“Thanks for the ice cream,” Wara told him smally, giving him a smile from where she sat at his side on the fountain edge. Alejo felt his eyes light up at her happiness and he nodded. They’d left the red car in a parking garage and walked in to the church under a blazing white sun. Wara had been dying of thirst by the time they got here, but Alejo loved it that she hadn’t said a thing. He’d been around enough Americans to know that most of them would be whining about now: “Its so stinking hot! Can you believe they don’t have air conditioning here? What kind of country makes people dress like this in this heat?”
Alejo did not care for whiners, and he loved it that Wara didn’t whine.
He’d offered to buy everyone ice cream from a vendor’s cart in the plaza, and Wara had politely selected a tiny little Popsicle, the cheapest thing in the cart. She’d gone to rest on the fountain while he paid and had grinned at him with happy eyes when, instead of the small one, he’d brought her back a tall parfait in a plastic cup, gleaming with strata of ice cream and frozen fruit.
Everybody else just got Popsicles.
Alejo tore his attention away from her thankful smile and fixed it back on Rostam, who sat on his other side, doing his tour guide thing.
“So, this is just one of the churches here in Jolfa, the sector established for Armenians back in the 1600’s. We think construction on Vank Cathedral started about 1606. Obviously, the brick exterior and wall are much newer.”
The long wall surrounding the cathedral grounds was made of sandy bricks, and a pillared gate with typical blue Persian tile sprouted a brick clock tower into the sapphire sky.
“Ava says to tell all you guys hi, by the way,” Rostam said, tossing his Popsicle stick into a dented green trash receptacle near the fountain. A portly lady in slacks and a black manteau started at the clang, then hustled past the church, lugging an oversized faux crocodile purse. “She wanted to come with us, but I just don’t know. She was born Muslim, you know.” He said this under his breath. “I really don’t want her connected with a public Christian place like this, even as part of a tour.”
Alejo watched as Rostam rose, grinning at them with blue raspberry lips and teeth. “Shall we go inside?” he invited, and they followed him through the heavy wooden door.
The inside of the cathedral was as Alejo would have expected: reams of colorful paintings of cherubs and the Christ. Writhing, gilded frames and marbled pillars, like dozens of other Orthodox churches he’d seen. The very Persian lapis lazuli-colored touches reminded him of cathedrals in Uzbekistan where he’d lived for a year.
Rostam led them around the edges of the church, lecturing about the art work while Alejo’s mind wandered. It could have wandered to the mission, to whether the Iranians were going to introduce Sandal to their contact with the Christians in prison. But his thoughts went straight to her.
Just in front of him, Wara stood with Sandal, wearing a multicolored veil with fringes that made her look like something straight out of a hippie commune. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? Since the fiasco in the tree house, he’s tried to be attractive to her through his nice guy persona. He was going to keep that up, one because that was what Wara deserved: a nice guy. And two, because he suspected that in matters of romance, being nice was what worked.
But he felt distracted, and distracted was never good. Alejo moved up next to Wara, and she met his eyes, checking his reaction as Rostam pointed out the scenes in a mural of the creation. Something in his gut began to do somersaults and Alejo set his jaw.
Ok. This was getting out of hand.
Wasn’t it?
He wanted to keep working on the mission Rupert had given him, because he liked Wara, and was also, undeniably, lonely. He wanted her to fall in love with him, wanted to have her as a partner so he wouldn’t have to be alone. But he needed to limit the focus on that particular assignment to focus more on the assignment in Iran.
He would keep being nice to Wara, trying to be that guy she could actually trust. But he would tone down his fascination with her and turn his eyes more to the assignment with Sami.
Pleased with his newfound priorities, Alejo cracked his neck to one side and peeked into a gilded side chapel, just as Rostam said, “I’ll give you all an hour to look around. Let’s meet in the courtyard, by the Armenian Massacre monument.”
That sounded awful. Alejo started as he realized that the band of artwork at the level of his belly was also rather awful. Bloody scenes of decapitation and quartering glowed in vibrant colors, wreathed in faux gold frames. The scenes spread for meters, forming a lower row of violence and ancient death.
“Oh my goodness,” Wara breathed next to him. “I…I’ve never seen a church like this.” Still gawking at the paintings, Alejo noted that the rest of the group had disappeared to explore, while Wara had chosen to stay with him. He was glad. He couldn’t take his eyes away from the paintings, though. “I think it’s about the Armenian Massacre,” Wara said lowly. “When the Turks killed so many Christians in Armenia. No wonder the Armenians came here.”
Alejo exhaled slowly. Just this week, the news had come out of more than a thousand Muslims slaughtered in Nigeria by Christian militia. The two groups, Muslims and Christians, often hated each other fiercely, Christians despite Jesus’ radical command to love their enemies. Wara trailed her hand near the painting of a man in a robe kneeling, about to be beheaded by a scythe that was already dripping blood. In front of Alejo’s eyes flashed the livid face of Ishmael Khan, his former boss in the Prism, when Khan learned Alejo had left Islam to become a Christian. Khan’s hate had been palatable. And then Ishmael had trained a gun between Alejo’s eyes and pulled the trigger.
But that was a memory for another day. Blinking rapidly, Alejo turned that train of thought off and touched Wara’s shoulder. He needed to not see these paintings right now. “Want to look in here?” he motioned towards the little alcove chapel to their right. She tore her gaze away from the bloody paintings and nodded, following at his side.
The side chapel was empty, polished and brilliant with violet marble and blue Persian motifs. They wandered through the cube-like space, taking in paintings of Biblical scenes this time, interspersed with engraved Armenian letters.
“Can you read this?” Wara asked him in a soft whisper. She had stopped over in a corner next to a purple-veined marble pillar and was frowning at golden letters, a snaking sequence of curves and half-circles. Armenian. Not one of the languages Alejo knew. He moved next to her and squinted at the letters anyway, trying to make the meaning rise from the cold stone.
“No,” he finally admitted. “I can tell you a few words, based on guesses. But I can’t read it.” He turned to her, a little annoyed at his inability to understand the writing. But everything he had been feeling drained away as he looked into her honey-laced eyes.
All that remained was fire.
She was staring at him too, backed up against the marble pillar in the dim corner of the chapel, jaw quivering. “It says, ‘No greater love has any man than this: that he lay down his life for his friends,’” she whispered, then frowned, searching his eyes.
In that instant, he should have asked himself how she knew what the engraving said. Or what he was doing, stepping even closer to her till her cheek nearly rested on his chest and his chin nearly pressed into her hair. But all he could think about was that she was right, what she had just read was right. This wasn’t just some assignment Rupert had given him so he could lose the guilt for taking an innocent man’s life in Bolivia. Despite the stain of what Alejo had done, God had brought Wara to him, to protect and shelter and give his life for her. Alejo felt the tremble start in his knees and overtake his whole body as he resisted the crazy urge to pull her into him, wrap his arms around her and never let her go.
He didn’t know how to say what was happening inside his heart, but Wara seemed to be reading his mind, looking straight into his soul. Alejo felt himself begin to cry.
And then the grim voice
echoed through the chapel from behind him. Berating them for being in here, ordering them to join their tour group. Eyes still hazy with unexpected tears, Alejo turned from Wara to see a thick-set monk in black, wearing the crisp badge of a cathedral custodian, staring at them sternly over gold-rimmed glasses. Still disoriented, he felt as if he couldn’t have taken a step to obey the stern monk if his life depended on it.
What had just happened?
Close to his side, Wara sniffed and wiped a hand across her nose, then spoke clearly to the custodian. “Please forgive us, but our tour guide said we could look around. We were just admiring the eclectic mix of art styles here in this chapel, along with the rather Gothic lettering of this verse from the gospel of Saint John. It’s really a wonderful example of the calligraphic style in use during the time period when the cathedral was built. The text about love is impressive, given the scenes of sacrifice in the main sanctuary. It’s heartbreaking to think of all the martyrs who gave all for Christ so many years ago.”
Alejo felt his shoulders seize and he gaped, listening as Wara buttered up the robed custodian with her interest in the history and design of Vank Cathedral. The monk’s expression calmed to almost pleased as Rostam darted into the alcove, alarmed at having heard the commotion. Their tour guide gawked as well, doe-brown eyes wide as he started at Wara lecturing as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Realizing their tour guide had arrived, the monk nodded politely and withdrew to the main sanctuary.
“Petra?” Rostam gulped, then his lips spread into a crooked, goofy grin. “Your Farsi is…wonderful. Before you sounded like a…foreigner. But now, you were speaking perfect Farsi. Perfect Esfahani Farsi. I could have sworn you were from Esfahan.”
20
Golden Letters
WHEN ROSTAM SAID THEY COULD EXPLORE the cathedral, Wara decided to stay with Alejo. The scenes of people dying for their faith had left him disturbed, and she couldn’t blame him. Hidden in the back of a delivery van, she had watched as Alejo had a gun pressed to his head to convince him to stop following Christ.
“No,” he’d said, so loud, so clear. And then he went to the ground in a cloud of red.
She was still remembering that awful moment when Alejo asked her if she wanted to look in the little chapel to their right. She trailed next to him, taking in way too many gilded paintings and religious symbols. It was beautiful yet dizzying. The thing that really called her attention, being the language geek that she was: a swath of roller coaster letters in gold near a pillar in the corner. The characters rose and fell like cartoon hills, drawing Wara towards them with a curious frown.
“Can you read this?” she asked Alejo. As far as she knew, he seemed to know an infinite number of languages. Not that Wara was jealous. He came to her side, so close that his bicep brushed her shoulder. She felt her veil slip back and bangs fall over one eye. Alejo leaned closer, squinting at the letters, still touching her side. A shiver tickled its way down her spine.
“No,” Alejo looked into her eyes quietly. “I can tell you a few words, based on guesses. But I can’t read it.”
And then something changed. Inches from her nose, shimmering on the marble wall of this cathedral in Esfahan, Iran, the golden letters became words. Wara knew what this said. “Greater love has no man that this: that he lay down his life for his friends,” she told Alejo. He had turned towards her with something like wonder illuminating his whole face, that hint of a wry smile turning up the corner of one lip as he stared at her. Wara’s heart thumped, amazed that she could suddenly read old Armenian. Alejo was excited too and she loved it.
He’s the kind of person you want as a friend, she realized. If he had never run away from home, I would have spent hours with him along with the rest of the Martirs.
Slowly, like molten lava sliding across stones, she realized that she really respected Alejo Martir.
Wara felt the coolness of marble against her back as she stared up into Alejo’s eyes, now just inches from her own. Longing painted across her heart in dramatic strokes. She wanted to be his friend.
And Jesus suffered so we could be forgiven and give that forgiveness to others. So that even though this man murdered my love, we could still love each other, be friends.
Craziness. But she wanted this craziness.
Overcome with emotion, Alejo had started to cry. Was he upset because the torture paintings brought bad memories? Just behind them, a stern throat cleared and Alejo gasped, swiping at a tear on his cheek.
A black-robed monk stood there, berating them for hiding out in here. Alejo’s mouth parted, then closed, seemingly unable to find words. So Wara began to talk their way out of being in trouble with the grouchy man who obviously worked in the cathedral.
Words floated before her eyes, and she knew exactly what they meant. How, she had no idea. But the words came, and they felt so comfortable, as if she had been speaking them all her life.
The monk was nodding as Wara explained the impact Vank Cathedral had on them---well, not all of it. Inside, Wara was still buzzing with the realization of how much she wanted the slate to be wiped clean with Alejo. She wanted to laugh with him and live life together like friends who loved each other should: part of the community of those Jesus brought into his family.
Rostam had ducked his head into the side chapel, and his chin was practically drooping to his chest. “Your Farsi is…wonderful,” he stammered. “Before you sounded like a…foreigner. But now, you were speaking perfect Farsi. Perfect Esfahani Farsi. I could have sworn you were from Esfahan.”
She was speaking Farsi? Oh yeah. After reading the verse in Armenian, she had kind of assumed she was still speaking Armenian. But it was Farsi, wasn’t it? Except she was using words she had never used before, let alone studied.
Well, that was what spending so much time with Rostam and other Iranians would do to you. Right?
Alejo still seemed shaken, and he avoided her eyes, guiding her towards Rostam with a firm hand on her shoulder. He didn’t speak to her the entire walk out to the street.
21
The Bodyguard
ALEJO FOLLOWED ROSTAM THROUGH THE CITY, Sandal and Wara several paces ahead. His thoughts wove a tangled web and he couldn’t take his mind off the way Wara had looked at him in the chapel. How she had read the undecipherable Bible verse in ancient Armenian. And how he had been absolutely, totally overcome with her. Giving his life for her.
Alejo blinked, realizing Rostam was speaking, breaking into his fluttering thoughts. “She got the gift of speaking other tongues, you know,” Rostam was telling him. He caught Alejo’s frown and continued explaining. “There’s really no other explanation. It happens sometimes, in the presence of love.” Despite Alejo’s panic, Rostam continued rambling. “You know about the spiritual gifts, right? I thought so. Well, it appears Petra is manifesting tongues. We don’t really understand it, but from what I’ve seen many times people’s gifts manifest when they’re around someone who really loves them. Not always romantic love, mind you.” Rostam’s brown eyes sparked and he winked, obviously aware of Alejo’s confused state. “Mirza’s gifts manifested when he spent a lot of time with Jaime, the summer Jaime came here to teach us about the Bible. And Heydar, our friend the chef? His spiritual gift manifested when he was spending time with Sami. Definitely not romantic love in that case.” Rostam was grinning, though Alejo wasn’t quite sure he had any idea what Rostam was going on about. He had caught the idea that Rostam believed something supernatural was going on.
Heck, it sure felt like it.
“My, uh, mentor. Rupert,” he began gruffly, then cleared his throat with a frown. “He has the gift of interpreting dreams. He has these dreams that show him the future. It’s how he and I met.”
Rostam nodded matter-of-factly, pushed back the amber-colored aviator sunglasses riding his nose. “So you and Petra must love each other. In Christ, of course,” he practically snickered, causing Alejo to want to seriously hurt him. “Did you feel anything in t
hat chapel? Because it’s quite likely you’ve also been given a gift. My gift is encouraging others to follow their calling. Maybe I can help.”
Alejo exhaled loudly, trying to relax. He felt out of control, and he really, really hated out of control. He caught a glimpse of Wara and her hippie veil, far enough ahead that she couldn’t possibly hear anything he said with the crowds on these streets. He sent a long look sideways at Rostam, hoping the skinny tour guide got the vibes: If you repeat this, I may kill you.
“I felt…like I had to protect her.”
“Petra?”
Alejo nodded. “I felt overwhelmed. Like it was my duty to make sure nothing happened to her. Not just that she stays alive, but that she does…well. In everything.” The more he talked, the more ridiculous Alejo felt. He’d been crying back there in the chapel, for goodness sake! What was wrong with him?
Rostam believed Wara had a spiritual gift to speak and understand any language? Nice. And what was his supposed gift? To be Wara’s bodyguard?
“Paulo, I think you’re a pastor,” Rostam laid a hand on his arm as they kept walking. “That’s really cool. It means you have to protect and care for the ones God has called you to. Like a good shepherd gives his life for his sheep. Sami was a pastor.”
He left it at that, and Alejo blinked a few more times in the silence.
A pastor. His father had been a pastor.
His knees still felt weak.
Alejo was still reeling as they arrived at Imam Square.
As the sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, Wara entered what Rostam’s tourist speech billed “The Fifth Largest Square in the World”: Imam Square. The tight press of bodies and crowded buildings fell away, spreading into a clearing of crisp strips of white concrete and a checkerboard of emerald squares of grass. The expanse opened as far as Wara could see, with a misty turquoise rectangle at the center: a pool lined with spigots that sprayed water high into the air, their cascade of water kissing in the middle and creating a writhing gauntlet of spray.
Reverb (Story of CI #2) Page 13