(Wrath-03)-Son Of The Morning (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  The two were quiet a moment until Azadeh said, “I brought you a surprise for breakfast.”

  Pari’s eyes brightened up. “What? Extra jelly?”

  “Even better,” Azadeh said. “And you’d better eat it now before it gets cold.” She washed her hands in the clay bowl, then picked up the box and removed the cloth covering, exposing the sausage, eggs, and melted white cheese that had been hidden inside. The aroma immediately filled the room, and Pari leaned forward, a sudden smile on her lips. “My goodness, Azadeh Jan, how did you arrange that?”

  “I guess even we homeless refugees deserve more than bread and jelly once in a while,” she said.

  The older woman stared at her. “They are serving this for breakfast?” she asked in a disbelieving tone.

  “They are this morning,” Azadeh replied.

  Although she had gotten up at 3 a.m. and worked in the kitchen for an entire week for this single meal, she didn’t tell Pari. The woman would not have enjoyed it, perhaps even would have refused to eat it, if she had known.

  Pari stared at the scrambled eggs and sausage, then up at Azadeh, her eyes wide with excitement. “I haven’t had eggs for, I don’t know, years and years. And sausage. I can smell it. It makes my mouth water. How could we be so lucky?”

  Azadeh spread a paper napkin on Pari’s lap, then settled the single plate in front of her and sat on the bed.

  “Oh, no,” Pari said as she saw the plate, “you have to eat too!”

  Azadeh looked at the scrambled eggs and the finger-thin rolls of pork sausage. “I ate at the chow tent,” she said.

  Pari shook her head, then took a clean fork and divided the eggs in two. “Then you will eat again. You must eat with me, Azadeh, or I won’t feel comfortable.”

  Azadeh glanced at the eggs and eagerly nodded yes. The two ate slowly, savoring each bite of the special meal. “Delicious!” Pari murmured as she tasted the sausage.

  “So good!” Azadeh agreed as she took a bite of the egg.

  They ate in silence. It took only a few minutes before all the food was gone.

  While Azadeh cleaned up, Pari put on her dress with blue trim, and then they sat together, Pari on her chair, Azadeh on the corner of the bed.

  “Bânu Pari,” Azadeh said, looking her square in the eye. “I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”

  The older woman smiled. “Now, Azadeh Jan,” she teased, “you know a lady of proper upbringing can never be perfectly honest. There are always a few secrets one must keep.”

  Azadeh smiled, but only barely. “Don’t worry, Bânu Pari, I’m not going to ask your age.”

  “As well you shouldn’t, my dear friend, or I would have to ask you to leave.”

  Azadeh looked stern. “Bânu, I need to be serious for a moment.”

  Pari sat back. “All right, Azadeh Jan, what can I do for you?”

  Azadeh nodded toward the red-tinted handkerchief Pari still hid in her hand. “You are sick. You try to hide it. But in the little time I have known you; I have watched you grow frail. I touch you, you have a fever. And the cough. That horrible cough. Now I want you to tell me what is wrong.”

  Pari leaned forward. “Don’t worry for me, Azadeh Jan. I’m not contagious, I promise, or I would never have let you come into my home. Yes, I am sick, but there’s nothing you can do. So let’s not worry about my health, dear. There are other things we can talk about, other things to plan: getting you back in school, getting you out of Khorramshahr, what you will do with your life. So many good things to talk about, so many interesting things. Things of promise and optimism. Yes, there are many things we can talk about, but my health is not one of them.”

  “No,” Azadeh said firmly. “We will talk of this. I want to know what is ailing you. I want to know why you have come to accept that you will never leave this camp.”

  “Azadeh Jan, why waste our time—”

  “Bânu, you must tell me. And I want to know now!” Azadeh eyes grew fierce with a hard light from the fire within. She sat on the edge of the bed, determined, her lips pressed and tight. She had learned—she knew now—that sometimes she had to fight, and she wasn’t going to sit idle and let this thing pass. “You are my friend, Bânu Pari. I trust you. I hope you trust me. But if you feel any affection for me, if you have any feeling for me at all, then I deserve to know.”

  The older woman sat still a long moment, though she seemed to deflate. “I really wish we didn’t have to,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “I have many wishes, Bânu. Sometime our wishes don’t come true.”

  Pari hesitated. “That is something I could have said to you, dear.”

  “Then we understand each other, Bânu.”

  The old woman was still.

  “Now please,” Azadeh begged now, her voice soft and low. “As your friend, as my friend, I have a right to know.”

  Pari swallowed awkwardly from the tightness of her throat. “All right then, Azadeh Jan, if you really must. I have tuberculosis, and there is nothing they can do.”

  Azadeh hesitated, then asked, her voice sad, “You are going to die, Bânu?”

  Pari laughed quietly. “We’re all going to die sometime, Azadeh Jan.”

  “No, I mean, you know, are you going to die soon?”

  “No, I don’t think so. If you had asked me five years ago, I would have said I’d be gone by now. But it seems this old body just keeps slogging along. Another month. Another year. Another five years. I don’t know.”

  “Tuberculosis . . . ?” Azadeh wondered, an uncertain look on her face.

  “Tuberculosis is a bacterial disease that usually affects the lungs,” Pari explained, “though it can affect other parts of the body as well—the lymph nodes, kidneys, or bones.”

  “And this tuberculosis is the reason why you have never left Khorramshahr?”

  “Well, yes and no. Having tuberculosis is what keeps me here now, but it isn’t that simple. The reason I’ve never been able to leave Khorramshahr goes back even further than that.

  “Being a Christian means it has always been much harder for me to find a sponsor so I could leave the camp. But for me it was even worse. I had other issues as well. You see, Azadeh, my husband . . . he was a very good man, but good men have enemies. A list of enemies is but a list of the battles one has fought. If a man has no enemies, then he was a coward, I think.

  “And my husband fought many battles. He was a very controversial man. Very wealthy, very strong, a man of great means. He was courageous and ambitious. And, well . . .” her voice trailed off. “Let’s just say it is a very long story that I may tell you some day.”

  “Bânu,” Azadeh said softly, “I don’t understand.”

  Pari took a pained breath. “You asked if my tuberculosis is the reason I have never left Khorramshahr, and the answer is no, at least it wasn’t at first. My husband had many enemies in the government who had great interest in keeping me here. If I were to leave, I could hurt them. They owe me many things.

  “But some of that eventually passed, and after many years I was told that I could apply for release. I started making arrangements. A few more years passed while I searched for a sponsor. Again, I am a Persian Christian. It was difficult. Then I was diagnosed with tuberculosis, which was the final delay. A refugee cannot immigrate with an infectious disease. And untreated tuberculosis is infectious—”

  “Untreated,” Azadeh interrupted. “So there must be a treatment. There is a way you can be cured!”

  “Yes, Azadeh, there is. People with tuberculosis can be treated effectively. Treatment usually includes taking a combination of anti-tuberculosis medications for six months or so. It takes time. It takes money. And the exact treatment plan must be determined by a highly qualified physician.”

  “Then we will do that!” Azadeh shouted, standing up from the bed. “We will arrange a treatment plan. I don’t care what it takes. I am smart. I can do it! We will figure a way.”

  Pari smi
led and pulled her down, setting her on the edge of the bed. “Yes, Azadeh Jan, you are smart, maybe even brilliant. But more, you are determined and willing to work.” She nodded quickly to the greasy plates. “How long did you have to work for that tigress of a cook to earn that simple meal? A week? A month?” She cocked her head in understanding. “I’ve been here long enough to know it was a long time. Which only proves what you said. You are very capable.

  “But this is different, Azadeh, different. And much more difficult.”

  “But why? I don’t understand! There must be something I could do.”

  “But you see, there is a thing now, a complication,” Pari tried to explain. “After years of waiting and begging and standing in line for the U.N. doctors who visit Khorramshahr every six months or so, I finally began to receive treatment for my disease. But it turned out poorly, I guess. The doctors gave me inferior quality drugs, drugs that were old and weak. I should have taken the anti-tuberculosis medications for several months, but I only had enough medicine for two or three weeks. So the bacteria in my body wasn’t eliminated. Instead it grew stronger. Six months later, the doctors came back again. Same weak medicines. Once again, not enough. And the bacteria grew stronger and even more powerful. They call it multiple drug-resistant tuberculosis. It is nearly impossible to treat.”

  Azadeh looked confused. “Then what does it mean? Isn’t there something they can do?”

  Pari shook her head slowly, coughing into her handkerchief. “From what I can learn, patients with a drug-resistant disease can sometimes be treated with drugs to which their organisms are still susceptible. But it is difficult. Very rare. And very expensive. I need an expert who has experience in treating multiple drug-resistant tuberculosis, and not many of those can be found around Khorramshahr, my dear. And even if they were somehow to provide me access to such a specialist, the effectiveness of treatment for multiple drug-resistant tuberculosis is very uncertain. It might work, it might not. Knowing that, do you think they are going to spend the money to treat an old woman such as me?”

  Azadeh was silent as she stared at her hands. “There is nothing they can do, then?”

  “No, dear, there’s not.”

  Azadeh hesitated. Then, lifting her eyes, she asked, “Might I be in danger?” Before Pari could answer, Azadeh cut in again. “It doesn’t matter to me, Bânu. I will not leave you either way. But if there is something I could do to lessen the risk of infection.”

  Pari shook her head. “I cannot spread the disease anymore,” she said. “The tuberculosis has done its damage inside me, but I have no germs in my sputum anymore and I cannot spread the disease.”

  “Then why won’t they let you leave Khorramshahr?” Azadeh exclaimed.

  “Once you are on the list of the contagious, it is very difficult to be removed. I’ve been fighting them for years, I have notes and reports from a U.N. doctor, but the paperwork is suffocating, and I just can’t fight anymore. I’m tired, Azadeh, worn down, and it is hard for me to care anymore.”

  “No,” Azadeh mumbled. “Pari, you can’t give up like that.”

  “Azadeh, I won’t be the first one to get lost and die in a refugee camp.” Pari nodded to the west. “There is a camp cemetery out there, and I won’t be its first occupant.”

  “No, Pari, no. If you are no longer contagious, you can get your name on the release list. But you’ve got to keep trying. You cannot give up. And you cannot die here.”

  Pari took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She sat unmoving, then slowly said, “Listen to me, child, and let me try to explain.” She opened her eyes and stood up, took two small steps, and bent down to look into Azadeh’s eyes. “It’s all right. I’m not unhappy. In fact, I think I might be better off in this place than anywhere else I could be. What else would I do? Where would I go? I am too old to start over. I have no children left alive now. No family. I have nowhere to live. No friends to take me in. No matter where they sent me, I would be a stranger in a strange land. Where would I stay? How would I eat? I must be realistic and consider these things. And there are worse places than Khorramshahr, believe me, I know. It isn’t much, but over the years I have come to think of this as my home.

  “And I don’t have much more time left, Azadeh Jan. I know you are young and that makes it very difficult for you to understand, but I have accepted my fate here and I am satisfied.”

  Azadeh shook her head. “It is not fair,” she whispered, speaking more to herself. Feeling a bitter swell of emotion, she wiped at her eyes.

  Pari pressed forward and kissed Azadeh’s cheek. When she pulled back, her face was peaceful and she smiled, her eyes calm. She reached for Azadeh’s hands and intertwined their fingers. “Azadeh, you and I are so much alike. I keep smiling. You keep smiling. We both see the good in this life. And we have so much in common; I mean right here and now. Your entire life lies before you, bright, perhaps uncertain, but still beautiful. We have both seen our share of shadows, but there are such bright days ahead. You have so much to look forward to. I know that you do.

  “But listen to me, Azadeh, for you have to know this is true. You have so much to look forward to. But so do I, dear. You have this life. I have another. You have this world. I have the next. There are bright days ahead, bright days for you, but bright days for me as well.”

  Azadeh nodded slowly, her eyes rimmed in red.

  Pari pressed her fingers, and then kissed her cheek again. “Now listen to me, Azadeh, for I know this is true. All of us have a special mission, a special work in this life. I did. And so do you. God will direct you. He will help you. I know that He will. So don’t you worry about me, Azadeh. Instead, we’ve got to worry about you.”

  *******

  The stranger stood on the low hill outside the fence, looking over the camp. The sycamore branches hung low, and he kept in the shadows. He was an Arab, poorly dressed, but the gear in his pockets was worth a great deal.

  His master wanted a final confirmation that the target was still in Khorramshahr. So he waited and he watched, ever patient.

  A little more than an hour after entering Pari’s cabin, she appeared at the door once again. She paused on the threshold to pull on her shoes, then shut the door behind her and made her way down the path. Even from the distance, he recognized her. She was too beautiful.

  He quickly pulled out the camera with the powerful telephoto lens and snapped a dozen pictures.

  Yes. It was her. There was no doubt in his mind.

  Twenty thousand dollars was a very fine sum. But she was worth it, he could see that. She was worth that, and more.

  EIGHTEEN

  Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

  After learning of Pari’s disease, Azadeh worried and stewed, the frustration simmering until she could no longer sleep. After three days, she walked up the hill to the camp administration building and talked to a burly man standing guard, who told her she would have to wait.

  Hours later, she was admitted through the front door and escorted to a small office near the back of the building, where a worn and tired man was waiting behind a worn and cluttered desk. His nameplate read:

  MR. SEBASTIAN RAULE

  Special Assistant to the Administrator

  The assistant studied her carefully. This one, he remembered from when she first came to Khorramshahr. He smiled at her, a wry and pleasureless turn of his lips. “How may I help you?” he asked as he sat forward in his chair.

  Azadeh spent the next five minutes explaining the situation with Pari. Raule appeared only to half listen while he doodled on a yellow pad.

  “There was political influence that tried to keep her here,” Azadeh concluded in a determined voice. “Then she was diagnosed with tuberculosis, and improperly treated, as you surely must know. But she is no longer contagious. There is no reason to make her stay here anymore.”

  The thin man checked his watch and impatiently bounced his pen.

  “Can you help her?” Azadeh begged him. �
�There must be something you can do!”

  Without answering, Raule swung around in his chair and pulled a small, leather binder from the cheap credenza at his right. He flipped through the pages until he came to Pari’s name, reviewing the administrative notes, though he pretty much knew what they said.

  “Her case has been sent to the review panel in Kuwait,” he explained. “From there it was passed on to the Red Cross office in either Belgium or Washington, D.C. Once the paperwork leaves the camp, there’s not a thing I can do.”

  “You could call. Write a letter. The poor woman has been waiting for years!”

  The assistant shook his head and forced a look of sadness onto his face. “I’m sorry. There is nothing. Now if you have anything else—”

  “NO!” Azadeh shouted, leaning toward the old desk. “You can’t dismiss her with a simple wave of your hand! You can’t dismiss Pari al-Faruqi as if she were some nameless thing!”

  Mr. Raule shook his head. “I’m sorry, but she’s a problem. We do the best that we can.”

  “She isn’t a problem, she’s a woman! A human being, you fool!”

  Raule sat speechless for a moment, then lifted up in his chair. “Let me remind you,” he started, his voice low with rage.

  Azadeh’s face had already turned gray. She huddled in the chair, her eyes wide in horror. “I’m so sorry,” she muttered, almost falling to her knees. “I’m so sorry! It was wrong . . . I was wrong to say what I did. I’m sorry, my Sayid.” She kept her head bowed as if expecting a blow, not daring to look. “It is not like me to say such a thing, Master Raule. It is not how I have been taught. You are no fool. I was wrong. I’m very sorry, Sayid.”

  Raule sat back down, glaring at the girl. He let the moment linger, the silence hanging painfully in the air. Azadeh waited before carefully lifting her eyes. She wondered if she dared go on. “Master Raule, please,” she finally whispered, “couldn’t you try to find some way to let her go home?”

  “She has no home now, Miss Pahlavi.”

  Azadeh started to speak, then fell silent again.