The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller

by Gonçalo Coelho

  With flashlight and gun in hand, he leapt into the trench dividing the future underground platforms at the Sirkeci station where future Marmaray trains would one day travel. Walking down the trench, he approached the tunnel heading towards the Bosporus and considered it carefully, aiming the beam of his flashlight at the vast darkness. Then he turned it off and stared, undaunted and serene, into the long dark cavern. All the answers were in there. At a price, though. He realized this but could never back out of a game once it started. He walked into the darkness. One short step after another, gun in hand, like a blind man, or an invisible man roaming through the world, and the world itself, also totally invisible. Even so, pointing his gun at the black void before him made him feel safe. He gripped it like someone gripping a talisman. After ten minutes he stopped. Still no light at the end of the tunnel. No target. With an involuntary reflex, he glanced back. To no avail, of course, since what he saw was the same as what he saw ahead: total blackness. The purest silence prevailed here. He felt the heavy and intimidating atmosphere, but at the same time it was somehow intoxicating and dizzying as well. He felt as though this emptiness was making him come out of himself, as though he was departing from his own body. He set aside these ruminations and continued on his way. As he became increasingly accustomed to the surrounding silence, he made less and less noise, sinking into the right rhythm and manner for placing his feet on the ground to become even more silent, and controlling his breathing. A little ways on he stopped again. Not out of fear but because an instinct inside him impelled him to do so. He picked up the thread of his ruminations. He wasn’t the one who’d thrown the dice. He never was. He let them roll freely across the table, and now they ordered him to stop at exactly that spot, at exactly that moment. Around him there was nothing but the void, total darkness, an absence of everything. There was no more space or time, if only because time only showed itself through its effect upon things and here, Agent Borelli was as good as dead – amorphous, non-existent, dead. In this darkness, he saw his soul in a way that it can only be seen outside of space and time. It was as though he were experiencing a sudden paralysis of the hands of universal time, a sudden breakage and splintering of the cosmic clock that was always moving too quickly, as far as he was concerned. In this paralysis of space and time, he delved more deeply into himself than he had ever imagined possible, feeling that all his life was a burden, an endless walking on coals, endlessly serving the aims of others, an endless race against time, such anxiety and tension that it drove him to feel always as though he were enclosed in an invisible cubic cell of no more than one wretched meter per side. Wherever he went it seemed these imaginary walls, stronger than reinforced concrete, always barred his way. And he reflected now that, although he had always convinced himself otherwise, it didn’t have to be this way. He could have changed all kinds of things. He could have chosen. Even his career that swept everything along with it like a flood: the woman he loved who had left him, his children living now with his ex-wife, whom he rarely saw, his friends, the lost vacations… He might even have chosen to go into this tunnel. He might choose the moment of his own death. At this point Frank remembered the presence of the gun in his hand, and felt it descending. He raised it to the level of his head. He felt the tip of the gun grazing his temple through his hair. He put his finger on the trigger. It brought scattered memories of his entire life. It was then, immersed in this process of reflection, that he decided it wasn’t the right moment to end his own life. The end would come, no doubt, but not now. Perhaps even before this day was out, but not now. Whatever the future held in store for him, he wanted to see it, and this desire overrode all suicidal impulses. Perhaps after passing through this tunnel, he could get a new start and try to restore some of the things he’d lost, if there was still time. Reeling, he took a few steps towards the tunnel wall on his right. Feeling it with his fingers, he got a grip on himself and resumed the challenge of walking like a blind man into the unknown. In the ensuing minutes he wanted nothing so much as a good belt of whiskey to turn off this brain that kept relentlessly working him over. At last a light appeared far down the tunnel that summoned him from his ruminations and gave him back his identity, as well as the immediate deadly purpose that had brought him there. Once again he felt his body to be entirely present. Drawing a little closer, he made out the figure of his Nemesis, Yousef. He was leaning against the same wall, just a few meters ahead, placing explosives against the tunnel supports, just as he expected. By the opposite wall, Sheik Omar was pointing a gun at Yousef. Next to the Sheik was another man, and catching sight of him, Frank smiled with deep satisfaction, marveling at his own audacity: for it was his own undercover agent. He saw him pointing a gun at Nefise, who sat with her back against the wall. It had taken years to manage to infiltrate a man so close to Sheik Omar, someone who had earned his complete trust and could provide invaluable information, such as the tipoff that brought him down here to the bottom of the Bosporus, into the Marmaray tunnel. Yousef and the Sheik were speaking in Arabic, like enemies, without realizing that right next to the Sheik was another enemy, and hidden in the darkness just a few meters behind Yousef was Agent Borelli, which made it two against two. Plus the advantage of surprise. And in this case, whoever attacked first would have an enormous advantage. He took one more step, knelt down and aimed at Yousef. But all of a sudden, Yousef dropped what he was doing and went quickly and decisively towards Nefise on the other side of the tunnel. Just as he stopped in front of Nefise, a shocking surprise startled Frank. Over against the opposite wall someone uttered a Spanish profanity. Alarmed, he whipped his gun in the direction of the cursing. There was someone there in the darkness, thinking himself well hidden and all set to act, just as he was. Now Frank saw three threats, Yousef, Sheik Omar and this hidden figure. He opted to remain incognito, deciding to wait to see if the other man would act first, so he could then take advantage of his own continuing concealment. Yousef was talking to Nefise with intense emotion standing in the light of the flashlights.

  “My life is in your hands, Nefise! If you do not want me to continue I will stop this murderous work,” said Yousef, his trembling eyes fixed on Nefise. The Sheik broke in angrily, brandishing his gun:

  “Stop? Would you rather die? Would you rather she died, too?”

  10

  Luiz held his pistol steady, waiting for Yousef to step away from the man aiming his gun at Nefise so he could shoot him. Sweat ran down his forehead. He locked his finger on the trigger. But the situation was starting to get out of hand. Nefise’s expression was one of utter exhaustion, and she showed complete surprise at Yousef’s sudden intervention. All eyes were on him.

  “Go ahead and answer him,” the Sheik ordered, turning towards Nefise, gun in hand. “Tell him! Do you want to die? Do you want him to die, too? That’s the question he’s asking you!”

  Yousef looked Nefise in the eye, steadily, gravely. Her beautiful green eyes beheld him for seconds that seemed an eternity, then she replied:

  “I don’t want any of us to die.”

  “Excellent! Some common sense,” the Sheik observed with satisfaction.

  “But I also do not want to be responsible for an act of terrorism of this magnitude. I do not want to live with this on my conscience.”

  Nefise uttered these last words fearlessly, ignoring the gun trained on her by the man next to her and exasperating Sheik Omar.

  “No one has to die,” said the Sheik. “He simply needs to place the explosives as he has done so far, then we go outside, blow this up and you go on with your lives. It can all be over in an instant.”

  “Nefise, I will only do what you command,” said Yousef, ignoring Sheik Omar. “You saved my life and now it’s yours, just as you command my next decision.”

  At this the Sheik lost his patience.

  “Let’s put an end to this circus. Perhaps you’ll change your mind when you see Nefise badly hurt.” The Sheik drew his precious jambiya dagger from his tunic and, placing i
t in the hands of his assistant, he ordered, “Cut off her finger. Let’s see if this impasse holds. If it does, we’ll proceed slowly. Each hand has five fingers and there are ten toes on her feet.”

  In the darkness, Luiz and Frank took in this exchange. The man whom the Sheik thought of as his faithful assistant looked at Nefise now with the dagger in one hand and his gun in the other. Suddenly two shots rang out, two sharp blasts. Sheik Omar dropped to the ground, bleeding and fatally wounded. Before he died, he had time to look at Yousef in disbelief, baffled at how he had managed to shoot him without a gun in his hand, feeling he must be in the presence of a miracle. As the Sheik fell, his phony assistant also toppled to the floor. Two more shots rang out, followed by thrashing movements in the dark, then more shots, one after another. In the darkness Agent Borelli and Luiz Gonzalez shot blindly at each other, trying to save themselves while aiming at the other’s noises. Within seconds the booming shots faded away, followed by a very brief silence broken by groans of pain. Human target hit.

  Yousef snatched the jambiya from the hand of the fallen man and, kneeling down, cut the rope binding Nefise. Then he seized her hand, whispering trust me in her ear. She squeezed his hand in reply, saying simply, get me out of here. They got to their feet and took off running down the tunnel, hand in hand. With a flashlight in his other hand Yousef lit their way. Sunk in the belly of the Bosporus they raced towards salvation, towards Asia, cradle of Islam and the Prophet. They ran, stumbling, each helping the other back up again, till at last they came to the end of the tunnel, sweating and out of breath. When they reached the surface at Üsküdar on the Asian shore, they were weary and spent in body and spirit. They climbed into the first taxi they saw and took off.

  Some fifteen minutes later another man came out of the tunnel to the surface. A man who insisted on never giving up no matter what trap life might set for him: the Caribbean Hurricane. He came out at Üsküdar with an obvious look of anguish, clutching a red stain soaked into his clothes from a wound at gut level. So once again life had let him off the hook, thought the Hurricane as he climbed into a taxi. But Agent Borelli never made it out of the tunnel alive. In this journey to the beyond he joined up with Sheik Omar and his own undercover agent, whom the Sheik until his dying breath believed to be his faithful assistant. The three of them rose up towards heaven side by side from the tunnel into eternity, towards the only God they each believed in, to the Final Judgment, to Paradise or Hell, if He should so determine, with some referring to Him as God and others as Allah, words that at bottom mean the Same Almighty, some believing in Jesus Christ’s words about Him and what He wants to see done on earth, others believing in the words of Mohammed. Be that as it may, on that day they all died side by side, without the slightest discrimination, practically identically, killed by guns, with practically the same suffering, in the same company and the same place, emblematic of the truth that when death comes it is no respecter of persons. Along with this, the three men would also have to find out, substantially at the same time, what happens on the other side.

  11

  Yousef and Nefise arrived at the door of the Taksim Square Hotel by cab. Outside the window was the façade of the building where they had met that morning for the first time after six long years of separation, after time had worked its effects on their feelings and their souls, indicating as always its steady omnipresence, though its speed is inconstant. At least to us people, though clocks tell us otherwise. To Yousef and Nefise, the morning seemed like months ago rather than just hours. This was the longest day of their lives, regardless of whether any clock could confirm for them that it lasted exactly as long as any of its predecessors. They held hands as they ran through the Marmaray tunnel and still hadn’t let go. Sitting in the back of the cab they gazed at one another with deep feeling, she rested her head on his chest as the night cityscape of Istanbul raced past the window, but now that the cab had stopped at the door of the hotel, it was as though everything in the world had been suspended in a universal pause. Yousef wanted to ask Nefise to come with him, or rather, wanted to implore her, but he was afraid, with a fear that was overwhelming, that this request, once refused, might separate them forever. He was deathly afraid of never seeing her again if he took one false step or said the wrong thing. And so he was petrified, so much so that the cab driver had already loudly stated the fare for their journey and Yousef still hadn’t heard him. Though lest one think she was waiting for him to pay, it should be explained that she also hadn’t heard the cab driver, and was also petrified, with no idea what to say or do. She was all confusion. She felt that at a word from him, a simple request, she would not be able to resist. She did not want to be separated from him. She wanted the heat of his kisses and his arms. Yet something within her told her that she could not fling herself so recklessly into this blinding desire. And so the two of them remained silent, gazing into each other’s eyes. The middle-aged cab driver sat watching the scene in the rear-view mirror. Clearly something important was happening in the glass rectangle hung from the ceiling. But the cab driver lost his patience.

  “Awfully sorry to interrupt, but...”

  Yousef let go of her hand, took out his wallet and paid the cab driver. He paid him considerably more than the fare, and instructed him to take Nefise home. She gazed at him with bottomless eyes, radiant with emotion. None of it made any sense at all to the cab driver. How could the two of them separate if they obviously wanted each other more than anything in the world? At all events this was what was about to happen. Yousef took her hand, raised it to his mouth and kissed it, closing his eyes. It was as though a film of a life came sweeping through their heads like an eerie kaleidoscope of someone’s past summed up in a roll of photos in vague shades, an unfolding series of people and landscapes, with no way of knowing which was most poignant, impossible to say which most constricted the nearly unbearable knot caught in their throats. At last he turned his head aside, opening his eyes to find the door handle. She grabbed his hand. He turned and she kissed him.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be seeing each other.”

  “Can I phone you tomorrow?”

  “Yes. Now go before I change my mind.”

  His heart lit up and warmed with the heat he had learned to feel on the island of Gokçeada. He opened the door and, with difficulty, extracted himself from the car, looking back once more at Nefise, brimming with joy. He saw her then as only his eyes could see her – as though he were on Gokçeada, and caught the scent of the island, and felt his soul imbued with the same lightness, the same softness, the same affection, the same light he had felt there for six months of his life. And suddenly a voice was heard calling his name. But how could this be? Yousef turned back slowly in surprise. It was a woman, her eyes glittering with fury.

  “It’s time you paid for the death of my son!”

  Yousef instantly realized the woman had come to avenge the death of someone whose life he must have cut short in one of the countless assaults and assassinations he’d perpetrated. He heard a sharp bang and felt the rending impact of a small but deadly projectile tearing through his flesh and his body. First only his blood, then his very life came pouring out. Nefise got out of the cab and ran to him. She knelt down and held him in her arms, screaming for help, for an ambulance, then for God – the same one God called upon in moments of adversity by Jews, Catholics, Orthodox Christians and Muslims. The One and Only God, dressed in innumerable garments, a different attire for each of us, because this God is everything, is in everything and in all things in different ways, inasmuch as every human being is unique before all others. Perhaps the woman who shot him also believed that it was God who put Yousef there now to pay for all the evil he had done. As it slowly began to dawn on her that she had become a murderer, she knelt down, threw the gun aside, and placed her arms behind her back, resignedly awaiting arrest.

  “Stay with me, Argun. Don’t go away, not now,” Nefise whispered.

  “I will always be with you,” Yousef rep
lied, his voice faint.

  Painful silence. Tears ran down her face.

  “Do you forgive me? Do you love me?”

  “Of course I do! More than you can ever imagine...”

  “Then I am the happiest man in the world.”

  She sobbed, the tears streaming copiously down her face, and raised her arm to wipe them away delicately with her hand.

  “You are so lovely. Promise me you’ll be happy.”

  “I promise. But don’t give up! The ambulance is almost here.”

  She held his hand as she said this to him.

  “I want you to know... that you made me happy.” .

  “So did you.”

  In Yousef's mind, they were no longer in Istanbul but in Gokçeada, riding side by side. Leyla calling him at midnight, joining Nefise at the water’s edge. They were diving into the wonderful crystalline sea, and kissing, stoking the flames of passion in their souls. And though he was no longer sure whether or not it was real, he heard that wonderful voice imploring him:

  “Don’t go. Stay with me.”

  All at once in the middle of Taksim Square from out of nowhere there appeared a mass of butterflies, many more than Nefise had ever seen in her life, with splendid, scarlet wings. They fluttered about as though trying to communicate with her and Yousef. Some landed on her, others on Yousef. She watched them coming from the sky, her eyes flooded with tears. Her restless and rebellious heart whispered to her that in all of her life there had never been any other path. Only if she had one day refused outright to be herself. All the little paths she’d taken up to this point had brought her here, simply because she was true to herself, Yousef was true to himself, and life, life itself, had its own boundaries, of existence, nature, love, life and death, and these magnificent butterflies with their gaudy red wings were nothing more than messengers of love, of fate, from life’s true core – and perhaps also in part, she thought, from the stark, blind emotion that Yousef had always allowed to be the great maestro conducting the symphony of his life.