“This Muslim,” snarled Sanjar as fiercely as he could, “is going to kick your Templar butt!” He took off his glasses and handed them to Sabrah, then walked back into the circle, squinting, with his little fists balled up in front of his face.
“Fight, fight, fight,” started low from the crowd, and rose in volume. “Fight. Fight. Fight!”
Hector felt sick at his stomach. He’d dreamed of beating up Sanjar many times, but now that he could, he had no desire. “Don’t do this,” he said. But Sanjar kept coming. “Sanjar, you don’t have to do this.”
Sanjar lunged forward, swinging wildly. Hector slipped aside and Sanjar stumbled forward. Then, Hector plucked the fez off Sanjar’s head and tossed it aside.
“No need to mess up your hat,” Hector said. The crowd laughed, although Hector had meant it kindly.
A hot, little fire burned within Sanjar and he came at Hector again. He threw another wild punch that missed. Then he barreled in, wind-milling with both arms. Hector backed up and tried to ward off the blows, but one of them struck him in the lip. It didn’t hurt particularly, but he tasted blood.
“Kick his double-crossing ass, Sanjar,” shouted Deion.
Hector glanced at his old friend and the two locked eyes. An instant later he heard a tremendous knock and saw stars. He staggered back and shook his buzzing head. The crowd cheered. There was a knotted, numb, stinging sensation on his cheek. Rage swelled within Hector as Sanjar lowered his head and came flying in again. Hector pushed him aside and threw a half-hearted punch that caught Sanjar on the side of the head and sent him reeling.
“Enough of this!” shouted Hector. But Sanjar shook his head and came in once more. He grabbed Hector around the legs and wrestled him to the ground. Almost instantly, Hector was on top of him. “Would you just stop!” Hector blurted, holding down the thrashing Sanjar.
“Why do you hate me so much?” Sanjar snarled, and kicked and twisted beneath him like a snake.
“Because your people killed my father!” Hector jumped off and backed away.
“It wasn’t me!” Sanjar cried and came running straight at him with tears pouring down his face and blood trickling from his nose.
Hector swung and hit Sanjar in the stomach. The little Persian crumpled to the ground. For an instant, Hector looked up. His peers were watching him with a mixture of horror and revulsion. The chanting had stopped. Hector glanced down and saw Sanjar’s blood streaked over the cross on his shirt, and Sanjar on his knees at Hector’s feet, clutching his abdomen in pain, gasping for breath. Hector wanted to throw up.
“I didn’t kill your father,” Sanjar groaned, and climbed slowly back to his feet.
“You’re all the same!” Hector cried. “You never try to stop it. You never do anything about it. Sending them money. Giving them help. That’s why I turned your father in.” A gasp hushed the spectators, and Hector froze. He hadn’t meant to say that, but it was too late now.
“YOU!” screamed Sanjar, and attacked with renewed fury.
This time Hector waded through his wildly swinging fists. In an instant, he had Sanjar in a headlock and he dropped to his knees and held on tight. But Sanjar didn’t give up and pummeled Hector’s back and sides. Sanjar started screaming like an animal, trying to get away, bucking and kicking, and scratching. Hector lifted his eyes to the crowd for help but no one else knew what to do either. The festive atmosphere had evaporated and everyone looked on in mounting disgust.
Hector’s mind grew strangely calm and everything moved in slow motion. Was this what war was like, he wondered? Frightened to death. Fatigued and weak. Sick at your stomach. Fighting for your life. Unable to stop. Unable to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Wishing with all your heart it would just end. He could end this with a few hard punches into Sanjar’s face. But now that he had him, the thought of covering his hands with Sanjar’s blood made him nauseous. He didn’t want to hurt Sanjar. He didn’t want to hurt anyone.
He was just about to let go when Sanjar’s father pushed his way through the crowd. “Stop it,” he yelled. “Stop it! What is the matter with you boys?” He pulled Hector and Sanjar apart, but Sanjar kept lunging, snarling like a dog as Hector scampered back. “Sanjar! Sanjar!” It had no effect and Mr. Zahedi finally slapped Sanjar across the cheek. “Sanjar!”
Sanjar dropped to his knees and sobbed. “He killed me. He killed me for no reason…” The crowd had already scattered, leaving them there alone. “And he turned you into the FBI. It was Hector!”
“I know that, son.”
Hector froze, horrified. He knew? He had known all this time?
Mr. Zahedi wiped the tears from his son’s cheeks, and helped Sanjar to his feet. At that moment, Hector felt crushed, wishing with all his might he had a father to help him to his feet, too. Mr. Zahedi reached down to Hector. “Give me your hand, son,” he said gently, and he helped Hector to stand.
“Sanjar, Hector, I don’t know what this is about,” said Mr. Zahedi, “but it ends now. Is that clear?” Then he looked at Hector. But not an angry look. There was no malice in his one good eye or in the scars on his face. It was more a look of pity. “I’ll take you home,” he said.
Hector nodded. “Yes, sir,” he croaked over a fist-sized lump in his throat.
Ch. 29
Hector’s mother seemed to already know what had happened, but she wasn’t angry. She led him to the bathroom where she washed his face and hands, then led him to his bedroom where she laid him down and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead. “Just relax,” she said, and left the door cracked.
He had really messed things up this time and wondered if they could ever be put to right. But even now, with everything that had happened, he felt his will harden. Every time the thought of kindness to a Muslim came into his head, he thought about his father. He didn’t want to hate Muslims, but he couldn’t help it. He’d never be able to trust one. His dad had died because Hector had thought of them as just like him. He could never let that happen again.
There was a gentle knock on the door and his grandfather entered. Hector sat up.
“Your momma said you need a man to talk to. Perhaps an old man will do, eh?” He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked closely at Hector. At the swollen lip and the red patch on his cheek. At the blood on his shirt. “Internazionale Milan?” said Pappous. “I thought you were a Bayern man.”
Hector glanced down at his shirt. “I just liked the shirt,” he mumbled. “But I guess it’s ruined, now.”
Pappous nodded. “Ahh. You just like the shirt.” His eyes shone in a way that told Hector the old man knew the truth. “Your mother says you got into a fight with your Persian friend. You want to win back Jerusalem?”
“He wanted to fight me,” said Hector. “I don’t pick fights.” But Hector’s voice stuck on the last words. He had picked a fight, just not this one.
“I am confused by that. Sanjar doesn’t seem like a violent boy. A misunderstanding perhaps?”
“No.”
Pappous cocked his head and a glimmer appeared in his old, dark eyes. “Something to do with Muslims perhaps, then?”
“I just can’t stand him,” Hector snapped. A lone tear rolled down his cheek, and rage burst from him as the full weight of his father’s death, of Chaz’s death, of how completely screwed up his life was, descended on him. “I hate all of them. And I don’t want to stop hating them. I just, just want to kill them. Kill them all!”
Pappous nodded and sighed. “Yes. Yes. I know how you feel.”
“You do not!” Hector screamed. He was not going to put up with a patronizing old man. Not this time. No one knew what this was like. No one.
Pappous gave him a tight lipped smile and said, “Hector, I grew up in Greece, during World War II and –”
“Oh God, I know,” Hector moaned. “You already –”
“I’ve told you nothing!” Pappous snapped so abruptly that Hector jumped. The old man’s eyes flashed and Hector recoiled.
“You think you are the
only one who has lost a loved one to war? The only one who has lost a father?” He lifted Hector’s chin with a grizzled hand and looked sternly into his eyes so that Hector felt suddenly naked. “I was ten when my father was murdered by the Nazis,” said Pappous. “They hung his body in the village square to rot.” The image horrified Hector who recoiled further. “I dedicated my life to killing Germans. They had invaded my country. Murdered my father. Destroyed my life. I needed to destroy theirs.” Hector stared with wide eyes. Pappous looked over at him and nodded slowly. “I killed many during the war.” He gazed into space as if remembering unpleasant things from long ago. Then he spoke quietly. “But their deaths never made me feel any better. Not a single one.”
“And now you hate Muslims,” he went on. “All Muslims. Anyone from the Middle East.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Hector grumbled, reeling at Pappous revelations, but also feeling vindicated. “You hated Germans because they killed your dad. You got to kill them.”
“You think all Muslims are the same. Do you know why Farsim Zahedi lives next door to you?”
Hector wanted to say, because he’s a spy, but he didn’t. And Pappous continued without his answer. “Steve Zahedi worked as a rocket scientist in Iran. He was very good. Russian trained. He helped to design a large, powerful missile with a much longer range. He was in the right political party too. Major Zahedi was going places.”
Hector listened reluctantly, unsurprised that the man next door had been in the Iranian military or that he built weapons.
“Until one day,” said Pappous nonchalantly, “the secret police came to their home and took away his wife for questioning. Steve never saw her again.”
Hector sat up straight. It was suddenly interesting. “What happened to her?”
Pappous rose from the bed, striding slowly around the room with his hands clasped behind his back. “Asking questions about that kind of thing can get you taken away, too. Eventually, he paid off the right people and learned that she had a heart attack while being tortured.” He kept speaking as if discussing the weather, occasionally bouncing on his toes while he spoke. “Steve never found out why she was taken. Could never honor her with a burial. And he knew there was a better way to live. A place governed by rules that everyone must follow – even the people in charge. He took Shah with him and escaped to America. Almost didn’t make it. Lost an eye. Was severely burned.”
Hector’s head felt like it was in a cement mixer. Mr. Zahedi was here to escape the same Muslims his father had fought? Or was it a trick? And … “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“It was none of your business, Hector. It is very personal to Steve and he told me in confidence. I don’t break the trust of my friends. Ever.”
“But you just did. You just told me.”
“It’s your business now. And he said it was okay.”
Hector nearly swallowed his heart. His face flushed. “Mr. Zahedi knows we’re talking about this?”
“He knows you’ve been struggling.”
He remembered celebrating the news clips of Mr. Zahedi being lead off in handcuffs a few weeks ago. Carted off for questioning because of him. And it all came crashing down inside him. “So when he got arrested by the FBI… he had to relive all that. Shah’s mom getting taken…” Hector closed his eyes, unwillingly imagining that pain and horror as his voice trailed off.
“Yes,” Pappous said softly, and sat back down on the bed.
“You told him, didn’t you, Pappous? That I was the one who turned him in to the FBI.”
“Yes, Hector. I knew you needed the forgiveness. And he gave it. Gladly.”
Hector just sat there wondering if it would have been possible to screw things up even worse. He’d taken on a battle against religion and nationality, when it should have been good versus evil, just like his dad had told him. And maybe one couldn’t be measured by the other. Maybe the Zahedi’s weren’t spies, but refugees looking for a world without secret police, and torture. But he’d refused to see it. Refused to look past the easy answer.
“You are a leader Hector,” Pappous went on, after he’d watched him for a while. “A Spartan. I have seen it.”
“Don’t try to make me feel better,” Hector said thickly. “I don’t deserve it.”
Pappous just smiled. “The blood of King Leonidas himself runs in your veins. My village was in the south of Greece, in Lakonia, near the ruins of old Sparta. My family lived in that valley since the dawn of our civilization. It is said my mother came from a line of ancient kings and she was as beautiful as Helen herself. Like your mother, and your sisters. The radiance of that ancient queen lives on through them. And the majesty of the kings lives on in you.” A thick, gnarled finger poked Hector in the chest.
“We are warriors, you and I,” Pappous went on. “We fight for what we believe to be right – even if what we believe is sometimes wrong. But it is all for nothing if we don’t have honor. The Spartans cherished honor even above physical prowess. It is what drove them. It had nothing to do with bravery. It wasn’t the will to die. It was honor. Without honor all your sacrifice, your very life, is nothing.”
Hector sat in silence, digesting everything his grandfather said. Mr. Zahedi was not what he’d thought. His grandfather was not what he’d thought. Hector felt like his eyes were opening for the first time after a long night. But it was too late.
“I haven’t been honorable,” he confessed to his grandfather, feeling like he’d taken a dump on his rich heritage. “My friends hate me now. And they should.”
Pappous smiled sympathetically. “Yes, maybe they hate you, Hector. Or, maybe they do not understand what you have done and are hurt. You must go to them and let them decide what to do with you. You may be surprised with their answer.” Pappous rose from the bed, but turned back before leaving the room. “Just change your shirt first.”
Ω
Sanjar was the key. Hector could fix this – he could fix everything – if Sanjar would listen.
Hector knocked on the door. He had never been inside the Zahedis’ house, despite living next door. He knocked on the door again and waited. Somewhere in the distance thunder rolled and clouds overhead were filling in the last scraps of blue.
“Hello, Hector,” Mr. Zahedi said kindly when he opened the door. “Are you okay, son?”
Hector took in the scars down the man’s face. How could he have been so blinded by hate? He’d never considered that they could be from fleeing bad guys rather than being one. “Yes sir. Is Sanjar here?”
“I’ll get him.” He turned to go but Hector stopped him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Zahedi,” Hector said quietly. “About everything.”
Mr. Zahedi smiled and nodded. “And I’m very sorry about your father. He was surely a fine man and a brave soldier.”
Hector’s gut twisted in knots and he blinked back the tears that flooded his eyes. “He was.”
Mr. Zahedi put his arm around Hector’s shoulder and squeezed. They shared a bond now. They’d been touched by the same war. “It is hard growing up without a father. I am glad my sons have a father, but,” he looked down at Hector with a twinkle in his one good eye, “they are weak. My boys are weak. We try to give our children a better life, even though we know it is our hardships that have made us strong. And my boys don’t have that.” He looked at Hector again. “Is being strong worth growing up without a father?” He shrugged. “Only Allah knows, but your father would be proud of you now Hector, because I see you have become strong. And I’m sure he knows that, too.” He patted Hector on the shoulder. “Let me go and get my son.”
Hector waited awkwardly out on the porch. The shape of the wind chimes. The fashion of the door. The door knocker. The door mat. Islam was all around him. The similarity between the symbols used by those who had killed his father and the ones embraced by this family still churned inside him. But maybe that didn’t make the Zahedis bad.
The door opened. Sanjar stuck his bruised face in the
crack as if he were afraid to come outside.
Hector cleared his throat. “Sanjar, I… I’m sorry,” he stammered. “About everything. And Alkindi. And, just being a lousy neighbor. I’m sorry.”
Sanjar nodded weakly. “Okay.” He pulled his face out and started to close the door exactly as Hector remembered he had done when Sanjar came to apologize to him.
“Sanjar, I said I’m sorry,” said Hector, stepping forward.
“What do you want me to say, Hector? I tried to be your friend. You pushed me away. I’m sorry about what happened to your father. I think it is terrible. But it was not me that did it.” Sanjar’s face twisted up in anger. “And just because I am proud of my Persian heritage doesn’t mean I approve of what happens over there now. You say you are sorry, but you turned my father in to the FBI, when he’d done nothing, you son of a bitch. I can’t forgive you for that.” He stepped back and shut the door.
Rage tried to well up inside Hector, but he forced it down. He deserved this. He’d been the one to set all this in motion. But Sanjar wouldn’t even talk to him. Just as Hector had once behaved. He turned and marched across the yard. A gust of wind hit him and the wind chimes on Sanjar’s porch broke into a cacophony of bells. A storm was coming.
Hector stopped in his tracks. The apology wasn’t the only reason he had come. Hector turned back. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. This time, he knocked hard.
“I’ve got to talk to your little brother,” Hector said firmly when Shah opened the door.
“Or what?” said Shah meanly. “You’ll call the FBI?”
Hector sighed painfully, “Please, Shah. It’s important.”
Shah’s eyes remained firm and his voice flat. “I think you said enough with your fists.”
“Let him in,” came Sanjar’s voice from inside.
They stood in the foyer staring at one another. Sanjar had changed out of his Iranian jersey and wore a simple yellow T-shirt. It was clean inside with a hint of cooking smell. There were Islamic motifs everywhere. Stars, half-moons, colorful woven rugs, stylized minarets, even a framed scimitar. “Can we go somewhere a little more private?” asked Hector.
Multiplayer Page 23