Reverb (Story of CI #2)

by Rachel Moschell

  She was rambling. Sandal sipped her tea and gave Wara a kindly pat on the arm. But now Wara had gotten started.

  “It’s also been awful because my ex-boyfriend was there. Lázaro. I had been avoiding him for years, and then, suddenly, he was working with Alejo. He was Noah’s friend from the tour agency, but he still was a part of putting the bomb on the bus. And then he was going to kill me. Alejo saved me.”

  She swallowed bitterly and rolled her head back for a better view of the mountains. “So, the sum it all up, what am I doing here? I can’t believe Rupert wanted me to come. Everything is so messed up.”

  “You really don’t think Rupert and I and the others who work with CI are perfect, do you?” Sandal’s eyes narrowed and she flipped a fat black braid behind one shoulder. “Because that would be a laugh. You know Alejo isn’t perfect. You know you aren’t. And I certainly am not, though you don’t really know me yet. Just because you want to obey God and do what’s right doesn’t mean you will have it all together. That’s what God’s grace is for.”

  More prisms of light scattered across the white table, beaming through the glass and mint tea like lasers, sparkling with hope that Sandal’s words were true.

  13

  I Am Rostam

  THE NARROW HALLWAY OF TAN VINYL STEPS quivered spastically under harsh florescent lights. Or maybe it was only Alejo’s eyes, begging sleep, that were tricking him into seeing the mass of people and suitcases flowing down towards the customs area not quite clearly. He forced his head to clear and safely navigate the stairs of Esfahan International Airport. Just under Alejo’s nose on the crowded stairway, the jade shimmer of one of the veils he had picked up in London for Wara bounced as she descended the stairs. Her small black suitcase was in one of Alejo’s hands, his own in the other. The hastily-tied white veil directly ahead of Wara was Sandal, who scanned the press of Iranians with a cool eye.

  The sleep threatening to fog Alejo’s eyes skittered away and a wide grin split his face.

  We’re in Iran! It’s been so long!

  The team breezed through customs, after Alejo muscled the lot of them up towards the front of the knotted mass of people that passed for a line. They strolled under the gilded banner that welcomed them to the Islamic Republic of Iran, and then Alejo’s eyes drifted across the handheld sign: “Argentinos. Bienvenidos a Iran. Soy Rostam”

  Argentineans. Welcome to Iran. I am Rostam.

  Behind the neatly-cut white poster board sign stood a guy of about twenty-three, wearing skinny jeans, obnoxious high top tennis shoes with an iridescent stripe, and a red polo. The slick brown hair cut at an angle around his face framed huge, doe-brown eyes, so wide and bright that they struck Alejo as Japanese anime character eyes, turned into flesh and blood.

  This was it: Rostam, the contact Rupert had sent them over here to meet. Wara, Sandal, and himself were the Argentineans, thanks to the new passports and identities Rupert had cooked up for the trip.

  Alejo tapped Sandal unobtrusively on the shoulder, then headed straight for the guy with the sign. “I think you’re looking for us,” he said in Spanish.

  The brown eyes lit up and a huge grin spread across the face of the guy called Rostam. “There you are!” he said in lilting Spanish. “You’re the Argentineans? Paulo, Petra, and Sandal?” He rattled off the list of the group’s aliases from memory in one breathless string. The guy’s enthusiasm was catching.

  “That’s us.” Alejo tipped him a smile. “You must be Rostam. You know Spanish?”

  “Sure,” Rostam shrugged. “So many of the tourists that come through my agency speak Spanish. They’re usually only here for a week or two at a time, but after so many tours I’ve gotten some practice time in. Oh, pardon me just one second. I’ve got to take this.”

  Strident tones of electric guitar and tinny drums rose into their air space and Rostam slipped a tiny cell phone from one pocket. The bridge of his nose flushed darker and he couldn’t keep a grin from his lips as he spoke into the phone. “Yes, honey? I’m at the airport now. They’re already here. Oh no. Not again.” Rostam’s copper eyebrows dipped and his narrow shoulders slumped into a large U. “Seriously? That’s the second time in two months! What a way to send my salary down the drain!” Rostam exchanged a few more comments, then stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

  “Trouble at home?” Sandal raised an eyebrow and smirked at their new tour guide. Sandal knew this guy from previous trips to Iran, and had filled Alejo and Wara in on his recent marriage to an Iranian Christian girl.

  “Oh, it’s nothing really,” Rostam said cheerfully, helping to maneuver suitcases across the blinding white tiles and towards an exit. “That was my wife. Ava.” The pride in his voice shone brighter than the snow white airport foyer. “They’re up on the roof of our apartment, destroying satellite dishes again. They got mine last month at my old apartment.” He turned around grinning, and for the first time Alejo noticed the hint of dark bruising around one of the guy’s eyes. “The government doesn’t like it when we watch American Idol,” he explained. “C’mon, you Argentineans. Let’s get you to your hotel.”

  Despite it all, man it was good to be back in Iran. When Alejo stepped out on the deck the next morning and was struck by the perverted cologne of smog and jasmine flowers, he wondered why he’d stayed away so long.

  Sure, Tehran was not somewhere he was looking to go anytime soon. But Iran also held so many happy memories of loyal friends and long nights feasting in the countryside.

  Now he had made it to Esfahan, rumored to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Their tour guide was cartoonish and their hotel, the Happy Paris, was a yellow-tone monstrosity parked in a murky alleyway next to a major thoroughfare. But Alejo was glad to be here.

  It had taken him a few days to recover after Wara kicked his face in while he’d haphazardly tried to seduce her. But at least that scene in the tree house had shown him something: it wasn’t just about what Rupert had told him to do. He liked Wara, and realizing that had just made him even more determined to complete the mission.

  This morning they were in Iran, a new country and a new start. Alejo dressed in a long-sleeved blue shirt and khakis and went downstairs to meet the girls in the marigold and maize tiled lobby.

  They found Rostam’s car idling outside in the alley, a tiny red affair emblazoned with the logo “Lovely Esfahan Tours.” Wara was wearing one of the outfits he got for her in London, something denim and green with embroidery on the veil. She actually smiled and said good morning, albeit a little tensely.

  It was good to see her smile.

  But she had smiled right before she nearly kicked his teeth in.

  They all climbed into the little red car and Rostam gunned it out onto the main thoroughfare. “I hope you all slept well. The Happy Paris is pretty nice, if I do say so myself. At least it has cable, something I can’t claim for myself after the little Ansar-e Hezbollah visit last night.” Rostam grinned at Alejo in the passenger seat next to him. Today their tour guide was wearing shiny aviator sunglasses, a trendy white and blue collared shirt and more skinny jeans.

  The fashions here were horrible. Rostam dressed like a twelve year old gangster. Either that, or Alejo was getting really, really old.

  Then again, Iran’s population was extremely young. The average age was about twenty-five. So here, with his nearly thirty years, Alejo was rather elderly. As was Sami of Ashavan, also thirty, who they were here to find.

  “I’m so sorry I can’t take you all to my house,” Rostam was continuing. He jerked the little red car around a ponderous garbage truck and revved between a taxi and a sleek red bus. “I can take you to visit other people, but you’re not allowed to come home with me. Government rules. But we’ll have lots of time to talk during your tour. You won’t believe all the awesome places I’m going to take you to here in Esfahan. I know you probably never thought Iran was going to be so cool, but be prepared to be blown away.”

  Despite himself, Alejo
felt his lips twitch into a grin. How had Rupert met this guy? Scrawny and pale yet with the energy of a circus master, Rostam had surprised them all at the airport last night by whipping out a wedding picture to show off his new bride, a stunning babe who could have been a runway model. How did Rostam pull it off?

  Rostam zoomed around a lime green VW bug, adjusted his sunglasses and punched a button on his stereo. Hair-raising electric guitar riffs and drums filled the car, a male voice with the perfect blend of beauty and rock and roll scream singing in Farsi.

  “This music is awesome!” Wara called loudly from the back.

  Rostam wiggled his eyebrows at her. “I know, right? It’s my band!”

  Alejo jerked away from his view of Esfahan. “You…this is you?”

  “No!” Sandal’s hand appeared to whack Rostam on the shoulder. “What he means is that this is Moneta Z. One of Iran’s most famous rock bands, which Rostam manages. He’s their concert agent.”

  “You got it,” Rostam beamed. “Although, as I’m sure you’ve heard, most rock and roll here is illegal since it can’t pass the censors. We have to take it all underground. So, for you guys, I’m just the tour guide.”

  “Can we go to a concert?” Wara asked over the amazing music. Alejo had goose bumps. The guitar in this song was like nothing he had ever heard.

  There we go. She likes the danger.

  Barely a day in Esfahan, and Wara already wanted to go to an illegal rock concert.

  “Of course!” Rostam answered. “You are all in luck. Moneta Z is playing at a fundraiser just a few days hence. I’ll make sure you all get there.” He lowered his voice, lips pressed into a thinner line. “Mirza of Moneta Z was great friends with Sami. He took over Sami’s work at the AIDS center. Before Sami’s fame got attention for Hand Up, but now it’s all Moneta Z.”

  Their tour guide’s face had sobered, and he pulled the car into a rocky field and shifted to park. “The first stop of the day. Atasgah-e Esfahan, our very own fire tower.”

  Thank God they had brought water, because it was a wicked climb to the top of the dusty hill. It was early morning, but by the time they reached the top Alejo thought Rostam and Wara might be about to collapse. The altitude wasn’t helping them, and neither were the hot, long-sleeved manteau coats the girls had to wear. Even Sandal was panting, and her veil had pretty much lost the battle to cover her fat braids.

  “Ok,” Rostam gasped after dropping to a large stone for a good five minutes, head in his hands. “I have to say I remember now why I never bring tours here.” He wobbled to his red Converse tennis shoes and blew coppery bangs off his sweaty forehead. “This building over here--" he indicated a circular structure of sandy old bricks and domed windows—“is Esfahan’s only remaining fire tower from the Zoroastrian religion days. Or, less romantically, it could have been a military watchtower. But either way, it’s pretty awesome. We call it Burj-e Qurban, the Tower of Sacrifice, and the thing used to be about sixty feet high.”

  Wara had gratefully gulped down some water from Alejo’s bottle, and Sandal had stopped fanning herself with the end of her veil. “This place is actually quite special,” Rostam continued. “It’s the only fire tower Esfahan has left after the rest were destroyed by the Arab invaders. Our theory is that after the Arabs hiked up here, they were way too tired to do much destroying. Thus, we still have the fire tower. Shall we move into the shade?”

  Everyone happily followed Rostam across the shifting rocky terrain, into the semi-shade of the fire tower structure. Wara leaned against one of the domed doorways, hand grazing the crumbling bricks, staring at the city below. Alejo moved next to her and they watched matchbox cars zip along avenues lined in greenery, cutting through swatches of powdery chocolate terrain. Beyond, the Zagros Mountains cupped the sprawling city in their embrace.

  “Esfahan nesf-jahan ast,” Alejo murmured, taking in the ancient metropolis of over two million. When Wara eyed him he translated softly, “’Esfahan is half the world.’ This place was the capital of the Persian empire and one of the largest cities in the world. It still has some of the glory.”

  “Those other tourists are gone now,” Rostam said, appearing at Alejo’s side before Wara could respond to his history lesson. Rostam watched as a group of Iranian young people made their way shakily down the boulders to their car below. “We can talk.”

  Alejo waited for Sandal to approach; this was her show. Alejo and Wara were just along for the ride. She questioned Rostam for the latest news and they found out that Tarsa, Jalan, and Ardalan, the other three members of Ashavan, were confirmed alive, though Ardalan’s health was precarious due to the drugs they were using to make him confess. The only lawyer who had been willing to take their case had recently been thrown in jail with a nine year sentence for “crimes against national security.” And, of course, Sami had been reported dead.

  All of this was making Alejo very angry. Rostam’s eyes pinched as he talked with them, the raw pain more than evident.

  “When the news came out about Sami’s death, what did the reports say his crime was?” Sandal asked. Being Iranian herself, she knew how the system worked. She didn’t believe Sami was dead any more than Alejo did. It was possible, of course, but the government had been known to falsely report deaths, even leaking out fake execution photos that ended up on Facebook.

  Rostam sniffed. “They said he was executed for national security crimes, rape, and for being a Satanist. How ridiculous is that? But we have a copy of the real court documents and the only charge there is apostasy.”

  “There’s no chance any of those charges could have been real? He was a rock star.”

  “Think what you want,” Rostam raised one eyebrow. “So did everyone else.”

  “Well, the false charges are consistent with the government’s usual modus operandi. They just let word of the other crimes get out so no one in the West will protest what they’re doing,” Sandal nodded. “Killing someone for changing religions doesn’t exactly give you a good reputation. Part of the reason we’re here, of course, is to bring any proof you have with us, to help call attention to the case. The church in the west thinks Sami was a degenerate rock star. Any proof you can show me to the contrary could help us get attention.”

  “That’s why we were so glad Jaime Malcolm was going to come,” Rostam said. “The guy who first invited Ashavan to the United States? We’re afraid to put any proof we have out on Facebook or something because it can be tracked back to us. The internet is all being watched. It’s not like we could advertise to Church of the Valley in Chicago about all the converts over here thanks to Sami.” Rostam’s tone changed from wry to sincere. “When Jaime’s visa got denied it was kind of like our last hope died. First the Christians in the U.S. disowned Sami…we still can’t imagine why. Then Jaime couldn’t come. You guys are a Godsend to us. We have hope again, thanks to you.”

  It was a cheesy speech, but Alejo was glad they could help. “We’ll need everything you have by next Thursday when we leave,” he explained to Rostam. “Especially anything that would help us prove Sami’s still alive so we can put pressure on in the West. Plus, we really would like to visit your house church, talk to your members and see what Sami’s been up to since he’s been back in Iran. And meet the secret contact you have tucked away who’s been getting information for you from the Ashavan members in prison.”

  Rostam looked as if he had just licked a really sour lemon. “Uh, ok. Well. You can come with me to my church, but I just want you to know…it’s not like other house churches. Those of us who go there, we knew Sami the best. It’s not safe for us to mix much with the other house churches; we could get them in trouble.” Rostam swung his aviator sunglasses around in the air, calculating. “I’ll get Mirza from Moneta Z to talk with our contact. I’m not sure if he’ll meet with you, though. He’s a little skittish. As for Sami…we don’t have anything to give you to help prove he’s alive.”

  Rostam slid his glasses on his face and crossed to the ot
her side of the fire tower, hunching against the arched doorway facing his city.

  14

  Prisoner Two

  THIS MORNING WHEN THE PRISONER CRACKS one eye open in the stuffiness of his cell, he grunts and decides that it’s official. Either the two drab wool blankets folded on the concrete under his body are becoming even more painfully thin, or his stubborn hunger strike of the past six days is actually taking effect. Not that the idea of having lost weight while not eating is actually surprising; combined with the fact that he sits in this cell nearly all day with no access to exercise, he should be surprised that he has as much strength left as he does.

  The funny thing is, the reason the prisoner can feel every one of his ribs grating against the concrete is his own fault. Orange Leather, his bazju, has been cajoling the prisoner nonstop since the beginning of his hunger strike.

  Come on, I’ve brought you an extra portion of fried chicken. And today we have a bit of vegetables in the rice.

  The food here has always been pretty decent; the prisoner suspects that he probably gets slightly better food than the rest, due to his special status.

  And then, one day that the bazju had been particularly distressed by the prisoner’s sallow face: Let’s make a deal. You eat five spoonfuls of soup, and I will give you back your iPod for an hour. You can listen to some music. You’d really like that, wouldn’t you?

  Oh, yeah. Now that had been a true temptation. But, as of now, the hunger strike still stands. At least until tomorrow. The only thing it seems to be accomplishing is giving the prisoner the pleasure of seeing the bazju beg and bring in special treats.

  The lack of exercise, though, that was the fault of his jailers. Since the first day he’d been arrested, the prisoner has been locked up in solitary confinement. He assumes this is because Iran doesn’t want any of the other prisoners knowing that this particular prisoner is here in Evin, alive and well. Some of them, after all, might soon be released and report the news to their families. And, hopefully, the BBC and United Nations.