(Wrath-03)-Son Of The Morning (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  Azadeh motioned to the door, still uncomfortable. “Bânu, I was just—I heard your coughing and I thought I might be of some help.”

  Pari smiled. “Yes, well, that is a coincidence. You see,” she pointed to the propane heater in the corner and coughed. “I’m afraid I’ve taken a chill. It feels so cold in here. Yet I can’t seem to get the flame on my heater to be anything more than a flicker.”

  Azadeh moved toward the propane heater and knelt down. It was very similar to the heater her father had kept in his bedroom, and she saw instantly what the problem was. Reaching around to the back of the unit, she turned off the gas. “Have you got a file? A toothpick, perhaps?” she asked. Then she saw a broom in the corner and quickly stood up, removed a single straw, and went back to the heater. “Your outlet is clogged,” she explained as she worked. “We had a heater like this at my home. You have to clean the gas outlet every once in a while.” She ran the strand of straw carefully through the propane outlet, rubbing it against the sides of the valve, then broke it in two and ran both straws through the narrow outlet. After several moments of this, she reached behind the heater and turned the propane on again. Pushing the igniter, she heard a sudden snap as the igniter clicked and the pilot light fluttered, a light blue flame at the base of the porcelain retainer. She turned up the valve and the flame kicked on, spreading a bright yellow flame across the base of the unit. She felt the heat instantly, stepped back and smiled.

  Pari clapped her thin hands in delight. “Do you know how long, my dear Azadeh, I have been trying to get that heater to work? Too many nights I have shivered under the blankets in the cold.”

  Azadeh smiled. “It was easy, Bânu.”

  “Thank you, thank you. You have really brightened my day.”

  Azadeh moved away from the heater. “You know, Bânu—” she paused, not knowing her new friend’s name.

  “I am Pari al-Faruqi.”

  Azadeh bowed politely while bending her knees and holding her hands across her chest. “Bânu al-Faruqi.”

  “You don’t have to call me madam. Pari Jan will be fine. We are all equals here, Azadeh Jan. There is no rank in Khorramshahr; we all tread the same ground.”

  Azadeh smiled, beginning to feel comfortable. “Pari Jan, were you intending to eat breakfast this morning?”

  The older woman’s shoulders slumped. “I was feeling a little tired. And cold, as you know. I was thinking I might skip breakfast today.”

  Azadeh looked at her new friend. She was so small and frail. The last thing she needed was to skip another meal. “I was just going up,” Azadeh offered. “I would be happy to bring you something.”

  Pari smiled instantly. The warmth from the heater was beginning to spread through the small room, and she already felt better knowing she could get warm if she wanted without having to crawl under the quilts on her bed. She turned to Azadeh. “Perhaps it would be nice to eat. If you will bring me something, I would be very grateful. And we could eat here together. Would that be OK with you?”

  Azadeh smiled. “What would you like?” she asked.

  “Do I have a choice this morning?”

  “Probably not,” Azadeh said. The breakfast menu was very basic.

  “Then I’ll have a wheat roll and spice jelly, if you really don’t mind.”

  SIXTEEN

  Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

  Azadeh set a plastic plate and two cups of steaming coffee on the bureau. While she had gone for their breakfast, Pari had put on a white dress with overly extravagant blue trim and white lace. She sat by the heater now, her feet near the flame, a thick, woven sweater covering her lap. Her hair was combed back and tied with a blue ribbon, and she looked a bit more alive than she had just twenty minutes before.

  “You look lovely,” Azadeh said as she stirred the hot coffee. “Blue is a good color for you, Pari Jan.”

  Pari looked proud as she pressed the long trim. “You think so?” she asked, moving her hand to the ribbon in her gray hair.

  “Oh, yes,” Azadeh smiled, and bit her lower lip. The ribbon and lace looked oddly out of place in the bare hut, but then so did the flowers and the colorful quilt. She handed her new friend a coffee, noticing as she bent toward her that Pari had applied some foundation to cover the crow’s-feet at her eyes. Azadeh tried not to stare as she set the tray down. Makeup was forbidden, didn’t Pari know?

  “It’s been so long since I’ve had a visitor,” the older woman said excitedly as Azadeh placed a warm cup in her hand. “I’m getting too old now. It’s harder and harder to get out anymore.”

  Azadeh almost laughed. As if there was someplace to go!

  Pari took a careful sip of the coffee. “This is so nice of you,” she said.

  Azadeh nodded, and then sat down on the corner of the bed. The hut was so small that she could reach across the room and touch Pari’s knees.

  Pari took the tray and a plastic knife and began slicing the bread. The bread, or nân, was round as a pancake but thick and brown and made of hard wheat, well cooked, without yeast. It had a brittle crust that crumbled in her hand, leaving a soft, spongy middle, which she then broke in two. The brown spread was half butter, half jelly, and heavy with spice. Azadeh smelled the jelly and her belly grumbled. Pari took a piece of the bread and smothered it in spice jelly, then handed it to her.

  Azadeh hesitated as Pari lifted the bread and took a small bite, then followed her lead and began eating. The crust was hard, almost bitter, but the inner portion was soft, the jelly sweet, and she savored each bite. The coffee was black and heavy with sugar, and she held her plastic cup tightly, letting it warm her hands.

  Looking around the small room, she noticed the young man’s picture on the bureau. “One of your sons?” she asked politely.

  Pari laughed. “Oh no, Azadeh Jan, that picture is much older than that. That is my husband, Yitzhak Nakash. Both of us were much younger when that picture was taken, as I’m sure you can see.”

  Azadeh leaned toward the picture, which showed a tall man standing between two marble pillars. A crystal-clear pool shimmered in the background, and exquisite granite tile was under his feet. She studied the man in his white suit and white hat. “He is very handsome,” she said.

  “Yes, dear, he was. And smart. Oh, so smart! He read everything. He had more books, oh, you should have seen them, his library reached up to the ceiling. I used to tease him that he loved them more than me. He assured me he didn’t. And I usually believed him; he could be so convincing, you know.” Pari stopped and smiled shyly, and Azadeh noticed her dancing eyes—those eyes with their secrets that she would never know.

  “Yitzhak was such a beautiful talker,” Pari went on wistfully. “He was so smooth and sweet. He used to tell me—” she stopped suddenly, and then took a slow bite of her nân. “It was a long time ago,” she concluded with a firm shake of her head.

  Azadeh hesitated. “He is not with you?” she wondered.

  “No, Azadeh. He died years ago.”

  Azadeh nibbled politely. “I’m sorry, Bânu Pari.”

  “No, no, it’s all right. In my prayers sometimes I ask God to scold him for leaving me alone for so long. When I see him again, believe me, I’m going to let him have it.” Pari flashed a teasing smile.

  Azadeh was silent a moment, then motioned to the silver cross over Pari’s bed. “You are a Christian?” she asked carefully, not knowing if it might be an inappropriate question.

  The old woman hesitated and Azadeh sensed her tightening up. Her shoulders had been slumping, but now she sat square and placed her arms on her lap. “Yes. I am a Persian Christian. There are a few of us left.”

  Azadeh took a bite of her bread and chewed slowly, still fearful of saying the wrong thing. But it was so fascinating. She felt drawn to the cross, and she stood up and moved closer, leaning over the head of the bed. She touched it with both hands, running her fingers down both sides. It felt so solid, so heavy, as if it was ten pounds of pure silver. “T
his represents the suffering of the Great Prophet Jesus?” she asked.

  “Yes, child, it does.”

  “He was killed on the cross? Crucified?”

  Pari nodded in answer.

  “You celebrate the death of your God? I do not understand.”

  Pari thought a long moment. “We do not celebrate his death, but we remember it, yes. His death was important because He died for me.”

  “He died for you?”

  “He died for all of us, Azadeh Jan.”

  Azadeh shook her head. It seemed horribly cruel. What kind of religion believed that men would crucify their God? What kind of religion would worship such a powerless being, a God who could not even defend Himself against His own creations? And what kind of religion would worship a dead God? She didn’t understand it, but she didn’t question it now. Odd as it seemed, she didn’t see any particular evil in this belief; it seemed foolish, perhaps, but not wicked. And Pari certainly didn’t seem like a devil, though Azadeh knew that was what most of their people would have considered her.

  “There were no Christians in my village,” Azadeh continued after some thought. “But I went to private school outside of my village, and I had a friend who was a Christian. We called him Omar, but his mother called him David. He was a good friend. Bright but quiet. I thought he was honorable.”

  “So you can be honorable and still be a Christian?” Pari asked with a laugh in her voice.

  “My father said you could,” Azadeh quickly replied, eager not to offend.

  A warm wisp of steam lifted from Pari’s cup, and she smelled it deeply before taking another sip. “There have been Christians inside Persia for more than eight hundred years,” she said. “We have been part of the government, business leaders, traders, craftsmen, almost anything. We have flourished and we have famished, depending on who is in power. But since the rise of the ayatollahs, we have been nearly destroyed.” Pari gestured to her surroundings. “You realize that is why I am here.”

  Azadeh nodded. She had suspected.

  “Our countrymen will no longer tolerate us,” Pari said. “We have been forced to leave our homes, cast out from our people. It has always been dangerous to be a Christian in Persia, but it is most deadly now. There is much to fear if you believe as I do.”

  Azadeh dropped her eyes, thinking of her own village and her status of an outcast. She remembered her father and his whispered conversations with Omar in the night. Both of them feared. Everyone feared. It was the way that they lived. “Tolerance is anathema to their teachings,” she said, not needing to specify who she meant by the pronoun. “They believe there is a battle between Allah’s teachings and the influences of the world. There are true believers and heathens, and you must choose which side you are on. You are either with them or against them. There is no middle ground.”

  Pari pressed her lips. “I guess that is a fairly accurate description,” she said. “But I had some neighbors, good friends, and they were not always so intolerant. A few of them were not good people, yes, but most were simply afraid. So they did what they had to. But there were some good people too.”

  Azadeh shook her head, thinking of her own people in Agha Jari Deh. “Not enough of them,” she replied bitterly, her voice hard and low. “They will betray you. They will hate you. They will take everything.”

  Pari watched her a moment, noting the look in her eye. There was bitterness there, a hard squint, that had not been there before. “Who are you talking about, Azadeh?” she asked quietly.

  Azadeh moved angrily to the edge of the bed. “I’m talking about everyone!” she said in a bitter voice. “Maybe there are some good people out there, but they are few and far between. And what chance do they have? They are always destroyed. The bad ones are stronger! They will always win. The good will always die. It is better to be quiet. It is better to hide. It is better to quietly do what it takes to get by and live.”

  Pari took another slow bite of bread and studied her younger friend. “You know, little Azadeh, you are going to have to decide.”

  Azadeh moved her head to the side. “Decide what?” she demanded in a hard voice before she could catch herself.

  “Will your heart be softened, or will you let it become hard, like a wet stone in your chest, like an ice chip that is too cold to hold? Will you turn bitter—or will you remain happy despite the things you have had to endure?”

  Azadeh didn’t answer, though her eyes remained narrow. She shifted her weight on the side of the bed.

  “I pray every day,” she defended herself. “I live by the Five Pillars of our faith.”

  “And that is good, my new friend.”

  Azadeh shook her head. “It is not enough,” she admitted. “And sometimes

  I wonder. Does Allah really love me? And if Allah does, then why this? My father was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die. And did I really deserve this . . . ?” Her voice trailed off.

  Pari watched her, then leaned forward on her chair and rested her rough hands on Azadeh’s knee. “I know you’ve been wronged, Azadeh,” she said. “That is clear in your face. I’ve seen that look many times before. You are alone here, deserted. There is a long story inside you that perhaps one day you will tell. But regardless of your story, Azadeh, this much I know. You have to decide how you are going to respond. Will you let your heart grow hard and bitter or will you look to the future and remain able to love?”

  Azadeh closed her eyes as if she were confessing a great sin. “Sometimes I feel angry. I know that Allah has always helped me, but sometimes, I don’t know.” She sadly turned away. “Sometimes I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t answer that, Azadeh. Many things I don’t know. Why we hurt. Why we suffer. I know that life isn’t fair. But I’ve also learned that there is more equity in our struggles than we may believe; there are hidden hurts in those around us that we may never see. Everyone has to suffer—that is part of the plan. But it isn’t the outcome and it isn’t why we are here. So remember that, Azadeh. There are better days ahead. Don’t give up. Don’t grow hard. That is not Allah’s will.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Khorramshahr Refugee Camp, Iraq/Iran Border

  Azadeh got out of bed long before the sun came up and dressed quickly, then slipped out of her tent and moved up the hill. Keeping to the shadows, she waited outside for the U.N. contract workers to show up at the cafeteria. The head cook, a thin woman from Algiers, nodded to Azadeh as she plodded up the trail in the darkness, then held back the tent flap and let her slip inside.

  Putting on a stained apron, Azadeh went to work. She cleaned the grease drains and ovens, brought in and stacked thirty-pound sacks of flour and ten-pound sacks of sugar and salt, then prepared and kneaded huge blobs of dough. The ovens were warm by the time she finished the first batch, and she shaped the nân into flat cakes, and then set them inside. Two hours later, just as the sun was rising and the refugees were lining up for breakfast, Azadeh cleaned her hands, wiped the flour off her cheek, and turned to the head cook, who reluctantly paid her the agreed-upon wage.

  Azadeh stared at the commodities, then took the dripping pork sausage with great care and gingerly with tongs, scrambled eggs, and white cheese, and arranged them carefully on a metal plate. She placed the food in a small box, covered it with a clean cloth, and slipped out of the tent.

  Walking quickly, she made her way past the line of hungry refugees, nervous in the knowledge that she was hiding a treasure. She hoped the smell of the sausage wouldn’t penetrate the box or she would be mobbed. Pushing through the crowd at the end of the line, she walked past the administration building, off the low hill, and toward the long row of plywood huts. It had rained the night before, a cold and misty drizzle, and a low fog hung over the hills on the east side of the camp. The ground was almost slimy from the powder-fine mud, and she walked carefully, occasionally slipping as if she were walking on ice.

  Down to the second row of huts she walked, then turned left past the latrine
and showers, over the small bridge that protected the exposed water pipes and gas line, and east to the fifteenth hut on the right. She stopped in front of the shelter and noted the heavy moisture on the inside of the window. The propane heater created its own condensation, and it appeared that Pari had the heat turned up full blast again.

  Which meant Azadeh wasn’t the only one who had woken up covered in sweat in the night.

  As she pushed the door open, Azadeh was met by a warm wave of moist air. The older woman was still sleeping. The hut was built on a platform elevated six inches off the ground, and Azadeh stopped on the threshold to take off her muddy shoes, which she left outside the door. In her stockings, she stepped quietly into the hut and closed the door.

  Pari rolled over to face Azadeh as she walked into the room. Pari then struggled to push herself up on the side of the bed. Azadeh walked to the small bureau and placed the box down. “Good heavens, darling Azadeh, what are you doing here so early?” Pari said.

  “I brought you breakfast,” Azadeh smiled as she helped the older woman sit up. Putting her arms under Pari’s shoulders, she looked quickly around, searching for the handkerchief Pari always tried to keep hidden from her, seeing the tip of the red-tinted white cloth sticking out of her clutched hand. As she lifted her weight, Azadeh felt the dampness of the smaller woman’s nightclothes. Pari’s gray hair was matted to her neck, and Azadeh reached for the small washbasin on the bureau. The water was cool, and she dipped a gray washcloth inside. “You didn’t sleep, Bânu?” she asked as she washed Pari’s face and neck.

  “I slept very well, Azadeh Jan,” Pari answered in a weak voice.

  Azadeh shook her head. “No, Bânu, I can see that you didn’t.”

  The older woman didn’t argue but sat, her shoulders slumping, while Azadeh washed her face and combed her hair. “That feels so nice,” she said simply.

  “I’m glad,” Azadeh answered.