Reverb (Story of CI #2)

by Rachel Moschell

  Alejo searched the crowd for Sandal and Wara, who had been led off by Leila from the house church and Hand Up. Turned out she was a famous fashion designer. He decided to go find them; sitting alone watching the girls swoon was getting a little old.

  As was to be expected, Alejo made it through the crowd without flocks of gorgeous women falling upon him. Close to where Wara sat, Alejo noted Neelam off in a corner, chin raised rather haughtily as she talked to a group of adoring teenage girls in tall black boots like the ones Neelam wore in all the concert photos. A glance over his shoulder told him Mirza was with a crowd of guys at the room’s other corner, smoking a cigar.

  Coming up behind the folding chairs where Sandal and Wara sat, Alejo heaved a sigh. It couldn’t even be ten yet, but he was tired. He had no problem with smoking and drinking in moderation; after all, it’s not like there was someplace in the Bible that said you couldn’t believe in Jesus and down a Heineken from time to time. But all this partying, in the midst of the stories of Sami’s execution and Christians in Iran getting taken off to Evin, was becoming just a tad wearying to Alejo’s soul.

  A loud clatter sounded from across the room, the crowd roared, and there went the lead singer of Moneta Z with a couple of his buddies, linking arms and pumping their fists to a good old English drinking song. Complete with questionable references to women’s posteriors and a swear word or two thrown in for good measure.

  By this time, Wara had noticed his presence behind her chair and half-turned to face him. “Let’s go back to the Happy Paris,” she muttered sleepily. “I think I’m getting too old for this. Mirza Samadi preached at Rostam’s house church. Is he really over there, drunk?”

  A slight, very stylishly-dressed figure darted into the middle of their group just then, twirling a pair of large aviator sunglasses. “You guys can’t be serious!” Rostam’s eyes twinkled at them, and he placed one hand on his hip. “You wouldn’t leave before the concert?” He sobered a little and leaned in closer. “I’m worried about Mirza; he doesn’t usually get drunk. He’s been really upset since finding out why no one would help Sami. After tonight he’s gonna be even more depressed.” Rostam pressed his lips together and sent a worried glance around the room. “Looks like Mirza and Neelam are going backstage right now. Stay for the concert. They’ll be back out in ten minutes...”

  Back out in their vampire makeup. Alejo stifled another yawn and cracked his neck, remembering the music video images of Moneta Z.

  “I turn into a pumpkin at ten,” Sandal raised an eyebrow at Rostam.

  “Oh, surely you jest,” Rostam batted a hand at her and chucked her cheek like a little baby. “Move over towards the stage now. You’ll want good seats.” And he winked at them, bouncing off into the crowd.

  “I forgot there’s a concert after this,” Wara said. “I hope Hand Up is getting lots of money.” She stifled another huge yawn and half-flopped over onto Sandal’s shoulder. “I’m just a little bit disturbed,” she continued, voice slurring with sleep. “Good old Mirza seems to be suffering too much. Must be hard to have to take pictures with all the cute girls slobbering all over him.”

  “Every job has its drawbacks, I guess,” Alejo shrugged and flashed a grin. Just then, the lights fluttered and died, leaving the entire room in a sea of black for the briefest moment. Then a surge of light started from the area of the stage, streaming cascades of blue and purple light falling across Neelam and Mirza at the drums and guitar, wearing black and their pale makeup, lips bloodless and fair, eyes ringed with bruised circles. Brother and sister vampires, the living dead. And basically leaders in a house church in Iran.

  Alejo swallowed and shook his head. “This whole afternoon has worn me out,” he admitted. “But if we’re going to stay here, let’s go to the front. Follow me.”

  It was just after Moneta Z played “House of the Rising Sun” when it happened. The last whine of the electric guitar shot through the concrete concert hall, and Mirza dropped to one knee, letting the sounds of screaming fans die away. The girl whose hysterical screech was suddenly heard over the crowd was wearing pink ribbons, and when Alejo saw her jerking head right at center stage in front of Mirza he immediately thought: Drugs. That girl is really high.

  The young crowd parted back from her in disgust, and the shrieks grew louder. Probably half the people here were doing drugs tonight, but this one was really out of control. Being pretty close to the front himself, Alejo could actually make out the raised cords of the girls neck as she contorted her shoulders to one side and pointed at Mirza Samadi with long black fingernails. In the silence left after “House of the Rising Sun”, Alejo heard her spit out, “You’re so full of light!”

  Mirza lifted his face and his gaze instantly flashed to her. He stood up and lowered the guitar to his side and just stared at her, as she slapped at the crowd and shouted profanity. Alejo found himself transfixed with how young and quiet Mirza suddenly appeared, despite the pale makeup, just watching the young drug addict with pink ribbons and pony tails scream at him and do her general best to ruin the concert.

  “Why are you so full of light?” the piercing voice of the girl challenged him defiantly, one arm thrashing against the stage.

  Mirza’s blue eyes regarded her with that childish surprise, and he stood stock still, arms hanging at his sides.

  And then the girl with pink ribbons was flying towards the stage, a guttural, drug-induced growl in her throat. A slick flash of red rose across Mirza’s cheek where her long nails slashed, and then Mirza had caught her, twisted her firmly backwards against his chest facing the crowd. As Alejo felt himself gawking, Mirza sniffed, then whispered something very quietly into the girl’s jerking ear. Blood was seeping out of the gash on his jaw line.

  Where are all those security guards who are always lurking around dressed in black? Alejo’s body tensed, ready to dart to the front if someone needed help.

  But Mirza had his eyes closed. With one thick arm still firmly around the struggling girl, he used the other to drag one finger through his own blood. And then the lead singer of Moneta Z quickly painted a scarlet cross on the damp forehead of the wild girl.

  She shrieked and moaned, and then began to sink to the floor of the stage. Hands reached up to receive her, and Alejo saw the bobbing ponytail of one of the men carrying the girl out of the crowd was Heydar. Alejo blinked, and kept staring after Heydar as Mirza swiped at his bloody cheek and then said, “And don’t even think about coming back.”

  Is it all part of the show? Alejo found himself staring as Mirza again picked up his guitar and Neelam began tapping her feet and hitting the drums. Because it actually had been a pretty good show. Wara and Sandal were watching the stage as well, eyes slightly bugged out of their heads.

  Moneta Z made it through two and a half more songs before a flash of blue light caught on glass, an object hurtling through the air towards the stage. Heydar hollered and pushed people away as a wine bottle exploded butt-first against Mirza’s guitar, showering the crowd with burgundy liquid and fragments of crystal. Mirza’s eyes widened, then narrowed, and he stopped playing. Rivulets of blood streaked his fingers.

  “The light is hurting our eyes!” someone shrieked from the crowd. “Leave us alone!”

  The microphone screeched and then echoed with a soft curse from Mirza as another wine bottle projectile spun end over end towards his head. He ducked out of the way and the thing hit the drum set behind him. Screams filled the hall, and everyone began shouting at once. Neelam had already crouched down behind the largest drum and was peering around the edge. Mirza touched his forehead and came away bloody again, probably from flying glass. He clunked the guitar into its stand and narrowed his eyes out at the crowd, who immediately quieted.

  “It’s hard to have a show when so many people are in pain,” he said firmly. “Anybody else who is seeing the light?”

  How in the world can they do this? How are you supposed to have a concert when people are so stoned out of their minds th
at they’re trying to kill the band?

  While Alejo briefly considered his escape options, two young men in skinny jeans and Converse tennis were climbing up onto the stage, appearing quite ticked off. Three more wine bottles crashed into the stage in succession, like small hollow bombs that splashed. And security? The burly guys in ponytails and black were just standing there, along with Heydar, who by now had returned without the crazed girl.

  Then Alejo thought he understood. It really was all part of the show. In some sick, death-metal, bloody sort of way.

  He began to worry that his new friend Mirza was much more disturbed than he had at first believed.

  Because now Mirza was just standing there, with those wide blue eyes, staring at the two guys in jeans and tennis shoes clambering onto the stage after him. From the way they swore and convulsed, Alejo would bet his right arm these two had hurled some of the bottles. And the people who had hurled the rest were now at the edge of the stage, right behind the two guys. Three girls were covering their eyes and jerking, just feet away from Alejo, trying to get to the stage.

  “Turn off the putrid light!” one of them screamed in agony, and Alejo felt sorry for her. She was out of control, and looked miserable. Huge tears leaked down her contorted face, and then she cursed and threw another bottle at Mirza. The young singer suddenly came to his senses, or at least pretended to…the show must go on. He took a quick step back and grabbed the microphone like a sword in one hand, stuffed the other bloody hand into his pocket and yanked something out. The drug addicts were advancing fast.

  “Noomquam ladatora morsu antiki derpentis,” Mirza said, and whipped an object in front of his body, extending it in front of the two young men.

  What? What language was that? And what is that? Alejo blinked, then focused his attention on the small thing in Alejo’s palm.

  You have got to be kidding me. Mirza Samadi had just pulled a crucifix from his pocket, pointed and made of blond wood. Alejo was stupefied. What was next, garlic and a stake?

  But Mirza was absolutely serious, and when the small cluster of druggies, shrieking and clutching at their eyes, stopped advancing in the face of the wood relic, Mirza began painting them one by one with blood oozing from his forehead and hands. The crimson crosses stood out in stark relief on pale, sweating foreheads, and Heydar stretched on his tiptoes over the edge of the stage, helping to catch each of the young people as they stopped screaming and collapsed to their knees.

  “Noomquam ladatora morsu antiki derpentis,” Mirza told them again firmly. Or at least that’s what it sounded like. Alejo was still rather numb, and the phrase wasn’t registering in any of the ten languages he happened to know.

  Or maybe Mirza was speaking in tongues.

  Now Alejo was really starting to get freaked out. This certainly wasn’t the usual fare at rock concerts. Or anywhere, that Alejo knew of. Was Mirza Samadi actually up there casting out demons in the middle of his concert? In vampire makeup? Alejo realized that his mouth was hanging open, and he turned to find one of his friends so they could confirm that he hadn’t been drinking some hard liquor instead of Zam Zam. Instead of Wara or Sandal, Rostam had materialized at Alejo’s side, wearing, of all things, his aviator sunglasses in the dark. Rostam. Just the person Alejo wanted to see. Seriously.

  “Does this happen often?” Alejo blurted out. The concert had started up again, and he leaned into Rostam’s face over the din of rock in Farsi.

  Rostam snatched off his sunglasses and raised one copper eyebrow at Alejo. He didn’t get it.

  “The crosses with blood. The people screaming. And being carted off by Heydar.”

  Rostam nodded. “Of course. All the time. I don’t know how to say it in Spanish. It’s ruqya. The spirit of Jesus is making the jinn leave.” Ruqya was exorcism in Islam, and jinn meant evil spirits. Rostam was staring skeptically at Alejo, probably wondering if the supposedly Christian dude from Argentina actually knew anything about Jesus after all. Or if he were perhaps an Islamic spy.

  “Didn’t you hear the people say that Mirza was so full of light?” Rostam continued explaining patiently. “It’s the light of Jesus. When Jesus opens their eyes, the people have to come. And the jinn have to leave. You heard him say noomquam ladatora morsu antiki derpentis, right?” Alejo blinked, then nodded shortly. “Well isn’t that what you say when you do ruqya? We saw it in a movie.”

  “It’s Latin,” Wara suddenly realized out loud. “"Numquam lædatur a morsu antiqui derpentis. ‘Never to be hurt by the bite of the ancient serpent.’ It’s part of the Catholic exorcism ritual, I think.”

  Wara and Sandal had crowded around Rostam in a small circle by now, and Alejo shivered, jamming his hands into the thin sleeves of his boutique shirt. “Ok. That’s what I thought I saw. But I just didn’t expect to see it…here. That was real? Not just show for the concert?” The blood-smeared crosses, the crucifix, and screaming seemed like something right out of a Hollywood exorcism parody.

  Sandal echoed Alejo’s feelings rather eerily: “Are you serious about this, Rostam? Why would God use some rock singer at a concert to cast out demons?”

  Now Rostam appeared offended. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “God will show himself to the world, and I guess he just might not use who we would expect.” Alejo saw Wara’s gaze travel skeptically towards the stage where Mirza and Neelam were facing each other, jamming to the rhythm.

  And who would you expect? Alejo asked himself, much more confused than he would like. A white dude in a suit and tie with a big Bible?

  Horribly, Alejo realized in that moment that the image of the respectable-looking preacher lugging around a leather Bible was exactly who Alejo imagined God would use. Not a messed-up possible ex-terrorist like Alejo. And definitely not an Iranian rock star in chalky make-up who face painted fans with his own blood.

  When Jesus came, the religious people saw him as a sinner who hung out with sinners and didn’t recognize that he was someone who did God’s will. Perfectly, in fact.

  Alejo’s shoulders slumped as he realized that he was actually falling pretty neatly into the category of the Pharisees at this moment. He who had ran kicking and screaming from church years ago because they all had God in a box of their own making.

  Oh God, help me.

  “How often does this happen?” Wara was half-shouting to Rostam over the racing of drums.

  “Oh, all the time,” Rostam grinned back. “For Mirza, anyway. He’s the only one of us who takes on the jinn. It’s one of the spiritual gifts he got. Awesome, huh? Heydar or other believers who can stand our concerts talk with the ones the jinn leave. The kids can tell right away that they have been set free. Some don’t really care what happened, and just wander off. But I imagine it’s pretty hard to just ignore being set free from the power of evil; a lot of people want to know more about Jesus who did this. A lot more.”

  “What happens to all these people? After the concert?” Alejo asked incredulously. It was weird to hear Rostam, the skinny guy who looked like a teenager, refer to the young people at the concert as “kids.” But then again, since so much of Iran was young, Rostam wasn’t as young as most. Rostam cocked his head to one side, looking quite pleased.

  “Well, the truth is, the house churches are kind of overflowing. We can’t let them be a part of our church. It just wouldn’t be safe for them, with all the bad publicity from Sami and all. But we send them to another house church where they can learn all about Jesus.”

  “How many?” Alejo asked hoarsely. This was crazy. But it really seemed God’s power was working here, in the absolute last place he would have expected.

  He wasn’t sure if he liked it.

  Rostam shrugged and swung his sunglasses in the air. “It keeps spreading. Between all the people Sami knew and who we know…ten thousand? Sami died for what he believed. Those of us who are left live for it.”

  What if God chose to use the person we would least expect? Alejo’s thoughts ran wild as he huddled tightly in h
is shirt sleeves and turned back to the concert. What does the fact that we put that person in the spiritually useless category say about us?

  25

  The Sin of Greed

  SINCE SANDAL CLAIMED SHE HAD DEBUGGED the girls’ hotel room, the three of them sat there for an impromptu meeting, enjoying greasy boxes of Iranian pizza. Or “elastic loaves”, as the government had decreed the Western, cheesy staple. Since anything from the West was suspect, they’d made up their own, Iranian description for the food.

  The fact made Wara grin as she shoveled in yet another slice of veggie elastic loaf. Persian food was delicious, but there was nothing like a taste of home.

  No pepperoni, though, or ham either for that matter. Pork wasn’t allowed in Islam. But they did make a mean veggie pizza. Wara crossed her legs under her on her bed, doing her best not to elbow Sandal next to her. Alejo sat on the white metal stool at the room’s miniscule table. He didn’t appear to have much of an appetite, listlessly inserting bites of dinner into his mouth. The girls were easily beating him in quantity of pizza consumed.

  Around them, the lemon-colored walls of the Happy Paris glowed cheerfully, adorned with a few mosaic pictures in cheap plastic frames.

  “I still can’t get used to the music,” Sandal announced. She drained a miniscule plastic cup of Zam Zam Cola and frowned. Her veil had slipped sloppily to one shoulder, the edge trailing dangerously near the plate of greasy pizza. “I mean, Mirza’s voice is beautiful. And Neelam is an awesome girl. But what’s with their makeup? And all the scary stuff in the concert.” Sandal dabbed at her lips with a napkin and leaned back contentedly into the yellow wall. “It’s still hard to believe he was really casting out demons. That it wasn’t all just show.”

  “Why?” Alejo leaned onto the table with both elbows, facing Sandal seriously. “Why can’t we believe God was there with Mirza, casting out demons?”