“Look at that!” She pointed to Maya’s painting, hanging on the wall. “What did I tell you? Get the right background color, the right lighting, and art comes alive!”
They sat a while in comfortable silence, each staring up at the painting on the wall, each deep in their own thoughts. Finally, he turned toward her. “Why didn’t you just tell me from the beginning who you were?”
She shook her head, refusing to look at him. “I should be offended that it took you this long to figure out.”
“I figured it out months ago.”
“Why didn’t you say anything then?”
He didn’t answer. A few moments of tense silence passed, then he drew in a long breath. “Holly, you ache for something more in your life. Just like I do. You want more.”
“I’ve been aching for more since I was ten years old.” Her voice was flat, matter of fact. “Now, I fantasize that ...” She let the thought trail off. She was afraid and embarrased to say what had been ricocheting around her brain, not just since that damn kiss, but also since the last council meeting. Her feelings for John were all scrambled up with the fantasy that her father would be one of the detainees coming from Guantanamo. She had no idea where the idea came from, but she couldn’t shake it. She wanted to formulate the words, to share the possibility with this fabulous man, but she just couldn’t bear giving voice to the dream only to see it crushed.
“I fantasize about you.” The tenor of the conversation had taken an abrupt U-turn and the words were out before John realized it. He had missed another opportunity to tell her about her father, but he didn’t want to think about Elias Haddad. Not at this moment. It was selfish and he knew it, but still … what he wanted was to think about how the curves of her body fit into the contours of his life. “Why won’t you let me show you how much I—”
“I can’t live with anymore disappointment. I need more.”
John set his beer down and moved his camp chair so it faced hers. He reached out and took her hands in his. “I can give you more.”
“You don’t know how to give more, John Veranda. And even if you could, you are in no position to. I’ve been a teacher’s pet, a surrogate mother, a sexual fantasy to hundreds of wide-eyed, sorry-ass inebriated men, an armchair psychologist to the men in my bar, and a sporadic caregiver to the less fortunate of my friends. I have no interest in an encumbered man.” Holly paused. “And don’t make a stupid joke about your cucumber.”
John smiled, reached up and brushed the hair from Holly’s face. “That would be lame, even for me. Besides, it’s been done. Animal House circa 1977. At least I try to be original in my cornball humor.”
“That’s a contradiction in terms, mister lawyer man.”
John’s smile faded. “You tell me I don’t know how to give, but you won’t even get close enough to take, Ms. Chicago. And in case you forgot, we had a passionate kiss right on this spot. In your treehouse of splintered plywood and warped two by fours. That kiss … what I felt, what you felt, it was real.” His voice rang in strange ways inside the tin can that surrounded them. “I mean, what the hell, Holly?”
She did not pull her hands away. “I’m human, too, you know. I have my moments of weakness.”
“That was no moment of weakness. You wanted it as much as I did. Those electrons dancing at the tips of our tongues—”
“The gap between them, unfortunately, can be measured in light years. Look, I’ve made too many bad choices in my life already. I want more. What I don’t want is someone who can be taken away. Someone who will go away. What I don’t want is another man who will disappear when I need him. And you, dear sir, are already taken.”
“I can fix that.”
Holly shook her head.
“Dammit, Holly, why are you here then? Why would you be here tonight if you didn’t think I’d come here, too?”
“I came here to be reminded of what can be taken away from me.”
“How about if I remind you what I can give you? What I want to give you? I want to whip you into a frenzy. Make you want me more than anything else in this world.”
“You don’t need to wish for that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s already true.”
John wanted to put his hands in her hair and lower his lips to hers. He was suddenly conscious of the buzz of the insects, and the hum of trucks coming and going on the interstate. And the house through the woods where his wife was not waiting. “I used to play in these woods until all hours. Camping. Drinking …” His voice was almost a whisper.
“It’s a dream, John.”
He pulled himself to his feet and looked down, her face upturned, haloed in a swirl of blonde curls. “Holly, there’s something I have to tell you. I just don’t know how to find the words, but—”
She sighed, stood, and placed a finger tip on his lips. “Not now. Your wife will be wondering where you are.”
“She’s not there. She hardly even lives there anymore.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But I need to—” he choked out. How do you tell a daughter that you’ve located her long-lost father? Stuart had called to say he was now sure Elias Haddad, lately of Guantanamo, soon to be a resident of Saluki, was, in fact, Holly’s father. He’d gotten hold of her parent’s wedding certificate and her birth certificate. There was no question. But that didn’t make telling Holly any easier. She had turned the man into a myth, and John was reluctant to take that away. Who knew what sort of a man her father had become? Was he a terrorist with American blood on his hands? Was he an empty shell angry at the cards life had dealt him? Or was he a broken-down old man who’d forgotten he even had a daughter? Would finding out the truth be worse than living with a fantasy?
“No,” she whispered. “Go home. Whatever it is, it can wait.”
40
May, 1962
Elias’s father had high hopes for Syria after it gained independence from the French following World War II. While his older sons would continue in the wool trading business, Elias became the focal point for the family’s dreams, and Elias’s education became the father’s obsession. He made no secret of the responsibility he placed on the young man. Conscientiousness was Elias’s calling, but the burden of being special was a heavy one.
By age sixteen, his father was certain Elias would be accepted into one of the prominent universities in Syria or even be admitted to one of the world-class institutions in Egypt, but the thought frightened Elias. He loved to learn, and had fun in school, but he was not a competitive person. It just wasn’t in his nature. The idea of competing for one of the few coveted slots available to boys like him from families like his was not something he could wrap his mind around.
In his eighteenth year, Elias’s ticket out of a country in constant civil and political turmoil had America written on it, not Egypt. During the Easter dinner celebration, his father shuttled him into his small study and away from the dozens of family members enjoying the feast in the overflowing central courtyard. He could hear the loud conversations, laughter, and the clinking of glasses and utensils, as his father looked around and then whispered furtively. “It is no longer safe for you to stay in this country.”
“Safe? What do you mean?”
“It is too difficult to explain. I have made arrangements for you to stay with a friend of the family in the American city called Chicago. Father Marwan is a Syrian priest from the Christian quarter. He is already in America, and he will help you get established. You are to stay in America until I say it is safe for you to return.”
Elias was stunned, but he quickly realized his father’s recent brooding, the way he had been short tempered and distracted, must have something to do with the turmoil in the streets. He’d heard his mother whispering to his aunts about the dangers of “getting involved” in … Elias didn’t know what. He’d always had his nose in a book and had paid little attention to politics.
“Father, I am no longer a child. Please, ex
plain to me why I am being sent away.”
“You are no longer a child, but you are not yet a man.”
Elias forced back the rising churn from his stomach, the same sensation when he faced a very difficult exam, or when he’d see a girl he found attractive. He called it the stirrings of the unknown, the feelings no one talked about. Father brushed them aside whenever he tried. His brothers laughed, and the women in the family never had time for such talk—at least they never had time for such talk around him.
“It is complicated,” his father explained. “The Ba’ath Party has taken control of the government. Those who supported others in a bid for a place in the government will be exposed and punished. Those with different political ideas will be rounded up. Many Christians in Aleppo collaborated with the Muslim Brothers. We are both people who believe in one God, even if a different God. The Alawites control the Ba’ath. They believe in many gods.” He stopped for a moment, looking into his son’s eyes. “We are preparing for civil war.”
“War? Here?”
“War here and soon.”
“But why me, Father. Why not my brothers, too? Why don’t we all go to Lebanon? To Iraq?”
“It is not possible. Your academic abilities can take you far beyond the borders of this country. The best way to protect your God-given talents is to get you away as soon as possible until things settle down.”
“What about Egypt? What about me going to university in Cairo or Alexandria? We could all move there and be safe, no?”
“Egypt will be no safer than Syria. The two governments are cooperating. They think they can dominate the whole of the Middle East. Crazy people run these countries, Elias. But America is different. America is a very big country, very rich, and it needs workers. There, you can live unnoticed. America offers many opportunities for someone as brilliant as you. You will find your way. Father Marwan will help.”
“When will I see you again?”
His father’s long look grew somber as he struggled for words.
Just minutes ago, Elias’s stomach had been rumbling from the aromas wafting from the heaping plates of food sitting less than twenty feet away. Just minutes ago, Elias had been joking with cousins, talking about girls and music and his studies. Now his appetite disappeared and everything he knew was falling away from him.
“Maybe one year; maybe two. We do not know. It will eventually settle down. It always does.”
“But I want to stay. I demand to be of use, to help my family here.” Elias could see his father losing patience. The pupils of his eyes shrunk, turned beady, focused on him like sunlight through a magnifying glass. Then he turned away, and this made Elias even more nervous. Father was an honest man, and his eyes never diverted whether he delivered bad news or good.
Elias had more questions and he wanted answers, but he knew he would not get them now. The mystique of America, though! He knew it must be completely different from Syria, different from the entire Arab world. He thought about the opportunity, the chance to practice the elementary, schoolbook English he had learned, to live in a country that championed liberty and that had defeated the Nazis, saved Europe from dictators, the country of the Marshall Plan. Everyone knew America was the land of opportunity.
Curiosity and fear wrestled equally for his emotions. He had so many questions. But he did not wish to act like his older brothers, always boasting and brash.
“Who is this Father Marwan?”
“He is a man of the church. He is someone I trust, and he will watch over you.”
Before they rejoined the others in the courtyard, his father had one more caution.
“Do not mention this to anyone. I will explain everything to the family when the time is best.” Dread washed over Elias’s face, from his thickening, furrowed eyebrows to the sprouting whiskers shrouding the dimple in his chin. His father put a heavy hand on Elias’s shoulder. ‘And do not worry. When the feast is concluded, go to your study room and arrange all of your books, notebooks, and pencils the way you wish. I promise they will remain until your return.”
All seemed out of the ordinary in the days leading up to his departure. Elias lived a secret. Everything felt different. When he walked the streets of Aleppo, shopped at the souk, attended classes, or roamed around the Citadel, it did not appear Ba’ath soldiers were invading, or that citizens were being hauled away, or that people were acting any differently at all. Each night, Elias dreamed wild, furious dreams with excitement at the chance to live in America at war with the fear of leaving everything he loved—and the admonition to keep everything secret—all invading his most private thoughts.
He felt like a traitor, a fraud, and liberated all at the same time, chatting with his family, sitting down to dinner, running errands, acting normal, as if their lives would continue uninterrupted. In a few days, everything would be different. He would be alone in a new country. For how long, he had no idea.
His father said the Aleppo airport would not be safe. He would be escorted first to Damascus, then to Beirut, and from there he would board a plane bound for Paris, and then on to America.
As the day of departure approached, his excitement grew. He had never even been on a train, much less a plane. He remembered problems in his physics course having to do with thrust, speed, altitude, and vectors. Soon he would find out what it felt like to fly.
His fears, though they flared frequently, were always doused by his unwavering faith in his father. Unlike his brothers, who fought their father every step of the way, Elias believed in him, admired how smoothly he made his way in the world, rarely losing his temper, always in complete control of any situation. People he did business with respected him, trusted his sense of fairness, his stubborn instincts and steely resolve. If Father thought this course of action best, who was Elias to argue?
When the day finally arrived, Elias barely had time to say goodbye before he was passed from one uncle to another, one car to another, until he arrived in Damascus. His father had made sure older, more experienced relatives left nothing to chance. He stayed one evening in Damascus, and then they set out for Lebanon. His travel documents were inspected at the border and found to be flawless, and he was passed to another relative. He spent one night in Beirut, and then boarded his flight and headed toward his new life.
The few hours he spent at the airport in Paris were like a whirlwind. His French was nearly flawless, but he heard many more languages than French. More languages than he could imagine! With help from a friendly woman in a trim-fitting uniform, he made it to his gate and waited for his flight to America. To America! He could hardly believe it. He wanted to call his father and let him know all was going well, but he’d been told not to try to communicate until he arrived and met Father Marwan.
Elias had a middle seat and could not see much out the window. As the plane began to descend, his heart thudded with fear and anticipation. He began to sweat and wondered if he’d hyperventilate. And then the plane landed and everything changed. The passengers prepared to disembark, and Elias sensed the energy, the impatience. People did not move slowly here. The excitement was contagious, and he couldn’t wait to get a glimpse of his new city.
Father Marwan met him at the gate with a brisk handshake and a welcoming kiss on both cheeks. “Call me Father Moody,” he said. “It’s easier for the Americans.”
Elias followed obediently behind Father Moody as they made their way through the crowds to claim his luggage. Father Moody checked his watch stared at the mouth of the baggage claim belt as if willing Elias’s suitcase to appear. He seemed to be a man of few words, so Elias kept his mouth shut, not wanting to bother him with questions so soon.
When the bag finally arrived, Father Moody led Elias toward his car and they headed into the city. Other than asking about his father and commenting on a few sights during their journey, the priest said little. Elias asked him why he had come to America, but Father Moody brushed the question off, saying they’d have plenty of time to discuss such things.
Elias looked out the window at the passing landscape even as he tried to study his host.
Father Moody, who drove with one hand on his horn, the other constantly shifting from one gear to another, was about the same height as Elias, but rounded in the middle. His jet black hair was combed straight back, glistening with the kind of hair crème Elias imagined movie stars used, something that made it always look thick and wet.
The solid stretch of buildings as they approached downtown reminded Elias of a fortress. Even though he had seen pictures of big city skylines, nothing prepared him for the actual sight. They drove down a wide boulevard called Lake Shore and the wall of buildings to the right, the blue of the lake to the left, were more majestic, more modern, than anything he’d ever seen.
As they funneled into the traffic of the narrower streets, Elias tried to remember if his father’s friend had smiled even once. He was a very serious person, but his father was a serious person, too.
During his first week, Elias stayed in a small, spare room in Father Moody’s quarters at St. George Syriac Orthodox church in North Chicago.
He was given a few hundred dollars, a birth certificate stating he was twenty-one years of age, and a green card giving him permanent residence status as an immigrant. Elias wasn’t familiar with government affairs back in Syria, but he knew getting anything official done could take months, or even years if you didn’t have a family member on the inside.
By the second week, Father Moody enrolled Elias in an intensive driving school in the morning and English immersion in the afternoon. At the end of this one-week training class, he applied, with Moody’s help, for a state driver’s license. Automobiles were not so common in Aleppo but in Chicago, there seemed to be as many cars as people. “Everyone needs to know how to drive,” Father Moody said.
As soon as he discovered he would be taking this class, Elias went to a nearby library and perused books about automobile mechanics. He had learned all about the theory of internal combustion engines, but now he’d learn how they actually worked. He studied every detail of automobile engineering and memorized as much of it as possible, even though it was in English. He could follow the diagrams in any language.
The Moment Before Page 29