Reverb (Story of CI #2)

by Rachel Moschell

  “This is one of the places where you’ll find almost everyone in Esfahan at sunset,” Rostam was telling them. He had stopped in the middle of one of the wide sidewalks among grassy lawns with glossy-leaved bushes. Three teenage boys in baggy jeans with chains zoomed by Wara on diminutive black bikes, popping their tires up into the air and spinning in place. “This place is a UNESCO World Heritage Site,” Rostam continued eyeing everything with awe. “This square is absolutely amazing. And it’s more than four hundred years old.”

  The far edges of Imam Square were lined with pale yellow buildings, punctuated at key intervals by towering Persian mosques, onion-shaped domes intricately-painted with hues of robin’s egg blue, yellow, and saffron. Rostam was continuing his cheerful tour guide spiel. “About this time of day, you can also find many people from Esfahan strolling in the park along one of our rivers.”

  A cluster of five women in flowing black chador robes glided past Wara towards the far end of the square, where two spear-shaped towers rose around a palatial, carved gate. Immediately behind them, two elderly gentlemen wearing identical loose shirts, so pale that the blue seemed almost translucent, walked leisurely towards the two towers. One of the men towed a chubby toddler with chocolate skin and sleek black hair by the hand.

  “A lot of people are heading over towards the mosque.” Rostam indicated the gaping, impressive door between the pointed towers. “Most of them don’t go in for prayers, especially groups like ours that include women. But they usually will sit over there on the grass and just listen to the prayers and watch the sunset. It’s actually pretty beautiful, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

  “I’m interested,” Alejo’s voice came quietly from Wara’s side. He had been walking with Rostam, having some kind of little conference, ever since they left Vank Cathedral. She was glad to see he had moved up closer to her as they walked through the square. The idea that they could really be friends because of forgiveness still excited her.

  “It is beautiful,” Sandal said nostalgically, sighing and pushing her way between the two of them. “I was here a couple times, when I was really young. With my father. He would always buy me a rosewater ice cream, from right over there.” To Wara’s surprise, the older woman’s eyes were actually rimmed in red. Sandal’s arms crossed tightly across her manteau as she gazed at the crowds strolling about the square.

  Wara shifted her eyes away toward the domed portal between the two towers: to her it was foreign, unfathomable, from another exotic world. It was easy to forget that to Sandal, this country was home. And Alejo…Alejo had lived here in Iran for four years. And been a Muslim for many more.

  “Let’s go find a nice spot to sit and watch the sun go down, shall we?” Rostam began to lead his tour group past the cool mist of the turquoise pool.

  It’s no wonder Sandal and Alejo are looking so nostalgic, Wara thought. I have so much to learn. This is a whole world that I don’t understand.

  The shapes of the people crossing the square became more indistinguishable by the minute as little tour group and Rostam walked in silence towards the sunset and the towering Persian door. A suitable spot for the group to sit was soon found, sheltered from passerby’s view by a pruned row of jade and maroon bushes. Wara lowered herself down cross-legged onto the smooth grass; Sandal sat to her left, and Alejo to her right. Rostam lowered himself cross-legged next to Alejo, muttering a small curse and holding his knee.

  “Darn it!” Rostam gasped. “I’m just having a bad Falconi’s day. I have this disease called Falconi’s anemia.” He rubbed the sore knee, nose wrinkling in pain. “My sister donated blood marrow for a transplant and saved my life. For now. I have a really high risk of getting cancer, but right now, I’m great.” Rostam forced the corners of his mouth up into a smile, then closed his eyes. “I really have nothing to complain about. Got to live for today, because today there’s so much to live for.”

  A piercing cry lit through the air from the mosque loudspeakers, crowing from the skinny muezzin towers, arresting all to attention with its haunting invitation to prayer. Rostam’s face relaxed and he rested his hands on his knees. “God is the greatest,” he muttered in Spanish, translating the Arabic call to prayer from the mosque. “I bear witness that there is no deity but God. I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God. Come to pray. Come to success. God is greater. This always gives me the chills, even though I was never Muslim. I was raised in the Baha’i religion,” he explained to Wara’s questioning glance.

  Whether from the clouds of mist floating through the air from the turquoise fountain or from the waning sun, Wara actually felt a shiver run up her back and snake its way down her arms. She was of course completely covered in a manteau, one that was such a deep green that in this lack of light it seemed to be black. Wara shook off the shiver, resting her right hand on her knee.

  She felt Alejo shift next to her, where he also sat cross-legged, and one of his knees grazed her. In that instant, Wara felt a warm, rough hand slide into hers; Alejo’s fingers knit firmly between each of hers and he squeezed her hand tightly. She felt her heart rev, really confused. Alejo Martir was good-looking, super-smart, and protective of her. She had realized in the chapel how beautiful it was that they didn’t have to hate each other. But why were they sitting here holding hands?

  This was too much. Wara’s heart played ping-pong in her chest and she worked her hand out of Alejo’s and returned it to her lap. She couldn’t even begin to guess why he would suddenly take her hand in the moonlight, and was terrified to even try. The surreal, haunting call from the muezzin’s tower continued to float in the darkened air around Wara, along with the heady scent of jasmine opening their snowy petals to perfume the night. She sat listening to the musical prayers, afraid to even look at Alejo by her side

  22

  Confession

  IT WAS NEARLY 1 ‘O CLOCK IN THE MORNING, and still a nearly unending cavalcade of motorcycles and noisy taxis buzzed along the main avenue near the Happy Paris hotel. Alejo was sprawled on his back on his single bed, bare feet at the head, arms knit behind his neck, staring at the ceiling. It would have been nice if it were only the constant vibration of traffic that was keeping him awake; turning on the battered flat screen TV across from his bed would be a simple solution to that problem. Since the hotel’s satellite dishes had been smashed last night by vigilantes, the dull religious program or cheap state-approved drama show that Alejo was sure to find on Iranian TV would put him to sleep in no time.

  Unfortunately, it was the noise in his head that was pinning his eyes open and fixated on the lacy ochre shadows spreading across the darkened ceiling.

  I reached out and took Wara’s hand, Alejo thought, possibly for the hundredth time that night. It was a stupid thing to do.

  Ridiculous, actually. He had been overcome by the emotion of the day and given in to the desire to feel Wara’s hand in his own.

  You were an idiot. How did you expect her to react?

  She didn’t trust him, for obvious reasons. Alejo’s attempts to make her fall in love with him had, quite honestly, flopped. And then, after weeping inexplicably in Vank Cathedral, he’d tried to hold her hand, as if they were lovers sitting there together listening to prayers at dusk.

  The way Wara had shrank from him in confusion during the ride back to the hotel had pierced him with a thousand arrows.

  And she’s right to be confused. What I did was wrong.

  Making a move towards a physical relationship like that, without any explanation to make his intentions clear, had been wrong. He’d made her suffer. Again.

  Because during the last few hours alone here at the Happy Paris, Alejo had felt his eyes being opened. He’d been content to do what Rupert told him, but honestly, it had been all about Alejo. He wanted to make Wara happy to relieve his guilt. Never mind that his attempts to get closer to her must have brought horrible memories to life, making her suffer even more.

  And he wanted to do what Rupert
said so he wouldn’t be alone. He liked Wara and wanted to have someone fall in love with him.

  He was needy.

  And that was really disturbing.

  Alejo felt the guilt pressing in on his chest, making the stale air in the hotel room suddenly not enough to satisfy his need for oxygen. He swung his legs to the floor and padded across the tiles in a t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, aiming for the glass sliding door that would take him out to the room’s balcony.

  I have to talk to her, tell her what I feel. It’s the right thing to do, for her.

  That was what needed to change. Alejo needed to think what was best for Wara, not his poor, lonely, guilt-ridden self.

  He stifled a groan and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the balcony door.

  Before heading into the cathedral, Alejo had resolved to keep being nice to Wara but focus his greater attention on the Iran mission. With this new business about being a pastor and his obsessive feelings for Wara, it was time to make some things clearer. For himself, yes. But also for her.

  It wasn’t right to leave Wara like that, wondering what on earth had possessed him. He was going to have to tell her how he felt. Yeah, it was a little early and he should have given her more time. But, in a way, this would all be for the better. Alejo found himself thinking about her more and more, which wasn’t very good for his own state of mind. If she wasn’t interested in him, it would be better to just get it out of the way now. Then, Alejo could put her, romantically, out of his mind and focus on their professional relationship: working together in CI. And, if by some astonishing miracle, Wara would say: Oh, yes, of course. You, the guy who killed my boyfriend, are the man of my dreams….

  Alejo was startled when his hand that gripped the balcony door actually quivered. She wouldn’t say that, would she? So there was no point in even imagining it.

  But he still needed to explain. And quit messing with her mind.

  Heaving a deep sigh, Alejo let the glass door glide open, relishing in the cool rush of fresh night air and heady jasmine. He would decide now what to tell Wara tomorrow, and then let it go. Go to sleep. What had happened to all of his old discipline?

  The narrow tiled balcony was surrounded by an ornate black metal rail. Tucked in a deserted alleyway just off a main thoroughfare, the view from the Happy Paris consisted of a quiet, well-kept apartment building just across the street and a pale yellow crescent moon shimmering among a faint scattering of stars visible from the city. The scent of perfumed tea wafted across his face from somewhere below, mixed with hints of apricot and jasmine.

  He was just closing the balcony door when he saw her, leaning against the rail of the balcony next to his. She was wearing polka-dot pajama pants, a knee-length gray cardigan sweater, and those burgundy glasses. From the balcony of the room that she shared with Sandal, Wara was staring back at him, looking ready to bolt back inside, dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail behind her head.

  “Wara!” Alejo heard his own low voice as still too loud in the silence of the night. He ignored the wobble in his knees and took the two steps across the balcony to its edge, searching Wara’s eyes. He saw in them that she had come out here to be alone. Having Alejo suddenly emerge at 1 o’clock in the morning to interrupt her troubled thoughts was probably the last thing she needed.

  Alejo felt himself staring at her. Ok, Jesus, the plan was I was going to come out here and come up with a plan. Of what to say to her.

  But now they were both here. And Wara looked frankly terrified.

  “I didn’t know you were out here,” he finally said. “But I really wanted to talk with you. Do you mind?” How was it possible to be speaking and feel that the words were not actually leaving your own mouth but that of someone else?

  “Uh…no.” Wara’s small hands gripped the edge of the dark metal until her knuckles shone white. “I couldn’t sleep.” Her gaze drifted off to the balcony of an apartment across the narrow way, where sweet clusters of jasmine entwined themselves around the balcony railing.

  “Me neither.” Alejo sighed. “Wara, I’m sorry. Trying to make you hold my hand at the mosque was wrong. I let my emotions get away from me, and that’s why I need to talk with you.”

  She was slightly squinting at him, biting one lip. But she was really listening. And now, here we go off the cliff.

  “I, um, I really like you, Wara.” He ignored the sensation of having just leaped over the edge without a paraglider. “You’re smart, virtuous, and beautiful. I don’t want to just play around with your heart; I would like to really pursue a serious relationship with you, if you would actually feel the same.”

  This is crazy. There’s no way she will accept.

  To Alejo’s dismay, the backs of his eyes began to sting as he watched her, staring at him with disbelief. Her lips pressed together thinly and Alejo’s expression crumpled, knowing they were not curved into the amazing smile that usually graced her face, because of him. He was making her miserable. He should not love her; he was the one who had ruined everything.

  But he did love her. Right then, Alejo realized that she would say no, and the thought crushed him.

  You shouldn’t be surprised. You knew there was no way she could ever love you.

  But, watching her nose wrinkle in confusion, Alejo’s ribcage suddenly seemed too tight to take a good breath.

  “I, um…” Wara searched for words, obviously shocked by Alejo’s declaration. “I don’t know what to say,” she finally shook her head quickly. “I can’t…” Wara set her jaw firmly and continued in a slow voice. “I’m just learning to trust you as a friend. I think you’re gonna be a good friend.” She lowered her eyes and hung on to the porch railing with a death grip. “The idea of loving you scares me to death,” she finally said.

  And that was it. Alejo swallowed hard, bringing himself under control. At least now he knew, and could focus on taking care of Wara as his duty, without any dreams of anything like true love happening between them. He rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath, forcing his lips into some semblance of a casual expression.

  “I understand, Wara. I’m sorry again for tonight, and I promise it won’t happen again. And I do want you to trust me, as a coworker in CI and, of course, as a friend. I won’t say anything about this again. Let’s forget about it.”

  He saw Wara’s throat constrict as she swallowed, and then she nodded. “Good night, Wara.” Alejo felt his voice rough and gravelly, and he quickly cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about Sandal’s snoring. I can hear her all the way through the walls.”

  She actually smiled at him, and slowly waved as he slid the glass door open and disappeared into his dark hotel room, where he remained alone with his thoughts until dawn.

  23

  Splinters

  THREE DAYS AFTER THE ROUGH SCENE ON the porch, the contact who got news of Ashavan from prison finally agreed to meet with them. The labyrinth streets of Esfahan snaked by outside the glass of Rostam’s car, lulling Wara into a serious reverie. What happened with Alejo that night had been tough; she had been completely taken aback when he told her he was suddenly in love with her, and afraid that their fragile relationship would shatter because of what she said to him.

  But the next day, Alejo had been serious yet friendly as ever, good to his word to never speak of it again. Maybe the guy was hoarding a bottle of contraband Jack Daniels in his rooms somewhere, nursing it in silence. Because what he had said really made no sense.

  Why would he be in love with her?

  Thankfully, the business of the work they had to do didn’t allow Wara much time to muse on what it all meant. The situation with these amazing people she had met here occupied all her attention. Ever since she had stood huddled with the Iranian Christians in the living room and heard them mourn Sami, Wara had not been able to get the image of the man’s horrible death out of her mind. After a trial in Tehran, he had been beheaded. By the government.

  Or so the story went.

  E
ven with her eyes open, she continued to imagine the beautiful man she had seen in the music videos dragged out of a squalid cell in the infamous Evin Prison, pale and wearing prison garb. His right eye was always swollen and purple, and Wara felt her back tense as she imagined Sami shoved down the spectral halls of the prison. Through the chained double doors, a concrete patio was waiting, surrounded by jagged bricks and barbed wire. The white moon would disappear behind a dark cloud, and then Sami’s hands were tied and they pushed him to his knees in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by bloodstained earth.

  Whenever Wara saw this whole scene against her will, she never let the thing get farther than the giant knife the executioners produced and held up into the moonlight. The fact that he had really been brutally executed only for his faith was too much to take in.

  Why didn’t anyone in the United States know about this?

  Well, the other night after house church they had seen a large part of the answer to that. Because Sami worked with gays and drug addicts, swore once, smoked, and drank, he wasn’t seen as a true believer being persecuted for his faith. So the church had stepped away.

  “I wish I’d never baptized that boy,” John Rainer had said. “He doesn’t understand the first thing about the gospel.”

  Rostam’s tiny red car braked to a halt on a quiet side street, and Wara jolted, feeling most unpleasant with the direction her thoughts had just been taking.

  You know what? She took a deep breath and let her eyes slide shut. How do Rostam and Mirza even know that Sami is really dead? In a place like Evin, I can’t imagine they would have a problem with telling us all they killed Sami in secret, when he could still be in there somewhere.

  Still in a fog, Wara fumbled with the door handle and spilled out into the sunshine. Yep, he could still be in Evin Prison, alive after all. And being tortured and beaten every day until he confesses whatever it is they want him to.