Prism

by Rachel Moschell

  A swish of fabric drew her attention to the tiny Quechua lady at her side, holding a tray of empanadas. Wara’s mouth started to water at the sight of browned pastries, perfectly crimped edges embracing a center of melted cheese.

  “Doña Filomena, you know I can’t resist empanadas,” she told the older lady in Quechua. “Thank you. How are you doing these days?” Doña Filomena had a bent back and wrinkled skin that crinkled like parchment, especially around the eyes. Wara had never seen her without two thin gray braids twisted into a bun at the back of her head, and Filomena always wore a thick navy blue cardigan over her lacy white blouse. She was always thrilled to talk with a foreigner in her native Quechua.

  “Just fine, I’m doing fine.” Filomena patted Wara on the shoulder, grasped her forearm delicately, and then patted again in the traditional Quechua greeting. “I tell you, the Lord is healing me of my arthritis. I just pray, I’m always praying, and I know that the Lord is helping me feel better every day.”

  O-kay. Wonderful.

  Wara fought not to arch an eyebrow. The lady’s faith was…nice. But she knew about the gigantic megachurch Doña Filomena was a part of, and all the speaking in tongues and mad tambourine playing that went on in that place honestly freaked Wara out.

  But who was she to judge, right?

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better. And thanks for the empanada.” The older lady nodded with smiling, crinkly eyes and headed back towards the kitchen. Just as Tiago pushed his way through the café door, sending little chimes dinging.

  Tiago was a guy of maybe nineteen with a boyish smile and black baggy jeans with chains. He was skinny as a rail and Wara wondered when the kid ever ate. The reason she knew Tiago was because he was usually found smoking with a boyfriend outside the door of the neighboring coffee shop, Café Paris, known for catering to homosexuals.

  He grinned at her when he saw her, showing off the metal stud in his tongue. Another guy Wara had never seen before was trailing Tiago into Café Amara, and the two of them stopped in front of Wara’s table.

  “Hey, there,” Tiago drew out the greeting with a sly smile. Noah meandered over to say hi to the guys too, still carrying his Taylor guitar. “This is my new friend Rudolf, from Germany,” Tiago grinned. “He’s over here studying Spanish, and I told him you guys were nice. How’s it going Noah?” Tiago shook Noah’s hand and Wara took in the new guy. Rudolf had a very clean-shaven German jaw and wore a preppy gray sweater and dark jeans. He also shook Noah and Wara’s hands with a grin, going on about what a great city Cochabamba was.

  “And one of the coolest coffee shops here is where you’re standing right now, my friend,” Tiago jumped in. “This girl right here, Wara? She is always making me up free food from the kitchen. Nachos, little pizzas…her quesadillas rock.” He punched Wara in the shoulder, then turned his attention to Noah.

  “So, we’re hanging out next door, but we thought we’d come over and see if you wanted to have a drink with us. You’re not singing til later, right?”

  Noah blinked. “Uh, sure. We could have a drink. It’s only 9 now, right?”

  Alarm bells were going on in Wara’s heard. Noah’s eyes were friendly and clueless, and he probably wouldn’t be able to tell if someone was flirting with him to save his life.

  “I’ll come with you,” she offered, trying not to grit her teeth.

  “Sure, Wara, that’d be great.” Noah smiled at her so warmly her knees actually went weak. But then she caught herself and angrily kicked herself into reality.

  Noah thought she was a nice girl, just another missionary with a pure heart for serving the Lord.

  What if he ever found out?

  She could never be with someone like him.

  “Yeah, I’ll definitely come with you guys,” she repeated morosely as she followed them out the door. “I could use a good drink.”

  For a moment the relative silence of the darkened street shocked Wara as the door to Café Amara thudded closed behind them. She crossed the pavement with the guys, towards the blue-toned beehive that was Café Paris next door. Just inside the door, the throbbing techno music reverberated inside her chest and the dim lighting confused her. Noah leaned back and spoke into her ear. “We’ll just stay a little while, be friendly, go back. Thanks for coming. I was feeling a little awkward.”

  “No problem,” Wara hissed back, rolling her eyes.

  Some of the guys scooted over to make room for them on the electric blue barstools, and Wara noticed that Rudolf somehow switched seats with another guy next to him, ending up next to Noah.

  Oh great.

  Wara had never actually been inside this café before, and she took in the antique plaster ceiling with low-hanging bulbs covered in blue glass squares, sending an eerie, ghostly light around the long room. The bar, sporting neon signs for mostly European beers, was by far the busiest area of the café.

  “Oh,” she twisted around, realizing that the bartender was asking her what she wanted, “I want a Taquiña.” She plopped down on the empty barstool next to Noah, who turned away from Rudolf as he heard her order for Bolivian beer.

  “I didn’t know you drank.”

  “Hardly ever do,” Wara answered coolly, flushing as she heard the solid clink of her glass mug of Taquiña hit the bar. She knew this was going to be a bad idea, just knew it. But she hadn’t had a beer in five years, and if there ever was a time for it, it might be now. “Are you gonna have anything?”

  “I’ll get it,” Rudolf jumped in, offering to pay for Noah’s drink. “You like Taquiña?” Wara hoped her grimace was discreet, and she tried to hide it by downing a good half of her beer, quickly followed by the other half.

  Noah, Rudolf, and the other guys were talking away, covering everything from Rudolf’s Spanish studies here in Cochabamba to what kind of music Noah liked.

  I have got to get Noah out of here, Wara thought as she ordered a Cuba Libre. Just got to watch for my chance…

  She already felt the effects of the alcohol as the rum with Coke went down, but all in all, she felt pretty good. If Noah wasn’t in danger of being picked up, this would actually be kind of fun. Another fifteen minutes went by, which Wara filled with another Cuba Libre and a whole lot of moody thoughts. And then she heard Noah’s voice.

  “Hey, no. I’m not…I just came here to hang out.” Wara realized Noah was stammering. She whirled around to see Rudolf leaning way, way too close. Noah’s neck had turned absolutely crimson, and his fingers twitched on the edge of the bar stool.

  All right, that’s it! That’s my friend there!

  She shot up from her seat and slid onto Noah’s lap, wrapping her fingers around the back of his neck. Wara to the rescue!

  “That’s right,” she snapped, facing the other guys and then meeting Noah’s eyes. “I think you’re a little confused about my Noah here.” She pulled him closer, feeling the hot flush of her friend’s face. “He’s with me.”

  Noah’s face was just inches from hers. She kissed him, and maybe it was the shock, but Noah didn’t pull away. Then she broke away and looked Rudolph right in the eye. “No boyfriend-stealing tonight. Ok?”

  Silence dropped around the bar like chloroform, and then Tiago cleared his throat, cheeks splotched maroon. “Oh, man. This is really awkward. We’re, uh, really sorry. Didn’t know you, uh…were with her.” Tiago let his eyes shoot to Wara, who slid away from Noah’s body onto one of his knees and was eyeing the guys with one eyebrow raised.

  “Yeah.” Rudolf had stood and was apologizing. “I just thought, I mean, you knew we were gay and you were so nice to us and no one ever is so…”

  “Yeah, man,” Tiago rushed on. “I didn’t know why you were always talking to us and stuff. Everyone else that isn’t...you know…always treats us like trash.” Tiago swore and took a deep breath, smiling nervously. “Anyway, I’m sure you won’t want to hang out with us anymore.”

  Noah unexpectedly burst into laugher and ran his fingers through his hair. “You know w
hat guys?” he said. “It can happen to anyone. We all make…assumptions sometimes. And I’ll see you around. Just so you know not to try to, you know, hook me up. Someday, if it’s all over…” Noah jerked his chin over Wara’s way, “I’ll let you know so you can introduce me to any eligible sisters you may have. C’mon, I think it’s time for us to be going for today,” Noah announced to Wara, a little too loudly. He threw Tiago and company one last red-faced smile and headed for the door.

  Noah remembered to hold the door open for her, and then they began a brisk walk towards the closest major street. It was obvious that neither of them felt like going back into Café Amara. The cool night air hit Wara full in the face and the fire rose from her belly to scald her cheeks as she realized what she had done.

  Did I actually just kiss Noah?

  She had, and in front of witnesses.

  Oh God, I can’t believe this!

  Noah was quiet for nearly a block, and Wara nearly suffocated with shame.

  I am the worst missionary in the world!

  What if the mission heard about this? Just one more thing to add to her list of awful indiscretions.

  Then she heard a soft chuckle. She jerked her head around to look at him, still not quite meeting his eye. The cobblestones shimmered a little in front of her, and Wara was starting to feel a little queasy.

  “Well, Wara, that was a little unconventional,” Noah nodded, “but you really saved me there. I don’t know what else to say, so I’ll just say, ‘Thank you.’”

  “That was really dumb,” Wara mumbled. “I should never drink. I never learn.”

  Noah was silent a minute more, and then he put a hand on Wara’s shoulder. “Can we sit down here for a sec?” he asked evenly.

  “Sure, fine,” she answered too hurriedly. She plopped down on a bench in the plaza they had been passing through, in the shadow of a darkened colonial cathedral that was hidden away in the heart of downtown. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest and waited to hear whatever Noah had to say.

  This wasn’t going to be pretty.

  The quiet continued as Noah sat down a comfortable distance away on the bench, and stared off towards the stone pillars at the plaza’s center. Finally he spoke.

  “So, that was my first kiss.”

  Wara jolted. She couldn’t help glancing over at him to see if he was serious. The way his lashes were lowered, that twist of his lips…Wara suddenly realized she knew Noah too well. He was serious.

  Memories flooded her heart, unwelcome, and she swatted them away in anger. It wasn’t fair! Ok, yes it was. It was no one’s fault but her own. But sitting here watching Noah, she could tell that he still cared for her as a friend, even though she’d totally humiliated herself.

  And she felt just destroyed. Even if she really loved him, Noah would never, ever, be able to be with someone like her, not with her past and his…his first kiss?

  “Look, this was a huge mistake,” Wara groaned out loud. “I just felt bad and wanted to help you…and I didn’t think.”

  Oh yeah, and I’m drunk, she thought angrily.

  “I think I should go home and you should go…back to the coffee shop. And just please, don’t tell anybody.”

  As if he would. Wara felt the slow burn spread across the bridge of her nose. What a disaster!

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Noah promised her. “And really, while tonight has been a little…weird, I think it worked really well to save me from Rudolf. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  Wara sighed and blew her bangs out of her eye as she stood up, tottering unsteadily.

  “Hey, wait a sec.” Noah frowned at her. “I’m not letting you go home by yourself! You, my dear, are totally wasted.” He stood up and held out his arms to steady her, just as nausea surged and the night began to spin around in circles.

  “I’ll take you home, send the guys a text that they can sing without me. And don’t worry,” he said seriously, kindly. “I won’t tell anyone.

  4

  mocha

  AFTER DECIDING HOW FRANCO SALAZAR would die, Alejo’s team took the rest of the day off. Alejo spent most of the time wandering the crooked lanes of the Peshawar bazaar, staring at gold jewelry to die for and reams of cloth embroidered with a river of color.

  If he were Gabriel and in love with a girl with amazing sapphire eyes, would he buy her that one gold necklace with wreaths of fairy-tale leaves and bottomless blue stones? Alejo blinked at the shop window, realizing he had no idea what he would do. During high school back in Bolivia, the girls were more interested in his whiter, richer friends. Since then he’d been too busy trying to save the world.

  Stalin found him sweltering under the sun in front of the jewelry shop, clapped him on the shoulder and steered him towards a coffee shop, one of the few modern one in this city.

  “Don’t tell me, I can already see it in your eyes,” Stalin said when they’d taken a seat on the sleek red benches. “You’ve been reading that book again. And that means questions, big life and death questions. Go ahead. Ask them all. I am an expert on the document in question, after all.”

  Alejo glanced behind them, checking that they were still alone here in the corner. A young couple sat at the opposite extreme of the coffee shop, he wearing jeans and she a short white kameez top, wide-bottom black pants, and a leopard print veil. They both giggled at each other and sipped something fruity from glasses with paper-maiche umbrellas. The drinks Stalin had ordered for them arrived, something with a ridiculous amount of whipped cream and caramel on top.

  “Does this even have coffee?” Alejo frowned at the stuff suspiciously.

  “You don’t like caramel mochas?” Stalin grinned.

  Whatever. Couldn’t be worse than that luke-warm fermented mare’s milk he’d choked down on assignment in Uzbekistan a few years ago. “I don’t think I do have more questions,” Alejo narrowed his eyes at Stalin. “And that’s the scary part. We both know you love to be right, and I’m giving this one to you. Your arguments convinced me: the texts are authentic. He really said it. And if I believe that, I can’t be Muslim anymore.”

  Alejo felt his brow lower saying it out loud.

  Stalin swore under his breath across the table. “You seriously believe it?” A bead of sweat popped out of his forehead and he slurped caramel and cream. “This time, I’m not sure if I should have allowed my extreme intellect to be so convincing.”

  “I do,” Alejo crossed his legs and leaned back. “I can’t help it, I just do. I believe Jesus is the son of God.”

  “And that means you can’t be a Muslim anymore,” Stalin conceded glumly. “It’s just not possible. Allah has no son. If Gabriel finds out, he’s going to have a cow.”

  Yeah, Gabriel was really religious, more than anyone else on Alejo’s team. But the one Alejo really dreaded telling was Ishmael Khan. The Khan loved Alejo like a son, and in the Pashto culture that kind of love should never be broken. He was going to take it hard that Alejo had to leave Islam…and the Prism, besides.

  “But it’s just not right for me to stay where I am,” Alejo told Stalin, “if I’m not a Muslim. I’ll have to tell them.”

  Alejo felt relieved it was all decided. But Stalin’s eyes had gone all buggy behind his tiny round glasses. He chewed on one chapped lip and stirred the mess of coffee and cream left in his cup with the straw. “Alejo, I don’t think you can just tell them,” he said worriedly. Stalin licked a film of whipped cream off his upper lip and sighed. “Don’t you remember what happened to Marco?”

  Marco, until a year ago, was the Prism leader for Colombia and Venezuela. The poor guy was murdered in a horrible break-in, along with his sister and some young nieces; the whole thing had been really hard for Alejo and his team.

  Stalin was watching the memory cross Alejo’s face and he nodded grimly. “It happened right after he retired. Didn’t it? I mean, Alejo, you are the best of us, always busy exercising, studying other languages. But the lazier of us have time
to sit around and listen to rumors. Marco leaves the Prism to take up agriculture. Or pottery. Or something, I don’t know. Then weeks later, he’s murdered, along with his entire family. The scary thing is, the 964 didn’t seem the least bit surprised.”

  The 964 was the group of incredibly wealthy people who financed the Prism. And why wouldn’t the 964 be surprised? Because they were behind the whole thing, that’s why.

  Frost crept into Alejo’s veins as it all came together. The picture shoved under the door of his house in Bolivia, a bunch of little kids arriving home from school in uniforms and overstuffed backpacks. A house number clearly visible over the door. Stalin had also gotten a really weird picture of his parents wearing matching lime green t-shirts at a rally for world peace.

  Alejo had been so obsessed with Salazar he’d paid no attention to the Prism funders’ reaction to Marco’s death. He’d felt the surprise at seeing that picture show up but never figured out the hint.

  “They’re telling us they know where our families are,” he stated the obvious. Alejo’s tone turned bitter. “If we leave, people we care about die.”

  Four o’clock came early the next morning, when the Khan came to pick him up for the trip to the countryside Tribal Area. A sleek black Hummer glided to a stop in front of the apartment, purring in the early morning chill. A man in a shalwar kameez that was cotton candy pink held the Hummer’s rear door for Alejo: Mateen, an employee of the Khan that a guy would be wise not to mess with, despite the pink clothes. Mateen nodded wordlessly at Alejo and deferentially closed the Hummer door behind him.

  The leather seats were freezing. Alejo crossed his arms across his chest and greeted two of the Khan’s burly body guards, wearing the round woolen caps that were traditional Pashto garb. Each held a well-cared for automatic weapon very comfortably between their knees. “Asalaam Aleikum,” they grinned back at him over thick, unkempt beards.