Jagged shards of a broken pane reflected light from a third-floor window. Safeed paused at his alley stoop and looked up. Seeing no life, he turned, unlocked, and shouldered open the heavy, arched door leading from the alley to his stairway. Doors, doors, too many doors. Locking it behind him, he sighed, signaling both relief and distress. “Gharam. Dalal. Help please. I’m down here.” Except for his own labored breathing, silence filled the narrow void. Safeed’s lips parted to reissue the plea, then hesitated. “Ah! They’re at the cemetery. Well, Alim, I guess we’re on our own.”
Grasping the brass railing, he stepped up a tread and paused to rest. Five minutes and twenty-two steps later—done in and tuckered out—he turned the lock and pushed his way into the warm apartment. “Alhamdulillah– praise be to God. Home at last.” No longer able to blot out the pain in his burning muscles, Safeed staggered through the kitchen into the smallest of three bedrooms, dropped his bag near the window, and, bottom first, laid his burden on fresh linens. “Be right back. I must clean your knife. I must clean your knife.”
Bleary eyed, Safeed retrieved it from his belt and returned to the kitchen. He dropped the weapon in a shallow pan of dishwater, sloshed it back and forth, and wiped it dry. Then without spilling a drop, he poured his assailant’s diluted blood into a bucket for later disposal. The memory of his desperate fight remained undiluted. After slogging to the bedroom, the weary warrior placed the blade atop a handmade doily, crocheted by his mother, which decorated an intricately carved nightstand. Safeed dropped into a wicker rocker near the window, licked his finger, felt in vain for a breeze, and soon fell asleep.
Keeping vigil, the sun had arced but ten degrees across the sky before, on cue, the kitchen timer dinged, round two. “Already?” Safeed awoke, fatigued and sweating profusely. He washed up and prepared to leave. “Alim are you awake?”
His eyes were closed. As if dreaming aloud, the suffering savant replied, “Safeed? Do I smell a hint of Jasmine?”
“I am here, my friend, and I assure you, I do not smell like Jasmine.”
Inwardly, Alim smiled. Outwardly, the majority of his forty-two facial muscles had abandoned their posts for the duration of the war; but his memory had improved. “Forgot what I wanted to say. . . . Oh yes, I remember the boy. He is here?”
“He is not, but he and his brother are safe.”
Alim wheezed. His eyes popped open. “He has a brother?”
“Yes, he is called Asif. Both are from Iran.”
“It is well. Are they Shi’a?
“No. Like me, they are Sunni, from the North.”
“YOU, a Sunni?” The mood in the room changed as quickly as the time it takes for a loose-leaf to be knocked to the floor and sprung open. “By the way you comported yourself against our common enemy, I assumed you to be a true defender of the Koran. And the people of this village? Please tell me they are not Sunni.”
“Yes, most are Sunni.” Wishing neither to be bashed for his heritage nor touted for his bravery and benevolence, Safeed refused to either to take offense or reply. He felt like a rocking chair—moving but going nowhere. Unbeknownst to most in the village, Safeed, his deceased parents and Gharam, his sister, believed Jesus to be the Promised Messiah and privately worshiped the Father in his name. They were, in word and deed, Christians.
“And you are a Christian.” Alim, incensed that he lay confined to a Sunni bed, postured to affirm his genealogical superiority. He pressing the boundaries of cordiality and twittered, “Did you know that until five years ago, I held the chair of applied science at the Shiraz University of Medical Science?”
“No. Until fleeing from Rasht, I had not been further south than Tehran.”
“You help make my point.”
“What point?”
“You mean it’s not obvious?” Not waiting for an answer, Alim continued. “For ten years, my brother Hassan, a cleric, served as legal counsel to the Ayatollah; Firuz, the youngest, helped build the glorious Azadi Minaret at the west gate of Tehran. Now do you see my point?”
“Sorry. I am so tired. My mind must still be running the streets.”
“Well then, let me be clear. In Iran, the Kirmani family are high achievers and well-known philanthropists. Surely you have heard of us.”
“No, but congratulations.” Safeed yawned. “Formerly a herder of sheep, I am but one of sixty million refugees world-wide, half of whom are children.”
Alim’s bubble leaked. “That many? How do you know this?”
“From our own national press, about two years back.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I miss my big-screen and the nightly news before my evening swim. Now, I swim in sweat; and this bed is like the floor where I landed today–hard.”
Safeed reached for a water bottle and readied to swallow. As if instructing a servant, Alim said,“Yes, you go ahead and drink, but I am not thirsty just yet.”
“Remember, you have lost a lot of blood.”
“Very well. Since you will likely pester me about it, give me a drink.”
Five long minutes rounded down then up the clock. Safeed hoped his sister would soon return from the grave. Until then, he was resigned to the fact that Alim must not be left unattended; so, he sat, rocked and listened. Troubling sentiments ebbed and flowed from Alim’s mouth to Safeed’s ear for nearly an hour—a sullied stream of self-pity, yearning for open water.
“Safeed.”
“Yes.”
“I miss my home. My world crumbles around me. Instead of living in a palace, I soil a Sunni’s bed. I would leave but cannot. Tell me I will not die here.” His self-centered soliloquy peaked and ran into the noon hour. With a piece of whole cloth, Safeed leaned forward and wiped phlegm from Alim’s nose and the corners of his mouth. The placid pilgrim attempted in vain to clear his throat and, looking more peaked, he coughed and coughed. Outwardly his eyes seemed focused on the ceiling. Wrong conclusion. Alim did not see beyond the end of his turned-up nose. He muttered, “Safeed, I wish to die. Will you suffocate me?”
The rocker stopped. Dumbfounded at the suggestion, Safeed replied, “Do you hear what you are saying, old man?”
“Yes, I hear. Your world is no place for me. I am Shi’a.”
“But life is precious. Allah did not deliver us from the ruffian and his men simply to give up and die.”
“Tell me then, why did Allah allow my Banu to be snatched from my cart? You don’t know the answer, do you? Safeed, you are a fool.” He grimaced. “My cup is filled with bitter herbs. All that is dear to me is gone. Help me die.”
Safeed shook his head. “Why would you make such a request? He snatched up the knife and, before Alim could react, he slipped the handle into his hand, adding, “This morning Asad asked that I return this to you. If your life is to end, it will not be by my hand. I would prefer you not bleed on my sheets.” Irked, he settled back into the rocker and let his animated legs and feet jiggle nervously up and down.
Alim extended his palsied hand and laid the knife back on the carved bed stand. “This was my father’s. I gave it to the boy. Please! Return it to him with my blessing. Be sure he knows it is a gift.”
“As is life a gift,” Safeed curtly replied. On edge, he retrieved the knife, returned it to his sash, picked up his bag, and, contrary to his earlier determination, arose to leave the apartment.
“Before you leave me, there is something you must understand. That knife is the very one dropped on the street by Fasul.” As if suddenly immersed in fog, Alim’s tone sobered. “When young Asad’s large brown eyes first stared into my soul, my heart leaped. Is this my Fasul, my long-lost boy? Is it he? As the lad arose to leave, I cried out, ‘Come back. Fasul, come back.’”
“Fasul was your son?”
“Yes. He was stolen for ransom. After we paid, he was . . . “
“You should rest, my friend.”
“But first, hear this. After Asad ran away I looked up and saw a woman; an American soldier. Perhaps she will end me, I thought. ‘Do it. Do it.’ Acting as if she did not hear, she cradled my head in her lap, gave me a drink, then anointed and bound up my wounds. This I now remember. What I said thereafter, I do not recall. Perhaps I said nothing. I hated her. I loved her. An infusion of conflicting pain and gratitude numbed my soul like an opiate. Then, she too abandoned me. Damn her. Damn you all.”
“Oh, but there is more, Alim, much more to the tale you tell. The woman, unwillingly separated from her platoon and far from her homeland, loaded you into a cart with two frightened orphans; I cannot imagine how she did I, but it was she who pushed on from the Pass, arriving in Peshawar after dark. You may think me a fool; perhaps I am; you may think the comely woman an enemy; but in truth she is a compassionate American. A hero. Would you honor her in the way you have described? Would you dishonor my name and my home by self-humiliation? Shi’a or no Shi’a?”
“Ah, you think me selfish. I have offended you. You must learn not to carry feelings on your sleeve.” Alim reached for Safeed’s arm. Too late. “It is too quiet in here. Why are we alone? Where is your family? Family is everything.”
Pausing in the doorway, his back to Alim, Safeed softened. “You are my family, Alim. I am Sunni. You are Shi’a. You are my brother. My mother and father? Both died within the past twenty-four hours following prolonged illness. Wanting not to draw attention to my home in this time of crisis, our village patriarch agreed to make private burial arrangements. A few friends have accompanied my sister and Dalal to a graveside service. I will visit the site tomorrow, Allah being willing.” Only my sister, you, and I live here now.
“Dalal is your wife?”
“No. My wife died in Rasht while giving birth to my son, who lived but a few hours. Dalal is my widowed cousin.”
“Oh . . . but why are you not with your sister?”
Walking back into the room, Safeed lifted and clasped Alim’s closest hand between his own. He was tempted to say, “You just don’t get it. Do you?” He kissed the knurled knuckles, bowed, and without another word left the room.
Alim’s thoughts unraveled, one wind at a time, and soon he was asleep. An hour later his eyes shuttered open. “I’m not alone, am I?”
“No, I am here.”
Too spent to be alarmed, Alim turned his head toward the voice. A woman with piercing black eyes, her hair braided and drawn up in a bun, sat next to him in the wicker rocker by the window.
“Aren’t you beautiful?”
“No need to flatter me, old man. I am comfortable in my wrinkling skin.”
“Why are you armed? As you can see, I am quite helpless.”
“I’m your guardian angel, Shi’a . . . and a shotgun carrying Christian,” replied Dalal. “What can I do for you that you can’t do for yourself?”