The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  “Mrs. al- Faruqi,” the young attorney said as he moved toward his client, “you are looking a little stronger today.”

  Pari smiled and held her hand out toward him. This was their fifth or sixth meeting, and she had come to like him a lot.

  The attorney moved to stand beside her and got right to the point. “Pari,” he said, kneeling in front of her chair. “We have completed all the documents. I want to review them for you.”

  Pari raised her hand to stop him. “You still represent me, right?”

  “Of course, Pari. I am your representative here.”

  “And you have carried out my wishes?”

  “As best as I could.”

  “Then we don’t need to review them. I am ready to sign.”

  The attorney nodded, pulled a chair over, and sat by her side. “Pari, it’s going to take a while, maybe a few weeks, maybe longer, before the Iranian government actually releases your funds.”

  “But they will.”

  “We believe so. Everything indicates that they will comply.”

  “You know you can’t trust them.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I know. But we have made progress, and we believe that they will act in good faith this time. We have the initial agreements in place, signed and on file. And they remain under a lot of pressure from the E.U.”

  Pari smiled wearily. “Are they going to pay me interest?” she asked.

  The government agent shifted his weight in his seat. The lawyer shook his head. “No, Pari, you know they will not. Now, we could try to seek interest and damages, but I strongly recommend against it. Trying to get additional monies will certainly poison the deal.”

  “They’re crooks and cheats—and they’re cheap ones at that.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will not dispute that. But I believe we are better to just let it go.”

  “Twelve million. Ten percent. I would have tripled my money. Better than that. I was a good investor, you know.”

  “I suspect that you would have, Pari.”

  She stared at him. He finally grinned, recognizing that she was only teasing.

  “Okay, let’s do it,” she said. “I could die any time. Heaven knows we all want to do this before it’s too late.”

  The men laughed uncomfortably. Pari looked at them and smiled.

  The lawyer pulled out the first document. “This authorizes me to act as your agent in disposing your assets.”

  Pari didn’t read the document but turned to the last page and signed. Though she was weak, her signature was smooth and flowing, filling the line.

  The lawyer took the document and placed it inside his briefcase. He pulled out a stack of other documents and placed them in his lap. “A final review, then, Miss Pari, of your intentions. Upon your passing, you are leaving all of your assets, less the cost of disposal, which I will administer, to Miss Azadeh Pahlavi. Does that remain your desire?”

  “Yes,” Pari answered. “I want it all to go to her.”

  “You realize, of course, that we have no way of knowing where Miss Pahlavi is?”

  “Yes, I know that is true.”

  “And you are commissioning Mr. Sebastian Raule, who is sitting in the chair opposite me,” the attorney nodded toward Sebastian, “to locate Miss Azadeh Pahlavi, wherever she may be.”

  Pari hesitated. “He is the only one I have,” she said.

  The attorney remained quiet. Pari looked over at Raule. He shifted anxiously in his seat.

  The attorney started again. “Does it remain your intention, Mrs. al- Faruqi, to commission Mr. Sebastian Raule with the responsibility of locating Miss Azadeh Pahlavi—for which, if and only if he is successful in locating Miss Pahlavi, he will become eligible to collect a finding fee?”

  Both Pari and her attorney smiled at the phrase. “Well, I guess that is a more literal application of the phrase than you might normally use,” Pari weakly laughed.

  “Yes,” the lawyer smiled. “As to the question, Mrs. al- Faruqi?”

  Pari paused and then answered. “Upon hearing the news of my late husband’s assets being released, I did agree with Mr. Raule that I would pay him one million dollars if he could locate Miss Azadeh. I intend to honor that agreement. He is to find her and direct her to you. Once you have verified her identity and transferred the funds to Miss Azadeh, then Mr. Raule is to be compensated one million U.S. dollars.”

  The attorney nodded. “Anything else, Pari?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m getting tired. Too tired to think.”

  The attorney placed his hand on her shoulder. “Then we are ready to sign.” He thumbed through the stack of documents on his lap, organized them, and handed the first one to his client. It took a few minutes for her to sign every one. The documents were then passed on to the other men. Two of them acted as the witnesses: one a Turkish lawyer who represented the Iranian government, the other a lawyer from the E.U. The final signature was from the representative of the consortium of European banks where the money was currently held.

  Fifteen minutes later, the paperwork was done. The attorney knelt again at Pari’s side. “Mrs. al- Faruqi,” he whispered. “Please, will you consider coming with me. I could get you to London. I could get you to the United States.”

  “So they want me now. Ironic. They didn’t want me before.”

  “It’s not only that, Mrs. al- Faruqi. There is more to it, as you know.”

  “I understand. I understand. And I’m grateful for your concern. But I made my decision a fairly long time ago. I’m okay here. I am comfortable. There are worse places to die. I do not mind spending my last days here; it won’t be very long anyway. So please, let’s let it go. I don’t want to speak of it again.”

  The attorney squeezed her hand, then nodded and stood up again.

  Twenty minutes later, Sebastian watched the men drive away in their Mercedes Benz. Watching them go, he felt his heart skip a beat, and he looked down at the contract he held in his hand.

  One million U.S. dollars. He would be a rich man. He would retire. He would fish. He would read all day long. He would listen to his operas. He would smoke fine cigars.

  Now all he had to do was find her.

  How difficult could that be?

  He would start in Baghdad. Then Karachi. She had to be here, somewhere in the Middle East. He would track down her uncle and her family.

  And he would make them both rich.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Azadeh Pahlavi sat next to the window of the 767—300 wide-body aircraft, her eyes shining and wide in anticipation, her hands fidgeting nervously. She stared out the window, then glanced over to Amina, who was watching her intently, evidently taking great pleasure in the look on her face.

  The two women had the seats next to the left window. To Amina’s right was an aisle, then four seats, another aisle, and two more seats on the far right. The cabin was crowded, and more than half a dozen languages could be heard as the business travelers and tourists talked among themselves. The 767 was high, still above 30,000 feet, but it had begun its descent into JFK, and the air grew more turbulent as the plane passed through a thin layer of frozen cirrus clouds. Multiple rows of small television screens suspended from the ceiling of the cabin showed the aircraft’s flight progress, direction, and altitude. Thirty-one thousand feet. Heading west by southwest. One hundred thirty miles from the U.S. border.

  One hundred thirty miles from freedom. One hundred thirty miles from her new home.

  Eight thousand miles from her people. Eight thousand miles from everything she had ever known.

  Azadeh turned and smiled nervously. Amina leaned toward her, bending over her seat to peer out the window. All she could see were white clouds and dark water a long way below. No land was in sight—no dark ribbon of coastline, no sandbars, no white tops, nothing. But, looking west, she could see the water turn a slightly different shade, the tint changing from almost black to deep blue. Sitting back, she smiled at Azadeh. “It won’t be long now,
” she said.

  Azadeh nodded anxiously, twisting her fingers together.

  “Pretty exciting, isn’t it.”

  Azadeh nodded again in awe but didn’t reply. She had grown progressively more quiet since the flight had taken off some seven hours before, lifting off from London’s Heathrow airport in the dark of the night. Now she was almost silent, trying to take it all in. Amina studied her young friend. She recognized the racing emotions from the look on the girl’s face. Azadeh was nearly sick with equal amounts of excitement and dread.

  The young Persian smiled weakly and the older woman took her hand. “I’m so excited for you,” she laughed.

  “Thank you, Amina. Thank you for everything.”

  Amina nodded.

  Azadeh thought quickly of Sam. “One day I want to thank the soldier too,” she said.

  Amina didn’t answer. She knew that was impossible. Azadeh picked up the small cup of lemonade on her fold-down tray and sipped, puckered her lips, and sipped again. “It’s so sweet,” she said, placing the cup back on the tray. Amina watched her intently, not wanting to miss a single expression on her face.

  Watching Azadeh, she remembered why she had dedicated her life to saving lost children. This was why she did it, the reason she worked as hard as she did: the excitement, the new pleasures, the feeling of awe. And it all started when she watched their looks of excitement as they approached the U.S.

  So, though she tried not to stare, it was hard to take her eyes off of Azadeh. She wanted to see it, the smile of anticipation and excitement that even the fear couldn’t hide.

  The moments passed. The aircraft descended, breaking below the clouds. Azadeh continued to stare out the window. Suddenly she reached over and grabbed Amina’s arm. “I can see it!” she whispered. “I can see the U.S.!”

  Amina gripped Azadeh’s fingers tightly as she leaned across the seat. There, far in the distance, a thin ribbon of dark blue land and white surf was barely coming in view.

  Ten minutes passed. Azadeh kept her head glued to the window, though she squeezed tighter now. “Oh, my . . . ” she gasped as the city passed by.

  The aircraft turned, a few thousand feet above the ground. Azadeh stared until the outline of the city filled the entire oval window. It was an incredible sight: deep canyons of buildings so thick and tall, it looked like a dream.

  She fidgeted anxiously as the beautiful buildings passed by, just a few miles off the left wing. It seemed as if the tops of the buildings reached almost up to the aircraft. The Brooklyn and Williamsburg bridges, black steel structures that spanned the East River, were crowded with multicolored vehicles, large buses, and trucks. The river shimmered, catching the slants of the sun that slipped through the partly cloudy skies. Central Park slipped under the wing, a huge rectangle of green among the enormous buildings, a contrast of nature among the workings of man. Half a dozen of the tallest skyscrapers had their tips shrouded in a low bank of clouds, a transparent layer of silver that was illuminated from the top by the sun.

  Azadeh stared down silently, then turned back to Amina. “It looks perfect,” she said.

  Amina shook her head. “No, Azadeh, it isn’t perfect. There are problems, you will see that, but I believe it is good.”

  * * *

  The two women moved through customs without incident. Azadeh noted the cautious stares, but she didn’t mind them; Amina had warned her to be ready for intense examination. The security situation in the U.S. had changed things for many immigrants, especially those from Arab-speaking or Muslim countries. It was the reality. They would deal with it. Still, the scrutiny was a fraction of what Azadeh had come to expect. Inside her own mind, she had prepared herself to be questioned, taken into a small room and threatened, forced to sit under a bright light, perhaps even beaten if she did not answer correctly. When nothing like that happened, and they had passed through the last control booth and into the airport concourse, Azadeh looked around anxiously.

  “That’s it,” Amina told her.

  Azadeh shook her head. “Nothing more?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Nothing more. You are here. You are a free woman, Miss Pahlavi.”

  Azadeh shook her head again. No interrogation. No religious police. No threats or violent hazing. No comments on the inadequacy of her white scarf or the immodesty of her knee-length black dress. No questions of her father or the whereabouts of her man. No questions of her intentions, her religion, where her allegiance lay. She glanced down at her thin sandals, then placed her hand to her breast. “I can’t believe it’s over. My heart is beating like a hammer,” she laughed to her friend.

  “Come on, Miss Pahlavi. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “No, please not now. Can we do the other first?”

  Amina hesitated, then glanced up and down the concourse. Crowds of people jammed the corridor, most of them dragging small, wheeled suitcases behind. The crowd brushed by them, pushing the two women toward the wall. Eighty feet to their right, the concourse opened into a huge open area with bars, restaurants, fast-food spots, luggage shops, newspaper stands, bookstores, expensive clothiers, even a small sporting goods store. Amina took two steps forward and craned her neck, looking for an exit sign.

  Azadeh touched her shoulder and nodded. “Exit and baggage claim,” she read.

  Amina turned toward her. “You can read that?” she asked in surprise.

  Azadeh nodded.

  Amina cocked her head. “That’s pretty good, Azadeh. You’re going to pick it up very fast.”

  “My father tried to teach me. I remember some of what he said.”

  Amina glanced at her watch. Four hours until their connecting flight to Chicago. She nodded to the end of the concourse. “Come on,” she said.

  Azadeh led the way, almost running, and Amina had to rush to keep up. The two women left the concourse and walked out of the main airport building to where dozens of yellow taxis were waiting in line, trapped against the curb by the flow of heavy traffic. Amina was directed to the first cab in line, and she and Azadeh climbed in.

  The driver was Pakistani, and when he saw Azadeh’s scarf, he looked back with a friendly grin. “Salâm,” he said happily, showing a brown, tea-stained smile. Azadeh nodded shyly, and Amina answered in Arabic. The two talked a moment as the driver pulled away from the curb, but Azadeh didn’t pay any attention, her eyes wide in wonder as she looked around.

  “Where to?” the cabbie asked them.

  “Battery Park,” Amina said.

  The driver glanced back, smiling widely again. “Oh, a new one, have you?”

  “Yes,” Amina answered.

  The driver nodded eagerly as he accelerated through traffic. “Good, good. This is good. A very good day,” he said.

  * * *

  The taxi drove through the mass of traffic moving in and out of JFK, hit the Long Island Expressway heading north toward Queens, and followed the freeway as it turned west and then south through the very heart of Brooklyn. Azadeh stared out the window, watching the buildings roll by. The taxi followed the Expressway south along the East River. Azadeh caught a glimpse of the enormous docks along the western shore of the river and she couldn’t help but think of the docks at Bandar—e Bushehr. She remembered the many times she and her father had taken the bus down to the port city, and for a moment she was transported back in time. She remembered walking along the ancient docks, feeling the salt air, smelling the brine and rotten seaweed. She felt a sudden surge of homesickness and took a deep breath.

  The taxi turned west, heading toward lower Manhattan across the Brooklyn Bridge. The bridge’s enormous, double-arched towers and thick steel cables passed high overhead as the skyline of Manhattan came into view. Azadeh sat forward, watching in awe. The buildings looked even more incredible from the ground, their reflected images shining on the dark water where the East River and Hudson River met.

  At the apex of the bridge, when lower Manhattan was most clearly in view, Amina nudged Azadeh and point
ed to a sudden break in the skyline. “Do you see that?” she asked.

  Azadeh brought her hands to her face. The taxi’s wheels hummed across the steel plates on the bridge. “I’ve seen . . . pictures. Many stories. But seeing it in person . . . it looks different somehow.”

  Amina sat forward in the seat, straining to keep the break in the skyline in view. The reconstruction was nearing completion, but the new buildings were smaller—more beautiful, but somehow less grand.

  The two fell into silence as the new buildings passed, neither of them willing to speak as the taxi crossed over the riverbank and turned south on FDR Drive.

  Ten minutes later, the taxi stopped in front of Battery Park.

  Amina bought them tickets for the ferry and they stood in line for forty minutes. When the triple-decked ferry arrived, they hurried to the top deck and moved to the front of the boat.

  The great lady loomed before them, growing grand and tall as they sped toward her through the water. She stood majestic and valiant, her patina complexion a resonating green against the blue and white sky. Her pedestal was tall and imposing, almost taller than she, the rock stacked underneath her in a fitting platform. Solid. Firm. A beautifully carved pedestal.

  As the ferry moved toward the island, Azadeh kept her eyes on the Statue of Liberty, the one symbol of America that was known throughout the world, the one symbol of liberty and justice that could not be clouded in lies. She shivered as the statue grew, looming over her head. The lady held her arm high; she was not merely confident, she was defiant and proud. She held the book close to her body, protecting it in her other arm. Her crown was beautiful and yet dangerous, the spikes reaching out from her brow. At her feet, the broken shackles lay, the metal rings torn in two.

  Azadeh stared at the lady, repeating the words her father had secretly taught her so many years before:

  “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp,” cries she . . .

  “Give me your tired, your poor,

  Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,