(Wrath-05)-The Master's Cry (2012)

by Chris Stewart

  “That’s OK, baby. I didn’t expect you to.”

  “For me? You are certain?” Azadeh repeated.

  “Yes. For you, baby. But don’t get your hopes up, it isn’t much, all right.”

  Azadeh bowed again. “Thank you, Miss Dupree.” She spoke slowly and carefully, struggling to pronounce every word.

  Mary Dupree reached out and lifted the young woman, tugging on her shoulders. “You don’t do that,” she told her. “Don’t you bow to me. You’ve got no reason to bow to anyone. You understand me, girl?”

  Azadeh nodded, though she didn’t. She didn’t understand at all. Mary Dupree might as well have been asking her to quit breathing as to ask her not to bow. She had been bowing at the waist since she was a little girl. Her father had insisted. It was how it was done. “Persians are gracious people,” he had told her. “We are not too proud to bow.”

  She stared blankly at Mary, her mind racing, suddenly confused. “Yes,” was all she answered.

  Mary nodded, watching Azadeh’s face closely, then pointed to herself and said, “Mary, OK? You call me Mary. And you don’t bow to me. I’m not your master. I’m your mother now—‍”

  Azadeh took a sudden breath. She had never had a mother, not since the day she was born. It was a nice thought, and she appreciated it, but this woman would never be her mother, no matter how she tried.

  Mary continued to watch her closely. “I understand,” she said as if she had read Azadeh’s mind. “Maybe not your mother. But that’s OK. I’ll be something. We’ll worry about that later.” She nodded to the present. “Go ahead,” she said.

  Azadeh glanced at the small gift. Mary followed her eyes. “Really, it isn’t very much,” she repeated. “I get along, but it isn’t like, you know, the good Lord has blessed me in many ways, but not with a lot of money. I mean, look at this place.” She tilted her head toward her surroundings, the peeled wallpaper, the cracked linoleum, the dirty floor.

  Azadeh looked around. “It is beautiful,” she said.

  Mary stared, then broke into a smile. Could she be serious? Could this be beautiful to Azadeh? Could this place be that much better than the place she had left?

  The look on Azadeh’s face assured her it was.

  Oh, girl, Mary thought, where did you come from? What was it like over there? She pressed her lips together, then again nodded to the present. “Open it,” she said.

  Azadeh lifted the small package. It was wrapped with plain white typing paper and tied with a small bow made of blue string. She carefully pulled back the paper, taking her time so as not to tear it, then pulled out a small velvet box. Mary smiled as she watched her, almost squealing with anticipation. Azadeh sensed her excitement and started bouncing, moving from one foot to the other.

  She flipped the velvet lid open. It contained a small silver ring. No stone or other ornament, just a simple silver band.

  Mary lifted her own finger to show an identical ring on her right hand. “Twinners,” she said happily.

  Azadeh hesitated. She didn’t understand the word, but she clearly got the meaning. And Mary’s excitement was infectious. Azadeh couldn’t help but laugh. Gently she pulled the ring out of the velvet box, glanced to Mary’s hand to check which finger she wore it on, then pushed the silver ring onto her pinky finger too.

  She looked up and smiled. “Thank you,” she said.

  Mary nodded, clearly very pleased with herself. “You’re welcome, Azadeh,” she answered, nodding at the open box again.

  Azadeh looked down and noticed a piece of paper tucked inside. Lifting it, she unfolded the paper and spread it out. Mary looked away for a quick moment, seemingly embarrassed. “I didn’t do all that good in school,” she said in a soft voice. “It’s not like I’m a famous poet or anything. But sometimes I write. Sometimes it’s the only way I have of expressing myself. I wanted to tell you something and this seemed to be the best way.”

  Azadeh looked at the quarter-sheet of paper and started reading slowly. The script was small and written in a delicate hand.

  Your mother kissed your soft skin

  Before God called her home to rest

  Now at night I’ll kiss your forehead

  And try to do my best

  Because she’s watching from the heavens

  Hoping I can fill her part

  So I will love you like your mother

  And mend your broken heart

  Azadeh finished the poem and then just stared at the paper, keeping her face toward the floor. When she looked up, she smiled weakly.

  “I know it’s no good,” Mary explained shyly. “I only wrote it last night. I could do better if I had more time. But, I don’t know, it seemed to say what I wanted it to. I just hope you understand.”

  Azadeh nodded. “Thank you, Mary.”

  Mary nodded. Azadeh smiled again, her dark eyes wide. Looking at her, Mary realized once again how startlingly beautiful she was. She moved toward her, took her by the shoulders, and looked into her face. She studied the dark hair flowing out from under the scarf, then moved her gaze down to the beautiful eyes and soft skin. The oval face. Thin arms and slender fingers. “Oh no, child,” she muttered as she stared. “This isn’t good. Not good at all.” Glancing over her shoulder, she shot a deadly look at the men who were lounging on the filthy couches. “We’re going to have to be careful, Azadeh. Really careful. Understand?”

  Once again Azadeh had no idea what she was talking about.

  Mary stared at her another moment, then took her by the hand, moved to the elevator, and punched the button for the fifth floor. “Come on,” she said. “Let me show you your new home.”

  *******

  Mary led Azadeh into the apartment. The young girl carried two worn pieces of luggage—one over her shoulder, the other one in her hand. Together they contained everything she possessed in the world. Reaching toward her, Mary took the bags and placed them on the floor as they passed through the front door.

  The apartment was warm and clean. A small window over the kitchen sink looked out on the next high-rise building and a narrow alley five floors below. The furniture was worn and covered in assorted brown fabrics, none of which really matched. The linoleum was clean and slippery from polish, the kitchen chairs chrome with plastic coverings, the kitchen table just large enough for two people. The entire apartment smelled like cinnamon and coffee, and Azadeh drew a deep breath as she walked in.

  But there was something else in the air, a smell that seemed faintly familiar though she did not immediately recognize it. A harsher smell, more tart, something like the disinfectants they splashed on everything back at the refugee camp in Khorramshahr. The smell propelled her back, and she stood without moving, her face blank, her eyes suddenly focused in the distance, her mind flashing through the memories: the constant mold and cold at Khorramshahr, the flapping tents, always being hungry, always sick, always coughing, always lonely, having no family, no village, no friends.

  But the worst part had been the unending boredom; mind-numbing and spirit-breaking, it had sucked the life out of her like the moisture from a peach left too long in the sun.

  Azadeh stood near the front door of the apartment, unaware of her surroundings, swallowed up completely in powerful memories. She thought of her old friend, one of the very few friends she had ever had in her life and certainly the only friend she had made in Khorramshahr. Bânu Pari al-Faruqi was dead now. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she was certain that her Christian friend had finally passed through the Great Veil. And though she grieved for Pari Jan and the illness from which she had died, there was still a softness to her sadness that she couldn’t deny.

  She didn’t really understand what the Christians meant when they talked about heaven, but surely Pari’s husband had been there waiting for her. Surely they were together now, after so many years of being apart.

  Azadeh had to smile as she thought of her friend, remembering the brightly colored murals Pari had painted on the walls
of her tiny wooden hut at Khorramshahr, the flowers she had kept near her window to soak up the sun, the small bushes she had nursed along the muddy path that led to her front door. She was a breath of fresh air in a very stale world, a world that was concerned only with moving people on, one way or another getting them out of the way. Azadeh didn’t know if she would have survived Khorramshahr without Pari. If it hadn’t been for her and the stranger. . . .

  Her memories shifted to the young American who had saved her life. She remembered the first day she had seen him in her burning village, her father’s martyred body behind her, tearstains and mud creating tracks on her cheeks. He had looked at her and smiled, then approached her as he would a wounded animal, softly, holding his hands out, kneeling in the dirt. He was the one who had told her to go to Khorramshahr. Then he had remembered and come to rescue her, risking everything to save her life.

  She thought of him all the time now. His face. His kind smile. To her, he was more than a hero. He was, well, he was much more than that.

  *******

  “Azadeh,” Mary repeated. “Azadeh, are you all right?”

  Azadeh shook her head and looked around. “I’m sorry,” she answered quickly.

  Mary watched her, then smiled. “I lost you for a moment.”

  Azadeh blushed. “I was just thinking—I was just thinking of Khorramshahr.”

  “Where?”

  “Khorramshahr. The refugee camp. I had a good friend there. I was thinking of her.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  “About Khorramshahr?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “No. No, certainly not. Why would I want to talk about the camp?”

  “I don’t know, Azadeh, I just thought—”

  “No, ma’am. I do not want to talk about Khorramshahr.” Azadeh moved away. “I am sorry. I do not mean to sound rude. There is not much good to talk about.”

  Mary nodded, her expression growing soft. “That’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

  Mary moved to the window. From one side, she could look past the corner of the closest building to the city streets below. Traffic was heavy and there was still a hint of smoke in the air. Her neighborhood, her city, the entire world had changed in the past couple of weeks. She drew a deep breath and stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment. “Do you realize how close it was for you?” Mary asked Azadeh as she turned around.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A few more days and you would never have made it here to the States. How many foreigners from Muslim countries do you think the United States is allowing into our country right now? Not very many, I guarantee you.”

  Azadeh nodded slowly, biting her lip.

  “After what has happened in the Middle East and Gaza, and now here in the United States, do you have any idea how difficult it would have been for you to get a visa, to get permission to stay here? Virtually impossible. Besides all the political implications, there is chaos everywhere. The government—everything is at a standstill. I know you had been waiting a long time, but I don’t think that would have mattered. Another few days and you would never have made it here.”

  Azadeh shrugged her shoulders weakly. “I was very lucky.”

  “No, I don’t think it was luck, baby. Things like this don’t happen because of luck or pure chance. There was a reason, I’m certain. There is a reason you were sent here. You may not know what that is, but I promise you, Azadeh, there is a purpose for you being here, in this place. You have a mission. You have a purpose. The good Lord works in mysterious ways, and you are one of his great mysteries, it would seem.”

  Azadeh hardly moved. She didn’t know what to say. Truth was she had little idea what Mary was even talking about. Her perception of Allah was that Allah was not overly involved in the affairs of men, certainly not involved on any personal level. It was impossible to imagine that Allah would care about or intercede in the affairs of a single young woman. To her, there was no Father in heaven, certainly no loving God. Allah was powerful and demanding of her loyalty, but that was about all Allah was.

  Mary leaned against the counter. “Someone is watching out for you,” she concluded.

  Azadeh shrugged again.

  Mary waited for an answer, then pointed toward the hall. “I want to show you your bedroom. And there’s someone else you need to meet.”

  Azadeh hesitated. “Of course, ma’am,” she said.

  “Mary!” Mary pleaded, gently punching Azadeh’s arm.

  “Mary,” Azadeh repeated, then started laughing. “I promise, Mary, that is the last time I will make that mistake.”

  Mary led Azadeh into the living room. Small and clean, it reminded her of her home back in Iran. They moved down a narrow hallway to the first room on their right. Mary pushed the door back and Azadeh saw a twin-size bed, a freshly painted white bureau with a slightly broken leg, and an empty closet. “This will be your bedroom,” Mary explained. “It is your space, your getaway, if you will. Feel free to do what you want with it. If you want to paint it, wallpaper, whatever, I’ll help in any way I can.”

  Azadeh looked around in amazement. “Really?! This is mine?”

  “Yes, baby. This is yours.”

  “It is,” Azadeh struggled for the words. “It is—very wonderful. It is—too large for me. It is—I am grateful.”

  Mary patted her arm. “That’s so great, Azadeh. Believe me, gratitude is a lost art in here in America. But you are too kind. Now, come on. There’s something I need to show you. You may not know this, but it won’t be just you and me living here.”

  Azadeh followed Mary back to the small living room. Mary nodded for her to sit down, then took a seat on a small wooden rocker across from the flannel-covered couch. Azadeh sat, her knees bent to the side. The two women were only a few feet from each other, and Azadeh could see Mary’s hands tremble slightly as she rested them in her lap.

  “I’m so glad to have you here, Azadeh. Do you know that?”

  Azadeh held Mary’s eyes but didn’t answer.

  “Do you believe that I’m glad to have you with me?” Mary pressed.

  “I think so,” Azadeh finally answered.

  Mary pressed her lips and played with one of the silver beads at the end of her tightly braided hair. “It’s all right if you’re not sure. I don’t worry too much about that right now. You’ll know soon enough how I feel. It won’t take long for you to believe me when I tell you that I didn’t agree to take you in for the money that they give me, or because I needed someone to clean the floors. I didn’t do it because I wanted someone to talk to or someone to care for me when I get old. I brought you here because I want to help you. That’s it. Nothing else.”

  Azadeh concentrated, her brow furrowed, and Mary realized that she had to speak more carefully if she wanted the girl to understand.

  She started again, this time more slowly. “I know that you have been dealt a very hard start in life,” she started.

  “Oh, no!” Azadeh answered. “I have been very blessed. Yes, I lost my mother. But my father was wonderful, the most wonderful man in this world. He blessed me. He blessed my life. I have been very happy.”

  Mary smiled and edged to the end of her seat, moving closer to Azadeh and reaching out for her hand. “I understand that. I really do. I’ve been told enough about you to understand what a good man your father must have been. But all I want to do is help you. Be your friend. I want us to be a family if we can. I think, in time, you will believe me and know that is true.”

  Azadeh watched her a thoughtful moment. “I believe you,” she finally answered.

  Mary squeezed her hand. “Thank you.” Looking away, she glanced toward the window, then turned back to Azadeh. “Did you know that I have another daughter?”

  Azadeh shook her head.

  “She is a special little girl. The love of my heart. When you meet her, you will feel the same, I am certain.
Come on. I want to show you.”

  Mary pulled on her hand and led her down the hallway to the second bedroom at the end of the hall. Putting her finger to her lips for silence, she slowly pushed the door back.

  The smell hit Azadeh in the face. Disinfectant. Medicine. It smelled like the infirmary at Camp Khorramshahr, a smell she would never forget.

  The room was dimly lit, the drawn shades allowing just a little light to seep into the room from around the edges of the window. There was a double bed against the far wall, then another mattress placed on the floor beside it. Blankets, medical instruments, and medicines seemed to be everywhere.

  A little girl was sleeping on the mattress that had been placed on the floor. Mary moved toward her and knelt down on the mattress. She reached out and lifted the little girl’s hand, but the child didn’t wake or stir. “Hey there, little princess,” Mary said in a soft but cheerful voice.

  The child kept on sleeping. Mary sat for a long time, simply holding her hand. Azadeh waited at the doorway, unsure of what to do.

  TEN

  Eridu, Southeastern Iraq

  Lieutenant Bono turned in a slow circle, scanning the desert around him. The sand was brown and as fine as talcum powder. Slow to move, it seemed to paste itself to the bedrock, the oldest sand on earth. Here and there small bluffs of black, craggy rock penetrated the rolling desert, the flinty hunks of lava glinting in the angled sun. From a distance, the bluffs appeared to be covered with dark bushes and low vegetation, but Bono knew that wasn’t true. He knew that as they got closer the dark patches would emerge as small hunks of stone that jutted from the ground, not vegetation. Above his head and to his back, opposite the setting sun, the sky changed color as it rose above the far horizon. Near the ground it was solid white from reflecting off the sand, but it deepened to greenish-silver and then dark blue directly over his head. The sand and rolling mounds (they weren’t high enough for Bono to quite call them hills) seemed to go on forever, and the air was so clear that the details of the dismal landscape didn’t seem to fade, no matter how far off he looked.