Reverb (Story of CI #2)

by Rachel Moschell

  It was a question without an answer. Neelam closed her eyes and played the drums in memory of Sami.

  8

  Arabian Nights

  THE TRIP WENT PRETTY WELL, ACTUALLY, until Tangiers. Wara and Alejo sat together on their flights like normal people, Wara studying the Sky-Mall magazine and trying not be jealous as Alejo read Crime and Punishment---in Russian.

  Now they were climbing out of a rumpled taxi at the train station in Tangiers. Wara had never been in Morocco, and so far everything had been beautiful. Until she saw this train. It was now about midnight, and brown bulky trains huddled under weak street lamps. Windows with broken panes gaped in the trains’ rusting sides, quivering in the late night chill.

  “Ok, this is ours,” Alejo announced, returning from a vendor with their tickets. He led them to a long carriage that honestly looked to be from World War II. They navigated skeletal metal steps and gave their tickets to a station employee in a cream and tan striped robe of itchy cotton with a pointy hood that drooped down his hunched back. The guy grinned a wizened smile, focused especially on Wara. She had made sure to dress conservatively in a long-sleeved black tunic over wide pants and a thick sweater. She’d even draped a scarf to cover part of her hair; Alejo had said that women in Morocco didn’t cover up quite as much as they would in Iran. But the train station employee was still ogling her, even as Alejo pushed her forward first down the aisle of the car and out of his sight.

  It was soon obvious the situation wasn’t going to get any better.

  The train car was mostly full, and everyone turned to gape as Wara trailed Alejo towards an empty bench in the front. Men in the same djellaba robes of every color craned their necks over their large bundles of luggage. Young guys in slacks and leather jackets put away their cell phones and wiggled black eyebrows at her. Not a single woman in sight.

  Alejo waited for Wara to enter the bench first, then parked himself next to her. He paused short of stuffing their suitcases under the seat. A businessman in steel-rimmed glasses and an argyle sweater from the eighties was actually leaning over into their space, grinning at Wara. She cringed and turned towards the broken pane of glasses in their window, pulling her scarf tighter around her braided hair.

  Alejo snatched up the handles of their suitcases and was on his feet, swearing under his breath. He stepped out crisply into the aisle, barely giving Argyle Sweater time to get himself out of the way. “I never traveled with a woman before,” he told her sheepishly as he waited for her to rise and follow him. “This was supposed to be more fun than the plane. At least it always was for me. C’mon. I have a better idea.”

  Wara was glad to get out of this car, where she was beginning to feel like the main attraction at a zoo. But she was also annoyed. There was a plane that would take them to Fez? And Alejo had decided it would be fun to take this ancient deathtrap instead?

  It suddenly hit her that Rupert had sent all the information for arriving at CI headquarters with Alejo, assuming the two of them would travel to Morocco together. Alejo was even holding the CI credit card, since their trip was all-expense paid. Alejo Martir was kind of her only hope to make it to where she was going, and the thought sank like a sour cherry pit in her belly. Why in the world had she put herself in this situation?

  Alejo led them through two more rickety train cars, each one just as full of gawking men as the other. There was one shriveled grandmother in a black veil and robe, but otherwise Wara was still the only female on the train. “Women don’t travel at night, huh?” she spoke through gritted teeth. “Or very much at all. I hardly saw any women on the streets earlier in Tangier.”

  “Well, it is a Muslim country,” Alejo tried to cheer her up. An old guy with missing front teeth just missed smacking her on the behind as she went by and Wara launched herself forward, slamming into Alejo’s back. “You ok?” he tossed over one shoulder, continuing down the aisle. .

  She didn’t even try to answer him, because inwardly she was fuming. Alejo held open a padded cherry red door and she stalked through, ducking under his arm. Dim bronze lamps festooned the walls of this blessedly empty car, illuminating more faded red padding along the walls, dark wooden paneling, and a bar winking with dusty champagne glasses.

  “I thought there’d be one of these.” Alejo sounded quite proud of himself. “Every one of these old trains has an old bar car. Like something out of a Humphrey Bogart movie.”

  The good thing about this place was that there wasn’t another man in sight.

  “We can settle in over there for the night.” Alejo carried their black suitcases over towards the bar. “We’re not supposed to be in here, but if we hide behind the bar I bet everyone will leave us alone.”

  Not trusting herself to speak, Wara sourly positioned herself in a comfy looking spot on some rancid carpet, half-hidden behind the bar. She was exhausted from the trip and knew it. But more than that, she was angry to have to trust herself to a man she didn’t really want to on this crazy trip through the Moroccan mountains on this old Nazi train. Alejo lowered himself cross-legged next to her and their luggage, and the two of them leaned their heads against the cool red padding to try to sleep.

  The door to the car slammed open, letting in wisps of caramel light and the scent of stale cigarette smoke. Wara’s eyes popped and she froze, taking in an enormous figure straight out of Arabian Nights. Black robe. Silver pointy beard. And the shadow of a curved scimitar, easily the length of Wara’s legs.

  “Shoot!” she gasped. At her side, Alejo tensed. The giant knife-wielder glared at them in the darkness, then began muttering under his breath. Right then, Wara was pretty sure she was about to die. And it would be all Alejo’s fault. Again.

  The black-robed guy kept pacing the length of the car, obviously not happy, swishing the scimitar and muttering. To Wara’s shock, Alejo leapt to his feet, landing on skater tennis shoes, and began to argue with the giant in Arabic. They went back and forth for a little while, Alejo sometimes motioning towards her in a very cross tone. Wara knew some Arabic, but right now it had all fled the confines of her mind, off to some happy place that was definitely not here. Within a few minutes, the man from Arabian Nights nodded at Alejo and stalked off out the opposite door of the car, taking his scary knife with him.

  Alejo sniffed in satisfaction and sat back down next to Wara, leaning his head back against the red walls.

  “Sorry about that. The guy was concerned we were back here making out. Very anti-Islamic. But when I explained that I had actually brought you back here to protect you from the lustful glances of all the other men on the train…he was ok with that. He won’t be back.”

  “Well what if he is back!” Wara nearly yelled, realizing that her hands just wouldn’t stop shaking. “What are we doing on this stupid train? I thought you knew what you were doing. I trusted you!” Wara turned her gaze away from him bitterly, swallowing hard. “I take that back .I never trusted you. I should have just met you at Rupert’s place in Fez.”

  It was obvious Alejo was stricken. She tried not to watch as his Adam’s apple bounced painfully in his throat. “I don’t expect you to trust me,” he said carefully. “But that guy isn’t going to hurt you. I won’t let him.”

  “I’m not afraid to die,” she snapped in frustration. They were sitting very close together in the dim light, and Wara couldn’t help but notice Alejo’s intense eyes and that his lips were sculpted like something from a work of art. He was actually really good-looking and the fact that they had kissed as part of Alejo’s ruse to help her escape just made her feel even more confused. This was really awkward.

  “I’m just angry,” she forced her gaze away from him, “because I can’t trust you. And I want to.” Where those words came from, she had no idea. But she felt them, and knew it wasn’t just the culture shock talking.

  Alejo nodded and squared his jaw, trying to pretend like Wara’s words hadn’t hurt. He blinked those beautiful hazel eyes then turned them back to his vigil of the door, k
eeping her safe as he’d promised.

  9

  Chocolates and Bushy Beards

  FOR THREE DAYS AFTER THE WEDDING, THANK GOD, Moneta Z did not have to work. The wounds on Mirza’s back were healing just as quick as the last time he’d been lashed, and the time before that. But having a little time to just laze around the apartment was kind of nice. He had a lot of songs he wanted to write, pretty much all morbid and tragic and sad. But how was his inner muse supposed to cough up anything else when his friends were in prison?

  He came home from a motorcycle ride to find the household in action, aunties and Neelam bustling about in the kitchen. Guests had arrived. And that meant tea. And chocolates.

  Mirza greeted his aunties’ three lady friends in the pumpkin-colored living room, then headed for the kitchen, trying to find his sister. Moist vapors of jasmine tea with a hint of butter cookies teased his face as he entered the tiny jade-tiled kitchen, but Mirza’s eyes went right to the Belgian chocolates, spiraled on a silver tray, just begging him to save a few from those ladies’ clutches.

  “He’s here! Oh, thank the lucky stars! My poor boy!” The piercing voice of Feriba, the painfully skinny aunt, stopped Mirza midstep to the chocolates. Gordia, the older, much plumper one, rushed towards her nephew, dumping a tray of pistachios on the counter. Gordia’s thick unibrow lowered with deadly seriousness as she clucked and sputtered insults against the police, crushing Mirza in her firm, jiggling embrace.

  They were still upset about the lashing three days back. He’d tried to keep it from them, but the aunties knew everything.

  Rather enjoying the attention, Mirza escaped Gordia’s embrace and snatched a large chocolate, getting it into his mouth just as Feriba reached him, sporting one of those slinky red robes she wore around the house to imitate the fashionable women of the soap operas she spent most of the day glued to. At least she had taken the time to pull on some yoga pants.

  These two spinster sisters of his mother were characters all right. But they had raised Mirza and Neelam since their parents died in a car accident twenty years ago..

  As the two aunties filed back to their spot refilling the snack trays, Mirza caught a glance of Neelam, dumping Oreos onto a bamboo tray. Her jutting lower lip displayed quite the attitude, and her veil had, of course, been stripped off at the door along with the hated manteau. Now, Neelam’s outrageously purple hair hung sleekly to her shoulders, and she wore a white tank top and some kind of stretchy striped tights on her stick-like legs.

  Mirza leaned a hip against the countertop and swiped another chocolate as Gordia tried to look displeased. “You know, in spite of everything, in spite of the two sweet, innocent children I raised in the ways of Allah for my departed sister having become heathen rock stars…I still would think that my little Mirza would at least make it worth my while and give me some grandchildren.”

  Oh wow. That one had been a little sour. Mirza made a face and swallowed the latest chocolate, something similar to raspberry. If he hadn’t heard this all before, he might have actually choked. He was twenty-five. The aunties were getting worried. “Auntie-jan.” The corners of Mirza’s lips turned up into what he knew was an irresistible smile. “You know I’ve already explained. I wasn’t a good boy before. I broke a lot of nice girls’ hearts. But now I do what Jesus Christ says, and he wants me to stay single. At least for now.”

  “Allah knows that all young men play around. No one ever said that was bad. But what about your children? Sons?” Gordia was trying to remain cross, though her eyes said she was melting at the intense blue irises of her favorite nephew.

  Poor Aunties. Mirza’s heart was set on staying away from girls, and Neelam wasn’t exactly interested in matrimony, either. It was pretty unlikely any Iranian guy was going to let her gallivant around the world playing the drums unveiled. The Austrian boyfriend, Andrew, had been kicked out of Neelam’s life last year after a few months and a simple kiss on the hotel doorstep. Mirza hadn’t been ready to let his sister go to some skinny third-rate band member, so to Andrew’s departure he said, Good riddance.

  “Well,” Feriba snatched another chocolate from the tray and brought it to Mirza’s lips, “Gordia and I were just remarking about how pale you’ve been looking lately. You should go up to your room and rest while we have tea, and then I’ll fix your favorite dinner. You’ve got to eat well, because who knows when the right girl will come along?”

  “Yes, auntie-jan.” Neelam, who was watching all this while barely containing a snort of laughter, saucily licked chocolate crumbs from her fingers. “I think my brother should rest. Mighty pale indeed.”

  Mirza was saved from more of his sister’s mockery as the electric guitar riffs of an old Ashavan song rose from the pocket of his jeans. “Dominated…by my purse,” Sami of Ashavan sang. “I’m kidding, right? How stupid can I be?”

  Mirza blinked, ignoring the tightening in his throat as he opened his cell.

  “Asaalam Aleikum,” the serious voice of Dr. Hosseini greeted him. “I hope you’re not busy. If you could make the time, we could really use you here at the center.”

  Mirza eyed the scene in the kitchen, Neelam pouting and the counters quickly being taken over by superfluous trays. “I’ll be right over,” he told Dr. Hosseini. The stiff thank you that answered Mirza over the cell phone didn’t put him off; that was just Dr. Hosseini. Taking in the cooling climate out the window, Mirza grabbed the keys to the BMW and a blue scarf.

  Silky storm clouds were sliding across the sky as Mirza arrived at Hand Up, nodding to the armed security guards and parking his car next to the sagging front porch. The stucco walls of the classic old house were eggplant purple, the porch tiled and chipped. The charity’s offices occupied the entire house, while the back out-buildings were used for medical consults. Over the wide front door, visible from the street, an artsy sign with two golden hands grasping each other firmly proclaimed “Hand Up” in English and Farsi.

  The old porch gasped under Mirza’s weight as he reached for the front door. He heard the musical chime announcing his entrance and again wished he could give his old friend Sami an earful of choice words. Sami, who had added his fame to join with Hand Up in the fight against AIDS and made this place what it was today.

  Sami, who, before being put in jail, had sneakily signed papers leaving Mirza Samadi in charge of Hand Up.

  Sami had been Mirza’s best friend and he’d loved the guy more than anything, but seriously, what had he been thinking?

  And then he went off and didn’t come back.

  Mirza realized his fist had tightened on the door handle and he released it, exhaling loudly and sauntering into the entryway.

  The scent of weak jasmine tea greeted him, probably simmering somewhere in the break room. Chipped, olive tiles from another decade spread out in a long hallway, lined by electric blue walls full of bulletin boards and doorways to offices. Mirza’s own office, which was really only for show, was at the end of the hall, emblazoned with a ridiculous golden sign that said director.

  Well, he had accepted the role because that was what his friend had wanted. As Sami had always said, fame was the currency they had, and what better way to spend it then for the poor and needy? But the real brains in this place was Dr. Hosseini. And the volunteers, nearly all young people, who kept Hand Up running.

  Mirza headed down the wall of electric blue towards his office, keeping an eye out for Dr. Hosseini. Leila was watching him from the battered receptionist desk, and Mirza couldn’t help but notice that she sat up straighter and smoothed her hair as he passed.

  “Hi,” she stammered. “Mirza! How are you?” Mirza forced himself to stop and give her a famous grin. The deep rose-colored flush began at her neck and painted her cheeks as she beamed back at him, obviously thrilled at the attention.

  “I’m fine, Leila. And you?” Fearing the girl might be about to have a nervous breakdown, Mirza didn’t really wait for a response but instead half-turned to keep heading down the hall. Thi
s was the same old story of his life, girls looking at him as if he were the next greatest wonder after the invention of the wheel.

  But Mirza wasn’t in the market for girls. He had work to do. “You seen Dr. Hosseini?” he asked Leila.

  She swallowed hard and nodded towards the end of the hall. “He told me he’d be there, waiting for you.”

  “In my office, right?” Leila managed another nod and Mirza smiled back, hoping it conveying appreciation for her help and nothing else. “Thanks, Leila.”

  Two female volunteers had filled an office doorway by now and were gawking at him, twittering about something behind their hands. It was probably too much to hope the girls were talking about some project they were supposed to be working on for Hand Up. Mirza ignored them and marched to the open door of his office, scowling at the shiny gold sign that held his name.

  “Doctor!” he greeted Hosseini calmly, toning down his usual smile a bit in the presence of the older man and his formal manners. Dr. Hosseini was sitting in one of Mirza’s silver tweed office chairs, reading an ornately-covered Quran. At Mirza’s entrance he rose to his feet and placed the book reverently in a carved wooden stand on Mirza’s desk. Next to it, a Holy Bible in Farsi rested on a twin stand. Between them, a bowl of Mirza’s favorite chocolates, Cadburys in shiny purple foil. The red and white keffiyeh that the doctor wore around his neck would clue anyone in that this man was a deeply religious Muslim member of Ansar-e Hezbollah if the black woolly beard didn’t do it. To complete his outfit, Dr. Hosseini wore cheap black slacks and a starched white shirt over his bulging belly. Just like every day.

  Mirza greeted the man with a firm handshake and slid into the chair behind his desk. The only person in the world who could make him feel like a young punk for wearing torn black jeans and a flannel shirt was Dr. Hosseini. And that fact kind of made Mirza love the doctor even more. He knew Hosseini loved him back. Or at least appreciated him, in his own way.