Pursing her lips, she struggles to hold back the tears, which are like high tide destined to come ashore. And the waters let loose as she turns to cry again into Peter’s already damp chest.
In time, she composes herself; glancing at Peter, she purses her lips again and says, in as flat a voice as she can muster, “When I escaped from those two monsters, Skander and Aymen, I freed my two cousins, my sisters, Rona and Diyar. We had scars from having tried to use battery acid to make our faces so hideous they would not want us sexually, but this did not work. Rona had tried to starve herself to death, finding no other way to end her suffering.
“When a message from Alexander got through to me, saying he’d fielded an escape plan, I took Rona and Diyar with me. We were being chased by Aymen and his friends, who were furious, as I had killed his brother Skander in the most violent and mutilating way, using his own gun. But Rona was so weakened that she stumbled and broke her ankle.”
Zara stops, sniffles and buries her face into Peter’s hair as she holds him closer. He kisses her forehead and gives her the big warm bear hug she’s needed all her life to date to feel safe and loved.
And she continues. “Rona begged me to leave her there and save her sister. She cried and cried about what those monsters would do to her. She could not take any more. We all were so disfigured already.” Zara pauses, touching her bedclothes over the deep scars on her inner thighs. “And then Rona looked at me, her eyes saying what she wanted me to do. To shoot her. But I could not. I just could not. She was my sister.”
Zara stops again and grips Peter’s hand very tightly. “Rona was my sister. She knew all my secrets, and I hers. How could I shoot her? But Diyar was also my sister. And as we saw Aymen and his goons getting closer, I aimed Skander’s gun.”
Clenching Peter’s hand ever tighter, until he felt like screaming, she says, “I cannot get the image of Rona out of my head. In my nightmares forever is this image. Like the rabbits you saw me kill, I blew her head apart. Splattered across eternity. This is the place you could not touch in me.”
With that, Zara loses it and cries in Peter’s arms in near hysteria, muttering about how bad she is. Peter embraces her tightly, kissing her hair, kissing her ear, and whispering how much he knows she is a good person.
The door to the room opens ever so slightly as Maryam peers in, having heard the laughter, then crying. She spies her daughter in Peter’s bed in a lover’s embrace, and she smiles, a deep endearing one, as she lets the little lambs out and closes the door so quietly and discreetly.
Zara, wet as a dolphin, kisses Peter tongue to tongue as they continue their embrace. She whispers to him. “There are so many reasons why I cannot love you and you should not love me.” With that said, she gets up, straightens out her soaked nightgown, and leaves for her room.
Chapter 38
However rare true love may be, it is less so than true friendship.
—François de La Rochefoucauld
1:30 p.m. GMT+3, June 1, 2021
Siirt, former Turkey, now Anatolian Kurdish State
Petrus sits next to Jean-Paul, who is in a private ward in a hospital in Siirt as per his request. On the television plays the MoxWorld News, showing this morning’s invasion of northwestern Turkey by three armored Russian divisions. Video shows the air battle between the Turkish and Russian air forces. Sahir talks about the US and Russian fleets facing off in the Black Sea, and the ultimatum the US president gave, demanding a withdrawal date of one week from today, or the US forces in Turkey would engage Russian air and ground forces. Rhonda shows Sanliurfa, which is now under an encircled siege as Turkish forces withdraw. She discusses the third day of Turkish paratroopers’ occupation of buildings in Diyarbakır, the capital of the Anatolian Kurdish State. The Turkish tanks that were moved up from Sanliurfa to break through Kurdish lines and join forces with these paratroopers have been stalled by advanced weapons now possessed by the Kurds. The US president accused the Russians of supplying these arms and has sought the approval of Congress to mobilize the most advanced US weapons to Turkey.
Jean-Paul watches, shaking his head while his old friend Petrus gives him a message from the Father General. Petrus asks, “Jean-Paul, do you understand what he is asking?”
Jean-Paul acknowledges.
Petrus says more forcefully, “He expects your obedience.”
His eyes puffy and red from the exposure to gasoline, Jean-Paul peers at Petrus. “I have renounced my vows. Everyone knows that, including the Father General.”
Staring back at the television screen, Petrus states, “You can never truly leave. You know that.”
Zara enters the room dressed in a yellow cotton gown with colorful flowers and gold trim over beige pants with a beige-and-gold headscarf. Jean-Paul asks Petrus to leave and give them privacy.
“How are you doing, priest? You are a hard man to kill,” Zara says somewhat facetiously.
“I am recovering. Thank you for asking, Zara,” replies the suffering Father. “Forgive my voice, as the fumes eroded my throat raw and my lungs have been injured. It is good you did not come yesterday, as I was still in confusion.” He points to his hands. “And my skin is sore all over. But I am happy that you and Peter came to save me.”
She takes his hand and puts his crucifix in it. He smiles and clasps her hand. “Where did you find this? I thought it lost. Lost like my soul.”
“Where? On a dead mole,” Zara replies. She pulls out a new white gold chain, puts the crucifix on it, and places the chain around the good Father’s neck. “It looks good on you.”
Jean-Paul cries through his puffy eyelids. “This means so much to me. I stepped away from my faith. I renounced.”
“I know. You renounced your vows,” says Zara in her most sympathetic tone.
“No, not renounced my priesthood, but my belief in Christ,” Jean-Paul laments. “I thought I was strong. I was once the soldier who braved death without fear. But in that moment in that cage, with gasoline soaking into my soul, I recanted Christ as my savior. As they held the lighter closer and closer, I recanted Christ as the Son. I traded my faith for my life.” And he cries through puffed-out crimson eyelids.
Zara leans over and hugs him. A hug such as he has not experienced since the Philippines. She whispers to him, “To me, you will always be the good priest of faith in God, faith in Christ.” She kisses his forehead.
“You are so kind, Zara. You are who we thought you would become,” the good saved priest praises.
Zara reflects on those words for a second, and her anger at the men who kidnapped them arises. Not only at her traitorous cousin, at that mole who Alexander trusted, at the men who kidnapped and raped her and her sisters, but at men who tried to burn a priest in the name of her faith. She is furthered saddened that these few misguided savages are why many in the Western world malign her religion.
Kneeling beside his bed, she gently covers his hand with hers and begs, “Please, Jean-Paul, please do not judge these men as representatives of Islam. A true modern Muslim would not have asked you to recant your faith at the point of imminent death.”
The good Father, former Father, puts his hand on her head and replies, “I value your words to me. Please be assured I would not have thought poorly of your faith. But you are mistaken. They did not ask me to convert to Islam.”
In complete surprise, Zara’s back straightens. “But we heard through the parabolic mike, they asked you to renounce Christ in the name of the true Creator.”
And oddly, Jean-Paul smiles. “And there lies your answer. Who is their true Creator? Please do not tell Peter what I am about to reveal to you. These assassins, as you call them, they wanted me to confess my true belief that God, as we know him, as we have expressed in our writings and in our traditions, was created by beings not from this planet. They had a cell phone camera recording my confession, which they were going to show to the world to discredit the Church, given my close connection to the Holy Pontiff and my positions on his extrate
rrestrial commissions.”
With a gasp, Zara sits back. “But even the Islamic extremists would not sponsor such a blasphemous, heinous act like this. Who did?”
“Whoever did found people in your past who hated you, who hated Alexander, and men from the Boko Haram, the Congo, Bosnia, who hated me. All had no political alliances with any of the countries about to go to war around us, which is why they stopped in no-man’s-land to record and transmit my confession. Whoever assembled this group chose mostly would-be assassins of Islamic faith and, in doing so, may have wanted to fan the flames of worldwide religious tension and drive the world deeper into a global holy war.”
She looks away for a minute, reflecting on the implications of the revelation, then leans forward, kneeling again, and offers, “I too have a confession, if you would hear it.”
The good Father, happy she has confided in him, leans down, delicately places his hand back atop her head, and says, “Please. I would be so honored.”
She looks into that tiny space between the red balloons that have replaced his eyelids and says, “I was going to blow your head off before they could light you up. I thought you might have wanted someone to do that.”
A strategic pause as she stares coldly into his eyes. “I thought for sure you were the mole. At first, I thought you were simply the device of the Vatican spying on us. Then I thought you were the one informing the assassins of our every move. So I had no compunctions about blowing your head off.
“But then I heard how they tortured you,” she says with eyes turned soft and compassionate. “As they did to me. And as I would have wanted, I thought the most merciful, most compassionate act I could give to you was to cleave your head off with a 12.7mm round.”
He slowly raises her head, lightly clasps his hands around hers, and says, “Thank you. I know you would have done so out of love and mercy for my soul.”
“Jean-Paul, you must understand that it was not an easy thing for me to do to aim a sniper scope at your skull. I know you must think me a cold-blooded murderer, about which you would be correct for most of my kills. But what keeps me awake at night, what I most suffer from, is the memories of the last time I had to kill someone I loved out of mercy and compassion. It is not so that you feel you did the right thing. You lose and they lose. And there is no redemption. Only the pain that you killed them haunting your dreams, night after night after night, like a cancerous nodule in your soul.”
She takes his hand from hers and opens it. “I hope you are not offended. I would not have thought twice about blowing your head off. You would be in heaven, watching me here, suffering in my pain over killing someone I love.” She then places his medallion in his hand.
The once-so-serene Jean-Paul breaks down in tears again. “I thought this had been lost. Forever gone. And my dear Magali would have been so devastated. There are so many things I have done that she would not be able to forgive me for, but losing this is much worse.”
Sensing his deep love for this woman, Zara asks, “Why do you not go back and reunite with your Magali? You found the secret of her medallion. Your mission is over. You have delivered your promise to her.”
Jean-Paul grimaces, not from the pain of the gasoline, but from his unresolved guilt. “We almost did not take our final vows once. It would be a shame to ask her to break hers now.” He looks into Zara’s eyes as best he can. “I hid things from her. I did not let her into my soul completely. I lied to her.”
Realizing his parable for herself and Peter, Zara glances momentarily to the side. “If you are not a priest anymore, why not go back and tell her now? She must still love you still, as much as I see you do her.”
She looks at him and winces as she adds, “And if you truly are still a priest, then you should go back and talk to your friend, the pope, and ask him to change the rules about priests and marriage. Think about how much better your religion would be if priests could have normal, natural human relations with women.”
Jean-Paul tries to protest her accusation about his priesthood, but she will not hear any of it. “Your secret is safe with me. I know you do not suffer the affliction. You lied to me as you likely lied to Magali. I will not tell Alexander, but you should tell her. But what I cannot understand is what your true interest is in the object. For a number of hours there, I was going to kill you because I thought you had stolen it for the pope.”
“Zara, please trust me about what my motives are,” says Jean-Paul.
“Priest, that is a tall order, for me to trust. Peter trusts you, so I will trust in his trust in you,” Zara states.
She takes his hands into hers again. He flinches from the pain and she loosens her touch. She asks, “What do you know about miracles?”
The good priest is feeling well again as she asks him to dwell upon theological concerns. “A miracle is often something that neither natural nor scientific law can explain. In Catholicism, a miracle is thought to be an act of God.”
“My great-grandfather, a Sufi imam, once told me stories of Sufis being clairvoyant, taming wild beasts, and producing food and rain in seasons of drought.”
Jean-Paul lightly rubs Zara’s hand with his thumb and asks, “Why do you ask about miracles?”
Zara puts her other hand on her lower belly. “My period. It was not time for it. But it came during the moment of their attack on us and saved me and Peter. And then it disappeared as mysteriously as it arrived. Is that a miracle? Or only my biology acting up under stress?”
As Jean-Paul reflects upon her words, Zara touches the top of his head. “The rain that washed the gasoline off you. Peter’s touch allowed me to envision what someone did ages ago. I prayed. And the rain came and saved you.”
Jean-Paul again reflects upon her words, then speaks. “You must continue whatever it is you are doing with Peter. I do not want to encroach upon your privacy, but you must continue whatever it is. Apparently, your connection with the voice is getting stronger as you are with him in that way, just as the traditions said would happen.”
She looks at him with a mix of compassion and dismay. Begging him, she says with flushed cheeks, “Please. Do not break my trust. When we touch, I see what Peter sees, and he sees what I see. What I have heard. We touched this morning after he had a dream and saw a giant who looked like Alexander, who wanted the object to rule the lands.”
Jean-Paul reflects. “This is a difficult situation. You are asking if we can trust Alexander. You are closest to him—what do you believe?”
“Do not go there,” Zara says. “Peter did that with me this morning. There is no intimate relationship between us. None that would allow me to know whether to trust him or not after a dream like that. After all the strange things that have happened to us since we found that object.”
Pointing to the television, Jean-Paul says, “As he did in the Crimea and Ukraine, Alexander persuaded the Russians to invade the Turkish coast, where the other object lies. One must ask why he needs both. Have you heard the voice again, Zara?”
Zara simply shakes her head.
Taking both her hands into his, Jean-Paul says, “You and Peter, you need to be as close to him as your morals will let you. Only you can know what line you are willing to cross or should cross. Only by being as close together as two humans can be will you reveal the truth. You need to let Peter in. Wherever that is.”
Now Zara reflects. “Priest, I will make you a deal,” she replies. “You call Sister Magali and tell her in no uncertain terms how you still feel about her and let her choose if she wants to be closer with you. And I will do the same with Peter.”
He nods. Not wanting him to procrastinate on her, Zara looks up the good Sister on his MoxWrap and dials her for him. She stays long enough to hear the Sister’s delight that he called her and not the other way around, as their long history has shown.
The compassionate one, Zara, leaves the room knowing indeed she has saved him.
Chapter 39
Marriage is a long conversation. When m
arrying you should ask yourself this question: do you believe you are going to enjoy talking with this woman into your old age? Everything else in a marriage is transitory, but most of the time that you’re together will be devoted to conversation.
—Friedrich Nietzsche
5:30 p.m. GMT+3, June 1, 2021
Siirt, former Kurdistan of Turkey, now Anatolian Kurdish State
That dusty rose pickup truck of Zara’s pulls into the bomb shelter adjacent to Sara’s ancestral home. Does such a feminine color for this tough woman bespeak something else in her soul that she does not desire to be known?
After exiting her pinkmobile, Zara laughs as she watches her mother trying to show Peter how to milk a goat. Roza is laughing too. So hard and robust in a way Zara has never seen from her before. And they laugh together as the goat is winning, standing over Peter flat on the ground. She avoids eye contact with him as she wipes the tears of laughter from her cheeks.
After dinner, Zara leads Peter outside the house. He is so curious about what must be in store. What lesson will he learn from her tonight? She finds a pile of stones in a colorful box in the bomb shelter. He is to be the wolves while she the sheep. And each time, her sheep surround his wolves, forcing their submission. The same as she has done to him. She surrounds him with her essence, and he surrenders his will to her emerging love, for he is her Little Boy.
The mothers come out after having watched Zara relive her childhood game. The one she loved with her father. The one she loved with her brother. A tear, a loving tear drops down Maryam’s cheek. Her little Zara, has she finally come home?
That night after everyone is in bed, she sneaks into her brother’s old room again. Peter, just having put his head to his pillow, looks at her with great confusion, as he thought her last words to him meant they would not sleep together again, ever. As she crawls in under the covers with him, she affectionately pecks him on his forehead.
He softly says, “I promise not to press you for your areas you wish to hide. I want you to know how much I deeply respect you and your need for privacy.”
The Matriarch Matrix Page 48