Among the Ruins

by Ausma Zehanat Khan

  Indecision gnawing at him, he called Rachel, keeping his voice low.

  She sounded excited and energized, bringing Khattak up to speed on Franklin Yang and Zahra’s meeting at Winfield Park.

  “I think it means Windfields Park,” Khattak noted. “It’s a nature park in the Bayview area that follows the Wilket Creek. It’s on the border of Edwards Gardens. Why did Zahra go there?”

  Edwards Gardens was one of the city’s loveliest parks, awash in roses and waterfalls, a popular site for wedding parties and nature enthusiasts.

  Rachel told him about Max Najafi’s studio in Trinity Bellwoods.

  “I’m sensing a running theme here. Could they have been scouting locations for their film?” She sounded doubtful.

  “Find out,” Khattak advised. “And let me know if you have any luck with Jeb Taverner or the drawing.”

  “Watch yourself, sir. And remember what I said about my travel plans.”

  “Rachel—”

  He couldn’t say he didn’t want her to come when he very much did. He was picturing her earnest face and bouncy ponytail with something deeper than fondness. But then he thought of Larijani’s arrest of Ali and Omid. They could be disappeared—and so could anyone connected to them. He made this clear to Rachel, though he knew he couldn’t override her. She warned him in return, a spike of alarm in her voice at his proximity to danger. He could hear her determination harden. She wouldn’t leave him on his own. Discouraging her was futile.

  They talked a little longer, Esa checking behind the brick in the courtyard wall. The dark space was empty. If Roxana had been sending him the letters, someone else was her courier. He acknowledged the fact with some reluctance: it was time to return to Tehran. And it was more than time for him to leave Iran.

  * * *

  Rachel was at the door, resolved to accelerate her plans. She didn’t like what was happening in Iran. She wanted Khattak home, or she wanted to be there to protect him. Her keys were in her hand, and her cell phone in her pocket when a knock sounded at her door. She hadn’t buzzed anyone up, and Zach had his own keys. It was probably one of her neighbors, wondering if she was the owner of the cat. Rachel grimaced at the thought. Even if she wanted to be, she couldn’t. Not with Zach moving in. She would make that clear and be on her way. Squinting, she checked the peephole, dismayed to see her mother. She would rather it was a neighbor holding the little black cat.

  She glanced back at her condo, hoping she hadn’t left it in a mess. A quick look around, the blinds open to the crisp green frontage of the park, the tall trees stretching their limbs to the sky. Everything had been tidied, the coffee tables dusted, knickknacks in their place. The countertops were spotless, the dish rack drained. This was her mother’s first visit to Rachel’s home, and Rachel hadn’t told her Zach was in the process of moving in. He’d brought her the pink tulips that brightened up the kitchen. The door to his room was open, his bag on the floor.

  Another glance, this time at her clothes. Her spring jacket was back from the dry cleaners. Her slacks were ironed, and she’d polished her shoes over the sink. Her hair was brushed back into its usual style, her lips reddened by lip balm. She gave off an aura of confidence.

  Taking a breath, she opened the door and summoned an easy smile.

  “Hey, Mum. I was just on my way to work.”

  Her mother’s eyes found hers. She hadn’t troubled over her appearance. Her parka was too heavy for the weather. Beneath it she wore a dull green dress and court shoes that had gotten scuffed on the still-damp pavements. She was wearing a pair of gold earrings in the shape of small shells. Rachel wondered if Zach had bought them, she knew they weren’t from her father.

  “I need to speak with you, Rachel. I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t.”

  Rachel relented. There was a note in her mother’s voice she wasn’t used to hearing.

  “All right, Mum. Give me your coat, then.”

  She offloaded her work gear on the credenza in the hallway, hanging her mother’s coat in the closet, avoiding her own gaze in the mirror. She had framed a lettered quotation of Tennyson’s on the wall beside the mirror.

  For all is dark where thou art not.

  It wasn’t a religious observance. It was a grim reminder of what her life had been like in the years Zach had been missing. Where other people might have put up something inspirational, Rachel chose to remember. She viewed her relationship with her brother as a trust: the framed quotation reminded her not to fail again. She hoped her mother hadn’t noticed.

  She asked Lillian to sit on one of the leather couches, planning to edge Zach’s door closed before her mother could glimpse inside his room.

  Lillian shook her head, her lips pressed firmly together. She gestured at the door.

  “Is that Zach’s room?”

  She pushed past Rachel to the other room. The smell of fresh paint filled the air. The room, with its large picture window, was empty of furniture, the floor protected by drop cloths. The laces of one of Zach’s sneakers was caught on the zipper of his bag.

  Green-gold trees glowed from the center of the wall, their yellow branches wearing their leaves like garments. The mosaics glittered like a secret fire, the pattern of the trees spiraling out from the center. Rachel thought of summer’s kiss, she thought of extravagant joy, she wondered that Zach could have learned so much during his time in Vienna. It was the perfect antidote to her framed quotation, a gift of green, a tree of hope.

  Her mother didn’t share Rachel’s joy. She clasped a hand to her heart as if stricken down by the tree.

  “Why did he paint this?” she asked.

  “Because he’s happy,” Rachel said. “Why shouldn’t he be?”

  Lillian Getty stumbled. When Rachel saw her face, she let out a cry. She helped her mother to the sofa, bringing a glass of cold water for her to drink. Lillian took a sip at a time, gathering her courage with her color.

  “After everything I’ve done for you—don’t do this to me, Rachel.”

  Rachel’s heart pounded in her ears. The saliva in her mouth ran dry.

  “What are you talking about, Mum?”

  Lillian Getty lifted her head. Her watery eyes were clear.

  “My son. Don’t take him from me, Rachel. Don’t bring him here, don’t divide his heart, don’t set him on a path to walk away.”

  “Mum.” Rachel’s hands were shaking. “He’s out of work. He can’t pay rent. What is he supposed to do? Go back to a shelter? How could you want that for him?”

  Her mother’s eyes cut at her like glass, Rachel shuddered at the look. She had always known she mattered less than Zachary, but she hadn’t known this—this resentment that flared from a bottomless source.

  “Don’t insult me, Rachel. Zachary could come home.”

  Rachel had been kneeling beside her mother. Now she raised herself to her full height, incredulous at the thought. There was a painful gap in her mother’s acknowledgment of reality.

  “Do you honestly think Zach would return to live under Da’s roof? What are you imagining—Da’s going to welcome him with open arms, and Zach will walk right into them?”

  Her mother spoke through stiff lips.

  “Things are different now. Your father has changed. He wouldn’t … he wouldn’t—”

  “He wouldn’t what, Mum? Bloody him with his fists, lock him in the garage?” She flung a hand at Zach’s tree. “Batter the art right out of him? No,” she said firmly. “Zach goes back to that house over my dead body.” She eyed her mother with newfound conviction. “I love you, Mum, but you listen to me. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure no one hurts Zachary again. I’ll press charges if I have to.”

  The certainty in her mother’s eyes faded. Her chin began to tremble, and at the sight, shame flooded Rachel’s chest, threatening to swamp her. It was familiar to her, she had carried it for years. She blinked furiously, her muscles tight, her hands clenched into fists.

  “You can come to my place,” sh
e said. “As often as you or Zach want, but don’t ask me to turn him out. Not when he’s asked something of me, not when I know he’s safe. Haven’t I earned some peace of mind?”

  Lillian moved past Rachel blindly, fumbling for her coat in the closet. She clutched the parka to her chest, lurching to the door. When she turned back, her face was wet with tears.

  “And what about me, Rachel? Haven’t I earned anything? After all these years as Don Getty’s wife, haven’t I earned my son?”

  Shocked, Rachel took a step away from Lillian.

  Unspoken between them was the reality of what Lillian had done. She had let her daughter search for Zach for years, while all along, she’d known he was safe. She’d kept her knowledge from the rest of the family, making him believe Rachel had abandoned him.

  He hadn’t told her as much, but it had to be the reason he refused to accept any further assistance from their mother. And Rachel knew the moment to ask had come. She drew a shaky breath.

  “Why did you never tell me the truth, Mum?”

  Her mother responded with such evident sorrow, it took Rachel a moment to absorb the sense of her words.

  “I believed you would tell your father.”

  Her hand was on the doorknob, she was ready to leave.

  “Wait,” Rachel gasped. “What did I do to make you think that? I was just a kid myself.”

  Lillian shook her head. She was crying openly, her chest heaving with little hiccups.

  “I’m a fool,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have come to you, Rachel.”

  41

  There was a knock on the door of the guesthouse that jolted Khattak out of his thoughts. It was followed by an angry exchange in Farsi. A moment later, Nasih appeared in the courtyard, Larijani and one of his men at his heels.

  Khattak rose to his feet. His face pale, he asked, “Is anything the matter?”

  Nasih was shoved aside. When Khattak moved to help, Larijani pointed at him in warning, his arm sharp as an arrow.

  “Who is this man?” he barked at Nasih in Farsi.

  Nasih’s face was even paler than Khattak’s.

  “A guest, Agha. You know I run a respectable business.”

  “A guest from where? For how long? What has he been doing at your house? Does he have a computer?”

  Nasih fell over himself in his haste to satisfy Larijani’s questions. He gave the specifics exactly as he knew them. He mentioned his loan of the laptop, but he didn’t bring up the delivery of Khattak’s mysterious gifts.

  Khattak pretended incomprehension as Larijani turned on him.

  “You borrowed this man’s laptop. Why?”

  “To watch The Magnificent Century. It’s a fascinating drama.”

  Following along, Nasih quickly confirmed this. He kept Khattak’s fluency in Farsi to himself.

  “Oh, really?” Larijani narrowed his eyes. “Describe it.”

  Khattak thought quickly. He hadn’t watched a single episode, but his sisters had mentioned something of its storyline, and two of its central characters.

  “I’m a little behind,” he said. He filled in the rest as best as he could from memory.

  Larijani dropped it. “Why aren’t you with a tour group? How do you know those dissidents?”

  Khattak’s heart dropped at the use of the word dissidents. It meant the Green Birds were on Larijani’s radar. How? Why? And if they were, why hadn’t Larijani raided the roof in the Armenian quarter?

  “Agha Larijani, I was with a tour group. Esfahan was the last stop on the tour. The city is so beautiful, I chose to extend my stay. I haven’t been anywhere else.”

  He didn’t mention Varzaneh. He hoped Nasih wouldn’t either—but he knew if pressure were applied, Nasih would have no choice but to confess everything he knew.

  “Shall I fetch my itinerary for you to see?”

  “No,” Larijani snapped. He motioned to the guard holding on to Nasih. “You. Get it.”

  Hurriedly, Nasih turned over the key to Esa’s room with an apologetic grimace.

  Esa shook his head—a quick gesture of acknowledgment. He had brought this trouble to Nasih’s doorstep. And now it was clear that Nasih had never been spying on him.

  He watched Larijani’s man barge into his room, and listened to the ruthless sounds of his search.

  Larijani dismissed Nasih.

  “This simpleton doesn’t know anything.”

  Khattak spread his hands before him. “Agha Larijani, what is it you wish to know? Your country is open to tourists, that’s why I came for the pilgrimage.”

  “Do you take me for a fool? Where are you really from?”

  Not knowing what else to do, Khattak answered the man with a volley of remarks in Urdu. He spoke quickly, fluently, not feigning his distress. Uncomprehending, Larijani stared back at him.

  His aide returned to the courtyard, Khattak’s travel portfolio in his hands. He held up Khattak’s Pakistani passport. Larijani snatched it, holding it between his thumbs. He flipped it open to the photograph page where Khattak’s name appeared first in English, then in Urdu.

  Muhammad Khattak.

  Only his Canadian passport bore his full name.

  Beneath this was listed the name of Khattak’s father.

  If Larijani flipped to the next page, it would show Khattak’s place of birth as Toronto, Canada, a fact that had gone unremarked when Khattak had applied for his visa. Anxiety tightening his chest, he reached for the portfolio and drew out the itinerary printed for him by the tour group. A dozen postcards he had bought at the shrine at Mashhad spilled from the case, scattering across the courtyard.

  Larijani swore at him. He took the itinerary, snapping the passport shut.

  Though Khattak was desperate to retrieve it, he busied himself collecting the postcards. He heard the clink of ice cubes in a glass. Nasih had returned to the courtyard, bearing a tray of glasses.

  Larijani was reading his itinerary, checking each of the stops on the tour against Khattak’s hotel stamps. He passed it back to his aide.

  As Nasih offered him a glass of water, he snapped, “This man has been at your house the entire time? Since he arrived in Esfahan—not at any other residence?”

  Nasih raised the tray in a placatory gesture.

  “Of course, Agha. I would have told you if it were otherwise.”

  Esa took a glass, his fingers slipping on its wet surface. Larijani’s man hadn’t taken his eyes from Esa’s face.

  Esa took a sip, more to calm his nerves than for any other reason. He bowed his head at the other man.

  “Ya Hossein,” he murmured politely. Out of habit, Nasih and the guard responded with, “Ya Hossein.”

  It was a respectful gesture that invoked the cruelty of Imam Hossein’s thirst at the battle of Karbala. The guard took a glass and sipped from it.

  “Ya Hossein,” he said again, wiping his own brow. His suspicion seemed to ease.

  Larijani barked at him, and the guard set his glass back on the tray, a sullen resentment in his eyes.

  “How do you know the dissidents?” Larijani asked again.

  Khattak had had time to think of an answer.

  “I met them at the Siosepol Bridge. Your people are so hospitable—as soon as they heard I was a tourist, they invited me to witness their ta’zieh. And they performed it beautifully.”

  Was it too much? Or not enough?

  Larijani fanned Esa’s passport across his hand.

  Opening it. Shutting it. Opening it. Shutting it. Fanning it again.

  Esa leaned over to the guard to point out a stop on his itinerary.

  “After Esfahan, the shrine at Mashhad meant the most to me. Next time I’ll bring my family.”

  Larijani clenched the passport in his fingers.

  “No,” he said. “You won’t. I’ll be putting your name on a list. Get on a bus and get out of Iran, before I change my mind.”

  He dropped Esa’s passport onto Nasih’s tray with a casual flick of his wrist. He nodd
ed at his man, who dumped Esa’s case at his feet.

  Larijani turned on his heel. A second later he turned back.

  “Your phone, Mr. Khattak.”

  Esa had placed it behind the brick in the courtyard wall. It was no more than two feet from Larijani. Despite the temptation to glance over at it, Esa trained his gaze on Larijani’s face.

  “I lost it at a restaurant.”

  The glasses trembled on Nasih’s tray. He knew that Esa had another.

  Larijani interrogated his aide. The man shook his head in reply. He hadn’t turned up a cell phone in his search.

  “No phone, no computer,” Larijani said with obvious skepticism. “You travel very light, Mr. Khattak.”

  Esa smiled politely. “I wanted to see this beautiful country—I didn’t need distractions.” He tested Larijani. “And I really don’t know how I came to lose my phone.”

  Larijani’s eyes narrowed. An unpleasant smile appeared on his face, distorting his unremarkable features.

  “I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay,” he said coldly. “But if I find you here tomorrow, I’m afraid you won’t be leaving.”

  * * *

  No more than a moment after Larijani had left, Khattak’s phone buzzed behind the brick with the notification specific to the Telegram app. Touka had answered his message.

  His face white with fear, Khattak looked straight at Nasih.

  “Ma bishomarim,” the other man whispered.

  He gathered up Esa’s glass and left him alone in the courtyard.

  42

  Franklin Yang had refused to meet Rachel at the ROM. He wanted secrecy, he claimed, and a promise of total discretion. Rachel had proposed Edwards Gardens as a meeting place. The gardens occupied several lush acres in North York, along the well-heeled Bridle Path.

  The park was a hodgepodge of delights: crisscrossed walking and cycling trails, fountains and quaintly vaulted bridges, a waterwheel, a series of rock gardens. As part of the estate, the Toronto Botanical Gardens offered garden tours, field trips, and a promising horticultural library. But Rachel had chosen the gardens because of their proximity to Windfields Park—she was hoping the location might loosen Franklin’s tongue. She was in a foul mood, her thoughts divided between Esa’s safety and her encounter with her mother.