The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  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. Sometimes 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, Miss Azadeh, if you really must know. 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, Miss Azadeh.”

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

  “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 TB 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 someday.”

  “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 TB 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 TB 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 smiled and pulled her back, setting her on the edge of the bed. “Yes, Miss Azadeh, you are smart, maybe even brilliant. But more, you are determined and willing to work.” She nodded quickly to the greasy paper plates. “How long did you have to work to get that simple meal?” she asked. “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 see! 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 half strength. I should have taken the anti-tuberculosis medications for several months, but I only had enough medicine for two or three weeks. So the virus in my body wasn’t eliminated. Instead it grew strong. Six months later, the doctors came back again. Same weak medicines. Once again, not enough. And the virus grew stronger and even more powerful. They call it MDR-TB: 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 drug-resistant TB, 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 MDR-TB 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 TB 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 lone and 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, Miss Azadeh. 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 t
o 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 and bright. She reached for Azadeh’s hands and wrapped her fingers in hers. “You know, 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, then kissed her cheek again. “Now, listen to me, Azadeh, for I know this is true. You have a special mission, a special work in this life. I can see it in your manner; I can see it in your eyes. And God will direct you, I know that he will. Perhaps you have felt his presence, maybe even seen the angels he has sent to your side. And though I haven’t seen them, Azadeh, I know they are there, for I can feel them. They are near.

  “I can see from your eyes that you do not understand. But you will. I promise one day you will know what I mean.”

  Listening to Pari, Azadeh felt scared and confused. The words made no sense, and it frightened her to hear Pari talk this way.

  But then Azadeh felt it—a warm burn in her chest, a pleasant and comforting feeling that she couldn’t explain. Like a glowing ember that had been gently blown over until it burst into flame, an inexplicable warmth blossomed inside her.

  She never forgot the feeling.

  And she would recognize it instantly when she felt it again.

  * * *

  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 single picture.

  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.

  Chapter Seventeen

  For several days 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 had first come 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 twenty 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 TB, 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. “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.”

  The thin man sat back, glaring at the young girl. He let the moment linger, the silence hanging painfully in the air. Azadeh waited before carefully lifting her eyes. The man had returned to his seat. 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.

  “She has no home,” Raule repeated. “She has nowhere to go.” Azadeh looked up, her dark eyes growing wet. Raule shifted his weight as he pulled uncomfortably on his pen. There was something about Azadeh that he couldn’t resist and he finally leaned toward her, placing his arms on his desk. “She is better off here,” he said, his voice soft now. “I’m not just saying that, Miss Pahlavi, I believe it is true. She has nowhere else to go.”

  He stopped and watched her. “But even if what I just said wasn’t true, I am but one tiny cog in a world of grinding, meshing gears. There is very little I can influence. Very little I can do.

  “Now, if you will let me be honest, I will tell you the truth. It is extremely unlikely that your friend will be granted a release from Khorramshahr. She is old. Perhaps contagious. She has little to offer, and no family or friends to take her in. Even if she were to leave Khorramshahr, she would only end up in some other camp, a different name, but another place just like this. I’m sorry, Miss Pahlavi, but I have seen this before. It would be best to accept it. I know Mrs. al- Faruqi has.”

  “But she has only accepted it because she knows nothing else. You have beaten her down, robbed her of any hope. If you were to give her the option, if you found her a home, I believe she would leave here. Look around! Wouldn’t you? Please, isn’t there something, isn’t there anything you could do!”

  The assistant stared a long moment, then slowly shook his head. “I am powerless,” he answered. And it was the truth. The U.N. bureaucracy was the largest and most vicious in the world. He knew the old woman would die here; she wouldn’t be the first.

  He stared blankly at Azadeh.

 
; The young girl closed her eyes and cursed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Were some people born with a predisposition to do evil? Did some men’s decisions in the premortal world make it practically inevitable that they would come into conflict with God once they arrived here on earth?

  Did some leave their best friends on the other side of the veil, friends who had followed after Satan and fought against Christ? Did they miss those wicked ones? Was that where their hearts actually lay? Did they yearn for the pleasures those old friendships could bring?

  Did some skirt the boundary even in the premortal world, always looking back, hoping to catch a glimpse of how the other side lived, yearning for the enticements only the Great Liar could give? Did some watch their best friends, those whom they truly loved, choose to worship Satan and understand why? Were some of these people disappointed when their friends were punished by God? Did some come to earth confused, even bitter, over the battles that had taken place in the premortal world?

  If the veil were to be lifted, would some of these men run with open arms to join their premortal friends, their seduction coming easy, almost laughably so, because they recognized the hissing voices of those who had known them so well?

  Was that why some human beings were so evil they would do anything?

  Ghesha Ghetto

  East of Kirkuk, Iraq

  The two Iraqis stood facing each other in the back of the store, the sounds of the overcrowded slum penetrating the thin windows and cracks around the poorly fitted door that faced out on the alley. The faint smell of sewage and stewed cabbage drifted through the shutters of the darkened window, and the room was still chilly from the cold cement walls.

  The men wore dark, unsmiling faces.

  Former lower-ranking members of Saddam’s ruling Baathist party, for years these men had ruled through intimidation and fear, assisting in the rape of their country and her daughters as they sought to satisfy their slightest desire. Now they were left with nothing but bitterness and hate. Having been drugged on power, they were going through the equivalent of heroin withdrawal, and it was clear from their actions they valued nothing now—not their families, not their country, barely even their lives.