I continued seeding the pomegranate, grateful to have something to do with my hands and eyes while my mouth tried to form words that made sense. I inhaled and hoped for the best. “I lied to him once – it was by omission, but it was on purpose, and it was enough to change his opinion of me. Since then, he has seen that there are things I do that don’t fit his code, and it doesn’t work for him that my code allows them.”
She was silent for long enough that I looked up from my work. “My son was a serious boy who grew into an even more serious man.” She seemed to reconsider whatever she was going to say, but then she met my eyes. “Things had been dangerous for us for years before we finally fled Iran, and Darius spent the first years of his life listening to adults speak of concerning things. Our dinner conversations with our journalist friends were about human rights violations, corruption, and all the lies that were being spoon-fed to people who wanted to believe them.”
Her eyes took on a distant look, and there were lines of anger around her mouth that hadn’t been there before. But then they softened, and Silvana’s memory playback shifted. “When Reza was born, it was Darius’s job to protect his baby brother, and when we left Tehran, Darius had to comfort him in a new place where nothing was familiar to any of us. There wasn’t much time for play in our lives then, and to be honest, it wasn’t until my husband began teaching in London that we found things to laugh about. It is a reason our Sunday roast tradition is so important to us – those Monday dinners in our tiny flat when I would make the Persian food of my youth and Basim would tell the boys stories from One Thousand and One Nights. We were able to let down our guard and be a family.”
Again, Silvana’s eyes were distant as she replayed the memories, but this time her expression was peaceful.
I brushed all the broken pieces of pomegranate skin into my hand and dropped them into the garbage. “I’ve seen Darius play a little,” I said quietly. “It’s an awkward thing, like an old dog pouncing on a tennis ball and sending it flying across the room. But it’s beautiful too, because it feels rare and precious to hear laughter in his voice.” I looked at my hands, covered in pomegranate juice where engine grease had been before. “I learned to play in self-defense,” I finally said. “It was a way to be noticed as different from my sister, who was everything beautiful, elegant, and proper.” I looked up and met Silvana’s eyes. “Kind of like you, only not as regal.”
Silvana laughed. “Regal? What a delightful word. I quite like the idea that I could be regal.”
The kitchen door opened, and Reza and his dad entered, with Darius right behind them. Basim went to her and kissed her cheek. “You are regal like the moon, my love, queen of everything you oversee.”
Silvana made a scoffing noise that sounded like “don’t be an idiot” plus “go on, tell me more.” It was an excellent noise that I resolved to practice for my own repertoire.
“Go wash up. Dinner is ready.”
The two men left as Darius eyed my apron with a raised eyebrow. “It looks much better on you than it does on me.”
I burst into laughter at the picture he would make in the pretty apron, and he smiled as if he was pleased with himself for making me laugh. Then I shook my finger at him. “Just so you know, I’ve decided to wear this the whole night.”
Now it was his turn to laugh. “Why?”
“Because you said jeans would be fine, but they’re not fine, and since this is a nicer dress than what I have, I’m borrowing it.” I turned to Silvana. “May I borrow this for dinner?”
She grinned at me. “You may wear whatever you like to my dinner table, Anna. You called me regal, so you are granted immunity from my Sunday roast dress code.”
“Thank you,” I said with a side-eye and smack for Darius’s hand when he tried to reach for a pomegranate seed. “I accept my immunity, but I’d still like to wear the apron. It’s like getting to be girly without the commitment.” I eyed Silvana’s shoes with a mock shudder. “I actively suck at high heels.”
She, meanwhile, moved like she’d been born in them, and she kicked up one shoe to show me the red sole. “There are marble stones in Iran, from the Safavid period, on which women would place their feet while henna was applied. Engraved on the marble were words that roughly translate to, Is that the color of henna on the bottom of your foot, or is it the blood of a lover you’ve trampled underfoot?”
My eyes widened as my gaze went from the red soles of her shoes to her face. “That is a truly excellent reason to own red-soled heels and is almost worthy of the walking lessons I’d have to take to wear them.”
“I prefer your boots,” Darius said as he snatched a pomegranate seed from the stash I was no longer guarding. “You walk with confidence in them.”
I considered my engineer boots, which were like the ankle version of motorcycle boots and way more comfortable. “They’re useful for keeping my ankles from being burned on hot exhaust pipes, and they add a little extra whoop-ass to my perp-kick.”
“Whoop-ass to your perp-kick?” Reza asked with a laugh as he entered the kitchen, having changed into khakis and a long-sleeved shirt, similar to what Darius wore. “Are those words that actually mean something?” He leaned over to kiss his mother’s cheek as a distraction while he snagged a few walnuts from the bowl next to her.
“Anna’s a bounty hunter. Apparently, she has a special kick she reserves for intransigent bail jumpers,” Darius said as he poured the contents of the heavy cast iron pot into a serving tureen. Did he have any idea how sexy his kitchen skills and fifty-cent words were?
“As one does,” I muttered, just so I wouldn’t be caught staring.
“Dang,” Reza said, with an inflection that was the total opposite of Darius’s classy way of speaking. “That’s hot.”
Darius handed Reza the tureen with a grumpy, “Take this,” and Silvana handed Darius the bowl of rice she’d plated earlier.
“Come, Anna, now it’s the men’s turn to work.” She led the way to the dining room where Basim was lighting candles on a table already set with beautifully glazed dishes. The two men followed behind us, bringing bowls of food that smelled amazing. I was seated to Basim’s right, next to Darius. He was on my right, and Reza sat across from me, with their mother between them.
“Who was the last bail jumper you caught?” Reza asked as soon as he sat down. I glanced at Silvana to see if there was something special that needed to be done, but she just smiled encouragingly and passed the bowl of rice to Darius, who passed it to me.
I took spoonfuls of the rice and the chicken, walnut, and pomegranate stew, and told Reza the story of catching Junior. Basim and Silvana seemed equally invested in my tale, but I kept it pretty light on the details because Darius had already heard it. He surprised me by asking leading questions that prompted me to answer with specifics.
“What kind of handcuffs do you carry?” he asked after I’d described my takedown of Junior in his crappy apartment.
“You would ask about handcuffs,” his brother snarked.
I flushed, which Silvana noticed. “Zip ties are easiest,” I said, meeting Darius’s eyes. “I have some in my back pocket if you need to use them on your brother.”
He smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
I turned to Basim before anyone could ask me more questions. “Darius said you’ve been a teacher since you lived in England. Do you still teach?”
He nodded. “At least one journalism course each semester, and one political science. This year I’m also teaching a class on the art and literature of the Middle East.”
“Anything to use One Thousand and One Nights as a textbook, right Dad?” Reza said.
“Would you tell us a story from it, like you did in London at Sunday roasts?” I asked.
“He told them in Farsi,” Reza said. “I don’t even know if he knows them in English.”
Basim gave his son a quelling look. “Perhaps you’d like to tell Anna the story of the three apples?”
Reza shr
ugged, “I don’t remember that one.” The gesture made him seem like an overgrown teenager, and I was about to change the subject again when Darius’s voice near my right ear made liquid heat pool in my stomach.
“The Three Apples is essentially a murder mystery,” he said. “A chest is discovered with the dismembered body of a woman locked inside. The Caliph then charges his vizier with finding the killer—”
“Which he doesn’t – the killer comes to him to confess,” interrupted Reza, who apparently did remember the story.
Darius continued as though he hadn’t heard his brother, “—and the Caliph hears the confession of a young man who tells a story of his loving and dutiful wife and three rare apples she asked him to find for her when she was ill. He traveled far and wide and finally brought her the apples, which he took from the Caliph’s own orchards, but then she was too ill to eat them. Later, the man discovered a passing slave with one of the apples, and when asked about it, the slave said his girlfriend gave it to him as a gift after her husband traveled for more than a month to find it. The man went home and killed his wife, cut her into pieces, and stuffed her into the trunk. Later, his young son confessed to stealing the apple, which a slave had then taken and run off with. The Caliph feels sorry for the man and pardons him, but then sends his vizier to find the tricky slave and bring him to justice.”
“He pardons the murderer and goes after the slave?” I asked, incredulous.
“Right?” Reza said, clearly amused by my horror. “Nice priorities, big guy.”
“In the end,” Darius continued, “the vizier discovers it was one of his own slaves who lied about the apple. He asks the Caliph for forgiveness for his slave, which the Caliph grants.”
“And,” Reza adds, “the Caliph feels so sorry for the guy who killed his wife that he offers him one of his own slaves to marry as a consolation prize.”
“So,” Basim said, “who is the victim in the story?”
“Clearly it’s the wife, since she’s dead,” I said.
“Not the Caliph?” he asked, apparently serious.
“Why would the Caliph be the victim?”
“There are some people,” he said, in full professor voice, “who would argue that the Caliph was the real victim – as it was from his orchards that the apples were taken. And yet he still found it within himself to forgive the husband and the slave for their transgressions.”
“Not only did he forgive them, he gave them a reward,” I said in disgust.
I saw the shutters go down on Darius’s face and knew I’d just said something wrong. No one else at the table seemed to notice this though, and conversation shifted to the contemporary retellings of various One Thousand and One Nights tales.
When the dishes had been washed and dried, and Darius was talking through a boat mechanics problem by the kitchen door with his dad and brother, Silvana handed me the pretty apron I’d finally taken off. “It suits you,” she said.
I smiled and tried to hand it back. “It actually doesn’t. I’d feel like a fraud.”
“Are you a fraud?” she asked in a way that reminded me of her son.
The question was too personal, too bold, and definitely should have been approached with the wariness I had for snakes. But I’d been second guessing whatever I could have said that pissed Darius off, and I didn’t want to mess around with complex answers.
“As a person, no. As a woman?” I shrugged. “I guess it depends on the things you think are important.”
“What do you think is important, Anna?” Silvana’s voice was quiet, but I had the sense Darius had heard her question. I felt him listening, though his dad and brother were arguing about boat throttle timings.
“Loyalty. Standing up for people who need help. Family.” I took a deep breath. “I think what you do defines you more than what you believe.”
“And ideals? Are those worthless?” Darius’s voice had a sharp edge to it. I refused to bite back in front of his family. Instead, I set the apron down on the counter and met Silvana’s gaze.
“Thank you so much for your wonderful hospitality. The food was so good, and I really enjoyed meeting you all.” I included Basim and Reza in my gaze, then I turned to Darius. “You should stay and hang out with your family. I’ll call a Lyft to get home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered. He leaned over to give his mother a kiss on the cheek, then shook his dad’s hand and clapped his brother on the shoulder. I reached my hand out to shake Silvana’s, but she pulled me in to kiss my cheek.
“You are a lovely young woman, Anna,” she murmured. It felt like a benediction, but I appreciated the sentiment anyway.
I decided that if meeting a person’s parents added color to their portrait, she was the red in the picture of Darius Masoud.
37
Darius
“Be careful with your words, once they are said they can only be forgiven, not forgotten.”
Silvana Masoud
“I am ridiculous, didn’t you get the memo?!” Anna exploded at me as soon as the door closed on my truck.
I inhaled deeply. “I apologize. You are not ridiculous. I was angry.”
She glared at me. “You were angry.” It was not a question. “You’ve been angry all night. Your anger makes me tired, Darius.”
We rode in silence until the silence was louder than the unsaid words cycling through my brain.
Finally, Anna spoke again. “What did I say that made you shut down?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, attempting to believe my own words.
I could feel her watching me, and I deliberately avoided her gaze.
“Then you’re a liar, Darius. The very thing you condemn me for.”
White hot anger pounded through my veins, and I ground my teeth against the words that threatened to explode from me. “I don’t lie,” I breathed out.
“So that time you said we were friends wasn’t a lie? Because shutting me out and then pretending it doesn’t matter are not the actions of a friend. For that matter, neither is setting me up to look disrespectful to your family. That actually sucked. I felt stupid and sloppy and even more clumsy than usual, so thanks for that too.”
A wave of shame swept the anger away and I felt sick. “Anna …” I began, but then couldn’t find the next words. I looked over at her, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes. I tried again. “I didn’t set you up, and they don’t think you’re disrespectful at all. They like you.” I exhaled. “That’s the problem.”
“Because I’m just so awful?” Her voice broke on the word, and she turned toward the window.
There were so many things I should have said. She wasn’t awful. She was the opposite of awful. She made me want things I couldn’t want, to be something I couldn’t be. Her voice had woven through my dreams, her scent was on my pillow, her laughter was under my skin. She was under my skin, and like an itch I couldn’t scratch, all I wanted to do was tear my skin off.
“Who is the bad guy in the three apples story?” Anna asked in a small voice that made my heart hurt. “Was it the guy who killed his wife and chopped her into little pieces, or the slave who tricked the guy with the malicious lie about his wife’s fidelity?”
“Or maybe it was the Caliph who forgave the criminals their behavior and gave them a second chance?” I said, feeling the anger seep back into my veins.
“What are we actually talking about? The fact that I think the Caliph is a misogynistic jerk?”
“He should never have forgiven the crimes, isn’t that right?” I said.
“The husband murdered his wife over a rumor,” she spat out. Obviously her anger was rising too.
“And because he forgave the murderer, he’s now complicit in the wife’s death.” I knew she didn’t deserve my anger in this, but I was angry.
“Yes!”
“Exactly.” Saying the word took the fight out of me. It was everything I knew, and everything I believed, and yet it made me inexplicably sad.
I fel
t her gaze return to me for a long moment, and then she turned her eyes to the play of streetlights on the dashboard. She traced the path of light with her hand. “We’re not talking about the Caliph at all.” The light disappeared and then reappeared with the next lamp. “And that’s why you withdrew tonight at dinner. Because you’re the Caliph. I broke into your orchard and stole the apples growing there. And no matter what other crimes are revealed later, it falls on you to investigate and judge.” She inhaled, and then sighed. “And if you forgive me, you become complicit.”
I turned onto West Burton and stopped my truck outside her building. I didn’t put it in park or turn it off, and Anna unbuckled her seatbelt and turned in her seat. The streetlight cast half her face in deep shadow as she studied me for a long moment. She was unendurably beautiful.
“I didn’t know you existed,” she said, “and now I do, but I don’t get to have you, and it hurts. A lot.” She sighed, and I felt her sadness creep into me. “I wouldn’t change what I’ve done, but I would change who I’ve done it to. I’m sorry.” Her last words were a whisper, and then she got out of my truck and walked in front of my headlights and into her garden gate, and was gone.
* * *
I drove mindlessly around downtown Chicago for a while, until the wildflower scent of her that still lingered in my car had faded. The parking lot at the harbor was nearly empty, as usual, but I recognized the old Bronco in a space near the pier gate.
My brother wanted to talk. I hoped he’d brought beer.
He lay on my bed reading a time travel fantasy, and I had to bite back a surge of anger that he could be erasing the last of her scent with his own. “Reza,” I said as I hung my coat on a hook near the door.
“Dar,” he said, without looking up from the book. “Mom sent fesenjan. It’s in the fridge.”
I checked the fridge and found a big tub of the stew, some rice, and a six-pack of beer. I grabbed two beers, opened them, and put them on the table as I kicked off my shoes and sat. “You can borrow the book,” I said, staring at the label on my bottle as if it held all the wisdom in the world.
Code of Honor Page 23