by Susan Cliff
Hudson pulled on his pants and disappeared in the bathroom. Ashur rose also, stretching his arms over his head. There were feathers in his hair. She gave him a stack of clothes. When she tried to pluck a feather, he shied away.
“You need to bathe. You smell like a goat.”
Ashur scowled at the criticism but didn’t argue. As soon as the bathroom was free, he went inside to shower. Breakfast arrived, and Hudson didn’t speak to her. He cleaned his plate quickly and drank coffee with relish.
She smiled at his zest. He ate like a man who’d been held captive, but he didn’t look it. “Were you heavy, before?”
“Heavy?”
“Fatter.”
“I was solid. I lost at least twenty pounds in captivity.”
“What is that in kilograms?”
“I don’t know. Ten or fifteen.”
She considered that amount. It wouldn’t make him heavy, just not quite as lean. “Did they feed you?”
“Only enough to keep me alive.”
Ashur emerged from the bathroom and sat down to eat. Hudson finished his coffee in silence. She expected him to be angry with her until they were out of the country. Maybe forever. It was ironic that Layah had brought him to a place of grave danger to protect him from the Da’esh. She didn’t want to argue with Hudson again, but they had to discuss their travel plans. She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of his disguise. He hadn’t seemed comfortable with the idea last night.
“Ashur, go eat with your cousins,” she said in Assyrian.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“You’re not my mother.”
“Out!”
He picked up his plate and left the room, giving Hudson a dark look over his shoulder. Layah waited until he’d closed the door behind him. Then she turned to Hudson. He was watching her with wary eyes.
“You know who killed Hasan.”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“Will you tell me?”
“No. It’s classified.”
“I assume it was one of Mohammed Rahim’s men.”
Hudson didn’t confirm or deny it.
“Was the story you told Ashur true?”
“Yes.”
“Rahim was not in Telskuf. I would not have gone there if he was.”
“He wasn’t one of my torturers.”
“But you thought he was inside the building where you were captured?”
“I wasn’t captured inside the building. I was captured in a tunnel underneath the building after it exploded.”
“Was it a trap?”
“I think so.”
“Who were your captors?”
“The faces changed. There were some high-level guys the first week. Near the end, they were just guards.”
She nodded, understanding. Rahim certainly could have planted a bomb in Telskuf. He was responsible for a number of atrocities in Syria and beyond. He’d ordered the execution of the rebels outside Palmyra, where Khalil had been killed. She didn’t know if Rahim was involved in Hasan’s death, but he’d been in Hasakah at the time, and he had a band of butchers at his disposal. She’d always suspected one in particular, Abdul Al-Bayat.
“Are you plotting revenge, like Ashur?” Hudson asked.
“No. I am concerned that your escape from Telskuf was communicated to Rahim.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“It is possible that those men with rifles were sent to look for us.”
“How would they know where to look?”
She swallowed hard, thinking of Ibrahim. She’d told him not to go back to Telskuf, but he was old and stubborn. “Ibrahim knew my travel plans. He is Assyrian, and has access to a vehicle. He might have been questioned.”
“Would Rahim’s men follow us here?”
“They can’t get into Iran or Armenia, but they can get close.” She reached into a colorful bag Miri had brought up with breakfast. It had a map, two razors and a checkered headscarf. She unfolded the map and spread it across the floor.
Hud’s expression turned flat. “You’ve had this all along?”
“No. Miri gave it to me this morning.” She pointed to their location. “Today we are going to Nordooz, where we will walk across the border. As you can see, it is only a few kilometers from Azerbaijan. The Da’esh may be able to travel freely there from Turkey. I do not believe they will come so far for us. I only wish to offer you information.”
“How generous.”
She moved her finger across the border, ignoring his sarcasm. “My parents will meet us on the Armenian side. They live in Yerevan, which has a US Embassy.”
“You’re going to introduce me to your parents?”
“If you like.”
“What do you expect me to say to the authorities?”
She hadn’t considered this problem. She’d been so focused on the journey, she couldn’t see past the end. She rose to her feet and paced the room. If he told the truth, she might be considered a war criminal.
He stood with her. “You know why I stayed with you in Rajan?”
“No.”
“I wanted to give you a chance to get away before I called my commander. I didn’t want to interfere with your quest for freedom.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, guilt-struck. Another apology would make no difference, and it might set him off, so she didn’t bother. “You don’t have to lie for me. I will face the consequences of my actions.”
“You could be deported.”
“If God wills it,” she said in Arabic. “I made this journey for Ashur, not for myself.”
A muscle in Hud’s jaw flexed, as if he wanted her to argue, or to beg and plead with him. “What if we’re stopped in Iran?”
“I will say you are my husband.”
“I don’t look like him.”
“You can cover your hair, and shave.”
“I’m supposed to pass for Arab by shaving my beard?”
“Many Arab men shave. Especially young, professional men like Khalil.”
“What profession?”
“He was in law school.”
“A lawyer and a doctor.”
Now a desperate refugee and a dead soldier. She pushed aside her emotions, which threatened to crash over her like an ocean wave, and brought him the headscarf. “This is a keffiyeh.”
“I know what it is.”
She supposed he’d worn one before. Military men from all over the world found them useful in the desert. She handed him the razor also. “If we are stopped on the way, stay silent. I will say you are dumb.”
“Dumb?”
“Unable to speak or hear.”
“Mute,” he said, shaking his head. “Deaf-mute.”
“Deaf-mute,” she repeated.
He turned the razor over in his hands. “You can do all the talking, but I don’t trust Iranian officials. If something goes wrong, I won’t cooperate. I won’t let them take me in. Do you understand?”
“You will kill them.”
“If I have to.”
She knew without asking that he’d rather die than be held captive again. Whatever the Da’esh had done to him, it was worse than death. “I have Khalil’s passport.”
“I saw it.”
“Do you have mine?”
He rummaged through his pack and tossed it at her.
She picked it up in silence. Then she folded the map and handed it to him. “You can keep this until we are in Armenia. For good faith.”
He accepted the map and pocketed it, avoiding her gaze. He would leave her in Armenia. He’d probably never speak to her again.
She couldn’t force his forgiveness. She couldn’t make him confess his feelings for her. Maybe he didn’t have any. It would
n’t be easy to say goodbye to him, regardless. Somehow, over the course of this journey, the pieces of her broken heart had knit together, and she’d found a place for him. She’d thought she’d never love another, after Khalil. She’d been wrong.
Fighting tears, she secured her passport with Khalil’s. She would hold both in case they were asked for documents. Hudson’s eyes darkened at the sight of her binding the two booklets with a rubber band. He’d been angry with her for withholding the map and travel information. Now he seemed angry about the passports.
He walked into the bathroom and slammed the door. She made a rude gesture, like she was flinging dirt at him. Then she yanked the nightgown over her head and got dressed. The Yazidi skirt looked nice with her dark blue tunic.
Ashur returned from breakfast as she was tidying up the room.
“Get ready to leave,” she told him.
“Did he tell you the name?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You don’t care who killed my father?”
“Knowing won’t bring him back.”
“Al-Bayat was in Telskuf.”
Her stomach clenched with unease. Abdul Al-Bayat was Rahim’s top executioner. They called him The Butcher. Layah’s sources hadn’t revealed any specific information about Hudson’s captors. She only knew that Hudson been left in the care of local guards who were waiting for the kill orders.
“Who told you that?”
“Ibrahim.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “Hudson didn’t say the men who killed Hasan were in Telskuf. He said he thought they were.”
“Was Al-Bayat in Hasakah when my father was murdered?”
“I have no idea,” she lied. “Why fixate on this when we are so close to freedom? We need to look forward, not back.”
Ashur stretched out on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. She hoped he would let it go. Al-Bayat was a likely suspect for Hasan’s murder, but they couldn’t retaliate. The Da’esh were in power. Challenging them would bring more death and pain.
Hudson emerged from the bathroom fully dressed and clean-shaven. He had the keffiyeh wrapped loosely around his head. There were light-haired Arabs and Kurds in this region, so his coloring alone wouldn’t cause a stir. The problem was his face. Shaving had refined his rugged appearance more than she’d anticipated. With his strong jaw and chiseled features, he took her breath away. A man this tall and attractive wouldn’t go unnoticed.
“Well?” he prompted.
She blinked a few times. “Well?”
“How do I look?”
“You look like an actor from a Turkish soap opera.”
Ashur smirked at the comparison.
“What does that mean?”
“You are too handsome. We want to look ordinary.”
“Ordinary? You couldn’t look ordinary to save your life. Especially in that outfit.”
She glanced down at her tunic and long, flowing skirt. She tugged on the fabric. “What is wrong with this?”
“Nothing. I’m just saying that you’ll attract attention at the border. It doesn’t matter what you wear. Men look at beautiful women, without fail. If they notice me, it will be because I’m standing next to you.”
She grabbed her hijab and covered her hair, irritated. She already felt guilty about bringing him to Iran. Now he was trying to pre-blame her for turning heads at the border. Her skirt wasn’t colorful or clingy. Maybe the garment caught his eye because she’d let him hike it up to her waist the other night. She flushed at the memory.
They left the hotel room and joined the others in the parking lot. Miri smiled at Hudson’s attempt to assimilate. She introduced her husband, Olan, who would drive them to Nordooz. Then she said goodbye, and they piled into the stake bed of the pickup. Olan had stacked two large bundles of old hotel towels in the back. He would sell the towels in Tabriz. He covered everything with a tarp, tied down at the edges.
The passengers were well hidden, but uncomfortable. It was dark and cramped in the bed of the truck. Although Layah was exhausted from the long journey and happy to be off her feet, she didn’t enjoy the ride.
Hudson settled near a tear in the tarp, which offered a small amount of light and air. Aram and Yusef took the opportunity to cuddle with their wives. Ashur slumped against the towels and slept.
Layah tried to give Hudson space. She felt alone, even though she was sandwiched next to him. She hadn’t expected him to express his tender feelings toward her or beg for her hand in marriage, but she wanted a different end to their story. A hint of passion and emotion, instead of his cold dismissal.
After a few hours on the road, everyone was asleep except her and Hudson. His body was taut as a bowstring beside hers. This experience must have been agonizing for him. She imagined that it reminded him of his time in captivity, and she understood why he’d do anything to avoid recapture.
He took off his keffiyeh. Beneath the scarf, his hair was soaked in sweat. Although the air was warm in the confined space, it wasn’t sweltering. She felt a stirring of sympathy, despite the tension between them. The least she could do was offer him comfort.
“Lean back against me,” she murmured, massaging his shoulders.
After a pause, he reclined against her lap. She stroked his damp hair to soothe him. She remembered the day she’d discovered that he had a sensitive scalp. He’d strained toward her touch as if she had magic hands. He did the same thing now. He didn’t relax enough to sleep, like the others, but some of the tightness in his muscles eased. Perhaps his anger toward her faded, as well.
He was a resilient man. She was a reasonable woman. Although they couldn’t repair their relationship or make any future plans, they could part ways in peace.
“Why did you tell your aunt I was Khalil?” he asked quietly.
Her hands went still in his hair. “Aram thought she would turn us away if we had an American among us.”
“Is that what you argued about?”
“Yes, but there was no need to lie. Miri knew you were not Khalil. She’d seen him in a wedding photo.”
“She didn’t come to your wedding?”
She started stroking again. “No. Most of my family did not attend.”
“Because of the war?”
“Because of the war, and because it is forbidden for Assyrians to marry outsiders. My parents refused to give their blessing. They never met Khalil.”
“Ouch.”
“Yes. Ouch.”
“Do they know he’s dead?”
She flinched at the blunt words. “They do not.”
“Have you spoken to them at all since you married?”
“I notified them of Hasan’s death. I could not bear to mention Khalil at the same time. I thought they would be relieved, instead of saddened.”
“That’s harsh.”
She cleared her throat. “It is part of our culture.”
“Harshness?”
“Ferocity, perhaps. We are the descendants of ancient warriors. My people ruled this land for thousands of years. Now our numbers have been greatly reduced by genocide. The only way to protect our bloodlines and keep our culture alive is to intermarry.”
“And yet you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I was young. I fell in love.”
He turned to face her, his eyes glittering in the dim light. “Do you regret it?”
“I regret nothing,” she whispered.
A new awareness passed between them. They’d been attuned to each other from the first touch. Maybe the first glance. That feeling had developed into a strong connection and a deeper understanding. He’d loved and lost under completely different circumstances. He’d suffered at the hands of the Da’esh. They were bound by more than desire. It felt like fate.
His mouth descended on hers and the world fell away. She forgot that they were in a cramped space, on a dangerous journey, in a hostile country. She forgot that they weren’t alone. She forgot everything except him. His touch, his taste, his tension. She threaded her fingers through his hair and twined her tongue around his. He kissed her as if her lips held the secrets of the universe. He kissed her like she was his last meal.
Then he stopped and lifted his head. They couldn’t share more than kisses here. Even that was risky, because they were both too bold, too hungry, too adventurous. They were both living at full-throttle, reluctant to pump the brakes.
She wanted to express all her feelings, to bare her soul in a messy spill of emotions. But she held herself back, just as he did. There was no hope for them. They couldn’t be together. They probably couldn’t even stay in contact. It didn’t matter how strong the attraction between them was, or how true the bond. It didn’t matter how well suited they were. The obstacles between them were insurmountable.
He shifted to one side, and she snuggled against his chest. They couldn’t share a bed, but they could share this. A few stolen moments together and a private conversation. “Will you forget me after you return to America?”
“I’ll try.”
“How long will it take?”
“Not long. Ten or twenty years.”
She smiled at his sad joke. “I would like for you to find a woman to make love to. In a month or a year, whenever you are lonely and need to touch someone. For only one night, pretend she is me.”
He inhaled a sharp breath. “Will you do the same, with a man?”
“Should I?”
He shook his head. “I can’t decide what’s worse, picturing you with a stranger for one night or picturing you married with children.”
“I’d prefer the second.”
“I know.”
She brushed her lips over his neck, sighing.
“I can’t pretend anyone else is you, Layah.”
“You can’t?”
He lifted her chin to meet her gaze. “No, I can’t. Because there’s no one like you. Even if I found someone who looks like you, she wouldn’t be the same. She wouldn’t talk like you or think like you. She wouldn’t make me feel the way you do.”
Her eyes filled with tears and her throat closed up.
