Pack Up the Moon

by Mary Anne Kelly

  Daisy kept crying out, “But the vans! They’ve got our vans!”

  Nobody answered. Nobody cared about the vans.

  It was then, for the first time, that I realized our caravan might be catapulting into terrible danger. Trembling, I reached into my purse and grabbed hold of my Queen of the Holy Rosary beads. “Mother of God,” I prayed to the one I’d so long ago deserted, “protect us on this journey to the unknown.” There are no atheists in foxholes, at thirty thousand feet, or hightailing it out of the Garden of Eden.

  It was four hours until we reached the main road once again, six until we sighted the wasteland comfort of the seedy shack and desolation that was the Turkish border. The border was nothing more than a shack, a ramshackle patrol outpost in the middle of nowhere. It didn’t look very official at all. It actually looked more like a den of thieves. Some sort of crap game was taking place. Out trudged an entity in army clothes. He was hiking up his suspenders, tromping in unlaced, mud-caked boots and the filth of unwashed weeks-old stench. He took one look at us and waved us through with his rifle and we, relieved, rode the mysterious distance of no-man’s-land for some minutes before we caught sight of the Iranian border.

  This border bore at least a resemblance to someplace official. A couple of broken-down vans were parked along the side and we jumped out. Chickens scratched in the dust by ugly little buildings with real glass windows, barred; announcements and a picture of the stern and handsome shah and his family watched us from the wall. The realization that we would be safe left us trembling with fatigue. It was by now late in the day.

  We tried to report what had happened but we were all speaking at once and in so many different languages, the official slammed his window shut and the guards at the door refused to let us pass.

  Daisy raised up her formidable little self and told us all to be quiet. She’d come up with a plan. She covered her head with what I recognized as my pillowcase and approached them. She spoke to them in her polite Farsi. At last the guards parted their rifles and they let her in. She was in there so long we were beginning to wonder if she would ever come out again. At last she emerged. She sat down on the wooden step, disheveled and exhausted. We gathered around.

  “Why were you in there so long?” Wolfgang cried. He lugged his camera with him but he didn’t point it at anyone. He didn’t dare put it down. He was terrified of something happening to it.

  “He gave me tea.” She loosened her head scarf. “Somebody give me a smoke, will you?”

  “Daisy,” I said, “you don’t smoke.”

  “I do now,” she said.

  “Just give her one,” Reiner said.

  Chartreuse lit a cigarette and passed it to her.

  She kept shaking her head. “Well,” she said, “it seems we weren’t the first Europeans to pass this way this week. Three days ago two truck drivers—a Swede and a Frenchman—made their way through the area as well. They were shortcutting, too, but from the opposite direction. From Van Gölü. That place is a village, if you can believe it. Those people actually live in those caves. Anyway, the truckers were stopped in their tracks by fallen boulders blocking the road. The men—the very men we saw, no doubt—came out to give them a hand. The truck drivers let the villagers clear the boulders. They stood there leaning on their trucks, smoking, watching them work. Their mistake, as it happened. The villagers finished the job, cleared away every last boulder, then, when the way was cleared, they chopped the truckers’ heads off with their sickles.”

  “No!” we all cried out at once.

  “Yes. And that’s not all. They put the Frenchman’s and the Swede’s heads on sticks, or poles or something, and put them out on the road. The Australian van—remember the Australians we ran into in the Pudding Shop?—well, they came through yesterday and saw the heads like that up on poles. You can imagine. They practically flew here! The officer’s men just returned from retrieving the heads.” She took another drag of her cigarette. She didn’t even cough.

  I looked over at Chartreuse. His poor old van was gone. He sat in the road on his haunches shrugging and muttering “I told them so”s to himself in a mixture of French and Afghani.

  “What about their trucks?” Blacky said.

  “All gone. That was the last anyone will ever see of them. As with our vans. They took them apart in no time flat. He says we’re lucky we got out alive.”

  “Where are the dead men?” Tupelo cried.

  “Well, the heads are in there.” She pointed toward the office. “Right next to the typewriter. In two lunch Styrofoams. He was pleased to lift the lid and show me! Oh. I thought I’d—” But she couldn’t go on.

  Reiner sank to his knees. “There, there.” He patted her hand gently. “They won’t get you. I’ll see to that.”

  “But I don’t care about me! Your lovely cameras!” She touched the side of his cheek. The remains of her bright Munich manicure stood out in still partly pink shreds.

  “As long as you’re safe.” He gazed into her eyes.

  Isolde and I looked at each other at once. Reiner and Daisy? It couldn’t be.

  “Reiner, you can use my camera,” Blacky volunteered.

  “Oh, I couldn’t.” Reiner sank to the ground in exhaustion and dismay.

  “Yes, don’t give it a second thought,” Blacky pushed generously forward, “I’m a dreadful photographer anyway. You’ll be doing the world a favor!”

  Reiner dropped his head. “Well. For the good of the cause, I accept. Thank you, Blacky.”

  There was a long, crowded moment while I, too, thought about offering him my camera. But if I did, who would I be then? A girl along for the ride, that’s who. He would always be a photographer, camera or not. He’d made his bones. And Blacky would always be a doctor. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other, trying not to let them read my mind.

  Wolfgang said, “Pity we weren’t prepared to shoot.”

  “Yes,” Vladimir said, “shame you didn’t have any film in.”

  “I was just changing film,” Wolfgang lied. “The dust would have ruined the quality at any rate. Film’s in now, though.” He flashed a look at me, walking in a circle with his camera, demonstrating his preparedness.

  None of us brought it up that Wolfgang had been too frightened to film. Nobody dared. We weren’t as backbiting as normal because we realized at last we were all in this together—and each of us had been just as terrified. Not one of us had thought to aim a camera.

  Wolfgang said, “Do you think they’d let us in there to film the heads?”

  “Good God!” Blacky threw down his cigarette. “What sort of film are you intending?”

  “I was just thinking out loud,” he said, frightened by Blacky’s innate moral rectitude. Blacky was the only one who did frighten Wolfgang, I’d no idea why.

  “Actually, I think it would be foolish not to try,” Vladimir said.

  “If you do,” Harry stood, “you can count me out for good.”

  “Oh, all right.” Wolfgang caved in. “Forget it. I’m just grateful it wasn’t my van they got. All the equipment! That would be the end of any film at all. The end of the whole trip.”

  Tupelo looked off into the distance. “This trip isn’t about just the film anymore.”

  “We’re looking for enlightenment now, are we?” Wolfgang said sarcastically.

  “I just mean that there is an intensity to life when it’s not taken for granted.” She blushed with a shyness not typical of her.

  I sort of loved her at that moment. And I liked Wolfgang less. I said, “It isn’t right just because you think you knew someone so well that they dare not move ahead of who you think they once were.”

  “Aren’t we the philosopher,” Vladimir retorted snidely.

  I remained stubbornly thoughtful. “Philosophy is love of wisdom, so, yes, I hope I am.”

  “Pfhh,” Isolde pretended to stifle a laugh, “the American philosopher. An oxymoron.”

  I was speechless. As much as they loved
the States, they hated the U.S.A.

  “Look,” Blacky said, “we’re all overwrought! Don’t listen to Isolde, Claire. She’s great in the pinch and then falls apart when things calm down.”

  Vladimir raised Isolde’s chin with a finger. “Na, little mouse, it’s all been too much for you, eh?”

  They threw back their heads and laughed.

  “I can’t believe you wanted to photograph people’s cut-off heads!” Isolde charged convivially as they walked away together toward the trees.

  “Ach,” Vladimir looped his arm through hers in an easy, married familiarity, “these people have no sense of the absurd.”

  “Come over here.” Isolde turned and instructed us with a wave. “There’s a little shade. We might as well eat. Bring those crates. We can use them for chairs.” Fully recovered, she kicked away the smattering of chickens and arranged the larger bunch of crates into a picnic table. “Come on, Claire,” she called. “Don’t be hurt.” She stamped her foot. “Vladimir, we hurt Claire’s feelings!”

  “You started it,” I accused her.

  Vladimir said, “Oh, rubbish. We all consider you more European than American, Claire. Come on. Let’s have some food.”

  Some germ of my father’s indignation should have irked me but, to be honest, I was flattered. I let them get away with demeaning me because they let me share their incredulity.

  “How could you eat?” Tupelo exploded.

  “Don’t be silly.” Isolde hoisted open a madras blanket for a tablecloth. “I could eat a horse. I’m not going to waste my lovely goat cheese.”

  “And we’ve got pickles.” Harry moved closer.

  “How can you think of food?” Tupelo held her head and her stomach and reeled in a dramatic swoon.

  “Now, now,” Blacky said calmly. “Isolde’s right. We must fortify ourselves. Come on. I brought along that flat bread.”

  Harry peeled himself a banana. “Do you know they bake it in ovens fueled by camel dung?”

  Tupelo pretended to faint.

  Reiner wrung his hands. “Those savages! They won’t have a clue how to use my beautiful equipment. Gone.” He shook his head wearily. “All gone.”

  “How are we going to divide up now?” I asked. I noticed I was still trembling but I pretended to have moved on, thinking of the future.

  Blacky said, “Wolfgang can take Reiner and Chartreuse. Daisy can come along with us.”

  Tupelo sat up, livid. “Oh, no, she can’t!”

  Reiner was attaching Swiss knives and flashlights and things to his bullet belt. “Daisy comes with me.” He thrust out his already pronounced chin. “And I think it’s time we bought a gun.”

  “No guns,” Blacky said.

  Reiner turned on him fiercely. “It was your idea I put away my watch. If you hadn’t butted in, I’d still have it!”

  A tear slid down Daisy’s cheek. “Your lovely watch!” she sniffled. “Not to mention your van.”

  Reiner threw back his shoulders. “The van has gone the way of all good, noble steeds. To van heaven.”

  “Well done,” Harry remarked to everyone, flopping onto the ground. “He’s taken the obvious and carted it off to the ridiculous.”

  Wolfgang said, “Why, they can drive with me.”

  Isolde whispered to me, “I didn’t see that coming. Daisy and Reiner. Did you?”

  I was setting the red plastic plates around the makeshift table. “God, no!” I whispered in return, relieved to be back in her good graces. “What does she see in him?”

  “Excuse me, darling, but she seems to have made a better choice than you.”

  “What are you talking about? He’s so condescending toward women!”

  “He’s only condescending toward you!”

  We looked over at the two of them. Daisy was indeed newly pretty. And you couldn’t say he wasn’t kind to her.

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts. If it works out she’ll be rich.”

  “Tch. He’ll work her to death.”

  “Na? And? Isn’t it better to work for your own? Better than working for someone like me!”

  “That’s true,” I said and we both laughed. She went on.” Daisy’s clever. She could watch his books. Go on all those exotic trips with him. Book the models.” She brushed herself off. Clouds of dust rose around her. “And love suits her. You can’t say she doesn’t look well. It wouldn’t be a bad life.”

  Chartreuse raised himself and struggled over. “Where can I go?”

  “You can come with us, old chap,” Harry said. He looked at me. “You don’t mind, do you, Claire?”

  “Mind? None of us would be here talking like this if it weren’t for your bravery, Chartreuse! Why, if you hadn’t stood up to them! Mind? You can have my sleeping bag if you want.”

  “No, no, chérie,” he tut-tutted. “I need one blanket. This is all I need.”

  But everyone realized that what I’d said was true.

  Wolfgang chewed his lip, considering. “Perhaps we ought really to have a gun.”

  “Look,” Blacky said. “Weapons beget violence. We’ve come so far with no mishaps.”

  “No mishaps! Oh, brilliant!” Daisy cried. “And what would you call all Reiner’s expensive equipment lost forever!”

  I could hardly believe this, Daisy sticking up for Reiner. He was horrible. And she was actually falling for him. She was completely not his type.

  Blacky was earnestly pursuing his point. “No, I mean human mishaps,” he was saying. “We’re all here in one piece. I’m only saying that weapons, any weapons of destruction, carry with them a vibration which might attract that same vibration—like a magnet.”

  “You mean like carrying your white light around you?” I asked. “Imagining it there so that it is? And it protects you?”

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “That’s rot!” Wolfgang threw up his arms. “Hippie drivel. I’m surprised at you, Blacky.”

  Blacky gave a short laugh. “I’m surprised at me, too.”

  Isolde said, “Well, it is true that we stand here all alive. If someone had pulled out a gun, who knows how it would have turned out.”

  “I’m so sorry about your van, Chartreuse,” Blacky said with sincerity, putting a hand on Chartreuse’s shoulder. “You saved our lives.”

  Chartreuse looked away. “I don’t even mind so much the van,” he admitted, “but my guitar …” He looked out to the distance, bereft.

  “Chartreuse!” I cried and ran to Harry’s van. I came back carrying his guitar. I must have been grinning ear to ear.

  “Oh!” he cried. “My beloved!” He took the instrument and kissed it ardently. “Claire! How good of you to steal it away!”

  We gathered together with gratefulness. Isolde, God love her, crammed some weeds into a jar and made a pretty table. Wolfgang brought out some of his clandestine and precious bottles of lukewarm beer and Harry even came clean with his last Italian salami. Daisy went and got the guards and the official to come out and join us. They skulked over but they loosened up quickly enough. The one in charge brought some delicious plump figs and a basket of eggs. Not only that but the roof of the outpost was covered with vines. One of the guards, a poor fellow with one ruined eye and a beautiful smile, climbed up and brought down some melons. They were warm from the sun and sweet as sugar. Isolde made some omelets in her wok. Chartreuse strummed his guitar. We sat in the shade of that straggle of trees, the sky very blue, and we sang out long-forgotten passages of a song Daisy and I, between us, had taught them: everyone’s latest favorite, “Molly Malone.” The guards hummed nasally along. Blacky and Tupelo sat close together, leaning against each other. Blacky couldn’t sing, but that didn’t stop him. I was singing so hard, I didn’t have to think. I suppose the moment to declare I’d be leaving the group had passed, but I didn’t want to leave anymore. I might be odd man out, but I wasn’t the only one in this motley crew. And we were a crew; my heart warmed to the thought.

  Harry cut t
he melon open, blotted some of the seeds with a handkerchief, and put some of them into an envelope, for the future. What I liked about Harry was that he went for the broad scope. “I was just thinking,” he said, gazing dramatically into the distance, “one day sooner … it could have been us with our heads on the poles.”

  “That’s true.” Vladimir shivered.

  “No,” Chartreuse objected, “we would have helped them clear the boulders from the road. Those lazy fellows won’t be going home now.”

  We all sat there looking at him.

  Isolde sucked the juice of her melon with greedy lust. “Dead is dead,” she pointed out.

  I saw Daisy signal Reiner with her eyes. They stood up and walked away to a spot in the trees. He was much taller than she. They had their arms around each other, hers only reaching his waist, and they were walking in step. Chartreuse shuffled cheekily behind them on one knee. He shimmied his shoulders in an affectation of innuendo. They didn’t seem to care. My heart, for some reason so full a moment ago, felt alone as could be.

  chapter twelve

  Iran was as different from northeastern Turkey as was possible. Immediately there were superhighways and modern buildings. Even small towns we passed through teemed with men dressed in snazzy gray modern suits. Handsome, thin, dark men who might have just stepped out of Milan. The women, however, were covered from head to foot in chador, robes that let the eyes peer through only a screen of lighter fabric. And throughout the entire country there were only five patterns on these chador, each assorted variations of black. I found Iran drab and insulting. Small but modern cars drove down clear-sailing roads and highways. Buildings had sprung up wherever you looked; but they were modern buildings that looked like the ones on the periphery of the Belt Parkway landfill into Brooklyn; modern, but in an East Berlin sort of way. Whenever I meet Iranians and tell them I visited their country in 1973, they go all glowy and murmur, “Ah! The good old days when the shah was in power!” But I didn’t like the country one bit and couldn’t wait to get through it. I would have enjoyed the primitiveness of eastern Turkey more had I known we’d be back in civilization the moment we crossed the border. I hadn’t understood that throughout our journey there would be pockets of the past and then bursts of modernity. I’d thought we were spiraling downward into a continual past. I did not know then that the influence of the West was intermittent.