Only Wrong Once

by Jenifer Ruff

  Charlotte – Amsterdam - Syria

  October 5th

  Amin locked his apartment door with one hand. The other clasped a small suitcase containing his essentials. He paused to study a meticulously constructed bird’s nest of moss, straw, and the blue cellophane of an Oreo wrapper tucked between the wall and the light fixture next to his door. He’d never noticed it before, but it made him feel hopeful. He wasn’t sure exactly what lay ahead, but he was ready for an adventure.

  He wondered if things would be strange with his cousin when he first arrived in Syria. When they were younger, Amin was quiet, intellectual, and as a rule follower, content to hang back and watch others have fun. None of that had changed. Kareem was always the leader, hell-bent on proving he could do whatever he set his mind to doing. Yet, despite their differences, Amin and his cousin were almost inseparable. On a few occasions, Amin had been grounded for following his cousin’s lead against his better judgement. But, for the most part, it had been worth it.

  The last time he saw his cousin, he was twenty years old. Kareem and his parents had visited Amin’s family in Detroit. The cousins exchanged college experience stories and watched a lot of television. Kareem led a search through the house to find liquor they could “borrow,” but there was none to be found. Kareem had always added an element of risk and excitement into Amin’s life where none existed. Those same twinges of excitement were back. He felt like a child again, almost giddy. He inhaled the cool air deeply and opened the back door of his Uber ride.

  “Airport, right?” the young driver asked with enthusiasm. Acne covered his chin, but it didn’t appear to have affected his confidence.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you flying to?” He smiled into the rearview mirror and shifted his Volkswagen into drive.

  “Amsterdam.” Two thousand miles separated Amsterdam from his destination in Syria. Days of travel. The equivalent of driving two thirds of the way across America. Yet he hadn’t argued with the plan. He was following Kareem’s directions, like he always had.

  “Oh, cool. Amsterdam is supposed to be a blast. Hey, if you tell me when you’re coming back, I can put it in my calendar and pick you up.”

  “I’m not sure when I’m coming back, but thank you anyway.”

  “That’s cool. How come you don’t know when you’re coming back?”

  “I’m going to do some work overseas. I don’t know how long it will take, so the company bought me a ticket with an open-ended return.”

  “Oh, yeah? What company?”

  Amin felt his face grow hot. He didn’t know the name of the company. “Umm, it’s a recruiting company.”

  “Oh, cool.”

  “Yes. I lost my job at a bank, I mean I didn’t lose it, I got let go. This new company is paying for my trip.”

  “You lucked out, man.”

  The driver chatted all the way to the airport, and Amin surprised himself by holding his own in the conversation, thanks to his upcoming adventure.

  “Bye, man. Have a great trip,” the driver said once Amin was out of the car with his suitcase.

  “Thank you for the ride.” Amin patted the top of the car and turned away.

  He waited in a long and winding security line. When the TSA agent examined his license, he caught an older woman with fluffed gray hair staring at him. An uncomfortable awareness hit him. She was probably concerned because of his heritage and all the recent talk about banning Muslims from entering the country. As if all Muslims were demented extremists. Dark scruff lined his lower face. He’d missed a few shaves since he lost his job. But still, in his collared shirt, L.L.Bean vest and REI boots, he looked like any young professional. He wanted to yell, “I’m American. Are you?” But he didn’t. Whatever, lady, he thought to himself. He lowered his gaze toward his shoes. He wished he could let the world know that even though he was Muslim, and just barely, he was still first and foremost a lonely American.

  Amin moved slowly through the crowded customs area and stepped outside. He raised an arm to shield his eye from the bright Amsterdam sunshine. A group of young people wearing flannel shirts, backpacks, and sturdy walking shoes rushed past, forcing him to step backward. Small cars wove through the airport lanes with alarming confidence. His eyes roamed his surroundings. Although Kareem told him someone would meet him there, he was surprised when he spotted a printed sign bearing his name. A dark-suited stranger with neatly-trimmed facial hair held the sign across his chest. Kareem said his company had employees all over Europe and this man was one of them. Kareem might be higher up in his company than Amin had imagined. If so, no wonder Kareem wasn’t impressed with Amin’s banking job.

  Amin walked over to the man holding the sign. “Hi. That’s me.”

  “Identification?” the man asked, his voice deeply accented.

  “Oh, sure.” Feeling more cautious than usual, he slowly took out his passport and handed it to the stranger.

  The man studied the first few pages and handed it back with a large envelope.

  “What’s this?” Amin asked, holding the envelope up between both hands.

  “Allah Akbar,” the man said in a soft voice before turning and walking away.

  Amin looked around to see if anyone had heard and chided himself for his instinctive response. People didn’t often say Allah Akbar out loud in Charlotte, but so what? The man had given him a blessing. He wished his automatic reaction had been a grateful one. “Thank you,” Amin called after him, too late to be heard. “Well, okay, then,” he said quietly to himself. Feeling a little absurd, and the least likely person to be part of a mysterious game, he passed several occupied seats before selecting an empty bench. He sat down and looked around again before opening the envelope and sifting through its contents. He found six items inside. A train ticket to Istanbul, instructions to walk the short distance to the train station, a thin stack of local currency, a disposable cell phone, a Turkish passport full of stamps with a name that wasn’t his own and a document in Arabic, which, to the best of his understanding, stated the name on the new passport had been hired as a financial analyst by the Syrian embassy.

  He stared at the passport, chewing on his cuticles. Had there been a mistake? But no, because his picture stared back at him, just not his name. He didn’t know what to make of it. He wanted to call Kareem, but the last time they spoke, Kareem made it clear Amin wasn’t to use his old cell phone once he left the States. He had mumbled something about the finance work being secretive. Private is the word he had used, not secretive. At the time, it sounded acceptable. Now, not so much.

  Amin turned the new phone over and around in his hands. He pressed the power button and found Kareem’s name and number already programmed inside. An attempt to call his cousin and say “What the hell is going on?” was met with unanswered rings. He stuffed the phone and the documents back into the envelope. He wrapped his hand around the back of his neck and tried to massage out the tension. He didn’t want to irritate Kareem before he even arrived by messing up the directions he had been given. Although mysterious, they were simple enough to follow. The fake passport was most troubling because it was, of course, illegal, and he had never done anything illegal before. Never. And especially not in a foreign country. He’d seen enough movies to understand that the justice systems in other countries were radically different from in America, and not in a good way.

  “Trust me,” Kareem had said. Could he trust Kareem? If he couldn’t trust him, he had no one.

  A young mother holding her child’s hand smiled and walked past. Amin made an effort to lift the corners of his mouth in return. He sat in the sunshine gnawing at his lower lip and trying to justify his situation. Maybe Kareem worked for the Syrian government, the Syrian equivalent of the CIA. They must have scientists. That would explain all his secretive work. And if Amin was going to be working for them too, it made sense he would need a cover story. Ten minutes passed before he removed his real passport from his front pocket, stuck it between the pag
es of a novel, and zipped it inside the inner pouch of his carry-on. Taking hold of his suitcase and clutching the envelope, he stood and headed to the train station. At least he didn’t have to board a plane with the fake passport. Perhaps he wouldn’t need it at all.

  He saw an airport café with a sign for waffles. He was hungry. He removed his wallet and held it in his hand. His instructions had been clear—do not use your own credit cards. He had his own cash, but he would have to exchange it first. He felt uncomfortable spending the money from the envelope, like it would open some sort of Pandora’s Box with no return. He exhaled loudly to fortify his decision, and pulled a few of the foreign bills from the envelope.

  Carrying a chocolate crepe and a large coffee, he boarded the train. His fare included a private sleeping car. His seat allowed him a prime view of the passing landscape while he ate his breakfast, but the food and coffee didn’t sit well in his nervous stomach. After a few miles, he dozed off and slept fitfully between stops, his mind whirling with concerns. His boring cube at the bank didn’t seem so awful anymore. His sleeping car was about the same size, but after only a few hours, it made him feel like a caged animal. Why did he ever think he needed an adventure? And what sort of adventure was this? Why hadn’t he insisted Kareem provide more detailed information? Why was he following these directions now, with every part of his conscience and common sense protesting? What was wrong with him? What would Isa think of him now? He wondered if he still had anything left to lose.

  He slept for most of the two days, walked through the train cars, and used cash from the envelope to buy meals from the dining car. He finished two entire novels, long ones. At stops, he paced around to stretch his legs. Adrenaline surged through his body each time his passport was requested. He handed over the new one with a slightly shaking hand, and it was always returned without issue.

  When he stepped off the train in Istanbul, he immediately spotted a large printed sign bearing a name he recognized—the fake name on his new passport. He looked around before approaching the man waiting for him. The man looked right at him and dipped his head with apparent recognition. Amin nodded back and walked over to show his new passport. Without saying a word, the man, who was about forty years old, tilted his head for Amin to follow. He led him to an older-model, black Mercedes sedan and opened a back door. Amin put his hand on the roof and looked around as if the view might be his last glimpse of freedom. What was the alternative? He’d already come this far. He swallowed the panic threatening to choke him and lowered himself into the back seat. There was no conversation, only silence. He worried the driver could smell his fear.

  “For you.” The driver gestured to a cooler in the back seat. The cooler held drinks, protein bars, and several containers. The containers held grilled chicken, grilled lamb, and vegetable and bean salads Amin didn’t recognize.

  “Quite a spread,” Amin said.

  The driver fiddled with the air conditioning knobs and said something in an apologetic tone. Amin tried to call Kareem again. Again, the phone call went unanswered. He retrieved his own phone and looked at Kareem’s contact information to confirm the phone numbers matched, which they did.

  He ate, sweated, and worried through two bathroom stops, mostly in silence aside from quick prayer sessions with the driver, until they reached a checkpoint at the Syrian border. The car inched forward in a packed single line of vehicles and stopped when they reached the guard station. A chill gripped Amin’s heart and traveled from his neck down to his toes. His skin felt clammy. What had he gotten himself into?

  The guards spoke in Arabic. The driver answered them, took out his own passport, and turned to Amin. “Your passport and work papers.”

  Amin’s jaw dropped open. “You speak English?”

  The driver smiled and shook his head.

  Amin scrambled to open the manila envelope and hand over the new documents.

  After a minute of scrutiny, the guards handed everything back, and the driver moved forward.

  “Almost there,” said the driver. “Eight more hours.”

  Amin lay his head back, closed his eyes, and moaned. He didn’t know why Kareem wanted him to visit so badly, but if Amin had fully understood what the trip involved, hour after hour of silent travel, he would be back in his apartment watching The Bachelorette.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Syria

  October 7th

  With few main roads to choose from, the driver took a rural route where they were safe from ground fighting. Amin saw smoke rising into the distant sky, darkening the horizon, but he couldn’t tell how far away. The lack of scenery became torturously monotonous from the back seat of the warm car. The terrain was mostly desert, the foliage scarce and far between. An occasional buzzard represented Syria’s wildlife. Amin forgot about the danger of air strikes and the ongoing war between President Assad’s troops and rebel forces. Each time they approached an area with a more concentrated population, he saw signs of destruction, burned and exploded buildings in the distance, but he saw nothing to indicate they were in present danger, which allowed him to dwell on the endlessness of the drive. Eventually they stopped somewhere in Northern Syria. It was late afternoon, the driver needed a few hours of sleep. Amin got out of the car and stretched. His body felt the same way it did during hell week, tense, cramped, miserable. He was desperate to use his muscles and get his blood flowing. He set off on a brisk walk, pumping his arms.

  He explored in concentric circles so he wouldn’t get lost. The town was a maze of winding alleyways with tarp-covered windows. Overhead, sheets and tunics billowed from clotheslines strung between the walls. Faded awnings stretched out on rickety poles from buildings that looked more like storage facilities than homes or businesses. There was little to see in the way of vegetation. He pictured the neighborhoods in Charlotte. Nearly every yard was manicured to perfection and seasonal flowers were strategically placed in the medians of city streets. He had never appreciated that landscaping until now.

  At one intersection, a group of women wearing blue burkas moved silently across the street like a band of ghosts. A skeletal man hurried through, dragging two goats on leashes behind him and paying no mind to the moving cars. A new model silver Range Rover zipped by, reminding Amin he was still in the 21st century.

  When he looked to his left before crossing, he found himself standing a few inches away from a man who looked like he’d just stepped out of a Walking Dead episode. Amin had never seen anything like him before in real life. His forehead and one side of his face were covered with scar tissue and lesions. Part of his jaw, the skin and bone, was missing, his face sunken in as if melted. The man stared into Amin’s eyes, searing his burned face into Amin’s memory. Amin wondered what could have caused such trauma.

  Unsettled by the man’s burns, Amin decided he’d had enough exercise. He retraced his steps back to the Mercedes, eager to get back inside. The vehicle, with its crappy air conditioning and now smelling like chicken and pickled vegetables, had become his home away from home, his new safe box from which he took comfort.

  “Here,” the driver announced, stirring Amin from sleep. He opened his eyes but didn’t see anything to indicate the trip was finally over. After driving a few more miles on dirt roads through deserted landscape, the driver again said, “Here. Now.”

  A huge compound of homes surrounded by a stucco wall appeared as if it had dropped out of nowhere. The compound looked more recently built than anything else Amin had seen in Syria. The driver entered a code and a gate swung open.

  A large one-story building sat in the center. The playground equipment on both sides clearly marked it as a school. Goats and chickens wandered around inside the fence.

  They drove down a single-lane road to a tall building. “Wait,” the driver told Amin.

  Was this where Kareem lived and worked? Was his ridiculously long trip finally over? After sitting for so long, he felt a sudden lightness when Kareem appeared and walked toward the car, his smile w
elcoming under his full beard, wearing baggy pants and a loose tunic.

  Amin got out of the car and the cousins awkwardly embraced.

  “You made it.” Kareem slapped Amin’s shoulder.

  “Yeah. To say it took longer than I expected would be the biggest understatement ever.”

  “You got to sleep, right? So, you’re not tired?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever need to sleep again. Hey, were you always so tall?” Amin laughed.

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other.”

  “Yes. And all I can think of is getting a shower and changing my clothes.”

  Kareem laughed. “I forgot how Americans don’t like to be uncomfortable.”

  “I don’t like to stink is what it comes down to.” Amin waited until the driver handed him his bag and drove away. “I’ll tell you what makes me uncomfortable. Carrying a fake passport. What’s the deal with that?” he whispered.

  “Oh. It’s so they don’t have to worry about taxes and all that when they pay you. It makes it less complicated.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Who are they and why would it be less complicated to pay someone with a made-up identity?”

  “Don’t worry, cousin.”

  “A cab driver asked me what company I was going to work for and I didn’t know the name.”

  “The Yoga Institute of Paris.”

  “What? Are you joking? You don’t work for a technology company?”

  “You’ll be working for the Yoga Institute of Paris.”

  Amin cocked his head. “Are you messing with me?”

  “That’s all you need to know about it for now.” Kareem smiled and placed his hand on Amin’s shoulder. “But I hope that will change soon.”

  Before Amin could ask for clarification, a young man rushed toward them. He was lean, with cords of muscle rippling across his arms. He wore a T-shirt under a hoodie, Levi jeans, and Nike sneakers. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed. He was alarmingly handsome, glistening with sweat and dirty as if he’d been working outside, but something about his behavior was a little strange. He projected an eager innocence. His eyes and smile were bursting with excitement. He set his sights on Amin and exclaimed, “Your cousin is here!”