Prism

by Rachel Moschell

  Sometime along the way, the tall man with the hooked nose had introduced himself as Tabor, and the woman as Sandal. Tabor parked his motorcycle next to a giant eucalyptus tree near the house and he and Sandal climbed off the bike in exact synchronization. Alejo pulled up next to them and turned the key, leaving the four of them in the shadows of the tree, in silence.

  Wara slid off the cycle first, hiding a wince at how her legs ached after having been bowed for so long. Alejo was still wearing that half-loony grin, ecstatic at being able to see again and having his vision come true. He sobered a little at the sight of her pinched face, as if just now realizing she might possibly be scared half to death.

  “You’re brave,” he said to her, startling her into a slight smile. He waited for her, and the two of them walked side by side after Sandal and Tabor towards the looming house.

  The rough, unvarnished door was made of a blond wood and had been left cracked open, as if expecting visitors.

  Wara shivered, staring at the house and the wood door. “Come on. I’m sure he’s really anxious to meet you,” Sandal said, waiting for Wara to walk past her through the door. She met Wara’s eyes with the hint of an encouraging smile.

  The spacious room inside the house was a stark contrast to the blurry darkness outside. This room was filled with light, blazing from a small chandelier formed from deer antlers. In the far corner, several brown leather couches clustered under woven tapestries with the familiar designs of Quechua children and snow-peaked mountains.

  With a start, Wara realized that there was a fifth person in the room, nearly camouflaged against a plain wooden wall to her left. He was wearing brown slacks and a tan button-down shirt, with wool slippers. He looked about sixty, a little paunchy, with balding brown hair and a bushy mustache. Ice blue eyes observed Alejo keenly, then drifted over to Wara.

  “Welcome to my home.” The man’s voice was deep and calm. There was no accent to the man’s Spanish, despite his very un-Bolivian appearance. “I am really very glad you came.”

  Alejo remained standing close to Wara, on a coral-colored rug in the center of the room. “Hello,” he said, hands loose at his side. Both men watched each other for a moment, sizing each other up. Then Alejo asked, “Who are you?”

  “A very good question.” The older man’s cool blue eyes crinkled around the edges. “My name is Rupert Cole, and this is my home. You have arrived at an ostrich farm.”

  Mr. Cole seemed to expect the surprised looks on their faces, and he chuckled. “If you decide to stay awhile, in the morning I could give you a tour. But for now, my job is to make sure you aren’t spooked and run away. You already met Sandal and Tabor.” Mr. Cole looked over towards the door, but the two who had come to the hospital were already gone.

  “Oh, they’ll be back,” Mr. Cole assured Wara in a tone that told her he had read her mind as she wondered if they had been angels and disappeared into thin air. “I’m sure they just went to change out of those clothes. I don’t have your names,” Mr. Cole told them quietly.

  “I’m Alejo.” Alejo held out his hand as Mr. Cole reached forward to shake it firmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cole.”

  “Please call me Rupert.” Rupert’s eyes crinkled slightly again. “My father was Mr. Cole.”

  Rupert’s gaze fell on Wara, and she slowly pulled the hat and fake braid off her head, leaving her own hair falling in disarray around her shoulders. “I’m Wara Cadogan,” she told him smally, shaking one thick, rough hand with her own.

  Rupert motioned them towards the brown leather couches. “Please don’t run away just yet. The reason you’re here is because I have a job offer for you, which I’ll tell you about when you’re ready. But for now, I really want to help you, however I can. I know things are a little up in the air right now, to say the least. I work for an organization that can help.”

  Wara followed Alejo in taking a seat on the couch, across from Rupert Cole. Alejo regarded the older man calmly, face giving nothing away. “How do you know about us?” he asked. Rupert’s cool blue eyes flashed.

  “I had a dream about you, Alejo. Now before you laugh, it’s not like this happens all the time. This is only the third time God showed me something in a dream.”

  Another dream? Wara crossed her arms and leaned back into the cool leather of the couch, feeling a little out of her element. Alejo did not appear at all fazed. After all, he had known they would be coming here. With Tabor and Sandal. Rupert was continuing.

  “So, what I saw was a man with a gun against his forehead. The gun fired. I assume that was you?”

  Alejo nodded a little uncomfortably, probably remembering the scene at Pairumani.

  “And yet here you are,” Rupert waved one burly forearm, “at my house, safe and sound. I saw you being carried into the hospital, and a girl with dark hair and a star over her head was standing near the door, crying. I saw the sign on the hospital: Univalle. It was as clear as day. I was about to follow you inside, Alejo, when a man grabbed my arm and said, ‘They will look for him because of what happened to the bus.’ Now in my dream, I understood exactly what he was talking about: the Death Road bus accident. Which may not have been an accident. Am I right?”

  Rupert’s calm gaze searched Alejo’s face, which had grown very serious. “It wasn’t an accident,” Alejo admitted in a low voice. “How did you know?”

  “My brother Robert Cole works at the embassy, and took a call from a man who talked about that bus, and told him the American girl was still alive and with him. In my dream I saw her with a star. And here you are.” Rupert nodded at Wara. “Wara. Aymara for star.”

  “Listen,” he sighed and continued lowly, “the truth is, the both of you are in a heap of trouble, and I believe I’m supposed to help you. From the little I know, you,” he jerked a thumb in Alejo’s direction, “are in a lot of trouble. You’ve broken Bolivian law and, I assume, have people from your organization after you. And you,” Rupert looked at Wara steadily but kindly, “are in trouble because you know things you shouldn’t know and have seen things that no civilian who was just riding a bus should have to see. Neither of you can just go back into your old lives, just show up in society as you were. I think you both understand that.”

  Wara felt hot tears prick her eyes.

  Rupert heaved a sigh and then said, “There’s a reason I sent Tabor and Sandal to get you out of that hospital so quickly after my dream. I was relieved to see your faces here in my living room, because I wondered if I would get to you in time. Come with me, both of you; there’s something I have to show you.”

  Alejo and Wara wordlessly padded after Rupert Cole across the hardwood floor and through a darkened doorway. The older man flipped on a light, revealing an office with blond wood walls and multiple low bookcases painted a very ugly burnt orange. A tiny black computer desk sat under a picture window that really needed washing. Rupert plopped down on a chair in front of the extra-wide flat screen.

  “Have a seat there,” he told them quietly, motioning to two comfortable-looking plaid swivel chairs a few paces behind him. They obeyed, and Wara watched as Rupert pressed his thumb against the blank computer screen and said a few numbers out loud. Immediately, the computer whirled and came to life, showing a background with a gray generic Windows drawing and two small rows of icons.

  Sandal and Tabor were back, having changed out of the tattered clothes from the hospital. They waited in silence at the back of the office, arms crossed in front of their chests.

  “I apologize in advance, in case this is upsetting.” Wara assumed Rupert was talking to her. “I know about this video from my brother who works at the American embassy, Robert. It was posted on YouTube, but of course has already been taken down. But the Embassy has a copy, I have a copy…who knows who else has this.”

  Rupert scooted his chair to one side, glanced back at Alejo with very serious eyes, and then the pixels of color on the wide computer screen came together in the image of a young guy with a reddis
h goatee wearing black against a background of a large black, white, and green stripe with a red triangle.

  The flag of Palestine, was the first thing Wara thought as she frowned at the large flag. Then her blood ran cold as it registered that the lanky, blond guy standing there was wearing a long-sleeve black shirt underneath a layer of explosives and wires encasing his chest.

  A suicide bomber.

  The young man stood in front of the flag in a black woolen sailor’s cap, wearing the explosive vest in a very matter-of-fact fashion. Instead of brandishing a long machine gun, as was the typical image Wara had seen of suicide bombers, he was gripping a violin over one shoulder, standing still for the camera.

  Wara started when she heard Alejo fly out of his chair, biting back a loud curse. His face was contorted, and he kicked at the swivel chair with one violent motion, clenching his fist.

  “Gabriel, you idiot! Don’t do this to me!”

  Heart spiraling down to her toes, Wara turned back to the man on the screen and realized that it was the same pale Gabriel who had left her at the hospital. She gripped the armrests of her chair tighter.

  Gabriel was repeating a prayer or verse from the Quran in Arabic. When he finished, he looked into the camera almost curiously and said, “First I would like to send a message to my parents. Dad, you were wonderful, and I thank you for your example. You were always a faithful believer. Mom, I pray that Allah will grant you the grace to continue to be a faithful believer despite all the trials. Please don’t be angry at me for this. You know that Allah will reward me with Paradise, and I will be there, waiting for both of you. Mom, I will especially be waiting for your good cooking.”

  At this point, Gabriel’s lips twisted into a wry smile, and his green eyes searched the camera. “I do this as my jihad against the cause of injustice, against those who maim and kill God’s people in Palestine and around the world.” Gabriel looked at his violin a moment, reflectively, and then continued, “I am not a tough warrior or a soldier. But with this my weapon, my talent that Allah has given me, I fight for his cause in the world and thus win his favor for Paradise.”

  Gabriel quoted a verse from the Quran, in Spanish: “Allah has bought from the believers their lives and their money in exchange for Paradise. Thus, they fight in the cause of Allah, willing to kill and get killed. Such is His truthful pledge in the Torah, the Gospel, and the Quran - and who fulfills His pledge better than Allah? You shall rejoice in making such an exchange. This is the greatest triumph.”

  “No, no, no!” Alejo was back in his chair, leaning forward, pleading. He slammed one fist into his knee. “Gabo, don’t do this!”

  But of course everyone realized that he already had.

  “I have always been a faithful Muslim,” Gabriel’s eyes bored into theirs from the screen, “except for a few indiscretions where I allowed my heart to get ahead of my faithful service to Allah. For that, I offer my life now in jihad, against the injustices of the world and against the unrighteousness in my own heart. I pray Allah will purify me by fire and accept me into Paradise.”

  Wara struggled to inflate her frozen lungs. Had Gabriel thought he disobeyed God by letting her and Alejo go?

  “I know that certain people will be very ticked off that I did this.” Gabriel’s mouth twisted wryly again, and he lowered the violin to his side. “But please know that I really cared about you all, all of my friends, and am thankful to have enjoyed so many good memories together. I’ll miss the brownies, the trips, all our conversations over coffee. But then again, I may not miss them at all. I think that in Paradise all those things will fade into memory, because I’m sure that life there is pretty good.”

  Gabriel lowered his lashes, then looked up and started to walk towards the camera. “This was a very strange video of this type, I know. I have always been a very quirky guy. I’ll be waiting for all you guys, so please don’t disappoint me, ok?”

  He disappeared to the side of the screen, leaving for one moment the view of the huge Palestinian flag, hanging in silence. Then the video was cut, and the only thing visible was an advertisement from YouTube.

  Alejo was bowed over onto his knees, sobbing. Wara was stunned to see stern Alejo sitting there, crying like a baby.

  Rupert obviously had expected his.

  “I thought that you might know him,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Of course, this is what happened to the Hotel Diplomat this afternoon. I also have a video taken from a camera phone found in the rubble, of the actual detonation, which you will not be allowed to see.”

  Wara sucked in a deep breath, fighting nausea.

  “The embassy wasn’t really investigating anything after the phone call you made, not yet. But with these videos, the investigation starts for real. The U.S., Bolivia, and Israel will be combing every corner to find out who the man in the video is, and who is connected to him.”

  It could have been Wara’s imagination, but Rupert’s blue eyes seemed a little misty and his face wore the look of a man who had lost many comrades in his day.

  “I---I think I need to go to lay down,” Wara stammered, standing up shakily and facing Sandal. “Can…is there a room here where I can sleep?”

  “Of course,” Sandal understood perfectly. “I’ll take you to your room. We will all be here tomorrow.”

  Feeling faint, Wara left the office and the sound of Alejo’s tears.

  31

  plaid

  ALEJO WOKE THE NEXT MORNING WITH a cool breeze rustling the gauze curtains and caressing his face. He was lying on his stomach on a single bed with thick wool blankets in a room with walls that smelled of cedar. His limbs felt like lead and his heart torn to pieces, but he forced himself to sit up on the edge of the bed and breathe.

  The man Wara loved was dead, thanks to Alejo

  Gabriel had blown himself to pieces in jihad, trying to make Allah love him. Alejo still remembered the scoffing tone of his friend’s voice in the delivery truck when Alejo told him his decision about Jesus: “The Quran tells us everything we need to please God. And I’ve been doing it all. We are the best of the best, che. Why would we need some person to take away our sins? We are serving Allah every day. We’re not unbelievers who don’t follow his laws. He’s got to accept me.”

  What better way to earn Allah’s favor than as a suicide bomber, making the ultimate sacrifice to do Allah’s will?

  Except man can’t earn God’s favor. Alejo resisted the urge to sink back down onto the bed, depressed. Only the Savior of the world can atone for the sins of men.

  Everyone is dead, Alejo thought. My life is a mess. God, I can’t think about anything but Wara’s tortured eyes as she misses Noah, or Gabriel, shouting Allah Akbar and pulling the detonation cord.

  Alejo groaned and leaned forward onto his knees. Last night, after Alejo had composed himself, Rupert told him that, from the camera phone video, it was clear that Gabriel had entered the restaurant in a tuxedo, apparently hired to play the violin in the restaurant of the Hotel Diplomat during lunch. He had simply walked over to the table of the two Israeli diplomats while playing a violin piece and detonated the explosives.

  The early estimates were in favor of a death toll of over seventy.

  I have to do something, or I’m going to go crazy in here. Alejo stood up suddenly.

  Tabor was about his size and had left him a mound of clean clothes on top of a cedar chest in the corner. Alejo got dressed and padded out of his room on bare feet, towards the bathroom on the first floor where he and Wara had been given rooms.

  Leaving the bathroom, Alejo could hear the soft clink of silverware coming from the kitchen, around the corner from the end of the hall. He found Rupert Cole, along with Tabor and Sandal, breakfasting on pancakes and coffee. Rupert was lounging in a worn, khaki bathrobe with the same woolly slippers on his feet. Sandal was wearing a tight red sweat suit that no one over twenty-five should be caught dead in, covered in jewels and large silver letters. Her jet black hair was tied back in a messy
ponytail, dark circles under her eyes. She slowly nursed a chipped mug of black coffee, eyes flitting to Alejo with a bare acknowledgement of his entrance. Alejo immediately pegged her as not a morning person.

  Tabor wore running gear and seemed chipper and alert. He nodded at Alejo and gulped the last of something that looked like a protein energy shake. “Ru really wants you to stay,” Tabor said, languid eyes twinkling. “He made you pancakes. The guy is a great cook.”

  Alejo slid into a chair across the table from Tabor, where an empty place setting seemed to be waiting. He assumed that Tabor and Sandal must be some kind of agents in the organization Rupert worked with, the “job offer” he had mentioned last night. If he had to guess, he would say Sandal was from Iran or Iraq, and Tabor from Israel. Rupert ducked into the kitchen and reappeared with a glass carafe of French Press coffee, which he emptied into Alejo’s mug.

  “Good morning. I assume you like strong coffee,” he said in an even tone, then placed a platter covered with tinfoil in front of Alejo. “The ones with nuts are banana mango. Then there are the German chocolate ones, too. Honey and butter are right there.”

  “Wow. Thanks.” Alejo looked up at him and offered a tight smile. He was actually glad that Rupert was holding off on the job offer until after breakfast, because Alejo felt like dirt. “I’m impressed. Is Wara up yet?”

  “No, she’s still sleeping,” Sandal croaked, looking up groggily from her coffee, “which I would still be if certain people hadn’t insisted I go running with them.”

  Tabor scoffed. “I don’t know why you didn’t just stay in bed. You only ran like a hundred meters with me, anyway.”

  “You know I don’t do mornings.” Sandal glared at him, then forked a bite of pancake rather violently. She speared Alejo with her bleary gaze, about to speak when Rupert dumped two pancakes on Alejo’s plate and clapped him on the shoulder.