Rough hands dug into his upper arms. Someone else pulled on his hair, forcing Gabriel’s face towards the sky. The knife slashed his throat like the sting of a thousand wasps and his eyes rolled back into his head. Everything hazed over midnight, and the world was black before Gabriel Shara even crumpled at the thieves’ feet next to the graffiti-covered wall.
It was terribly strange to be aware that the world was passing by around you, but yet to feel yourself immobile as a stone, limbs heavy as petrified wood. Drifting in and out of awareness, Gabriel finally reached a point of realizing that he could move his lips and try to speak, and what he tried to say was, “Help.”
He was in a dirty room filled with IVs, a few cots, and a chess board on a little table, pieces paused mid-game.
The IVs mean doctors, a hospital. What’s with the chess game?
I’m not dead.
Gabriel felt his heart beat slow and cold. This couldn’t possibly be some kind of freaky afterlife filled with rusting metal cots and eternal games of chess?
Am I dead?
Gabriel attempted to roll over to one side, morbid curiosity winning out over sluggishness. Something stabbed through his neck and chest with the movement, and he yelled, suddenly remembering the alley and the thieves and the knife slitting his throat.
And then he saw Alejo, materializing in this strange room, followed by a short little doctor in a dirty lab coat. “Take it easy, Gabo,” Alejo said hoarsely. “Don’t move. You’re safe now.”
Gabriel forced himself to relax back into the pillow, weak with relief at the sight of his friend. Was Alejo looking about to cry? Over him?
“They had to sew you up pretty quickly,” Alejo said, then cleared his throat. “Someone found you. In the alley. They didn’t cut your windpipe. Do you remember what happened?”
If he held really still, the pain of talking was manageable. “Yes. They wanted…money.” The doctor had moved to the side of the bed and was checking stitches on Gabriel’s neck. Stitches he really didn’t even want to imagine.
“You must realize, my friend, how lucky you are,” the short doctor clucked at Gabriel. “It is truly a miracle you are still here. And you have such a good friend, this man who flew here all the way from the Americas when he heard what happened.”
Alejo was crying. He was trying to pretend it was just a piece of dust he had to scrub from one eye, but the ruse wasn’t working very well. Gabriel felt his face spread into a grin. A very sad-looking, lopsided grin, but a happy one nonetheless.
“Allah has chosen you, my friend,” the doctor patted Gabriel on the shoulder. “You must never forget it. Your life belongs to him now.”
That was supposed to be comforting, wasn’t it? But Gabriel felt the smile drain from his lips.
What if he messed up?
Allah had saved him by a miracle.
And Gabriel knew how it worked. Now he had to pay Allah back.
6
emerald
Coroico, Bolivia
WARA SHIFTED POSITIONS AGAINST THE WORN gray upholstery of the minibus, managing to win an extra half-inch or so for her left leg. She hooked one dusty Converse tennis shoe through the straps of her purple backpack, a habit she had developed to be able to drift off to sleep while traveling without the possibility of someone sneaking off with her bag. Nazaret was fast asleep next to her, blond curls plastered to Wara’s shoulder. On Wara’s other side, through the window, soaring peaks of emerald contrasted with sheer drop-offs, mere inches from the edge of the dirt-caked road.
Nazaret and Wara were on their way to Coroico, sleepy tropical tourist town in the mountains, for a four-day weekend vacation. This was the first time Pastor Martir had let his daughter go away for so long, even though Nazaret was the same age as Wara, twenty-seven. Latino fathers tended to be extra-protective of their daughters, more so than American dads. The Bennesons from Wara’s mission had let her take some time off from helping at the AIDS center, and her literacy classes for Quechua women were only twice a week anyway.
As the distance between Wara and Cochabamba grew, she allowed herself to think of that disastrous night she’d been trying to forget for the past month: the electric blue glow of Café Paris, several drinks too many, kissing Noah next to the bar. Even now, Wara felt her cheeks flame at the memory of that really ill-advised kiss.
In the plaza outside the café that night, while still feeling the effects of the alcohol, Wara had felt crushed with the realization that Noah would never be able to love her. A dilemma that never would have bothered her before.
But since sobering up, Wara found that her feelings of dismay over the situation with Noah hadn’t changed. Of course, she felt ridiculous for having embarrassed herself in front of him. But it was more than that. That night she had seen how Noah still looked at her with kindness after that stupid moment in the bar. She knew, now, that she really did love him.
At least it felt that way.
Wara closed her eyes against the smooth glass, heart sinking all the way down to her toes.
But he could never love me.
A jolt from underneath the minibus began at the flimsy metal seat and rode up Wara’s spine, rattling her cheek against the glass. She opened her eyes and felt the bus brake solidly, pebbles exploding along the pavement. The rear end of the vehicle fishtailed towards the sheer cliff at the edge of the road. Soft shrieks and muted curses rose from the other bus passengers, and Wara’s heart flew to her throat as Nazaret jerked wide awake.
A skidding bus anywhere near the edge of this mountain road was ample cause for alarm. The road that led down from La Paz to Coroico was no ordinary road; it was booked in most tour guides as the Road of Death, the most dangerous road in the world. Cut at unbelievable angles into the emerald heart of the Andes, the road boasted drop-offs of 1800 feet at some points.
Nazaret gasped loudly at Wara’s side, clutching her little rolling suitcase covered in pink poodles and Eiffel Towers. Then the minibus drew to a halt, engulfed in a fine mist of pewter-colored dirt. They were still on the road, but Wara’s knees were shaking.
Five seconds later, the dust glided away, leaving the bus passengers a view of metal debris and a gutted, blown-out tire splayed over the pavement.
“A bus went over the mountain!” a man called from a few rows back. Wara took a deep breath and knit her shaking fingers together in her lap. A plump Quechua woman on the other side of Nazaret answered loudly, “It’s the accident from two days ago. The one from the news.”
Old accident or not, the bus passengers were curious. The door of the minivan slid open with a hollow whine and everyone spilled out, cautiously tiptoeing over to the cliff. A humid breeze whipped at their hair from across the ravine and the sunshine seared their shoulders.
“The Road of Death, living up to its name,” a woman muttered. A chorus of gasps rose upon viewing what was once a large, sleek tour bus, belly up in a tangle of trees a thousand feet below. Horrified, Wara could make out the tiny stick forms of what appeared to be bodies sprawled on the way down to the crash.
“Good heavens,” an elderly man stammered. “They’re just going to leave them here?”
“The rescue teams have been working since the accident,” replied a skinny kid in a hoodie. “They find the survivors first, then bring up the bodies. They’ll probably be back tomorrow. It’s getting late.”
As Wara stared wide-eyed down the precipice, the magnitude of rappelling down that sheer cliff to attempt a rescue effort hit her. Her head spun and she backed away, hurrying to the minibus where the driver was ordering them all to return.
Nazaret never made it back to sleep during the remaining hour ride to Coroico, and Wara did her best to focus on the primitive beauty of the living mountains and not the valley below.
The first tinges of dusk were just beginning to paint the expanse over the mountains when Coroico came into view, all coral-tiled roofs jutting out over an emerald mass of vegetation, like a man riding a foaming wave into the th
in air over a precipice that dropped into the valley below. The bus followed winding roads and soon arrived at Coroico’s main plaza, a square affair surrounded by touristy restaurants and tour guide offices. The rubber wheels of Nazaret’s suitcase bounced over cobblestones as she and Wara walked towards their hotel.
The Hotel Bella Vista was four blocks from the plaza, and Wara sagged with relief as she entered its cream-colored hall and spotless wood parquet floor. A beautiful brick fountain gurgled in the atrium, splashing water across smooth pebbles.
“It’s good to be back,” she muttered, heading towards the room she always reserved at the back of the hotel. It was really good to be anywhere, after seeing the fate of that bus down in the valley.
Inside the room she and Nazaret had reserved, a giant plate-glass window was framed by crimson and gold curtains. Though the sun had sunk a little more behind the mountains, the amazing spread of the valley below was still visible in muted tones, proving why this hotel was called The Beautiful View. Beyond the crimson curtains, tangled tropical life stretched out far below them as far as the eye could see, blanketing the soaring mountains in emerald array. A winding river cut through the middle of the valley, and wet salmon-colored clouds clung to the tops of the mountains that were still lower than the town of Coroico.
Wara and Nazaret fell asleep right after dinner from a tiny pizza restaurant, and didn’t move again til morning.
She and Nazaret spent the next day exploring the tiny tourist town: horseback riding over the emerald mountains, lunch at the little German café, then a walk over towards Casa Bonita for homemade organic ice cream. Crashing for a while in Coroico’s main plaza under the stars seemed to be the perfect ending. Wara and Nazaret collapsed on a bench and stretched their legs out next to a tinkling stone fountain.
Groups of fair-skinned tourists, wearing khaki shorts with hiking sandals and socks, sat around the plaza laughing too loudly and munching Pringles and Snickers bars that the local stores kept on hand for the healthy flow of foreigners brought to their town by the adventure tourism industry. A young Bolivian couple strolled by with their son and a pair of Mickey Mouse balloons, munching hamburgers wrapped in plastic sacks.
And near the tinkling fountain, a group of women in dark Islamic robes stood quietly, passing out pieces of paper to anyone interested.
“Looks like Islam is growing here, too.” Nazaret had also noticed the Muslim girls, trying to share their faith here in Coroico with people passing by. “Not just in the big cities. Next year they finish that huge mosque in Cochabamba, you know.”
Wara did know that; during the last decade, Bolivia and Iran had become close friends. With more Muslims coming to Bolivia for business or study, some Bolivians were converting to Islam. And the Iranians had built many hospitals and schools in needy parts of the country. There was probably one here outside of Coroico.
“BOO!”
Wara nearly jumped out of her skin as two rough hands covered her eyes, blinding her. She panicked and tried to lean forward but couldn’t break away. She felt a body come over the back of her bench into the space between her and Nazaret as the hands disappeared. Annoyed, Wara realized that the bony shoulder pressing into hers belonged to Tobin, the wiry, blond Australian friend of Noah’s.
“Tobin!” Wara scolded. “What…? You really freaked me out!” She paused, frowning, wondering what Tobin was doing here. Wara leaned around Tobin and saw that Eduardo Sejas, the good-looking Bolivian who sang with Noah at the cafe, was sitting on the edge of the bench next to Nazaret, wearing cargo pants, a dirty t-shirt, and a heavy-duty backpack. Nazaret’s lips were turned up into a smile, and Wara followed her gaze to see Tobias, the other Australian, and Noah. Standing in front of her bench, smiling down at her.
Wara gulped. And paled. What were they doing here?
“Aww, we’re sorry we scared you guys!” A quick glance over at Eduardo showed white teeth flashing against his tan jaw. “We didn’t know it would freak you out.” He paused and waved his hand as if to erase the past. “So, hello! Nice to see you!” Tobin kissed a still-frozen Wara on the cheek, and the other guys leaned in to give greetings.
Noah was wearing khaki shorts with leather hiking sandals, and his tanned legs were covered in powdery dirt. A t-shirt with cut-off sleeves left the tattoo of blue Celtic symbols around his upper arm clearly visible. Wara dared to meet his eyes and saw no sign that he was thinking of the last time they’d hung out, in Café Paris. Noah leaned forward to give her a Bolivian cheek-smooch, and Wara felt her face go hot.
“What are you guys doing here?” she asked much too sharply.
How could we have ended up coming to the same place for weekends away? I never heard Noah or any of the guys talking about this!
Well, she had also been avoiding him.
“Well,” Tobin said cheerfully in his lovely accent, “we’ve been planning this for quite a while, right guys? Today and tomorrow we are doing ‘adventure tourism’ here around Coroico, and then Monday we are heading out for the hike to the Cotapata nature reserve. What is it, Eduardo, a 24-hour hike?”
Eduardo confirmed, and Noah sat down on the concrete edge of the fountain, stretching out his legs. “Awesome surprise to find you guys here, too,” Noah smiled at Wara and Nazaret.
Wara swallowed hard. “Yeah, I…can’t believe it.” The surprise of having him show up here in the plaza in Coroico, just like that, had still not worn off. She had to think of something normal to say.
“I remember…last week your parents were supposed to come, right?” The last time Wara ran into Noah at the Martirs, he had mentioned his parents were going to come to Bolivia. His parents were wealthy and did not believe in God. They were really not happy their son had decided to study social work and come to one of the poorest countries in the Western Hemisphere. Hurt glinted in Noah’s eyes when he told her they were thinking of stopping by Cochabamba.
Briefly. On their way to a beach resort in Brazil.
Now, Noah set his jaw and looked away. “Nope. They didn’t come. Decided they just couldn’t do it. Hotels here aren’t up to their sky high standards.” Noah quickly changed the subject. “We’re going to rent a Jeep to drive us down to the waterfalls tomorrow. You guys want to come with us?”
But Wara’s heart was going crazy. Noah should despise her after how she’d acted the other day, but he was still smiling. And so…nice to her.
Could it really just be a coincidence that she and Noah had both showed up here, at the same place, at the same time? She didn’t think so.
Maybe there was a chance Noah could love her. Because maybe God was behind this.
The idea nearly made her cry.
She knew Nazaret wouldn’t be thrilled about hanging out with the guys all day tomorrow; Noah was already like a brother to her, always over at the Martirs’ wrestling with her little siblings or mowing the lawn. And Wara didn’t think she was ready to hang out with Noah yet. She needed time to think about this.
To squash the hope that right now was blooming to life.
“Uh…thanks. But we should just let you guys have guy time,” Wara said.
“Yeah, tomorrow Wara and I were going to spend some time alone,” Nazaret grinned at them. “Set our priorities straight. Mediate. All that.”
“Suit yourselves,” Tobias waved them away, pretending to be offended.
“Your loss. You miss seeing us without our t-shirts in the waterfall.” Tobin, ever the clown.
Wara could barely compose herself enough to cheek-smooch all the guys goodbye and make it back to the hotel.
There must be some reason God was doing this.
And it had to be something good?
Right?
7
white plaster
ALEJO SHUT THE METAL DOOR OF THE orange three-story house he shared with Gabriel and Benjamin and stepped out onto the lazy peaceful street only a Thursday morning in Coroico could deliver. And only in Coroico could one have a view such as Alejo and the gu
ys had every time they stepped out their front door.
Their front steps lowered to a street with a steep downward slope, rushing down the mountain and leaving a breath-taking view of jade mountains peaks and scarlet flowering trees in the distance. Their street was just a narrow lane of stone stairs, really, used only for foot traffic. A corridor of tangerine and violet flowers grew wild in the dirt, forming a living rainbow along the center of the staircase.
Gabriel sat on the second step from the top, elbows propped on his knees, staring at the clouds misting up over the trees in the distance. He wore a turtleneck, as he had every day since the attack in Pakistan a month ago. His pale green eyes reflected the weak rays of the early morning sun, glazed, vacant, and bleak.
Alejo sighed and covered the few steps to slide down onto the cool concrete step next to him. “’Morning,” Alejo croaked, then cleared his throat. “I think we’re late to breakfast.”
Gabriel half-turned towards him and parted his lips, tried to think of something to say, then gave up. His gaze went back to the mist in the distance.
“You sure you want to come along this weekend?” Alejo pressed his lips together. “You can take more time off, you know.” After Alejo got the call from Ishmael in Peshawar, the twenty hour trip from here to Gabriel had seemed to take forever. Gabriel had recovered well since that day, but the playfulness seemed to be gone from his eyes. Most of his free time was spent praying or playing really melancholy music on the violin his parents gave him.
“I know,” Gabriel nodded. He swatted at a mosquito that was whining its way around his ear. “I rested a lot last week though, at Mom’s house. She about had a heart attack when you called her and told her about the skiing accident in France. Stupid person who installed barbed wire on the slopes.” His mouth twitched and some of the old sparkle glowed in Gabriel’s eyes. “I mean, what a freak accident, right? Running into wire at neck level while skiing?”
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