AVARICE

 

 

 

" Mon Dieu Vasily, I wish you would stop worrying."

The man who says this cannot be seen, but can be described. His name is Louis. He is French and in his early twenties, tall with spider limbs, handsome in a wild way, with dark hair that tends to curl over his ears and at the collar of his filthy shirt. He wishes he could scratch and interrupt the dinner of the biting lice, but his hands are in chains. His eyes are blacker than normal, from the dark and from concern.

Louis's companion in the dark is Vasily, a friend from childhood, as different in looks as he is in temperament. Vasily's worried grey eyes and sandy hair are also invisible in the cramped cell. He is smaller than Louis but more physically powerful, a fact he has proven many times.

Vasily moves, and his chains rattle. "I think I have cause to worry, Louis."

"We all have cause."

"Then I am justified in worrying."

"All right. Then stop worrying me with your worrying. You are driving me demented."

"You are already demented. You insisted we do that extra job."

"They paid so well," says Louis. "I have two hundred gold Krugerrand in those bags."

Another rattle. "Hear that, Louis? Those are not Krugerrand. There are no bags here, only chains. You were mad to lift that woman's veil. You knew it would infuriate their chief."

Vasily moves again, but it does not help. He will find no comfortable position in their cell. Also, no light, no water, no hope of escape without help. They huddle together, hoping for rescue but not talking about it. Whatever Misha may think of to get them out should not be foiled by broadcasting it to eavesdroppers.

"I had to see," says Louis. "I cannot believe a woman can be so beautiful that she needs the protection of all that cloth. She looked like a funeral gift, wrapped in black, shaped like a coffin. I had to know what was inside."

"Was it worth this?" Vasily lifts his hands, rattling his chains again.

Louis whispers his answer. "No. She was ugly.”

The door scrapes open, making them blink in the light of a meager torch.

"Listen," says Misha. "I have negotiated your release, but you must cooperate."

Misha has not suffered three days under a black boulder. His blond hair is clean and combed; he is clean shaven. His desert utility trousers still hold their usual crease. He carries his gun in full view under his left arm. There is no need to hide it here; everyone knows who he is, what he is.

Louis closes his eyes tightly against the painful light that comes in with Misha.

"Cooperate with what? Why don't you kill the guards and let us fight our way out?"

“Do not listen to him, Misha," says Vasily. "He is delirious. He has been this way for two days. The dark has blinded his mind."

"I am perfectly rational," insists Louis. "I do not like the word 'cooperate'."

"Too bad," says Misha. "You must cooperate."

He crouches to look at his friends' closed eyes and explains the agreement.

"Cut off what?" cries Louis. "What did you say?"

"I talked them out of that, and we were almost settled on a hand."

Louis squints one eye open and looks at his hands in their chains. "A hand!" He squints at Misha.

"They were determined to have some part of you."

"Listen to you," says Louis. "As if you were bartering for hay. Oh, yes, we'll give you five fingers supplied by my friend here..."

"You committed a crime in this society, Louis. They want you to pay for it."

"With my flesh?"

"Eye for an eye," says Vasily calmly.

Louis is not calm.

"You will be happy to know I talked them out of the hand," says Misha. "I have been quite successful — beyond what I expected."

"What are we down to now?" asks Louis. "A few teeth? I have plenty to spare."

“Do not be sarcastic. You are in a bad position."

Louis shakes his hands, sending a ching-ching through his prison. "No!"

"What are the terms, Misha?" asks Vasily. "When do we get out of here?"

"As soon as Louis agrees to marry the woman whose veil he lifted."

"What? Never!"

"You must make an honest woman of her, Louis."

"You did not see her."

Misha sighs and stands as straight as he can in the low cubicle. "I have done my best." He turns to go.

"Wait!" says Vasily. He jabs Louis with an elbow. "Congratulations, Louis. I hope you have many happy years with your bride."

"I'll die first," says Louis stoically.

Vasily jabs him again, hard, and looks up at Misha. "When is the wedding?"

Misha smiles. “Tonight."

*****

There are preliminaries before the wedding. Louis needs more persuasion; Vasily provides it. Louis needs a religious conversion. Vasily provides that too. His fists are persuasive.

"Ow! Cut it out! Whatever else I may be, I am an honest man. I cannot lie about a thing like that. What if it is true, and I find out… after.... Stop it Vasily, you are killing me. You're breaking my back. Ow!"

"There is no God but Allah," Louis tells the Bedouin chief. "Mohammed is the Prophet of Allah."

There is rejoicing and dancing for most of the night, but not a woman in sight. Louis's long limbs are cramped and stiff after three days folded like a pretzel. He joins the party for the exercise.

"When do we escape?" he murmurs to Misha during a lull in the festivities.

"We do not." Misha concentrates on the rice he is eating and curls his nose as Louis's three-day-old smell intrudes on the saffron and cinnamon. "You will not please your bride smelling like that. You should wash."

"I am not going to have a bride." Louis speaks through clenched teeth, keeping his voice low and his meaning clear.

"You already have a bride." Misha looks up at him finally.

Louis is arrested by the cold blue in Misha's eyes and waits for an explanation.

"Her father and I signed the agreement immediately after your conversion," says Misha. He raises his chin toward the far end of the camp. "It is there on display in your father-in-law's tent."

"You signed?"

Misha nods. "I told them I am your father."

"And they believed you? You are younger than me."

“Yes, they believed me. Your bride has already retired, you know. She waits for you in that tent there."

Misha lifts his arm to point to another tent, and the party roars its approval at what is evidently being discussed. There are grins all around. Even Vasily manages a smile. Joy fills every face but Louis's.

He crouches to face his friend. "You cannot do this to me. You cannot make me suffer like this. For what? For one peek?" His face is a picture of misery.

"Suffer? Since when have you suffered with a woman?"

"She is not a woman; she is a wife!"

Misha sighs. "If she does not please you, perhaps you should divorce her."

"Yes! Wonderful! Can I do that? Will you arrange it? Your Arabic is better than mine."

"I will see what I can do."

Misha goes to Louis's new father-in-law and sits cross-legged next to him. Louis watches their faces as they discuss his salvation.

"What did you work out? Can it be done?" Louis is full of questions and agitation when Misha returns.

"There are problems," says Misha.

Louis's face falls. "Oh."

"But they may be overcome."

His eyes brighten. "Yes?"

"Your father-in-law cannot bear the thought of his daughter cast out into the dessert without support."

Louis's eyes narrow suspiciously.

Misha continues. "But there is a rich man willing to take her as third wife."

"Who would want three?" murmurs Louis after a long sigh of relief. "So let him have her."

"She has no dowry. Her father is a poor man, and she is the third daughter of his second wife. He has nothing to give her to satisfy a rich groom."

"He did not worry about satisfying me." Louis's brow is so low, it shields his blazing eyes. "How much are we talking?"

"A hundred Krugerrand is a respectable dowry."

It takes Louis a moment to agree. "All right," he says. "I still have the other hundred."

Misha says nothing.

"I do have it, correct? Or did they steal it?"

"They do not steal," says Misha. "The Sharia holds severe penalties for thieves."

"The Sharia?"

"The law of Islam."

"So I still have the Krugerrand?"

There is no answer from Misha. Louis presses him.

"I had to pay a bride price for your wedding," Misha says finally. "It is not refundable."

"Bride price? Dowry? Wait a minute! Which is it? Who pays for what?" Louis goes on asking such questions while Vasily brings up three camels.

"Your father-in-law gave you these fine animals as a wedding present," says Misha. "Thank him."

He puts a bag of gold coins into Louis's hand and shoves him toward the waiting father. "And pay him."

"I thought you managed him well this time, Misha," says Vasily, as Louis trails after them, muttering. "And for once we have escaped without blood."

Misha turns in his saddle and looks at the slouched figure on the camel behind them.

"I am not sure Louis would agree," he says. "I think I see his pocket bleeding."

"A grievous wound."

"Grievous."

And they laugh about it until they reach the border.