Wara bit her lip, suddenly unsure which of the two scenarios would be worse.
Wispy tendrils of fair light drifted lazily through the branches of the gnarled cherry tree shading the gate. “Hand Up” read an unpretentious white sign over the deep purple wall splattered with writhing Farsi graffiti.
“Sorry, y’all, but I’ve got to go over and help set up for the fundraiser,” Rostam announced. “I don’t have anyone following me today to check what you tourists are up to, but I’m still going to drop you off a few blocks away. I don’t come here much, just to keep a low profile and all. I’ll be back for you in a couple hours, though, and we can take you to the hotel to get you changed. You’re going to love the concert!”
They walked three blocks from the corner where Rostam left them, then under the Hand Up gate where armed guards eyed their passage.
The chef named Heydar waited for them on the front porch, dressed in pressed black slacks and a spotless white dress shirt. “Come on in,” he smiled, and drew back to motion them through the door with all the grace of an English butler. Sandal greeted him warmly and led the way into Hand Up headquarters.
“So, this is the building where we have our offices,” Heydar explained as they took in the entryway and a long, electric blue hallway. Leila, who they’d seen at the house church, sat at a desk in the entryway, Bollywood earrings flashing as she grinned at them. “The other buildings out back are our clinic, in-patient rooms, and classrooms for HIV education. Most of our staff here are volunteers. It’s hard, though, for the young people who work here,” he said. “Status is very important in Iran, and most of our volunteers come from families with lots of money. I guess that’s just who Sami happened to know.” His lip curled into a smile. “Their family and friends don’t exactly love the fact that they are working here among AIDS patients, drug addicts and homosexuals. It’s a very anti-cultural statement. But then, the gospel always is.”
“Is working here dangerous for them because this place is associated with Sami?” Sandal asked.
“Oh, definitely. Sami was charged with espionage and Satan worship. Anyone who works here could be suspect of the same.”
One of Sandal’s eyebrows arched and she leaned against a battered doorframe in the hallway, splintered and in need of repair. Heydar’s eyes lowered to the broken wood and strong emotion flitted over his eyes. “So with all that, what brings you to work here?” Sandal asked him casually.
The chef smiled grimly. “I’d have to show you. Follow me.” He moved towards the door housed in the splintered frame and twisted the knob. “There’s something on my laptop that might make it clearer for you.”
They all followed him inside the austere office space, leaning against the wall as he powered up the computer.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of Ansar-e Hezbollah. They’re a vigilante, religious group who go around punishing anyone they find immoral. Well, they have taken a special dislike to our little center and they come here every so often to try to drag away some of our patients. Because we treat AIDS, the Ansar-e Hezbollah assume that anyone here has either been doing drugs or been sexually immoral. I’m not totally denying that, by any means. But to the religious, that deserves punishment.”
“That would explain your security outside,” Alejo observed. Wara could tell he was trying hard not to stare at the broken doorframe.
Heydar nodded. “Uh-huh. We didn’t used to have guards.” He faced them, lowering himself to sit on the desk next to the computer. “I’m sure you’ve heard that I’m a homosexual.”
That made Wara do a double take. Wasn’t this guy the pastor of Rostam’s house church? He was…gay?
“It’s who I am,” Heydar was continuing matter-of-factly, “and I haven’t been able to change what I feel. But I can change what I do. Everyone’s tempted to sin, but Jesus tells his followers to obey him, instead. So I live celibate. But I did have a boyfriend for sixteen years. His name was Mohammed, and he was an architect. Until we both contracted AIDS. That’s how I first came to Hand Up; I was a patient. Mohammed and I were both dying, and there were no doctors willing to treat us. I couldn’t even eat by myself.” Heydar’s voice turned scratchy. “Here, they took care of me,” he continued after a moment. “And Mohammed. But he didn’t recover. I lived and he didn’t.” Heydar’s eyes went to the door. “The religious vigilantes came for me one day, when I barely had the strength to sit up in bed. They’d heard of me, of course. I didn’t exactly hide who I was from Esfahan, and I was quite infamous.” Heydar flashed crooked teeth in a grin. “They would have hauled me off and beaten me, and in my condition, I would have died. But Sami wouldn’t let them. Someone filmed with a cell phone what he did.”
Heydar tapped play and an image filled the screen, opening to a scene of a mob of people and a blue hallway. Here, at Hand Up. “Bring him out!” screamed a sweating man with a bushy beard. About twenty guys with red and white keffiyeh and black beards, yelled and thumped the walls, chanted religious phrases and other things Wara didn’t get with the poor sound quality. Confusingly, the experience of reading an unknown language in the cathedral hadn’t happened again. But she could tell they were angry.
“They were shouting that homosexuality is a sin,” Heydar explained. “And that the staff should open the gate. The only way to get to the clinic in the back is through this house, and there’s an iron gate that locks the door to get there, just outside where we’re standing. Sami had the key.”
Just then, the video panned shakily away from the bearded figures and to a man with emerald eyes and dark hair, backed against the wall. He was cornered but he stood tall, broad shoulders blocking the way to the gate. It was obviously Sami of Ashavan, and he was standing there alone, staring down all the vigilantes. The camera zoomed in on him, and though the image was blurry, Wara could see streams of sweat tracking their way down Sami’s face. “You can’t do this,” she heard Sami yell in Farsi. “God is love. God is love!”
And then, from nowhere, a black baton filled the screen, followed by one of the vigilantes, blocking the video with a view of the soiled white of his shirt. Several screams rang out along with the sound of metal against cracking wood. Whoever was filming focused the camera just in time for Wara to have a glimpse of Sami spinning around and dropping to the floor next to a shattered doorframe. The video cut off just then, but not before she saw the deep red pooling on the tiles under Sami’s head.
“When they saw what they’d done, they all ran away,” Heydar shook his head. “Sami was fine, but he had to have a ton of stitches. Never was quite as handsome after that.” Heydar grinned. “So, that’s why I work here. I’m following Jesus, because he showed me his love. Through Sami. Through his hands at Hand Up.”
Wara felt her mouth like cotton, unnerved by what she’d just seen. Sami had stood up to the Ansar-e Hezbollah guys right there, just feet from where she stood. His blood had mottled the tiles just outside the doorway. To save Heydar from death, because he believed God is love.
A loud rapping on the door caused Wara to start, and a portly form entered the room, clearing his throat. Her fingers clenched at her side when she saw how the man was dressed.
White shirt, black pants, big beard…Whoa. He looks just like the guys in the video.
But Heydar did not seem in the least perturbed. “Friends, this is Dr. Ahmed Hosseini,” he announced. “He is currently our only full-time doctor, and has become somewhat of an expert on the issue of HIV. His work here is completely volunteer, and I can’t imagine what would happen to the lives of our patients without him. I believe this is who you wanted to meet.”
Wara felt herself staring, but she wasn’t alone. Alejo and Sandal were also looking at the doctor warily, thrown off by the strict Muslim form of dress. Dr. Hosseini nodded at them all formally, with the hint of a welcoming smile. “I was told you were here,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me just a moment, I have a short phone call to make before we talk. Heydar, please bring them up to my office.�
�� And with another stiff nod, the doctor disappeared from the doorway where his clones had bashed Sami’s head in.
Sandal’s head snapped away from his retreating form as he headed down the hallway, and she crossed her arms tightly in front of her chest. “I never would have thought you guys would have one of those working here,” she said.
Heydar shrugged mildly. “Look. Dr. Hosseini is willing to give his time, money, and much more to bringing God’s justice to these people. This isn’t a time to be picky about who we let follow their hearts in obedience to God.”
Sandal’s eyes flashed and she leaned towards Heydar, lowering her voice. “But he’s probably one of the guys who used to come here to beat men like you up! He could have been there when they killed Sami, for heaven’s sake! Ansar-e-Hezbollah are the worst of the worst!” Wara could tell that Sandal was truly perturbed.
Heydar’s gaze was becoming somewhat cross. “Dr. Hosseini isn’t dragging anyone off to beat them,” he said, trying hard to be patient. “In fact, he’s usually found out back, giving life-saving drugs or holding the hand of people scared out of their wits. Do you still want to meet him or not?”
Sandal exhaled loudly and held up her hands in a gesture of peace. “Of course. I—we—are just surprised. That’s’ all.” She eyed Alejo, who had a tight set of his jaw despite the studied calm of his posture.
“Well then. Let’s go upstairs.” Heydar sprang from the desk and closed his laptop crisply. “Careful of the splinters on your way out.”
24
Skinny Jeans and a Little Exorcism
AS ALEJO SLID FROM THE CAR AT THE DOOR to the Hand Up fundraiser, he solemnly made a mental note to never, ever, let himself be talked into shopping with Rostam. Ever again.
Rostam had come to pick them up at the Happy Paris, and had not been pleased at all with Alejo’s fashion options for this apparently quite trendy event.
So Alejo had packed light for this trip. That was quite normal for him; what did a guy need with more than a few changes of clothes and some surplus underwear? As long as the clothes were clean, from the last year or two and not too wrinkled, what was the big deal? Alejo’s new buddy Rostam, however, had narrowed those cheery brown eyes and shook his head when checking out Alejo’s wardrobe choices.
“I hate to tell you this, Paulo, but you could really use some help in the clothes department.”
Alejo had felt his lips press into a thin smile, and he sank down onto the unmade bed, regarding Rostam. “So the fundraiser’s a tuxedo only event?”
Rostam raised his eyes from grimly regarding Alejo’s neatly-folded tshirts and khaki cargo pants. He truly appeared pained. “No way. But c’mon, man, at least let’s find you something a little more…festive. I know just the place.”
And so the two of them had set off, Alejo cracking his shoulders and rolling his eyes, to some slick men’s boutique smelling much too heavily of cologne Alejo hoped to heaven Rostam wasn’t about to buy. And now here Alejo was, standing on the white sidewalk and feeling that his jeans were much, much too tight. As if the gauzy white and blue striped shirt weren’t enough, Rostam had talked Alejo into some dark jeans that felt like handcuffs around the ankles and were so snug that he was honestly afraid to sit down.
“Oh. My. Gosh.” Alejo was annoyed to feel his cheeks turn crimson as he realized Sandal was standing on the sidewalk next to Wara, grinning. She smirked at him in that mean, older sisterly way that occasionally made Alejo want to kill her. “I never thought I’d say this, Alejo, but you look good. Really good. Thanks to Rostam’s fashion advice, I assume.”
Alejo just stood there on the sidewalk, humiliated, mentally cursing Rostam for pealing off in the tiny red car to park and leaving Alejo here to face Sandal’s mockery alone. He crossed his arms and let his eyes dart from Sandal to Wara, whose honey-colored eyes sparkled above a necklace of jade stones and the designer black manteau he’d bought her. “You can blame Rostam for making me his Barbie for the afternoon.” Alejo hoped his voice didn’t come off as bitter as he felt.
“He actually did a good job,” Wara shocked him by saying. She pursed her lips at him in thought. “You don’t look bad.”
Alejo allowed himself to smile, crookedly. “You don’t look bad” probably didn’t mean, “You, Alejo Martir, are a hunk”, but it did give him hope that he didn’t look as ridiculous as he felt. Just then, Rostam the would-be fashion designer strode up next to Alejo, wearing large aviator sunglasses and even tighter black jeans than Alejo’s.
“Let’s do this party!” he grinned at them and pointed towards a narrow concrete passageway just inside the door. “Ava should already be inside. She was going to help Neelam get ready.”
Deep in the bowels of the apartment building, a large hall had been decorated with purple and gold banners from Hand Up, balloons, and a spread of tables featuring snacks and Zam Zam Cola. Peppy Iranian pop music was being piped into the room over some very loud amplifiers. Not Moneta Z music, but they were going to be doing a concert later, after this fundraising event. As Alejo strolled into the hall, he was pleasantly surprised to see that the room was packed. Women in party dresses were lounging around the room nibbling appetizers and sipping wine in crystal-stemmed glasses. He couldn’t help but grin when he saw some guy with a spider lip ring saunter by in jeans and the same white and blue striped shirt from the reeking boutique.
What a way to go local, Alejo thought, suddenly feeling somewhat better about his fashion choices. The smile was still frozen on his lips as the thought occurred to him that maybe he was accepting that he didn’t look so bad because of the way Wara had looked at him outside. And he was supposed to be only thinking of her a colleague!
She only wants you as a friend, Alejo berated himself crossly. Wara was clear, and you will not hurt her again. Stop thinking of that, like yesterday!
Rolling his shoulders, Alejo pulled his gaze over to the two members of Moneta Z, who were giving a speech about Hand Up and holding the attention of nearly everyone in the room. Neelam lounged back against the table, wearing a modest black evening gown and clutching a full glass of wine in her slender fingers. Her brother was waving his hands around animatedly while convincing the crowd of the terrible blight that HIV was on their society. Mirza’s hair was wild around his face, and he wore a blue silk shirt, a black vest and black pants.
Normal black pants.
I guess when you’re famous you don’t have to care anymore about trying so hard to be cool. Alejo slouched down lower in his chair and briefly wondered how offended Rostam would be if Alejo’s new boutique clothes showed up in the Happy Paris dumpster by morning. He attempted to distract himself by replaying the interview with the burly Muslim doctor, Hosseini.
Until they’d met Hosseini, they only had old information from Rupert: Sami was in jail on charges of rape, Satanism, etc. The government claimed he was executed. The other three members of Ashavan were supposedly still in jail, waiting trial on unannounced charges.
Well, Hosseini confirmed the report that Sami was dead. He hadn’t provided any proof, so Alejo was still holding out hope. Hosseini had also given them a written statement of Sami’s involvement in Hand Up, which would be useful to show those in the West that the guy hadn’t just been a selfish rock star. Along with Heydar’s testimony of Sami’s huge involvement in house church growth, Sandal was taking back evidence that Sami didn’t just go back to Iran the same man as before.
The really good news was that Hosseini had a very recent report from the other three Ashavan members, all of who were still alive and awaiting their court hearings. The Ansar-e Hezbollah doctor must be really connected, because Hosseini gave them a copy of the original court documents, charging Sami with apostasy. Only apostasy. Sami had been condemned to death for leaving Islam, plain and simple. The other charges were just a cover story, to throw negative attention on Sami’s case.
Alejo cracked his neck to one side and stifled a yawn. At the front of the crowd, Mirza Samadi was re
ally excited about the work at Hand Up, and Alejo tried to focus bleary eyes on his speech. The rock singer had still been upset yesterday when Alejo saw him at another meeting in the bachelor flat. He was really ticked off that Jaime Malcolm’s church had disowned Sami because they didn’t believe he was a real Christian. And depressed.
Some of that reckless sorrow shone in Mirza’s eyes now as he told stories of people he knew with AIDS, how those attending this fundraiser could make a difference giving their time, talents, and money. There could also have been a sheen of something else in the singer’s expression; Alejo hadn’t been here long, and he’d already seen Mirza down at least six beers.
“And then there’s the majority of us,” Mirza preached intensely to the crowd, “who honestly don’t care what happens to others, as long as it’s not us. Jesus Christ, peace be upon him, was the best teacher who ever lived. He showed us how God really is,” Mirza was explaining with a Muslim flair to his terms for this Muslim crowd. “He said, ‘whatever you do for the least of these, you have done it for me.’ I believe his words, and that’s why I and my sister are working with this. That’s why we’re here today to give you the chance to believe his words too.”
When Mirza finished his speech, Neelam joined him at the front and they posed for some photos. Alejo huddled in his folding chair and accepted a crystal glass of bubbling Zam Zam from a waiter, just to pass the time. Mirza caught Alejo’s eye and waved, flashing that debonair grin, then made his way a little unsteadily across the room. He was immediately surrounded by a flock of scantily-dressed girls who reached out towards him with long red nails that could double as daggers. Two young guys in striped suits who seemed to be serving as event photographers leaped into Mirza’s path and began flashing pictures of him with the girls, one of whom shrieked when she saw the camera and threw herself onto Mirza’s shoulder, hanging on him and giggling until the cameras had at last ceased to flash.
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