Reverb (Story of CI #2)

by Rachel Moschell

  “So, we might as well pray, I mean,” she continued. “Since I have to stay here anyway.”

  Mirza pulled back from the counter, knocking the tea mugs into disarray as he whirled out of the kitchen. “Under no circumstances am I going to pray with you today,” he said clearly, lowly. “Call your husband to come get you.”

  Mirza stalked down the hall and locked himself in the bedroom, as far away from Ava as possible.

  The bloodstains hadn’t gone anywhere. Even in the shadowy semi-darkness, Mirza could make them out on the smooth ceiling of the last bedroom on the left. After slamming the door, he flopped down on the pewter silk bedspread and gazed at the ceiling, then squeezed his eyes shut. This room of the bachelor apartment was Mirza’s room of self-discovery, the bedroom where, way back before Sami had come back with the story of Jesus, Mirza had discovered that he really, truly, was an absolute jerk.

  He could never quite recall what he had been doing when the cries began to ring out from the back of the apartment. A weekend party was in full swing, and the music was deafening. But above it all, he heard his sister and Ava begin to shriek, “Mirza! You’ve gotta come. She says she’s going to kill herself!”

  Wondering if it were a joke, he had stepped towards his sister, the last vestiges of a grin still twisting his mouth and a cigarette between his fingers. “Not a cool joke, sis.”

  But Neelam’s face was deathly white. “No way, Mirza. There’s some girl back there holding a gun to her head. In that room!”

  Frenzy began to grow around the living room as others heard Neelam’s words and shot worried glances down the darkened hallway. Mirza scowled and walked towards the back room, motioning for Neelam to stay put. She crossed her arms and followed him with her eyes. Mirza reached the room that had some sort of blue carpet and a silver silk bedspread.

  In the corner of the room near a window, a girl stood in khakis and a dark manteau, pressing the barrel of a gun against the soft flesh under her chin. She was average-looking with mousy brown hair, and reddened hazel eyes behind tortoise glasses flashed wildly when Mirza entered the room. The girl began to breathe faster and the click of the gun’s safety being released caused Mirza to blink. She jammed the gun tighter against her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Whoa,” he gaped stupidly. “Please don’t do that.”

  “Mirza,” she whimpered, and then the eyes flashed and narrowed at him. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  Mirza regarded her, racking his brain. Did he actually know this girl? He didn’t think so. Of course, too many girls knew who he was. He heard the sound of his party-going friends clustering around in the hallway, and this made him quite nervous seeing as this scrawny girl was holding a gun and obviously disturbed. He kicked the door closed and locked it, keeping one eye on the girl with the glasses.

  “So, what’s your name?” He kept his voice even, trying not to gawk at the gun.

  I’ve got to talk her down. I’m sure she doesn’t really want to do this.

  Mirza felt pretty confident in his ability to charm this wild girl back to her senses. But at his question, instead of murmuring an answer, the girl’s eyes sparked flame again and her entire face crumpled. “How many times have I told you?” she shouted. “I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve told you. My name is Elaheh!”

  “Elaheh. Ok.” Now Mirza was beginning to suspect drugs. But the pain in the girl’s face was only too clear, her grip on the trigger too steady. Mirza ran his fingers through his curls and faced her squarely. “Great. Elama. Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you. I’m a great listener.”

  A thin, reedy wail filled the room. “Elaheh, Mirza. I am Elaheh. And you never remember me. You always look right at me at parties without ever seeing me. Except for the party in July, when we sat up all night talking on your lovely black leather couch. I write songs, and you listened to my ideas all night, said they were wonderful. We were going to work together, song writing.”

  Mirza blinked, and felt his hands loosen at his side. Ok, he must really have been high that night, because none of this was ringing a bell. He had a bad feeling about where this was going.

  “At least that’s what you told me.” Elama’s—no, Elaheh’s-- eyes were ringed in red, devastated. “And then you brought me back to this bedroom. In the morning, we were all eating breakfast and you didn’t remember me. At first I thought you were just pretending, because I know I am not very beautiful like the other girls. But then I realized…you really didn’t remember me.”

  Mirza exhaled slowly. “I am so sorry. I…I was probably so stoned that night.”

  “You didn’t seem stoned at all,” Elaheh spit scornfully.

  “I’m good at hiding it. You thought everything I said was serious.” The realization made Mirza feel about as low as a dog. How many other nights did he not remember? “But if I did that to you, I was wrong.” He tasted the words slowly, not accustomed to admitting that he had messed up. But he really had. He met the girl’s runny eyes, saw her whole body shaking. He, Mirza, had done this. He had destroyed this girl’s life, and he didn’t even remember her name.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, vacant like an old cigarette carton. “Elaheh, please forgive me. Give me the gun, and we’ll talk about it.”

  She glared at him then, and the hate in her face sent a shiver down Mirza’s back. “No,” she whispered, and pushed the gun again into her chin, moving the trigger a hairsbreadth. Mirza was desperate. He held up one hand towards her.

  “Don’t!” he gasped. Feeling his voice tremble, he added, “You’re angry. I did this to you. If you’re going to shoot someone, it should be me.”

  The words sounded foreign, horrible. His sane side wanted to shout, No, don’t shoot me! I really don’t want to die, and if you can’t handle this little problem between us, be my guest. End it all.

  But even as he thought it, Mirza could see the truth. He, Mirza Samadi, was an evil man. He was the kind of jerk they wrote songs about. The realization brought bile up from his stomach.

  A chorus of concerned voices called from the hall and fists pounded on the door. Mirza realized his eyes were tightly shut. He opened them to a hollow gun barrel, pointed at his forehead.

  Oh God, she was going to take him up on his offer!

  “Turn around and put your head against the wall,” Elaheh hissed. Mirza obeyed and pressed his forehead against the smooth plaster, faint. His body tensed as he waited for the bullet, all the while sure that the world was about to become a much better place without him. The gun cocked loudly in the silence inside his empty chest, and he imagined the girl taking aim right behind him. He could hear her loud breathing, rasping just behind his neck.

  “No,” she finally said. “You have to turn around. I want you to see this.”

  Mirza turned around, expecting to see the bullet tearing towards his heart. Instead, a brilliant roar flashed to the ceiling and crimson stars exploded around him as Elaheh slumped to the floor.

  Every time Mirza came to this room and closed his eyes, he imagined the other ending, the one that could have happened in a world where simply saying I’m Sorry could make everything good again.

  “I’m so sorry,” he would say to Elaheh. “Please forgive me. I am so, so sorry.” And the girl’s arm slips to her side as the tears run down her cheeks. The gun falls to the carpet and Mirza flicks it aside, then Elaheh crumples into his arms as he tells her again, I’m sorry, so sorry. I was wrong.

  He picks her up in his arms like a child and carries her towards the door to the hall and the waiting arms beyond.

  Elaheh had died while Sami was touring in America. A month later, Ashavan returned from the tour that they had obtained thanks to the sponsorship of a rather influential American church, of all things. And Sami of Ashavan, Mirza’s best friend, had somehow returned totally different. He was calm and cool, not ranting and raving like the other bands about what fun it had been to drink beer every night and carouse with unveiled,
easy American women at parties. He had returned talking constantly about the main figure of Christianity, however.

  Sami thought Jesus was the greatest one who had ever lived. He thought he was God. He was in love with Jesus.

  In love with God? Who ever heard of such a thing?

  Sami had brought this Injil, the Christian New Testament, in Farsi and told Mirza he should read it. Mirza read the entire book Sami lent him in one weekend, nearly choking over the startling phrase: “The Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world.”

  On Monday, he had to go rehearse with Sami down in Farid’s basement, where they had soundproofed so as not to alert the authorities. He played the guitar for four hours straight, then swiped the bright blood oozing from his shredded fingers with toilet paper. Mirza broke his gaze away from the bloody strings of his black Fender and flipped his head towards Sami, who had his long legs slung up on a stack of packing crates, marking a dog-eared book of Sudoku and sipping something Mirza doubted was legal from a smuggled Starbucks mug.

  They could practice for their joint concert later, when Neelam showed up with Ava. Right now Mirza felt like talking.

  “So, you been talking at all with Jaime or Gerrit?” Mirza had seen pictures of the two scrawny guys who had been behind organizing the concert tour for Iranian bands. What had possessed them?

  Sami stuck a pencil in his Sudoku page and took another swig from the mug. “Jaime and I catch up on Facebook all the time,” he informed Mirza. “But I want them to come over here, so we can show them how we do things here, in the underground.” Sami grinned and slung his legs to the floor. “Plus, I want to talk with them. I’ve got the Bible. But, you know, a lot of people are asking me a cartload of questions. Tricky stuff.” Sami slapped the Sudoku book onto a nearby crate and looked pensive. “I’m a decadent rock star, for goodness’ sake. I just sing.”

  Well, seeing as Sami was a philosophy/literature double major, Mirza knew he did actually know quite a bit. But Mirza would just shut up and let his friend pretend.

  “What do I know?” Sami continued with a flick of one long hand. “I need Jaime. And maybe Gerrit. Though I don’t know if Gerrit can survive the food here. The guy is allergic to like every food you can imagine, and he only eats if it’s what they call ‘organic’ in the States. You know, raised without chemicals. There are really people who only eat that, and they pay like twice as much for the food, too.”

  “Does it taste better?” Seriously? Mirza felt his lips curve into a sardonic smile. If the two skinny guys showed up here, he would take them with him to the center of the bazaar, make them eat fried cow tripe. And then, if Gerrit made it, of course, he might spend a whole afternoon in Joe’s Coffee Shop with them, drilling them with all the millions of questions about Jesus that had been assaulting his mind since Sami had come home and told everyone about the Son of God.

  “Don’t know,” Sami shrugged. “The food there was awful, anyway.” He fixed the jade eyes that caused pretty much every Iranian female to swoon on Mirza. “Did you read the Injil?”

  Mirza had. “It was…” What could he say? Amazing? Pretty cool? It had blown his mind.

  “What do I have to do?” he heard himself say. The words seemed to open up the space in Farid’s stuffy concrete cellar and Mirza felt he had run up to a sheer cliff to stare over the edge. Without considering how far it was to the bottom, without a plan as to what would happen if he just went free-falling, Mirza knew he was ready. Just like that. He wanted in, and he wanted in now. With the Lamb of God.

  17

  Party Church

  THEIR THIRD NIGHT IN ESFAHAN, AT TEN, Wara and her little group found Rostam’s trusty red car idling in front of the Happy Paris. The alleyway was otherwise silent and smelled of night-blooming jasmine. Tonight they would visit Rostam’s house church and meet others who had known Sami of Ashavan.

  In the hotel room she and Sandal shared, Wara had found some internet videos of Ashavan and Moneta Z, hoping to get to know the two bands a little better. With her mind on other things in Morocco, she hadn’t actually watched an Ashavan video yet.

  “You see why he’s famous?” Sandal had teased, smacking her on the arm as the first Ashavan video came on the screen. As soon as Sami began to sing, yeah, she could see why he was famous. With dreamy green eyes and thick black lashes, Sami was easily the most beautiful man Wara had ever seen.

  The guy in the Moneta Z videos wasn’t bad looking either, and his sister was sprightly and pouting as she banged away on the drums with bright purple hair, veil loosely draped around her shoulders. Their music was amazing, but the chalky vampire makeup the pair wore was just a little freaky. Rostam had explained to them yesterday after the fire tower that Moneta Z was made up of a brother and sister, with Moneta for the Greek muse and Z for Zeus, her brother.

  The trip to the house church took no more than ten minutes through surprisingly light Esfahan traffic. Towering modern apartment buildings the color of steamed milk rose above them along these smooth, rose-lined streets. Rostam guided his vehicle into an underground parking garage, gliding to a stop in front of the formidable black gate that sat across the entrance. He slid the window down coolly and raised a hand in greeting to a tank-like security guard in black who manned the gate with a semiautomatic weapon.

  “It’s early,” the man said, flashing a mouthful of pearly white teeth at Rostam. “A little eager, aren’t we?”

  “Shut up, Abdul. I know you’re just jealous because some of us get to have all the fun. I’ll have someone bring you down a Heineken before the morning.” With one last chuckle, Rostam pushed the button to raise his car window, then drove through the black gate that Abdul the guard hauled open.

  Beer sometime before the morning? Wara found herself frowning. What kind of a place for a house church was this?

  After they had parked, she followed her group into a sleek silver elevator that took them to the ninth floor of one of the buildings. The elevator was shared with another group of six Iranian young people, flirting and giggling obnoxiously.

  The elevator dinged at the ninth floor; Wara left the group of raucous young people behind, only to see another group of partying kids pushing their way into one of the apartments a few doors down. The cherry wood of the apartment’s door slammed shut with a cheerful bang,. Wara was left in relative quiet, sinking ankle-deep in the rich Persian rug and staring at the twinkling gold and crystal chandelier lighting the hallway over their heads.

  These apartments were amazing. Opulent.

  “C’mon, let’s go,” Rostam grinned widely at his new friends. His voice echoed loudly in the corridor, and he began to sing an off-key Persian pop song as he set off towards the far end of the royal purple hall rug.

  “A lot of parties going on tonight,” Wara observed, frowning at the third cherry wood door they had passed with the sound of techno music and laughter.

  “Well, it is Thursday night,” Rostam shrugged. Since Friday is the Muslim holy day, Thursday night was the equivalent of Saturday night in the West. A good night for partying and staying up late. Rostam stopped in front of a door tucked at the end of the hallway. Vibrations of Muse shook the wood as he turned a key in the lock and let the door swing open. A large apartment spread before them, eggshell-colored carpet and a black marble bar.

  Whoever lived here was very, very rich. Wara hadn’t even asked Rostam who else was part of his house church, but whoever lived here had to have money. The place was amazing, the cobalt stereo system on the wall like something from the future.

  The door closed and locked behind them, leaving them inside with Muse and a mound of discarded shoes on the carpeting. Alejo was adding his sandals to the pile and Wara followed his lead.

  “I bet everyone else’s here already,” Rostam grinned. “C’mon, honey.” He reached to take Ava’s hand and the two of them blushed, walking down a back hallway together towards a mellow orange light that turned the carpet sunny. They entered the last room on the right, and
Wara took in a half-dozen curious faces, purple matte walls, and a bronze Aztec sun on the wall. Purple cushions lined the carpet, and everyone else in the room was already comfortable on the floor, Iranian-style. Rostam made the newcomers find a spot, then stood up in the middle, beaming with bright eyes.

  “I get to introduce you all,” he said happily. He explained a little about the group of Argentineans, leaving the purpose of their visit pretty vague. Then he moved on to the Iranians; Wara focused carefully on his Farsi, wanting to remember a name for each face in the room.

  The first one her eyes focused on was a shock. She knew it was the purple hair that threw her off; for a moment, Wara assumed that her impression of the girl’s hair actually being that color was because nearly everything else in this wild room was purple. But then the violet blue eyes jogged Wara’s memory back to videos that afternoon and she blinked, realizing she was looking at Neelam Samadi. The drum player from Moneta Z.

  By now, Rostam was telling them as much, presenting Neelam and her brother, Mirza, who Wara saw was sitting a few pillows away from his sister, regarding the newcomers with those piercing baby blues she remembered from YouTube. In person, the lead singer of Moneta Z was even more good-looking, though he didn’t have that ethereal, soap-opera quality that Sami had.

  It was really weird to be sitting here in an apartment with party music on, surrounded by rock stars. And this was called church?

  Rostam was already moving on. Next to rock star Mirza sat a swarthy man with a long black ponytail and a pockmarked face; Rostam called him Heydar, chef of an Italian restaurant that seemed to be well-known. Two other young men in trendy clothes, whose names Wara promptly forgot, sat next a respectful distance away from a pretty young woman named Leila with scarlet lipstick and dangling Bollywood earrings.

  “In case you’re wondering why we meet in a bedroom,” Rostam was explaining wryly, “it’s because this room is the farthest away from the hallway. We figure no one can hear us talking in here on the outside wall, up on the ninth floor.”