Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  Philippe turned right and crossed a river. A few blocks farther on, he cursed in French, turned left, and crossed and recrossed the same river at a large traffic circle. Soon, they came to another bridge, and a broader stream slipped beneath them.

  “The water’s high,” said Philippe. “The spring thaw in the mountains. I hope it won’t be a problem later.”

  Signs for the airport appeared, then slid behind. Amira looked questioningly at Philippe.

  “We’re not flying,” he said. “We’re driving out.” “They’ll be watching the airport,” said Amira. “No. They won’t be watching anything for hours.” “Where are we going?”

  “To Turkey, for a start. We ought to reach the border by daybreak.”

  “Inshallah.”

  “Yes, if God wills it and this old Rover is worth half what I paid for it. I bought it in Rezaiye, across the big lake. The ferry had engine trouble. That’s why I was late getting to the hotel.” He glanced at Amira. “What happened back there?”

  Amira told him about the SAVAK agent.

  “That’s not so good. I was counting on Darya to do something for us in the morning. Ah, well. It’s not critical, and maybe she’ll do it anyway.” “Do what?”

  “You don’t want to know yet. When we’re out of Iran.” “What will happen to him?”

  “The SAVAK? At best, he’ll have a very uncomfortable day or two. At worst, he’ll turn up in that river we crossed.”

  “We’re part of that?”

  “Indirectly, anyway. And it may happen, I regret to say. But you didn’t ask him to follow you. Remember that—and what he would have done to you and Darya.”

  Amira remembered Darya clawing at the SAVAK agent like a leopardess. She had never seen a woman physically attack a man—not like that. Even more astonishing, when she thought about it, was the fact that Darya was obviously the commander of the little revolutionary group, the two young men deferring to her.

  They were beyond the city now, among mountains in the high desert. The road was dirt. Tabriz itself was nearly a mile high, and they had been climbing steadily ever since leaving it. A surprising amount of traffic, mainly trucks, moved north with them, a red chain of taillights in the night.

  Philippe reached for the old-fashioned black medical bag that he always carried. “Hand me that water bottle, will you, my dear?”

  He took two pills from a vial and washed them down. “Methamphetamine,” he explained. “Unfortunately, I need it to keep me going. I haven’t slept since I arrived in this country. Don’t worry. I tell you only so that if I start seeing dragons in the road, you’ll understand.”

  In the glow from the dash, his face was both haggard and surprisingly youthful. Amira thought that she had never seen him so handsome, not even that afternoon at the cafe in Paris.

  “How did you do all this?” she finally asked.

  “Money. Old favors. Old friends. I’m using up all three at an amazing pace.” “And why? Why are you doing it?”

  “You know why.” “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Do you have your passport?” “Yes.”

  “We’ll lose it somewhere before the border. Open that compartment.” There were two French passports, one for her, one for Karim. Philippe turned on the map light for her.

  “So I’m femme Rochon, and this is little Karim Philippe Rochon.”

  “At least until we’re in Turkey, at a place called Agri. Then you’ll be someone else.” “These look real.”

  “Done by the best forger in France, which is saying something. One rea- son he’s the best is that only a select clientele know he’s the best.” “How did you know?”

  “One of those old favors. Or two.”

  “Is it safe to use your name? Won’t they be looking for us?”

  “As I said, they won’t be looking for anyone until morning, and maybe not for several hours after that. The SAVAK is a complication, though. It’s best that we reach the border early.”

  There were a hundred questions to ask. Amira let them all evaporate. She should have been exhausted, but instead a deep and almost radiant elation filled her. She had her child, and beside her the man who was the love of her soul, running with her in the desert night through one foreign land toward another, from known danger to danger unknown.

  Free.

  The word came to her as if whispered by a secret voice. Never in her life had she applied it to herself.

  Free.

  It was like honey, the first taste demanding the next.

  A low haze of road dust dimmed the taillights ahead, but the stars burned bright and endless above.

  ‘‘Whatever happens,” Amira told Philippe and the universe, “it was worth it.”

  O

  Dawn caught them at Maku, a town huddled in a valley hardly wider than the road, under a huge overhanging cliff. They had been delayed at a bridge—not much more than a culvert, really—that a swollen mountain stream had torn away.

  Philippe parked the Land Rover behind a truck.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes. What would you like to eat?” “Anything.”

  “And Karim?”

  “I’ll feed him while you’re gone.”

  He looked confused, then nodded. “I’d forgotten how late you wean in al-Remal.”

  “Bring him something sweet, if you can. He eats solid food, too, you know.” He came back in twenty minutes with bread, cheese, kabobs, and a thermos of coffee. There was a cup of honeyed yogurt for Karim. “Maku,” said Philippe. “Do you know what it means?” “How would I?”

  “The story goes that in ancient times a general had to move his army by night. They marched by moonlight until they came to this place, where the mountains, that cliff there, blocked the sky. The army was stumbling around, disintegrating, in pitch blackness, and the general cried out, Maku? Maku?’. It means ‘Where is the moon?’”

  “Where did you hear this?”

  “It’s well known among civilized people everywhere—although it obviously hasn’t reached al-Remal yet.” He grinned. “Actually, I’ve been here before, here and across the border, in Turkey. Long ago, when I was very idealistic, fresh from medical school. It was the usual horror: an earthquake followed by an epidemic. I was here for the epidemic.” He gazed into the distance. “Death isn’t the enemy,” he said unexpectedly. “Death will always be there. What wears one down is the weight of ignorance, as massive as that mountain above us. Cholera everywhere: ‘What measures have you taken?’ ‘Oh, we’re eating garlic.’ A child wasting away with diarrhea: ‘I put a charred peach pit in his navel, Your Honor, but he doesn’t get better, by God’s will.’ I’m sure it hasn’t changed a centime’s worth all these years later.”

  “Neither have you, my friend. You’re still the idealist. And still young,” she added, because in the growing light, his weary face did not look young at all.

  “Hah! So young that I’m going to need another of these to get me to the border.” He took out a pill and swallowed it with coffee. “We’re only half an hour away. Don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen. They may ask me some routine questions, but they rarely question women. Don’t worry about Karim, either. If he calls me Uncle Philippe, no one at the border will know it doesn’t mean ‘Daddy’ in French.” He started the Land Rover and winked at her. “Allons-y.”

  As they came out of the valley, a high mountain capped with snow came into view, bright as a bride in the sunrise.

  “Ararat,” said Philippe. “Noah’s Ark.”

  Amira nodded. She was familiar with the story.

  At the border, the traffic was backed up for a mile. It took more than an hour for them to reach the Iranian guard post. There a harried-looking soldier waved them through after a quick glance and a few words. Crossing the no-man’s land to the Turkish side, Philippe let out a long breath. “That was the big moment. They haven’t heard a thing. The Turks won’t know, either.”

  But at the Turkish post, after studying their pa
pers, the guard ordered Philippe to pull the Rover aside. Moments later, an officer appeared. He motioned Philippe out of the car. The two men exchanged a few words that Amira couldn’t understand; then Philippe followed the Turk into the building.

  Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. Fretting in the Land Rover, Amira invented a game of popping little balls of bread into Karim’s mouth. Twenty minutes. Twenty-five. What was wrong? It was full morning. What was happening back in Tabriz? By now, someone must have noticed that her room was empty. Was Ali awake yet? What if the SAVAK man had escaped from Darya’s friends?

  Philippe emerged from the building, the officer following. The two were smiling and chatting, an obvious exchange of mutual esteem. When Philippe at length started the Land Rover, the officer stepped back, saluted, and made a show of halting a truck so that he could turn back onto the road.

  “What happened?” asked Amira, when the border was behind them. “Was something wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I had the feeling he suspected something. Maybe the pills—border officers develop a sixth sense for drugs. Or maybe it was just the usual grab for baksheesh. But I played my trump card and ended up having tea with him.”

  “What trump card?”

  “When I was here before, I worked with a young Turkish lieutenant. We became friends. We still write every year or so. He’s a general now. So I asked the captain if he happened to know my old friend. He does—and fears him, too, I’d say.”

  Amira laughed. It was hard to stop laughing, her relief was so great. “My God, Philippe, is there any place on Earth where you don’t know someone?” “One never regrets kindness,” said Philippe. “Always remember that, my love.”

  “Those pills are turning you into a philosopher.” Now Philippe laughed, too.

  O

  They crossed rolling hills, surprisingly green under a cloudless sky. Here and there sheep grazed on new grass. Every time a flock appeared, Karim pointed happily: “Sheep!” Philippe said that the countryside reminded him of Montana, a place he had visited in the United States. Ararat rose on their right, dominating the horizon.

  Forty-five minutes from the border, the first town came into view, a bare- bones scatter of three or four hundred ugly stone houses. As plain as it was, it thrilled Amira because the clothes of the men she saw were unmistakably European: shirts, sweaters, pants, wool jackets, and caps. Though the women were unveiled—as the founder of modern Turkey, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, had decreed they should be decades ago—they were conservatively dressed, their heads covered with scarves.

  O

  “They’re conservative out here,” Philippe explained. “In the cities, certainly in Ankara, you can almost imagine you’re in New York, but here, they cling to the old ways.”

  To the west, the land changed. There was less green, and plowed fields began to appear. Ararat slipped behind, fading and diminishing with distance.

  “Tell me what we’re doing,” Amira said.

  Philippe nodded, as if to affirm that it was time for an explanation. “It’s not the greatest plan, but fortunately we’re dealing with rather predictable people. Very soon now, your husband will wake with the worst hangover of his life, and soon after that, he’ll learn that his wife is missing. The hotel staff may already know that you’re not in your room, but no one will do anything without Ali. After all, you might be in his room. Once it becomes clear that you’re gone, there will be a flurry of phone calls to al-Remal and Teheran. Everyone will have one main desire: to keep the whole thing quiet as long as they can. Sooner or later, it will come out—but with luck, nothing will become public for at least a day or two.”

  “And then?”

  He ignored the question. “Meanwhile, they’ll be looking for you—quietly. Not the regular police. SAVAK. And if Darya was able to complete her task, they’ll stumble onto a false trail.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The plan was for her to take the early flight from Tabriz to Teheran. She should have landed an hour ago. You may have noticed that she looks a bit like you, and she was to specify that a child was traveling with her. If some- one asked on the plane, she could say that she had decided to leave the child with an aunt. But he would be on the flight list. And she would be noticed. Someone will remember when SAVAK comes asking.” “It sounds dangerous for her.”

  “Less dangerous than staying in Tabriz, now that she’s kidnapped a SAVAK agent. At any rate, in Teheran, she’ll go through the same charade at two different airlines, buying tickets for al-Remal at one, and London at the other. And there the trail will end because she won’t catch either flight. She’ll simply leave the airport and disappear in Teheran.”

  “They’ll know she didn’t take either of the flights?”

  “Eventually, but it will give them plenty to chew on for a day or more, and even then the logical place to look will be Teheran.”

  “And what are we going to do while all this is happening?”

  “Right now, we’re going to meet a man in a town called Van. He’ll get you safely out of Turkey while I go back to Ararat and lay the second false trail.”

  It was as if the world had tilted. “You’re leaving me?”

  He shook his head, as if denying it. “I have to, my love. Remember the plan: you and Karim aren’t just running away, you’re disappearing for good. I’m going back to wreck the car in a river in the mountains. It will look as if the bodies washed away.”

  “Why can’t we go with you?”

  “Because the three of us could never get away from there unnoticed. I …

  I’ll get away.”

  “But what then? Are you going to disappear, too?” “Yes. Don’t worry, my dear. All will be explained later.” “When will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know, my love. Perhaps not for a very long while.” Those words again. “I don’t like this, Philippe.”

  “Neither do I, believe me. But there’s no other way now. Sooner or later, some genius in SAVAK will decide to check the border posts. When my name comes up, a red light will go on. They’ll start gearing up for a covert search in Paris, which is where they’ll figure we’ve gone the minute we reached an airport in Turkey. But then the wreck will be found, and the red light will go off while they hunt for the bodies. It will give you an open window to slip into Paris.”

  “I’m going to Paris?”

  “For a little while. Then to America.” “America!”

  “Yes. As I said, it will all be explained. Just get to Paris safely.” “Who is this man? The one we’re meeting.”

  “He may be the best man I’ve ever known. His name is Brother Peter.”

  O

  The air was thin and cold. Sheep and goats grazed among patches of snow, and the low mountains were still coated in white. Here and there crouched stone houses with huge haystacks atop their flat roofs. Farmers drove wagons or led heavily burdened donkeys along the muddy, rutted road.

  Amira stared moodily out the window. Philippe’s plan was too complicated. Or maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he wasn’t in it. Why was he abandoning her—her and Karim? Why couldn’t he come with them—to Paris, to America, wherever? Where would he go? Wherever it might be, was someone else waiting for him there?

  She had no right to ask such questions, but she couldn’t help thinking them. The sweetness of her newfound freedom had vanished, leaving a bitter aftertaste. The taste of loneliness. The taste of fear.

  The Rover topped a rise, and a town appeared ahead.

  “Agri,” said Philippe. It was much larger than Dogubeyazit, but the people looked the same, the odd combination of Western-dressed men and conservatively garbed women. A sizable mosque dominated the middle of town. Philippe parked on a busy street nearby. “I’ll get some food. Walk around if you like. No one will object.”

  She led Karim around a little square and quickly found herself surrounded by a knot of curious, smiling women. She couldn’t understand a word they said until one
of them shyly managed a little Arabic: “Where are you going? Where are you from?”

  What was a safe answer? “I was born in Egypt, but I live in France with my husband. We’re driving from Teheran to … to Istanbul. It’s a dream of his.”

  Heads nodded when this information was translated. Everyone could sympathize with a woman whose husband had strange ideas.

  Philippe returned, followed by several men vying with one another to help him. One carried the thermos, another a basket of food. A third knelt to inspect the Rover’s tires and nodded in apparent satisfaction at their soundness. When Philippe, at last, was able to shepherd Amira and Karim into the vehicle, someone passed a bottle through the window. There were shouts of “Sagol!”

  “Sagol!” Philippe replied. As they drove away, children ran beside them. “I’d forgotten how friendly the Turks are,” Philippe mused.

  “What does Sagol mean?”

  He laughed. “It means ‘long life.’”

  Amira uncovered the basket: a split loaf of dark, fresh bread serving as plates for cold vegetables and chunks of grilled lamb. Philippe handed her the thermos.

  “It’s only tea. It seems there’s no coffee in Turkey. It’s like caviar in Iran.

  They sell every ounce for foreign exchange.”

  “What will I do in America?” she demanded suddenly. She had meant to sound angry, but the question came out merely petulant.

  For the first time since Tabriz, he touched her, the backs of his fingers light on her cheek. “Don’t be afraid, my love. What will you do in America? It’s up to you. It’s a country where a person with intelligence and dedication can become whatever he wants. Or she wants. But I’ve taken the liberty of arranging an opportunity, if it interests you. Would you like to go to Harvard?”

  “Harvard? The university?” “Of course.”

  “As a student?” “What else?”

  “But I’m not qualified,” she protested. “And there’s Karim—what about him?”

  “You’re qualified. And Karim will be fine.” He took his hand from her cheek. “This isn’t the time for details. You’ll get those from a friend of mine in Paris. His name is Maurice Cheverny. He’s a lawyer. Contact him before you do anything else. Call him from the airport. He’s expecting you.