Reverb (Story of CI #2)

by Rachel Moschell

  “For four years. I went to university there on a scholarship, after I converted to Islam.” Alejo exhaled loudly and looked out over the darkening purple of the mountain range. “This still feels…odd, Wara. We know nothing about each other. I could have killed you. And we’re supposed to work together.”

  “I guess it’ll take time.” Wara pressed her lips together. “I really…I didn’t know you went to university in Iran. Maybe we can talk a little more…on the plane. I probably should pack.” Alejo got the hint and nodded, standing to look out over the dusky Montana scenery. “Thanks for the great Iranian clothes,” she added. “I…didn’t get around to thinking about that.”

  “You’re welcome.” Alejo turned to head back around the corner of the porch, towards his room. “I’ll let you pack.”

  Crazily, Wara actually felt a moment of sadness watching him go. Then she understood it was because now she had no more excuses. She’d already called Nazaret. It was getting late. With the pile of Iranian clothes there on the futon, Wara couldn’t even tell herself she didn’t know what clothes to bring.

  She trudged over to the sliding glass door and stepped into her room, taking in the familiar vision of sea green carpet, pine walls, and a rainbow of Bolivian souvenirs on the walls. Stacks of novels and linguistics books tottered on the shelves and desk, and a new black suitcase from Target leaned against the unmade daybed. Wara stared at the suitcase and heaved a sigh. The room was suddenly short on air as she twisted the silver ring engraved with Arabic letters on her left hand.

  I have to leave it here. I told myself when I left for Morocco it would be time.

  Woodenly, she approached the wicker shelf in the corner where she kept old treasures from her childhood: a revolving music box of a lime porcelain frog, scuffed My Little Ponies, jeweled diaries that rambled about old crushes. Wara slid the silver ring she wore off her finger and laid it inside a carved Peruvian box of her grandmother’s, trying not to cry. The ring had been Noah’s, and on the day he died he gave it to her.

  You were a good friend, Noah. Wara squeezed her eyes shut and fought blubbering helplessly in front of the glassy-eyed My Little Ponies. I loved wearing your ring. But now it’s time for me to leave it here.

  Wara dropped the lid to the wooden box, her finger feeling empty and cold without Noah’s ring.

  But it was time.

  I’ll always remember you.

  The sting of unshed tears was still tight against the back of Wara’s eyes as she knelt and began to pack the suitcase that would take her to the other side of the world

  7

  Brother, Where Art Thou?

  NEELAM OBSERVED WITH A CRITICAL EYE THE sallow glow of gold candlesticks amid yards of writhing tulle, golden cherubs, and glimmering spray-painted baskets full of sweets. The traditional sofreh spread that was part of all Persian weddings since ancient days had been laid out against the banana yellow paint of the Pouralis’ upscale living room, propped up at different levels on top of an embroidered ivory cloth, like an ornate relief map of some mountainous country. Neelam knew that Ava’s mother had been planning this sofreh arrangement, with the help of one of Esfahan’s exclusive wedding planners, for months.

  Amid the plethora of lace and cherubs, a wide array of items necessary for every good Persian wedding rested, carefully placed to the greatest aesthetic advantage: burnished gold dishes of spices, specially decorated flatbread surrounded with feta cheese and olives, and baskets of sweet nuts and waxy pomegranates. On top of a circle of ivory tulle sat an illuminated Persian Bible, in place of the usual holy book of choice in Iran, the Koran.

  Ava’s parents were not in the least religious, and couldn’t have cared less which holy book their daughter and her new husband placed on the sofreh. What mattered to the Pouralis was marrying their daughter off in style; gourmet food and superb decorations were what impressed their wealthy friends, not religious platitudes.

  After this little ceremony where Rostam and Ava officially became man and wife, the more appealing part of the whole evening would begin. The Jashn-e Aroosi, otherwise known as the wedding party, which would follow the ceremony in front of the golden sofreh.

  Right now, the last thing on Neelam’s mind was a party.

  She only wanted her brother.

  A few hours ago, Rostam had called her cell phone with the wonderful news that they’d been detained with the contraband wedding dinner wine. Mirza had been taken in by the police, probably for a good lashing. Or caning.

  It wasn’t the first time her brother had been hauled away by the police. But surely he could get away quickly today, or all days?

  A flash of light bounced off Neelam’s eyes as a long shaft of flame from a candle snaked upwards and reflected off the gilded mirror at the center of the entire sofreh display. Rostam and Ava had arrived in front of the mirror, Ava dressed in a pearly white, sleeveless gown from Paris. Having seen Ava when she had just left the downtown spa, Neelam knew that her friend’s entire face was plastered with gold-toned makeup and sea green, iridescent eye shadow. At the moment, however, the bride’s face was still hidden behind the silken fabric of her veil, draped over her features as she and Rostam faced the large mirror.

  Everyone gathered around the sofreh leaned forward, waiting for the bride to lift her veil and reveal her face, traditionally for the first time, to her groom in the mirror.

  Mrs. Pourali bustled forward, in a low-cut silver evening gown, and assisted her daughter in the lifting of the veil, primly tucking the fabric into a slot of the diamond tiara Ava wore in the middle of a jet black, hair-sprayed beehive. All the guests stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of the couple in the mirror, and Neelam’s heart warmed when she saw Ava, cherry red lips curved up into a smile, gazing into Rostam’s shining eyes.

  They were going to be happy. They loved each other. And most importantly, they both loved Jesus. With such a great God in common, how could things go anything but well for them?

  But worry was riding Neelam’s shoulders like a heavy backpack. Where was her brother?

  Mirza, where are you? You’re missing it!

  As the ceremony continued, Neelam felt her eyes glazing over and she backed into the smooth yellow paint of the living room, supporting herself against the wall. Mirza would come back. She knew he would. But the tinkling of the marble fountain in the Pouralis’ foyer was bringing back the icy water spurting over rocks down below, far below Neelam’s dangling feet the day her parents died.

  She tried to look happy as she congratulated Rostam and Ava and made her way down to the basement party hall to prep for the concert. There was a little bathroom with pale blue marble reserved just for the musicians’ use at underground concerts. Neelam changed into a deep purple tunic, black leggings and her trademark black boots, then began to slather on makeup, all the while listening for the welcome sound of her brother’s voice echoing through the hall. The bathroom mirror was framed in Gothic bronze figures and Neelam left the lights low as she rubbed in foundation multiple shades too white, then painted her lids with midnight blue eye shadow and circled her eyes with purple.

  The makeup left her looking like something straight out of Twilight. It was part of the look of Moneta Z, and Neelam knew why they did it.

  There had been months of physical therapy and hospital stays after the accident, and photographs the aunties kept tucked away showed Mirza and Neelam in nothing but their underwear, battered and black and blue, swathed in casts and rows of neat stitches that would make Frankenstein cry. Deep, dark circles ringed their eyes in those days.

  And now, when Moneta Z played, they still did.

  He had been the only one wearing a seatbelt, her brother. Their parents were already dead, but Mirza held on to her hand for what seemed like an eternity until the rescue crew could get out to the rocks where the car hung upside down over the raging river.

  Mirza had been five, but he hadn’t let her go.

  The sounds of the wedding party made the blue bat
hroom door tremble and Neelam sunk down to the tiles to pray and try not to cry. After a few minutes she collected herself and unlocked the bathroom, determined to find out if her brother was here or not.

  Persian pop music reverberated over the crowds in the party hall, and Neelam stifled a yawn. Young men and women stepped in time to the music across the concrete floor, arms raised and gliding rhythmically through the air in the choreographed motions that were typical Persian dancing. The girls tossed long black locks over one bare shoulder, then the other, heads tilting towards one side as they swiveled their wrists and swayed.

  It was sad, really. These kids had been brought up with the sexes strictly segregated, never allowed to just hang out and talk with a friend of the opposite gender. And now, they were trying too hard. The girls’ short dresses were wildly inappropriate, and they had no idea what to say or do. Many young people had brought drugs to the party, relying on them to convince themselves they were having a great old time.

  Tables sprawled across the hall, covered in the remains of Eggplant Parmesan and crystal wine goblets of Zam Zam Cola. Mr. Pourali stalked past her in an impeccable tux, shouting orders into a walkie-talkie.

  Probably some problem with security.

  Many wealthy families hired private security for the wedding party, absolutely necessary if both men and women were going to attend. Just having a mixed party was reason enough for the police to raid, without taking into account the alcohol and “degenerate, Satanic” rock music that might accompany the party.

  Mirza was no where in sight, and the only place Neelam hadn’t checked was the kitchen.

  The smell of basil and olive was overpowering as she ducked her head into the glare of industrial silver and black and white tile. “Heydar?” she started, surprised to see the chef hunched on a tiny stool, spooning in bites of one of his creations. He peered up at her over black plastic glasses, gripping a novel in one flour-encrusted hand. Heydar’s face was pockmarked and splotchy and he wore his hair in a very unflattering ponytail down the back of his white chef uniform. But you didn’t have to be handsome to be an award-winning chef at Esfahan’s best Italian restaurant.

  “What are you doing in here?” Neelam asked him curiously. She leaned a hip against the granite counter and snagged a pinky of red sauce from a saucepan.

  “Just what it looks like. Reading.” Heydar returned to his book, pushing the black glasses further up his crooked nose. Static sounded from the hallway and Mr. Pourali marched by again, still muttering into the handheld radio. After a moment of silence, Heydar spoke calmly, eyes never leaving his book.

  “You know, Ava’s father really is a good-looking man.”

  Neelam nearly spewed sauce. Everyone knew Heydar the chef was, well, gay. But he didn’t have relationships with men like that anymore, ever since he’d heard the gospel from Sami.

  “Ewwwww.” Neelam couldn’t help but make an awful face. “Please!”

  “Now you know why I’m in here,” Heydar shrugged, the hint of a smile playing around his lips. “I like it in here. Nice and quiet. Just me and my books, minding our own business.” He shoveled in another mouthful of something that reeked of too many herbs and garlic.

  “Well. Nice talking with you,” Neelam grinned. “I think I’m supposed to be playing the drums. See you later.” She backed out of the kitchen and reached the hall just in time to hear a rising roar. At the far end of the party hall, Mirza Samadi had entered, wearing black and looking ready to rock. He pranced into the room, greeting all their friends, shooting off apologies. Everyone began to chant, waiting for Moneta Z to start the music. Neelam smiled, watching her brother enjoy the attention and fight his way through a mob of girls towards his sister, accepting a glass of champagne on the way from a dyed blonde who nearly swooned. Neelam’s smile faded, however, when she noticed how he moved, gingerly, a little hunched over, eyes unnaturally bright over dark rings of makeup.

  He wouldn’t have come anyway, if he’d been lashed? Of course he would! This was Mirza!

  Neelam fought her way through the adoring crowds to her brother and whacked him on the cheek. “Hey, bro, glad you could make it! Come with me a sec. I gotta talk to you.” Neelam crooked her elbow firmly around Mirza’s thick forearm and yanked him after her, causing the champagne to slosh up the sides of the glass. “Just a few pre-show things to attend to,” she smiled tightly at the crowd of fans.

  Mirza licked champagne off one wrist and grinned apologetically. “We’ll be back.”

  Brother and sister walked in tandem among the tables laden with the remains of Heydar’s Italian wedding feast. Neelam led them towards a room next to the blue bathroom where Moneta Z and others could change. Discarded manteau coats and jeans littered the room, exchanged for party dresses and tuxes. Neelam kicked the solid wood door closed behind them with her black leather boots and let go of her brother.

  “So, did you have a nice time? Being detained?”

  “No, not really.” Mirza seemed to shift uncomfortably inside his shirt, eyes bright, “But it’s all good. Been waiting for me a long time?”

  “Mirza! I was worried.” Neelam felt herself pouting.

  “I’m sorry, sis.” Mirza chucked Neelam under the chin and clunked the empty champagne glass heavily on a countertop. The ping of fragile glass on marble rattled Neelam’s nerves. “I know you were worried. I wanted to call you but they wouldn’t let me.”

  Just then, a knock sounded on the door, nearly muffled by the music and din of the crowd. The sound swelled as the door opened and Ava slipped into the room amidst the rustle of ivory silk, followed by Rostam.

  “I’m sorry, man.” Mirza’s eyes lit up and he stepped towards Rostam, one hand held out to grasp his friend’s. “I missed it. I’m so bummed. I tried to hurry up, but…you know. Congratulations! To both of you.” Mirza turned towards Ava as well, and rolled his shoulders again with a slight wince. “I’m going to have to take a rain check on a hug. But I won’t forget.”

  Rostam clasped Mirza’s hand tightly and grinned. “I knew you’d still be here. So…was it bad?”

  “Naw.” Mirza let go of Rostam and waved one hand dismissively. “They let me keep my shirt on.”

  “You’ve got to show me, man.” Rostam circled around to Mirza’s back, as if looking for the blood.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Mirza drew back warily. “Get back to the party. I’ve just got go to check if the guitar’s in tune, and we’ll start up the music in a sec.”

  “C’mon, show me their worst,” Rostam insisted, eyes gleaming. “I’ve got to know how much I owe you, for next time.”

  Mirza’s eyes narrowed as they slid over Ava, standing next to Rostam in five inch stiletto heels and clinging to one of his arms. “Not now, man. Ladies are here, ok?”

  “Oh, they don’t care. C’mon.”

  Mirza rolled his eyes, grabbed his shirt and yanked it off over his head. Neelam’s throat constricted as she took in her brother’s exposed back. Over a background of mottled purple bumps, angry welts crisscrossed the entire length of Mirza’s middle back, a few of the lashes open and still shining with blood. Her brother’s large tattoo of an indigo Chinese dragon was deformed with thin slits of broken skin, giving the entire ink creature the appearance of bloodied road kill.

  “Shoot…Mirza…” Neelam faltered, staring at her brother. “Don’t you need to…disinfect that or something?”

  “Already taken care of, at home. I snuck in and poured a whole bottle of alcohol down my back in the shower. Without the aunties finding out. Now…” Mirza seemed annoyed, standing there with no shirt and everyone gaping. He was straightening out his bunched up shirt to put it back on, when everyone heard a small moan. Neelam jerked towards Ava just as the bride’s eyes rolled back into her head and she slumped into Rostam’s shoulder. Her new husband caught her just in time, grabbing both her bare arms to steady her. Ava’s eyes opened again and she gaped at Mirza, face pale despite the thick spa makeup.

 
“I’m so sorry,” she mewled.. Ava’s eyes met Rostam’s, pleading, and she motioned towards the door. “I think we should go back.”

  “Sure, of course.” Rostam finally found his voice, still supporting Ava’s arm. She swayed on her tottering high heels and the wide hem of her silk dress whispered across the tiles. “We should go back to the party.”

  The two of them left quickly, and Neelam sighed, concerned as she watched her brother get dressed. “You’re really going to sing like that?”

  “Why not?” Mirza shrugged. “The guitar strap is going to hurt like heck, but oh well.” His eyes darkened and he looked away, then met his sister’s eyes. “First song tonight is for Sami.”

  Neelam nodded in silent agreement. All those here tonight had loved Sami, even if none of them had known him as she and Mirza had. They knew what he had lived for the last few years, and what he had died for. Rostam and Ava would want him remembered. And Moneta Z would honor him.

  They strode onto the stage, brother and sister, and Neelam took her seat at the black and blue drums. Rostam and Ava beamed in the front row. Everyone screamed as the lights dimmed, and then an unnatural hush blanketed the basement party hall as Mirza leaned into the mike, shouldering a purple electric guitar. And then the song began.

  It began quiet and melodic and sad, without words, just the soaring tones of the electric guitar and Neelam’s soft drums. The crowd was one with the music, recognizing the melody instantly. It was his song, the one Mirza and Neelam had written for Sami of Ashavan. Then the notes rose, louder and higher, only to drop to a minor, low refrain. Mirza’s blue eyes closed, and he led the entire place in singing, again and again, until their voices finally died away:

  “One day he’ll come and you will rise again

  One day he’ll come and you will rise again

  The King will come and we’ll rise again with him.”

  Come. Please come. I want to go with You and with him, Neelam prayed. She wanted to follow the king of the world who Sami had told them about: Jesus Christ. But what if she and Mirza were lashed even worse than her brother had been today? Arrested for apostasy, like Tarsa had been? Beheaded, like Sami had been?