Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (93 page)

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.

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.

Sam stood somewhere behind him, quiet, unseen, and unmoving, but Bono knew he was near. A soldier, especially a soldier who spent much of his time in the desert, developed his senses, and Bono could smell the other man’s leather boots, the detergent on his uniform, the spearmint gum in his pocket, the aftershave he had put on a few days ago.

Bono turned in two full circles, his feet treading lightly across the brown sand, years of moving without leaving a trace instinctive to him now. Then he held still and listened as Sam moved quietly to his side.

“So this is it?” Samuel Brighton shook his head as he looked around in disbelief.

Bono nodded toward the barren desert. “That’s what they say.”

Sam squinted through the setting sun at the utterly barren landscape around him. “What did Adam grow here? Snakes and sand fleas? Help me understand this, Lieutenant, because I’m not so sure you’ve got your geography right.”

Bono hunched his shoulders. “It might have changed a little bit over the years.”

“Changed a bit. Yeah, I guess so.” Sam’s voice was sarcastically light-hearted. “If this
was
the Garden of Eden, and if this is what it looked like, I’d say Adam got the better end of the deal. Getting tossed out of this hunk of burning sand couldn’t have been the worst thing that happened to him that day.”

Bono smiled but didn’t answer as he continued looking down from the bluff.

It was so quiet he could feel the atmospheric pressure in his ears, the air perfectly calm as evening came on. His neck tingled from a light sweat that evaporated in the rapidly cooling air. The sun was low now, a huge, blood-red ball sinking toward the western horizon. As he watched, it began to fall so quickly its movement was perceptible.

The thought that this land of rock, sand and black scorpions searching desperately for some warm-blooded prey had once been the Garden of Eden was almost laughable. But it really didn’t matter. Bono knew it wasn’t true. “This isn’t it,” he said to Sam after a long pause. “Not literally, I mean, not the Garden of Eden. Yes, it’s true that most scholars and historians believe the Garden had to be somewhere near this place, but we know that’s not the case.”

“Do we?” Sam sounded surprised.

“True, my friend.”

“This isn’t where Adam and Eve strolled among the animals and chomped down a couple apples?”

Bono shook his head and smiled. Sam was on the right track, but his understanding of the gospel still had a long way to go. That was what made him so interesting. He had so little knowledge, but his emerging faith was so strong. It was as if the death of his father had turned on the switch of faith inside.