by Schafer, Ben
“Yes. But we are brought together in the Lord’s work, and that is enough, I think.” The old priest swept his arm to indicate the people in the seats. “Speaking of manners, introductions are in order.”
On the far left was an older man, probably in his late fifties. He held himself with a military bearing, and though he had developed the paunch of comfortable living it was apparent that he still made an effort to remain physically fit. There was a bulkiness to his shoulders that spoke to a history of hands-on work sometime in his career. The man had a very round head, made more pronounced by the complete lack of hair on top of it. He featured a thick mustache. It was a style that was common in the Middle East but made famous by Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein. This man’s mustache still had touches of black amid the gray. His eyes, also gray, were surrounded by wrinkles but still seemed sharp and alert. They reminded me of someone. Probably Cuvier.
He wore khaki trousers and a matching sport coat with a light green button-down shirt. His brown leather shoes paired well with the leather messenger bag at his side. When he shook my hand, he made no effort to conceal an expensive Rolex on his left wrist. “This is Nadir,” Father Abiad said. “He is, or was, a member of the Ba’ath government.”
“Change of heart?” I asked Nadir.
“You could say that. I was involved in some rather delicate work that could prove embarrassing to the government if released. My old friends did not take my conversion as well as I had hoped,” Nadir explained.
The woman next to him scoffed. “Did not take it well? Your secretary threw a rock through our living room window!”
The woman was dressed in a black abaya, a traditional robe-like dress that exposed only her face, hands, and feet. What little skin I saw was smooth and moisturized. Her clothing was all black, not the wisest choice for life in the desert where the heat could get into the triple digits at the height of summer. Then again, I’m hardly a fashion expert. Let he who never wore acid-washed jeans cast the first stone. Still, the restricting dress had not been very common when I was growing up in the city. It was probably an import from the strict Wahhabist regimes on the Arabian Peninsula.
I looked at Father Abiad. “Let me guess. Nadir’s wife?”
He chuckled. “Khamilah, yes.”
“I noticed you wear a conservative dress, Khamilah. Do you still believe in that aspect of the faith?” I asked.
She looked at me like I was from a different planet. “Dear boy, everyone I know dresses like this. Unlike some people,” she shot a dirty look at her husband, “I don’t endanger myself by broadcasting my new religion to just anyone. Discretion is wisdom.”
Nadir barked out a laugh. “Hah! You and your friends only started dressing like that after our trip to Saudi Arabia. Those friends don’t even know about your decision to follow Christ. You still pray facing Mecca five times a day.”
“But I pray to Jesus,” she countered.
I waved my hands. “All of this is getting nowhere.”
The person on the other side of Khamilah, a young man with a wild mop of jet-black hair and an even wilder goatee, chuckled. “You should get used to it.” He hooked a thumb at Khamilah and Nadir. “These two will be arguing like this for the entire trip. Probably for the rest of their lives.” He stood and offered me his hand. “Omar.”
“Jirair,” I said as shook his hand. He was thin, not from any apparent athletic prowess as much as the hyper-active metabolism of youth. “Good to meet you, Omar.”
Finally, my attention moved to the man at the far right of the row. His hair was neatly trimmed almost to the point of being shaved, and it had the effect of making his face appear even wider than it already was. He had the slight pudge of a man who ate well but did not get enough exercise to balance the equation, and his T-shirt and jeans were stained with what smelled like motor oil. He had no bag that I could see.
He followed Omar’s lead and introduced himself, though he remained seated. “I am Jamil. You our bodyguard?”
“What makes you think you need a bodyguard?”
He looked at the others in the row. “Well, these three have some pretty big problems.”
“But none of them jumped to the conclusion that I was here as a bodyguard,” I pointed out.
He leaned back in the chair, and it squeaked in mild protest. “I may be a simple bus driver, but I’m not stupid.” Nadir and Khamilah shared a doubtful look. Jamil swept a hand in my direction. “You look like you work out. It isn’t hard to realize Hafiz just picked you up from the airport. I drove all kinds of people in my old life. I can tell in one look that you don’t have that kind of experience.”
“Besides,” Nadir interjected. “I can make out the impression of a handgun on your left ankle. Something small and semi-automatic, from the look of it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Very sharp, Nadir. Know much about firearms?”
“I was in the army for a brief stint.” It was a lie, or at least not the whole truth, but Nadir covered it well. Before my extensive training with the Order, I wouldn’t have noticed. “Practically everyone in the government has been at one time or another.”
“Huh,” I said. Nadir’s lie made me curious, but I had more important things to worry about. I decided not to press the issue any further. “Anyway, the answer is no. No, I am not here to be your bodyguard. Not as such. I’m simply here to ease your transition.”
I focused on Father Abiad. “What have they been told?”
“What little I knew. That there was a group that was willing to help get them safely out of Syria. Each of them has brought one small purse, satchel, or backpack with whatever they can fit inside.”
“Now that you are here, can we finally find out where we are supposed to be going?” Omar asked. “Father Abiad has been rather sparing with the details.”
“I told you everything that I know,” Abiad countered.
Omar shrugged. “It’s too late to turn back now. And I certainly can’t stay in Damascus any longer.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“I made a name for myself by posting videos of troops shooting protesters a few years ago. Since then, I’ve continued to speak out. The regime put a price on my head for my effort.”
“One of those citizen journalist types, huh? Exposing human rights abuses to the wider world and stuff like that?”
“Something like that. The rebels would like to claim me as one of their own, but it’s . . . complicated.”
I considered the four faces in front of me. “I know that you will have many questions. I won’t be able to answer all of them. Some of the answers I don’t have, and some of the answers I can’t tell you. But I can tell you a little bit of what we will be doing from here.” I turned to Father Abiad. “Though I was told there would be six passengers.”
“We have two more who will be joining us,” the priest said. “They are in the back right now, but they should be out any—” He cut himself off as a young woman appeared in the doorframe. “Ah. Here they are now.”
I studied the woman. To my surprise she returned my analyzing stare. Unlike Khamilah, this woman was the picture of modernity. She wore a cotton blouse that was the color of robins’ eggs and a gray skirt that ran down to her calves. Her only concession to tradition was a dark green headscarf that covered her hair, but I noticed that she rebelliously allowed several dark strands to break free of their captivity. I also noted that these loose strands framed her oval face perfectly.
But what attracted my attention the most were her eyes. They were pale brown, practically golden in color, they glimmered like amber as they caught the sunlight. They were the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.
You really don’t forget eyes like that. I should know. I had seen them before.
“Azima.”
CHAPTER NINE
ANTICIPATION was building in the concert hall. Everyone was seated and the musicians on stage finished tuning their instruments. The political and business elites in Damascus were
here in force. Every seat was filled by men and women in expensive evening wear.
My father insisted that I dress up for the event, as well. I sat in a crowded theater wearing a stifling jacket and the most constricting tie that my father could find, all the while waiting for something to happen.
A tall man in a tuxedo walked onto the stage, turned to the audience, and bowed. I edged forward in my seat. The people around us applauded, so I followed along.
I turned to my father. “Is that man going to sing?”
He shook his head. “No, Kyle, that man is the conductor. He makes sure that the musicians stay together.”
“He looks like a mop in a suit.” It was true. The conductor was reed-thin and had a wild mane of thick black hair. On the other side of me, right on the aisle, my mother put a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter.
Father, on the other hand, scowled. “Kyle, that is not a kind thing to say. That man deserves our respect.”
I crossed my arms and slouched down in my chair. “I still don’t know why Miriam didn’t have to come.”
“Kyle, we told you,” my mother explained. “Your sister is spending the night with some of her friends. That is one of the privileges she has because she is older.”
“She also has friends,” my father said.
My mother’s eyes flared. “What was that, Jirair?”
“Oh, don’t be angry, habibati. I just mean that it would be healthy for Kyle to find some boys his own age to spend his time with. I worry that he spends too much time at home.”
My mother started to speak, but the lights dimmed. The concert was about to begin. “We’ll talk about this later.”
The music started. It was a mix of classical European and traditional Syrian music. Instruments from two continents sat side by side on the stage and wove in and out of the melody. The composer was a Syrian who had been educated somewhere in France, and this was his masterpiece. At least, that’s what Father said.
From a cultural point of view, it was an ingenious cross between West and East. From the point of view of a seven-year-old child, it was the most boring thing imaginable.
I sought some way to escape. My parents sat on either side of me, so there was no getting out along the row. Maybe I could climb over the back of the chair? No, it was too risky and would only make my parents look bad. My father drilled the importance of reputation into my head from an early age. I may have been unhappy, but I would not shame him to escape a concert.
My father was enraptured by the music. He sat forward, fingers laced in front of him, soaking in every note. Then I turned my head to the other side and saw something that made my heart soar.
My mother stifled a yawn.
It was tactful, but it was real. It was my ticket out of here, at least for a while. I tugged on her arm. “Mom, I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Can’t it wait?”
I kicked my legs. “But I need to go now.”
She sighed. “Jirair, we’ll be right back.”
Mother took my hand and we walked out of the concert hall as silent as possible. Once we were out in the lobby, my mother looked at me. “I know you think this is boring, but it makes your father so happy. We should at least pretend to enjoy it for his sake.”
“Isn’t that lying?” I asked.
“No. Just pick the thing you liked best about tonight and think about that. Then, when you say you enjoyed the show, you will actually mean it.”
“Oh.” I nodded, though I had no idea what she meant. Mother often said things like that, and I learned early on to simply nod and pretend to understand.
It didn’t take long to find the bathroom. “I’ll wait right here until you’re finished,” my mother said.
I did not want to go back to that concert, so I took as much time as I could. I even washed my hands three times. When I was sure that I could not put it off any longer, I stepped out into the lobby.
Mother was not there. A brief flash of panic shot through me. Where could she be?
I paced back and forth across the lobby with my hand on my chin as I had seen my father do so many times. I assumed that I was alone with my thoughts. I was proven wrong when I heard a whistle echo across the marble floor. It was the sort of whistle Father used when he wanted to get my attention. I turned my head to find the source of the sound. Maybe Father had stepped out of the concert hall, as well.
I heard the whistle again, but much closer this time. I whipped my head to the right and saw a figure standing a few feet away. It wasn’t my father. It was a girl, about the same age as me, wearing a golden dress that matched her golden eyes. I had never seen her before in my life, but something about her made me forget everything that worried me.
She waved me toward her. I moved to her without thinking. “You want to see something cool?” she asked without preamble. Like everyone in Damascus, she spoke Arabic.
“Uh, maybe,” I stammered. While I spoke Arabic just as easily as English, I was more comfortable with my mother’s native language. We spoke English in the house. My father wanted me to speak Arabic at home, too, but my mother argued that I would be able to practice my Arabic all the time in public.
She grabbed my arm and pulled me with her. I yanked my arm out of her grasp, and she turned to face me. “Trust me,” she said with a wink. “You’ll love it. So much better than this dumb concert.”
“But my mother—” I protested.
“Will be here when we’re done. Come on.” She put her hands on her hips. “You’re not scared, are you?”
“Of course not! But—”
“Then come on!”
I looked over my shoulder one more time. Mother was still not there, and I could not be sure when she would return. If I was only gone for a few minutes, I rationalized, I might be back before she was. It would be a nice way to avoid the concert for a few more minutes.
So I followed her.
I didn’t know where we were going, but for the first time all night I was having too much fun to care. While the inside of the concert hall was packed to capacity, the hallways and stairwells were abandoned. The girl led me up an open staircase. Only a handrail prevented us from falling if we strayed too close to the edge. When we reached the fourth floor, I glanced over the handrail. The marble floor seemed hundreds of feet away. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“It’s a surprise.” The words came out as a song.
I eased back from the drop. “We’re up pretty high, don’t you think?”
The girl turned her head so I could see the profile of her face. Her mouth was tugged up in a mischievous grin. “Don’t you trust me?” she asked, her voice as sweet as honey.
“I don’t even know you,” I replied.
“My name is Azima. What’s yours?”
“Kyle.”
She laughed. “That’s a weird name. Kyle,” she tested out the word. “Well, Kyle, now you know me. Now you can trust me.”
Because I was seven years old, that logic seemed perfectly sound to me. “Okay, Azima. Are we there yet?”
She shook her head and resumed walking. “No, but we’re close.” We walked through a white-walled corridor lined with pictures of people who had once visited or performed at the concert hall. I recognized a few pictures from my father’s record collection but couldn’t recall their names. I knew that if he were here he could give me their entire life stories.
The corridor abruptly ended. I looked over my right shoulder. The entire atrium was spread out before us. It was impressive. The atrium was built around a large open space that formed a wide rectangular shape. I could see other open walkways like ours spaced out on each floor.
I peeked over the edge. My mother was still nowhere in sight, but from this angle I could see a pattern inlaid into the marble that I could not notice when I stood on it.
Azima, meanwhile, ignored the concert hall. Her attention was focused on the opposite side of the walkway. A series of huge glass panels exposed much of the city. Th
e sun was setting, and the light played bizarre shadows across the streets. I had seen the light when I was downstairs, but I never realized that there were windows like this up here.
Azima noticed my reaction and a huge toothy smile crossed her features. “What did I tell you? Isn’t this cool?” I nodded in reply. She pointed to the northwest. “Do you see that tall mountain there, Mount Qasioun? Someday I’m going to leave Damascus and live on that mountain all by myself.”
“What about your family and friends?”
She looked down and wrapped her arms around herself. “My mother died when I was a baby, and my father spends all his time at work. As for friends, well,” she hugged herself a little tighter, “I don’t really have any friends.”
“I’ll be your friend,” I said. It had been meant as little more than reflexive kindness, but even that scrap of humanity surprised her. She threw her arms around me in a bear hug.
“Really?”
“Sure,” I shrugged, as much as an attempt to wrest myself from her grip as a reaction to her question. “Why not?”
Because she was seven years old, that logic seemed perfectly sound to her. She squeezed me even tighter. “Oh, we will have so much fun! If you thought this was cool, wait until I show you some of the other things I’ve seen.” She let go of me, then pointed to the streets below. “There’s a stall in the souq over there where the vendor lets me have as many dates as I want. He says I remind him of his daughter, whatever that means.” She pointed in another direction. “And there’s a cafe near the Mazi Mosque where--”
“Kyle?” my mother’s voice echoed through the atrium. She sounded worried. “Kyle, are you out here?”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupted Azima. “I need to go.”
Her shoulders slumped, but she nodded. “I’ll go with you. I can’t let my friend get lost in here.”
She meant it as a joke, but I could have gotten turned around in the twisting passageways. When we finally reached the bottom level, I ran to my mother. “Mom!”
My mother spun around and scooped me up. “There you are. I thought you wandered away.” She set me down and looked past me. “Who’s your friend?”