Deliverance

by Véronique Launier

  Here, destruction reigned. Not only did these neighborhoods take a decimating hit, it seemed as if no one had done anything about it. Entire blocks laid in ruins, the buildings collapsed against each other. Mutated rats squirmed their way through the debris, and an unidentifiable stench permeated the air. My imagination supplied me with flashes of the chaos and death that must have occurred there just a few weeks before.

  Many street corners were decorated with pictures of the dead, protected from the elements by plastic sleeves. Among these lay flowers, candles and other offerings, but the streets were quiet. No one stuck around to mourn these people. A few blocks ahead, a figure quickly emerged from the cover of buildings, left what looked like hand-picked flowers at one such corner, and immediately disappeared back into the shelter from which he'd appeared.

  People here were genuinely afraid of something. In the empty streets, my footsteps echoed on the pavement, multiplying the sound. I turned several times, but I appeared to be alone. It didn’t mean I was. The Terra Cotta Man who had followed Aude through the cemetery back in Montreal had had a strange form of movement that she had originally found undetectable.

  I tried to cast out my essence the way Aude described, but like every other time I tried, my essence seemed chained to me, unable to leave my body more than a few feet.

  At the impromptu street corner shrine, I stopped to examine the offerings. The wild wilted flowers echoed the state of the neighborhood. I scanned some of the other things left behind: pictures, some letters and poetry, and lyrics from popular songs.

  One in particular caught my attention. They were lyrics from a more obscure Fetid Crimson song.

  Stone bonds restrained me.

  My heart died slowly.

  Her cruelty crumbled my world.

  Her cruelty made me the monster.

  Footsteps resounded behind me. When I turned, no one was there. I left the shrine but stopped every ten steps or so to listen. Sometimes I still heard something, but I never saw anything. My heart rate slowed. I relaxed. No one was following me.

  But then a dead bird fell at my feet and panic flooded back in. Shudders raked my body. Without thought or control, I shifted to my Gargoyle form. My heightened senses did nothing but increase my panic. I felt a presence, but could not even identify the direction it came from. I needed to retreat, collect myself and come back another day with a better plan, or reinforcements if I ever found Nagissa (and decided I could trust her).

  Unwilling to wander around Tehran naked, I kept my Gargoyle form to run through the city streets, keeping to alleys and shadows as much as possible. I ran until I exited the broken down slums of south Tehran, and continued running. I didn't stop until I found myself near my hotel, only then really pausing to worry about how I would dress myself once I returned to my human form. I scoured a few alleyways, sniffed through trash, and looked for anything passable to clothe myself in but my search was fruitless.

  Out of options, I circled the building until I spotted the service entrance. Though it appeared deserted, I observed it from a spot behind a dumpster. I didn’t know what would happen to me if I was caught in this form, but I was alone here and couldn’t risk capture.

  When no one used the door after thirty minutes of watching it, I made my move. I snuck towards the entrance. I stood on my hind legs and tried to reach for the door, but all I could do was assure myself – by the way the doorknob jiggled between my claws – that the door was not locked. I very carefully surveyed my surroundings. Though staying in this form was dangerous, chances were I would be able to get away if anyone spotted me. What I was about to do was even riskier.

  I mentally prepared myself to have to make a dash through the hotel, trying my best to remember all the corridors I knew. My essence pulsated within me, waiting for me to take hold of it. Once I did, I shifted it around so quickly that I regained my human form and nearly fell to my knees with dizziness. I threw the door open and ducked into the dark corridor.

  I blinked a few times in the dim lighting and looked for the stairwell. Two doors lined the corridor in front of me. I shuffled towards the first, keeping close to the walls and as I approached it, a distinct aroma of spices and a clamor of voices and pots and pans came to my attention. It opened a crack, allowing a bright beam a light to illuminate the spot of carpet directly ahead of me. I quickly took several steps back, stood still, and held my breath.

  "Wait," a voice called out. The door closed. "You're missing the third platter. It's almost ready."

  I ran past the door and dived into the second door, hoping it was the stairwell. Instead, I found myself in the hotel’s laundry room. At least I was alone. For now. I leaned back against the door and tried to come up with a plan B. After centuries of facing this problem, I should have been better prepared.

  Taking in the contents of the room, I came up with a plan. I dug through the large bins of laundry hoping to acquire uniforms or any other form of clothing, but all I could find were linens. Resigned, I grabbed a large black tablecloth and draped it over myself in the same tent-like fashion some of the more pious women around here did. Hopefully, I could pass off as a rather manly looking woman. This was ridiculous.

  I exited the room and rushed around the corner to the lobby where I slowed my pace. Eyes to the ground, I tried to avoid contact with anyone, but an older man greeted me as he walked towards the elevator with me. I mumbled a reply, trying to sound at least somewhat feminine and adjusted the tablecloth to cover myself better. I pressed the button and silently begged the elevator to just get there.

  When it finally opened, a server with a cart full of food joined us, effectively taking up all the floor space and forcing me and the other man against the elevator wall. He called out a cheerful greeting but I just gripped the tablecloth tighter from the inside willing it to stay closed and kept my eyes on the carpet as if the answers to life itself could be deciphered from its geometric patterns.

  If anyone looked at me too long, there would be no disguising that I was in dire need of a shave. There was no way my woman costume could hold up to too much scrutiny. The other passengers weren’t going to my floor and I didn’t want to speak up or reach out to press the button so I watched with disappointment as the floor numbers increased and finally passed the sixth floor where my room was located. So close yet so far away.

  Once both men had left the elevator, I pressed the button for the sixth floor and tried to figure out how I would get into my room since my room key was still in the pocket of my ripped up pants, somewhere on the streets of South Tehran. I’d break open my door if I had to.

  I didn't have to. The two rooms next to mine were open. The maids worked in one of them, leaving the other, the one nearest mine, empty. I ducked inside before anyone could see me and ran to the balcony. My tablecloth chador flapped in the wind as I held it closed with my teeth and I climbed over to the next balcony and into my room.

  I sighed and, letting the tablecloth fall off of me and pool on the ground in front of me, I laid on the bed, not caring that I was naked.

  I didn't get to rest long. The phone I'd gotten here beeped with an incoming text. It was Davood, the man from the store who had invited me to the party. He would be by to pick me up in about thirty minutes. I realized I hadn’t checked in with my family back in Montreal yet today, so I dug my other phone out of my luggage. If there was one modern thing Guillaume and I had really taken to, it was our smart phones.

  I had two texts from Guillaume.

  “Have you heard from Aude?”

  “Call me.”

  I didn’t know what drama was happening between these two now, but I could worry about it later. I needed a shower and a shave before I went out. I tossed my phone aside and made my way to the bathroom.

  An hour later, washed, shaved and, most importantly, clothed, I sat next to my new-found friend in his imported car.

  "Good news, my friend," he said in his thickly accented English. "The rumors say Fetid Crimson will ma
ke an appearance at this party."

  "I hear the same rumors for every party I've been invited to. I'll believe it when I see it."

  "He has never come to any of the parties?"

  "Oh, he has come," I answered, "only he never stays long and I always miss him."

  "Well, let me tell you this, my friend. It is still early now, so I'm sure we will not miss him."

  I hoped he was right. Or that, at the very least, I would find Nagissa. Finding her seemed more appealing than finding Ramtin. I needed to see someone familiar. I was tired. Alone. I wished I had called Guillaume back before I came here.

  Davood parked in a neighborhood only a few minutes away from my hotel. From the street, everything was quiet and normal except for a bit of light flashing from the corner of a covered window. Probably not enough to garner the attention of a nosy neighbor or the morality police itself. I couldn't deal with anything else going wrong tonight. I hadn’t brought my tablecloth with me.

  Davood used a passphrase about lions and Persepolis to get us buzzed in, and we ascended the stairs two at a time. Energized by the music that became louder and louder the closer we got to the party, my experiences from the afternoon began to slip off me. My shoulders relaxed. I wouldn’t obsess over Ramtin or Nagissa. I would enjoy tonight.

  At the top of the stairs, we were greeted by a girl in a ..equin tank top and short skirt. Like most girls I spied through the door, she wore impossibly high heels. She held a can of whiskey in one hand and used the other to fluff up her hair, preening herself for our benefit.

  "Hi," she purred. "This is my cousin's party. She always has the best parties. Are you in the industry?"

  Davood introduced himself as being very much part of the industry. The producer, manager, and owner of a record studio whose clients were well-known to the party crowd. He simply introduced me as a friend from Canada. It was enough to impress her and have her try random English phrases on me.

  I began to smile at her but the expression froze on my face and my companions faded from my vision because, in the distance, Nagissa waited for me.

  Ehsan is impressed. This is a posh crowd even by his standards. Both men and women are sporting perfectly coiffed hair and designer clothing. The house is huge. What I first thought was a small classy apartment building is in fact an entire house. The rooms are large and tastefully decorated. Persian carpets, leather sofas, and solid wood furniture. A polished dark wood baby grand piano graces a corner of the reception room surrounded by men in trendy suits and drinks in hand. They appear deep in conversation.

  Loud music comes from another room deeper within the home. From down the hallway, strobe lighting freezes and releases a scene imported from Hollywood. But here, in this room, the lighting is dim and glittery, classy. I'm not sure which I prefer.

  My body resonates with a combination of fear and excitement. Even the very rich aren't completely immune to getting their parties raided. I’m also scared of facing Maman when I go back home. I kind of told her about the party and then went when she told me I couldn’t go. Maman is not all super-conservative or anything and I know she’s been to her share of parties before the revolution when she was even younger than I am now. What she’s really worried about is any sort of scandal surrounding our family. Not when Bijan is up for a promotion. It’s all so unfair.

  But whatever, I made it here and for now, it’s all that matters.

  Ehsan, Leyli and I navigate the crowd together but it doesn't take me long to lose them. Inevitably I find myself alone… standing by myself… awkward. I grab a can of whiskey and scan the masses for someone, -anyone-, I may know.

  I spy Davood, the band manager. He’s talking to someone but the crowd shuffles and suddenly he's gone. Where he was standing there is now a different, younger, man. And he’s staring at me.

  Leyli loves to read fortunes and she has an eerie knack with them somehow. The one in particular that she read for me before we came here said ‘I would meet a handsome stranger that would become my deliverance.’ Deliverance - from what? We had a good laugh about it.

  Fortune aside, there is something familiar about this guy. Like I know him from a really long time ago. I take a couple steps towards him but hesitate. My feelings are in complete conflict. There is no way I could possibly know him and yet I’m convinced I do.

  He mirrors my movements and moves slightly closer to me. There's still too much distance between us. He studies me, and I feel too exposed. Like I’m standing naked in front of him and he knows all of my deepest thoughts. He blends in well with the crowd, but there's something about the way he carries himself that tells me he isn't from around here. My intuition whispers to me that he's French. I’m convinced I’m right. Too bad I didn’t take those private French lessons I'd considered last year.

  Embarrassed by the strange stand-off, I take the steps required to breach the distance. Why should I be so uncomfortable with him? We used to be close.

  "Nagissa?" he asks.

  I respond with a nod, but then realize that no, he didn't pronounce my name properly. And why did I just think we'd been close? I've never met him before.

  "Na- Nakissa." My throat is dry, and when I try to emphasize the k sound in my name, I croak a little. I laugh and to cover my embarrassment, I repeat my name a couple of times, croaking again on the k to make fun of the way I said it. Oh how stupid I sound. Can I crawl into a hole and die now?

  "You look so much like her, but you’re different."

  I have no idea what he's talking about so I say nothing. I show no reaction. But that doesn't make me look much smarter so I struggle to find something adequate to say.

  "I hear Fetid Crimson is going to make an appearance." Well, that was random. Why do I always default to talking about this band when I don’t know what to say? I’m not even a big fan.

  He peers at me.

  "Do you know Ramtin, then?" he asks.

  A shudder passes through my body as flashes of Fetid Crimson's front man overtake me like memories. But they are not memories. Because even though my original impulse had been to say yes, in reality I don't know Ramtin. Of course I don’t. I'm new to this crowd.

  "Well, do you?" he repeats.

  He leans towards me, and the room spins.

  "Hey? Are you okay?" he asks.

  Hands touch me. Lightly on my shoulder at first. A tap. I twirl in panic, expecting to see a pair of murky green eyes. But I lose my balance and stumble. Hands around my waist now, and more hands, holding my arm. I disengage myself from the many armed monster. I step back and focus my vision.

  "What did you take?" Leyli asks.

  "I didn't take..."

  "Is she okay?" the foreigner asks Leyli.

  "I don't know. I hope so because the band is asking for her. Come, azizam, they want you to play for them."

  As Leyli drags me away from the mysterious foreigner, my mind and vision clear. What was that about? Is it just the heat and nerves? He’s hot but not the first hot guy I’ve ever met. It’s no reason I should completely lose it with him.

  Leyli leads me through to the strobe-lit room. At once, my senses are assaulted. From the lighting to the loud music to the smell; smoke – regular tobacco, weed, flavored tobacco, and probably many other things I don’t have the experience to recognize – mingling with that of body odor. On the dance floor, exposed skin shimmers with sweat. Movements in the dark corner of the rooms indicate a different type of dance performed there.

  Leyli expertly navigates me through it all, and though I still don't know exactly what's expected of me, my steps become stronger, more confident. I'm here because I was invited. I'm a guest here. Important.

  Davood greets me with a strong hug. "Here is our beautiful star harpist. We are about to take this crowd by surprise and completely take their breaths away." His curly long hair bounces as if to emphasize his enthusiasm.

  My stomach tumbles. What if I forget how to play? I don't even remember learning, so who is to say I can still pla
y? But when Davood points me in the direction of the band, their appearance doesn't even register with me. I know I should be curious about the two members I've never met before, but I can't be. I can't even get myself to greet Roxana and what's his name. Not when the harp is standing there on the stage with all the other instruments, the only one shimmering with a soul. She wants me. She missed me.

  I don't wait for instructions. The pull is too strong. There is no longer anything else in this room. I sit on the rug that serves as the stage, and immediately stroke her silk strings before I begin to pluck them. I’ve only played a few notes when I notice the change in the room. The music which had before blared through the sound system has been replaced by the gentle traditional harp melody that is part of my soul. I move my fingers along faster and the notes coming out of the speakers are faster too.

  I'm the one playing! The melody seeping out of the speakers is coming from my fingers.

  A wave of nausea tightens my stomach but I push it down. I'm in my element. When I'm on the harp, it’s natural. Here, I am home, and there is nothing to be nervous about.

  Without thinking, I switch to a different melody, and a new vision comes to me.

  This time, I can't tell if I'm still in Esfahan, but instinct tells me I'm not. The scenery looks familiar, but I don't recognize it. Distantly, as if in a different reality, I hear the sound of rock music mingle with the sound of my harp, and the part of me who is still me knows the rest of the band has joined in. I think we sound good, but I'm so distant I can't be sure. The crowd of trendy teenagers and music industry people are less and less real.

  Instead, I'm playing for a king. It's my own composition and pride blooms in my chest. Someone storms into the room. His footsteps are distinct on the stone floor. I would recognize them anywhere. I glance up in the hopes of refreshing myself on his beauty. The green of his eyes calm me. But when our gazes meet, his look doesn't soften. He hasn't looked at me like that since I composed the song King Khosrau II uses as our national anthem. But I can't imagine Ramtin would be so easily jealous. Not when he has so much talent of his own.