  Outraged and ready to attack her cousin, Zara steps forward into him, but the hand of her grandmother pulls her back. She will not fight her grandmother. That is a line she knows better than to cross.

  And Roza states in the voice of a true matriarch, “Rohat, we are sincerely honored by your travels and efforts to fulfill your family tradition and honor. But we four women left the lands of your family to return to our lands, the lands of my grandfather. The Khatum family tradition does not apply to our household. We are thriving here.” With a slight bow of her head, she concludes, “We thank you for your kind and respectful gesture.”

  “Old woman, even though you will be my grandmother by marriage, you are a fool,” Rohat yells with a stern face. “I am the oldest male in our patriarchal lineage, and as such there are rights and responsibilities that transcend borders, for we are still Kurdish. I will forgive your transgression as well as those of Zara. Even though she has strayed from her Muslim roots, you have shown your faith well in restoring her to submission to Xwedê again. I thank you for this. As is my right, and more importantly, as is best for her, I will take Zara back home with me to the lands of her birth, the mountains of her childhood, and the proper traditions of the Khatum family.”

  Incredibly incensed at this display of archaic and obsolete patriarchal patronage, Zara tries again to step in front of Roza to settle this issue, but her wise grandmother holds her back once again. “As your mufti grandfather and your grandmother, my old friend Amina, understand well, our faith, Islam, allows the woman in question to have the final say in any marriage. I am sure Amina’s son, your father, raised you better than to act like you are. What has changed to make you act like men did in the days of my grandmother?”

  Rohat’s face twists with a mix of dishonor of being dressed down by such an old woman and rage at not getting the respect he believes he deserves as the eldest male in the family. But before he can assert his power, Peter comes out of Zara’s bedroom, which Rohat can clearly see is hers, buttoning up this shirt, which finally fits him.

  Seeing the four of them, with his innocent, polite smile, Peter says, “Oh, please excuse me. I didn’t know you had another guest. I was just dressing for dinner.”

  Enraged at both the affront to his honor and this foreigner sleeping with his cousin, Rohat pulls out a gun and points it at Peter, who freezes with his best deer-in-the-headlights stare. Zara stands between Rohat and Peter and yells in Kurdish, “How dare you bring a gun into our house of peace?”

  Rohat sneers at her and says back in Kurdish, “You bitch. You did not change. You are still the donkey slut. You let a kafir horse into your bed and let him enter you. I cannot even think of such acts. You are a woman of no honor, a harlot. You dishonor our family.” And he pulls the slide back on his pistol, pointing it at Zara’s head.

  And before he can shoot, Jean-Paul arrives from outside. Gun in hand and a side shot on this invader, he says in Arabic, “Drop the gun. I cannot miss shooting you first from this distance.”

  Rohat peers at the tall man with his crucifix and yells in English for all to hear, “You donkey slut. You bring a Christian soldier into your household to endorse the defilement of our Kurdish women by kafirs. The honor of our family means you must die, even if it means my death.” And he pulls the pistol hammer back with his thumb.

  In less than a blink, Zara puts Jean-Paul’s lessons to use, disarming Rohat and sending his pistol flying across the hall into her mother’s roo
m, where it discharges upon impact. Zara proceeds to kick him with such force that he trips and falls over their couch. She grabs her own pistol from under the couch cushion, pulls her cousin up with the pistol in his gut, and pushes him out the door. In her most vile Kurdish, she scolds him. “You dishonor us with your shameful actions. You dishonor the Khatum family. No woman should be treated as if she were no more than a sheep to be traded at a man’s will. Go back to your little backward village and never come back.”

  In shock, Rohat stands there looking at the beast of a woman who has taken the soul of his cousin. Zara turns to go back into the house but remembers she owes him one. And she turns, wishing she had steel-toed combat boots on, and kicks his groin as hard as she possibly can in her soft sandals. He doubles over onto the ground with a raise-the-dead bloodcurdling scream. And Zara stands over him and says, “That makes us even for your booby punches.”

  Zara is not done with her cousin. She leans down and puts her pistol straight into his injured groin. He begs for mercy. She shakes her head and pulls the trigger. He nearly faints, but there was no bullet chambered. “Be thankful to Xwedê that I forgot to chamber the bullet. Next time, you will not be so lucky,” Zara admonishes as she kicks dirt into his face and takes his belt and shoes. “Stay away from my family or you will not be so lucky again. I will hunt you down and kill you if any of my family is hurt,” she says as she returns into the house.

  As she locks the door, she sees her family gathered on the floor around Peter. Apparently, he fainted during the best of the action. Her first gun disarming ever, and he missed it. Jean-Paul comes over and congratulates her on her excellent execution of the disarming move. His best student yet, he thinks as he hugs her from the side.

  Zara hugs Jean-Paul back. She turns away to glance at Peter. Did I just stand between him and a bullet? What must my family be thinking? And she sees Roza looking back at her, nodding her head and smiling. Then the adrenaline rush disappears as she sighs and sinks for the first time since her Sugar Fest abduction.