Son of Syria

by Schafer, Ben

  Azima was doing her best to appear invisible. I waved her forward. “This is Azima. I don’t think she speaks any English,” I whispered.

  “Little.” Azima held up her thumb and forefinger pinched together. “Hello.”

  My mother smiled and said, “Hello, Azima,” in Arabic. Azima sagged visibly in relief. “Are your parents here?”

  Azima’s eyes darted around the lobby for a moment. She suddenly looked very worried. “I should go. It was nice to meet you, Kyle.” Azima turned to leave.

  “Hold on,” my mother said. “I’m not going to get you into any trouble. But if your parents don’t know where you are they will be very scared. I know I was.”

  Azima shrugged. “Father doesn’t notice these things.”

  My mother tilted her head. “I bet he does.”

  As if on cue, the doors behind Azima slid open, allowing the unusual symphony to flow out into the lobby. A heavyset man in an expensive blue blazer and matching trousers stepped out of the auditorium. His eyes scanned the room and fixed on Azima.

  “There you are,” he bellowed. The doors had not fully closed, and I could see a few faces in the auditorium look at him. “I’ve had enough of your games. Get inside, sit down, and behave yourself like a respectable young woman.” He marched toward her, his leather shoes clicking on the marble.

  The large man reached for Azima, but my mother deftly stepped between them. She reached out a hand to greet him. “Hello, sir. Are you Azima’s father?”

  The big man looked at my mother’s outstretched hand with disgust. “I am. And who are you?” His eyes passed over me and I squirmed. “Is that the boy you’ve been sneaking out to see, Azima? Answer me!”

  Azima was trembling. “N-no, Father. I just met him. We were playing and—”

  “Playing?” her father spat. “This is the social event of the year, not some schoolyard game.” Then, as if he became a different person, Azima’s father took my mother’s hand and gave her a gentle kiss on the knuckles. “Forgive me for speaking harshly. Having a daughter is most taxing upon my mind. Allah has blessed you greatly by granting you a son.”

  My mother’s smile never faltered, but there was steel in her voice as she said, “Kyle is not my only child. I have a daughter, as well.”

  Azima’s father spread his arms out to the side. “Ah, so you know what I mean,” he chuckled.

  My mother was too polite to say the first thing that came into her mind, but before she could form a response the doors opened again. This time it was my father who stepped into the lobby. His head was buried in the program. “Lily, you must come inside at once. My favorite number is coming up next.” He looked up and noticed the group gathered in front of him. “Waseem?”

  Azima’s father spun around and grinned. “Jirair! How good to see you!” The two men embraced each other. “I did not expect to see you here.”

  “Nor I you, Waseem.” My father looked to my mother. “Oh, my apologies. Lily, this is Waseem Zbida. He works for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I can’t believe you two have not met before now.”

  “I thought you looked familiar,” she said in a professional tone. “Lily Hoyek, U.S. State Department.”

  “Ah, beautiful and shrewd, eh?” Waseem grunted. “A most dangerous combination.”

  My father placed a hand on Waseem’s back and stage-whispered, “You have no idea.” He gestured to me. “This is my son, Kyle.” I gave him a little wave. “And this must be Azima.” My father bent down and placed a kiss on Azima’s forehead. “I’ve heard so much. Your daughter is much more beautiful than you described.”

  Waseem laughed, a wet sound akin to the cough of a pneumonia patient. “I did not want you trying to arrange a marriage before I met your son. Although they may have started that without us,” he grinned. It was the first time that I saw any resemblance between him and Azima.

  My father raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Azima was just showing me—” Azima subtly shook her head. “I mean, Azima was showing me that there’s a pattern in the floor.” All the adults looked at the ground, tilting their heads back and forth to make sense of it. “When I got out of the bathroom, I didn’t see Mom. Azima was just keeping me company until she, my mother, came out of the girl’s room.” My mother eyed me. She had seen Azima and me in the stairwell, but she decided not to reveal anything.

  “Well, we should return to the concert,” Waseem said. “It would be a shame to miss Jirair’s favorite number. Perhaps afterwards we could find something to eat. Get to know each other better.”

  My mother maintained a professional smile that would make any airline stewardess proud. “That sounds delightful. It will give Kyle and Azima a chance to play.” She placed gentle emphasis on the last word, a reminder of the harsh tone Waseem took at the beginning of the conversation.

  The big man, for his part, failed to notice. “Wonderful. It will also give me a chance to talk to you, Jirair. The government is looking to secure new telecommunications lines, and your little company is the best in the business. Perhaps we could come to an understanding?”

  My father nodded. “I’d be honored to hear what you have to say. What a coincidence that we would run into each other like this,” he added with a wry smile.

  Waseem shook his head. “No, Jirair, no coincidence. Allah decreed that you and I should work together as brothers, and he arranged so that our families could meet.”

  My father, a Christian, kept his smile. “Either way, I see great promise in our future together.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  IMPOSSIBLE. I could not believe my eyes. How could this be the girl with whom I had shared my childhood? I had to be confusing my memories with reality. Yet there she stood in the doorway. The morning light that streamed through the windows danced across her radiant olive skin.

  She looked as surprised to see me as I was to see her. Neither of us said anything for what felt like hours. Then she whispered, “Kyle? Kyle Hoyek, is that really you?” I let out the breath that had been building in my chest. It was her. Somehow, out of all the young women in Damascus, my oldest and dearest friend was the one waiting for me.

  I struggled to find the right words. What do you say to one of the most important people in your life, someone you haven’t seen in over a decade?

  The decision was taken out of my hands. “‘Kyle?’” I heard Omar say.

  Nadir caught the comment, too. “I thought you said your name was Jirair.”

  Crap. The crystallized moment shattered as I fumbled for an answer. I considered ignoring Azima or feigning ignorance, but I knew that Azima wouldn’t let it go. I decided to go with the truth. “I did. Sorry about the deception, but I thought it best not to have my real name floating around in case the wrong people are listening.”

  Father Abiad looked offended, but did not contradict my statement. He would hate to admit it, but the security services had eyes and ears practically everywhere. A certain level of paranoia was the norm in a country whose secret police forces spent every moment hunting spies and dissenters. The old priest said, “I take it that you two know each other.”

  “Yeah. We were kids together.” I blew out a breath. “What? Fifteen years ago?”

  Azima inclined her head in acknowledgment. “A lifetime,” she said. She took a step forward and smiled. Her smile was like a string of pearls, perfect and dazzling. But her demeanor was different. Smaller, perhaps, then I was expecting. Her shoulders were hunched in what appeared to be a defensive posture. It looked like she stood that way without conscious thought.

  Father Abiad nodded, then asked Azima, “Fifteen years? I gather he has not met Hashim.”

  Hashim? Was he her boyfriend, her betrothed, her husband? A flash of primal, irrational jealousy surged inside of me, and I struggled to push it down. What right did I have to be jealous? The last time I had seen Azima we had both just hit puberty. A lot of things change in fifteen years.

  A cherubic face appear
ed behind Azima before returning to its hiding spot behind her back. Azima crouched down and turned to expose a young boy who couldn’t have been older than six. His skin was a shade or two darker than Azima’s. He wore gray cargo shorts and a T-shirt with a cartoon dinosaur emblazoned on the front. There was a small green backpack slung over his shoulder. Azima tousled the child’s black hair, then picked him up and carried him on her hip.

  Hashim was her son. For some reason that revelation hurt more than any of the other possibilities that I had considered. My childhood sweetheart had a child of her own. It turned out you can go home again. But you might not recognize anything when you get there.

  “Hi, Hashim,” I waved awkwardly. The boy shrunk back, practically burrowing into his mother’s embrace. I looked back up to Azima. “So, a son, huh?”

  “Yes, Kyle.”

  “And,” I cleared my throat, “the boy’s father?”

  Azima’s eyes flicked away from my gaze. “Hashim’s father, my former husband,” she added, placing emphasis on the second-to-last word, “will not be joining us. I ask that you please leave the matter alone.”

  Omar stepped toward me. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you said that you would explain the situation.”

  My attention lingered on Azima for a few more moments before I turned to the rest of the group. “Yes. Sorry. In the interest of time, what do you already know?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Azima carry Hashim toward Father Abiad. She pulled the priest aside and began speaking with him in hushed tones. Whatever she said to him, he kept shaking his head. That piqued my interest, but I couldn’t afford to worry about it right now.

  Omar considered my question. “Well, about three days ago Father Abiad called me.”

  “You knew Father Abiad?”

  Omar shrugged. “I attended services here a few times after my conversion. I hadn’t given him any contact information, and I’m not an easy man to find. The fact that he made the effort to reach me was enough to convince me all by itself. He made no promises.”

  “He just said that he knew of a way for us to leave the country in peace,” Jamil said. “If we were interested, that is.”

  My attention shifted to him. “I take it you received a similar call.”

  Jamil nodded. “I’m from Homs. I moved here in recent weeks to get away from some,” he hesitated, then lowered his voice, “unpleasant associates. I wanted to join the congregation here, but I only met Father Abiad in person an hour ago.”

  “I was surprised when Father Abiad requested to talk to us after Mass,” Nadir said as he rubbed his chin. “Although my—” Khamilah shot him a nasty look, “rather, our disagreements with my former colleagues were rather common knowledge. As soon as the request was made, it was not hard to guess what the topic of conversation was going to be.”

  “Wait,” I frowned. “None of you requested assistance from the Father?” They all shook their heads. Interesting. I had no idea whether such a proactive approach was an inherent part of Project Obadiah or if it had simply been Father Abiad’s idea, but it made a certain kind of sense. For one thing, carefully selecting members of the congregation meant that only those people who really needed help would be getting it. It also provided a level of operational security in case the approach didn’t go as planned.

  It wasn’t like Father Abiad could purchase an ad in the paper. Single man seeking refugees. Catholics only. No pets.

  “From what I gathered,” Omar said, “we were all told that this was a special, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a new life. Other than that, it was ‘wait and see.’”

  “Well, I can tell you the next step,” I told him. “Hafiz and I will drive you to a field just south of the city. A helicopter will be waiting for us there. I’ve been ordered not to reveal our destination until we are safely in the air.”

  “Which may have to wait longer than you expected,” Hafiz said. I don’t know where he had gone, but he marched into the room like he was the man in charge. “I just got off the phone with our pilots. The army has set up a staging area south of the city. A rebel group has been operating in a nearby neighborhood and the army is getting ready to root them out. The whole area is blocked off.”

  “Did they have a better suggestion?” I asked. I was frustrated that Hafiz had kept me out of the loop during his conversation. He didn’t trust me, and his unprofessional attitude might get everyone killed. “Maybe a helipad somewhere in the city itself?”

  “Sure,” Hafiz said. “But they all have heavy security: hospitals, government buildings, and corporate offices.”

  “We are stranded here,” Khamilah wailed.

  “Not necessarily,” I told them. “You all know this city better than I do. How about anywhere with a large, flat roof? It would have to be sturdy enough that a helicopter could set down on it and clear of any wires and cables.”

  Jamil said, “There is a complex close to the University of Damascus that could work for what you need. A small financial firm called Imady Consulting owns the building.”

  “And security will not be an issue?” Nadir asked.

  “That I do not know. I only worked in Damascus for a couple weeks. I do not know this city as well as Homs. But I never saw any military or police vehicles the few times I delivered passengers there, and none of them ever mentioned government connections.”

  I pointed at Hafiz. “Get the helicopter crew back on the line and tell them about the change in plan. Jamil, you go with Hafiz in case he needs to relay directions to the building.”

  The two men disappeared around the corner. They reappeared after another minute. “The plan is in place,” Jamil said. “Thank you for putting your trust in me.”

  Hafiz growled, “I don’t like this. This is not the plan. To avoid the checkpoints in the city, we will have to add another hour to our journey. I don’t like leaving Father Abiad here by himself for that long.”

  Father Abiad chuckled. The tension eased as everyone watched him. “You are a bizarre man, Kyle Hoyek. I don’t know how you plan to keep this flock safe, but I have faith that the Lord will grant you strength to be equal to the task.” He turned to face his protégé. “I have been the caretaker for this chapel for three decades. I should be fine for one day.”

  Hafiz’s cheeks stayed red, but this time it was shame. He lowered his head. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good boy,” Father Abiad smiled. “I hate to sound like a bad host, but you should go. Tourism is not what it used to be, but we still get a few visitors. I would hate for someone to ask the wrong questions about you.”

  I nodded. “Everyone grab your stuff and let’s get going.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WHILE the other members of the group said their goodbyes to Father Abiad, Hafiz and I performed one final examination of the Land Cruisers. The sturdy, sand-colored vehicles could be taken off-road if necessary. I hoped we would not need a demonstration on this simple journey. Omar, Azima, and Hashim would go in the lead vehicle with Hafiz while Nadir, Khamilah, and Jamil would ride with me. I wished that I could go with Azima, if only to catch up on all the things that had happened over the past fifteen years. But the travel arrangements were made before my arrival. In any event, Azima would only be back in my life for a few hours before she disappeared forever It was cruel to pretend this was anything more than simple babysitting.

  Not that she made it easy on me. As Hafiz left to consult with Father Abiad, Azima approached me. “Can we talk?”

  I looked at the group stacking the last of their belongings into the Land Cruiser. “Now?”

  “It’s important,” she said.

  I sighed. “Okay. But not for long. I don’t like being exposed like this.”

  We took a few steps away from the vehicle so we would not be overheard. When Azima turned around, she had a broad grin on her face. She wrapped her arms around me in a big bear hug. “Oh, Kyle! I thought I’d never see you again.” That elicited some stares from the other members of the group, along with a
disgusted pout from Khamilah. Azima released me and brushed some of her hair back beneath her headscarf.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” I said. “It was a surprise to see you.”

  She frowned. “You didn’t see my name on the list?”

  I shook my head. “I never got a list. For safety reasons, that sort of thing is kept secret. And what about you? You stared like you were looking at a ghost.”

  “I was.” She shrugged. “I am. You’ve been gone fifteen years, Kyle. You don’t know the kind of rumors that flew around Damascus after your mother’s body was found and the rest of your family disappeared. A lot of people said your father killed her and fled justice.”

  My jaw dropped. “That . . . There’s no way that my father would—” I stammered.

  She held up her hands. “I know, I know. To his credit, so did my father. If he ever heard someone spreading the rumor, he would march right up to them and get in their face about how great Jirair Hoyek was and how much he loved his wife and how they should be ashamed of their slander. But there were other stories that spread around the city. Rumors that your whole family was killed and the police only found your mother’s body.”

  “That’s absurd,” I replied.

  “Is it? A crowd of witnesses saw you and your mother get attacked together. It was the last time that anyone I’ve ever met could confirm that they saw you. And for you to just reappear out of the past like this is,” she paused, “overwhelming, to say the least.”

  “Overwhelming or not, it’s good to see you.” I ran a hand through my hair. “There’s something I don’t understand.”

  “Why am I here?” she asked. I nodded. “It’s a long story. The short version is that Abbas, my former husband, was,” she hesitated, “let’s just say he was not the man I thought he was. I had to leave him for my own safety.”

  “You’re fleeing the country to avoid a custody battle?”

  She let out a bitter bark of laughter. “Custody battle? Kyle, did you forget how things work here? The only custody that counts is the father’s. I was only the factory that produced a perfect baby boy for Abbas to raise in his own corrupt image. I couldn’t let that happen.”