by Rose Fox
Rumors flew around about the nocturnal gun battle between two different factions. They told that the Iranian Republican Guards had destroyed them both at the pension that served as the “Kaukab” headquarters. Everyone was familiar with the tattoo of the turquoise star that sparkled between the thumb and forefinger on their hands.
A short report appeared in the Persian language newspaper, “Inshallah”:
“Kaukab” Squad wiped out.
“The unit operated at the ‘Chai Huneh’ Pension
And caused the explosion at the
Drilling tower in the Straits of Hormuz.”
Abigail read the report and smiled with pursed lips. She was delighted with the solution the Revolutionary Guards had come up with.
Abigail gasped when they returned to the room. Shards of glass glistened everywhere. She looked at Karma and saw blood running down his forehead onto his cheek. His head hurt and was hot to the touch. She saw that his wound needed attention.
“Karma, it doesn’t look good.” She cautioned, “It’s an open wound and a doctor should attend to it. I think the wound is infected.”
He touched his head, looked at his hand, which was red with his blood, and cursed.
“I hope they rot in hell. Okay, I have an idea. We’ll look for a doctor who knows how to keep his mouth shut, come.”
They walked to Rasta Avenue, opposite the light rail station and found the car that was still standing there from the day Karma received the blow to his head.
“You drive,” he said, “I’ll sit beside you.”
They drove in silence till they reached the main street, passing buildings and businesses. Karma asked her to stop, went into one of the stores that had no name on it and spent a few minutes inside. When he came out, he held a paper bag and a piece of white cloth that looked like a skullcap had been placed on his head. Abigail laughed.
“What did the doctor give you?”
“He was a pharmacist and he suggested a doctor should check me out. The bill I gave him persuaded him to count out ten capsules and put them in a bag together with some ointment. He applied some on the wound and mumbled something about it not looking right.”
“Good, where are we going now?”
“Come, let’s go further on to the fields, a place where there are no people.”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to you without interruption.”
He took over the wheel and they drove on. The paved road turned off onto a gravel road. Rows of trees lined both sides of the road and Karma stopped the car. He switched on the car’s interior light and talked to her.
“You can’t go back to that room now, can you?”
“Hmmm…”
“I thought of inviting you to come and stay with me.”
“Have you gone mad?” she asked in amazement. “I wonder if a blow to the head can derail a person’s mind to the extent that he suffers a change in personality.”
“Wait, listen to what I want to say to you.”
“Karma, there isn’t a chance of it.”
“Me and you, we… do you agree?”
“To live with you?”
“To get married, of course, what else?”
“Karma, are you proposing to me? I said you’ve gone mad. But, do you know what? It also sounds like a good arrangement to me,” she laughed, not believing the seriousness of his remarks and Karma twisted his mouth in disappointment.
“Naima, I’m not talking about an arrangement between us. I want to marry you, my beloved.”
Abigail took a deep breath, wondering whether to cooperate with this romantic request or interpret it as an arrangement to share accommodation. She spoke cautiously.
“Karma, are you proposing marriage conducted by a Qadi according to Sharia Law?”
“Approximately, yes. I mean an “illusory” marriage,” and he swallowed the words, hoping she wouldn’t ask too many questions, but she heard. The stone sent a shock of heat through her finger and turned to a darker shade, informing her that the man facing her was communicating tremendous excitement that was much greater than could be observed.
“You mentioned marriage that is illusory rather than real. Do you perhaps mean a ‘disillusion’ marriage?”
“No, I refer to marriage that approximates religious marriage.”
“Approximately? How do you get ‘almost’ married?”
“Wait, the ‘approximately’ isn’t accurate.”
He felt he was getting tongue-tied and tried to explain again.
“Listen, it’s consecrated before a religious official, but it can be dissolved, of course after the wife receives the financial compensation, agreed on between them.”
“I don’t believe it!” she cried out, “since when are there marriages that can be dissolved in Iran? Karma, you’re dreaming! It simply isn’t possible!”
“It is. Believe me that such marriages, consecrated under the auspices of a Qadi can be dissolved and…”
“Yanou, (that is to say) like a divorce in the West? You’re talking about a situation in which there is a possibility of divorce?”
He was silent, thought for a few seconds and then said:
“You are talking to someone, who is the product of such a marriage.”
“You?!”
“Yes, my father, Sallah, married my mother, Naziah, in an “illusory” marriage, exactly like that.”
“And… why did she agree to marry him like that?” she expressed her amazement. “Did her parents agree or was she an orphan?”
“Wait, calm yourself, and slow down. Each person has his own reasons for such a marriage.”
“I want to understand something. Did your father actually leave your mother with a baby, in the end?”
Karma stopped for a second. He had never thought of his father and mother the way it sounded now, as she described them, and it did not seem honorable, which made him choose every word he said very carefully. He also did everything possible not to mention the legitimate family his father, Sallah, had left in Teheran.
" It isn’t the way it sounds,” he claimed, “he was an influential merchant, who never stayed in one place. His business would delay him for many months in each city. That was why he married additional women.”
“He used them for a few weeks and discarded them. Did I understand it correctly?”
“Actually, it was because he didn’t want to desert them that he viewed such marriages as being humane and just and he left them with compensation.”
“Great! He hopped from city to city, marrying various women in marriages of “disillusion”. Isn’t that crazy?”
“No, not marriages of “disillusion” but, “illusory” marriages.”
“Whatever you call it, it sounds brilliant, considerate and just beautiful.”
She spoke angrily and emotionally and Karma recalled his telephone conversation with the clergyman, the Ayatollah Karim, who was killed yesterday. He had not taken Karim seriously when he warned him even then.
Now he saw how right the man had been and was surprised when he heard Abigail talking. She said:
“Wait, Why not? It seems like a pretty good arrangement for both of us. Everyone will think we’re married and, just between ourselves if one of us decides to move on, that’s fine?” She stole a glance at her ring and saw that the color of the stone was still dark but, she didn’t know whether it was because of her or him.
Karma was silent. He was pleased she had agreed. Nevertheless, he did not understand her. He was disappointed that she regarded the proposed marriage as an arrangement and felt that she had drained it of all the romance of such moments.
“I want you to know that I love you, really love you.”
She felt like bursting into tears. She wanted to believe him but found it difficult.
“Oh, Karma,” she declared, “I wouldn’t have agreed to such a marriage if I didn’t care about you.”
He wanted to respond but, instead, he asked:
&
nbsp; “Would you like to take over? Do you want to drive?”
She shook her head and they continued their journey in silence. When they turned onto the paved road, the housing became denser along the way and she said gently.
“Tonight I will sleep in a different pension and we will only be together after you make the necessary arrangements,” and Karma remained silent.
He thought briefly of that magical moment when he had almost decided to tell Abigail about his wife and two daughters. Now it occurred to him that this secret would make the relationship between them fraudulent. After that, fears crept into his mind that the news of his marriage to Abigail might reach his wife. Moreover, he began to worry that he also did not know very much about the woman, who was sitting beside him and would soon be his second wife.
“Naima, what were you doing before we met?”
Abigail was surprised at the question and stared wide-eyed at him.
“Ah, besides this work, I was also a lawyer.”
“I don’t get that, slow down. Did you work for a lawyer?”
“Say, have you ever heard about the hostages; the ones who escaped when they were being transferred from Iran to Lebanon?”
“Sure, but what’s the connection?”
“I was one of the two hostages and…”
“What?!” Karma yelled, sharply swerving to the right of the road and almost driving onto the sidewalk, as he brought the car to a screeching stop.
“Were you captured by the terrorist organization?” He screamed. “Was it you, they said was buried in a cave and escaped in the mountains of Lebanon?”
She nodded her head and saw how excited he was and then, realized what a fatal mistake she had just made.
She suddenly remembered that she was operating under an alias and looked very different from that other person. Everyone knew that the former hostage had been killed by a professional assassin and when Karma stared at her, she was stricken with horror.
Everything began to float before her eyes: the tombstone with her name engraved on it over an empty grave, the disguises and the efforts to forget the ‘deceased’ Abigail. She shrunk back in her seat, stared at him and a chill grabbed at her heart.
She immediately sought a way out of the story because she realized that she had just made the mistake of her life. She thought of saying, ‘I was joking,’ or perhaps burst out laughing and say, ‘just pulling your leg,’ but she couldn’t get a word out of her mouth. Suddenly a thought flashed through her mind and she said:
“The truth is that the hostage was Abigail Ben Nun and, if you heard about it, she was murdered.”
“Right, I did hear about it and, after all, your name is Naima,” and he took a deep breath. “I was shocked when you said you were the hostage. What’s come over you!?”
“Listen, Karma, I want to be candid with my future husband even if it’s going to be a ‘disillusion’ of marriage.” She smiled at him but within herself she was raging and her soul trembled.
“So, why did you say earlier that you…?”
“Okay, the truth is that I am Naima, a Bedouin from the ‘Ka’abiah’ tribe and, for a while, I really did pretend to be Abigail Ben Nun – until she was assassinated. Now, there is no necessity for that and I have gone back to being a Bedouin – without any cover story.”
He smiled as he said: “You frightened me, don’t do it again.”
“I wanted to see how you would react,” she said and immediately added:
“Wait, I also want to know about you and what you did before.” Now Karma was scared. He hadn’t expected this and tried to evade the question by turning the key in the car’s ignition and continue driving, but Abigail rested her hand on his hand. Having no choice, he leaned back and began to speak of himself in the distant rather than the recent past.
“I also have a story,” he said. “It appears I was found in the sand, in my dead mother’s arms, trying to suckle from her breast. They say we were almost entirely buried in the sand, wrapped in the shreds of her clothing.”
He turned on the pale interior lights of the car because he was curious to see her reaction.
“What?! So the story about your father marrying your mother in a…”
“It’s all true. But listen. Sallah had returned my mother to her parents before I was born when she was already pregnant with me. I was told that when she escaped to the fields, during the battle with the rebels, she was killed holding me, the infant, in her arms.”
Even in the faint light, he could see Abigail grow pale and he smiled with satisfaction, at having succeeded in causing her grief after her story. She was silent and he continued his story.
“They brought me to be nursed by my adoptive mother, Nazim and Nana Kahit raised me. I was entranced by the stories she told me in the Kurdish tents.”
“Ah, so are you a genuine Kurd?”
He nodded.
“It would be interesting to know what unique connection would be formed between a Kurd and a Bedouin. What would the children born of the relationship be called?” he wondered and suddenly Abigail burst into tears and shook like a leaf in the wind. Karma was scared and said at once:
“Oh, my dearest Naima, I was teasing, I apologize. I didn’t mean what I said. Calm down, you’re shaking all over.”
He leaned over and embraced her and the steering wheel pressed against his ribs and hurt him. He groaned and heard her laughing. She nestled her head against his chest, her body stopped trembling and her muscles relaxed. He believed that he had soothed her with his remarks but didn’t realize that she had calmed down momentarily from the tension of having blurted out information that broke her cover and revealed her previous identity.
In the days that followed, they went everywhere together and were almost inseparable.
“Let’s take a stroll outside till it gets dark.”
Abigail smiled. These days had brought her more joy than she could recall ever having. She turned around to look at him, her gaze stopping on his large amber-colored eyes and thought how lucky she was to have won him.
In her worst nightmares, she didn’t imagine that this man, whom she loved, had a wife and two sweet little daughters. Had she known this – there was no way that she would agree to attach herself to an existing family – and this was what Karma feared.
It was still daylight, but the sun no longer provided warmth. Abigail loosened her chignon and let her shiny brown hair fall heavily on her shoulders. In moments of levity, she entertained the possibility of tempting fate, stop coloring her hair and allow it to return to its original light shade. But, she immediately rejected the idea, knowing that she would once more resemble the figure the murderer had been sent to kill; Abigail Ben Nun, which might prove very dangerous.
She wakened at dawn, pulled the rolled canvas out of her backpack, spread it out and gazed at the painted figures of her family. She leaned over it and Touched on her painted figure of her mother, asking for her blessing. She told her painting that a man she loved had come into her life, and then she heard a light knock at the door. Abigail quickly rolled up the painting and slipped it back in her backpack. She opened a crack in the door, It was Karma.
“Would you like to join the group going to Bushehr?” she asked him the first question that entered her mind at the moment.
Abigail knew that the Kaukab was on her heels, trying to hunt her down. But she also knew she had to continue with her mission in the guise of a tourist guide, which gave her the cover she needed for her assignments.
“No, I don’t think so,” he replied and she sighed with relief because she remembered that it was also a tour on which she had planned to do some clandestine investigating.
Abigail touched the small Flash-drive that had remained pressed between her breasts and reconstructed the conversation that took place in room 202 at the ‘Chai Huneh’ pension. She recalled the argument that preceded the murder of the three men, regarding security and she intended reaching that exact place today, the faci
lity at “Lashkar Abad.” This was where experiments to separate isotopes and enrich uranium with lasers were being carried out. She planned to tour there with the group and casually find out whether guard dogs were kept there or whether the facility at Bushehr really was closed, as Emir had said at that meeting.
*
The next morning she traveled to the place that interested her and asked the bus driver to continue through the sands that was not on their route and had no road. She knew that close to the fence there was a reactor site and ignored the stares of amazement from the driver.
“I don’t think we will be able to reach that place,” the driver claimed, “but, we will do as you wish.”
He drove onto the sandy trail and stopped close to the barbed wire fence that stretched into the distance. Abigail asked him to open the bus door and disembarked before everyone.
Two long fences stretched around the place, which really did look deserted. Abigail stood behind the exterior barbed-wire fence which was rolled like a relaxed spring and touched the metal spikes. She tried to estimate the distance between the two rows of fencing and wondered whether it was worthwhile trying to get between them. There was no signpost or guard so she signaled to the driver to let all the tourists off the bus.
In the distance, a cloud of dust appeared and soon, a rider on horseback approached them. He reined in his horse and stopped and surveyed them from above as he made a sign telling them to withdraw. His expression was frozen and threatening but, no one moved. The rider pulled the reins tightly and his horse stamped and swung its long mane. His hand strayed to the rifle on his shoulder and Abigail raised her voice immediately.
“Stop everyone; the man is agitated, so, let’s move on because it’s not worth insisting as there isn’t that much to see here.”
When they got back on the bus, Abigail thought about the mounted guard. She also believed that she had discovered that the place was being secured but decided to try a different approach.
They ascended on the paved and signposted road to the next tourist site, where two buses were parked in the shade of a sparse row of trees. Groups of people stood near one of the buses and to her surprise, Abigail recognized their dark-skinned guide, Lutfi, the person she had replaced on his wedding day. He also remembered Abigail and approached her with an outstretched arm to greet her.
