| |
ZAN AND RAINER WANDERED through Reading Terminal Market acting like giddy children. They walked among the crowd beneath brightly painted wooden signs, interrupted here and there by a vivid slash of neon. Zan liked to watch the Mennonite women as they wrapped cuts of meat in brown paper, and the wisecracking men at the roast pork stand who churned out sandwiches with unbelievable speed.
Rainer liked the market, too. He behaved like he had never done anything as wonderful as the simple act of shopping for dinner. It made Zan misty-eyed just to look at him. She felt like she was basking in his light.
They paused in front of a stall so filled to bursting with flowers that their fragrance overwhelmed the thousands of other smells in the market. Rainer bought her a dozen ivory blush roses.
“They remind me of your skin,” he said. He stroked a soft petal then placed the flowers in her hands. Wistfully, he suggested they relax after dinner like a nice, normal couple. He leaned to her ear and said they should abstain from sex. She laughed and poked him.
“And what if I don’t accept that plan?”
He put his hand on her cheek to trail his thumb along her lips.
“Then I will love you after we have gone to bed, and we will fall asleep wrapped in our warm pleasure.”
His touch was too much for Zan. She had to look away.
Jesus, I’m going to blubber like a fool.
She grabbed his wrist and said they needed produce, using this as an excuse to pull him toward a stand heaping with fruits and vegetables. Zan inspected every bunch of spinach before she managed to make eye contact with Rainer again. He squeezed her hand.
You are the sweetest man.
Fortunately for Zan, the flurry of activity that came with their purchases rescued her from her high-strung state. When they got back to her apartment, the cooking kept her busy and she started to think about work.
Anything to bring me back to Earth, before I ask him to marry me or something.
As they ate at her tiny kitchen table, she brought Rainer up to date on the spleen case, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice as she explained that the victim’s identity would probably lead nowhere.
“We’ve contacted the Salvadoran consulate. At least they can find Mani’s family back home. Mr. Hernan said he used to send money.”
“You should be happy you accomplished that much. It’s important they know what happened to him.”
“I know, but I really want to get these pieces of shit. I’ve been thinking about it. I think I should revisit the daggers.”
Rainer fixed his eyes on his plate. “Won’t your boss be displeased?”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll beg.” Zan got lost in thought for a moment. “Hey, you know what? You can help me. If I go to him with some good information it will help with the begging.”
When Rainer looked up, his face was completely devoid of expression. “How can I help?”
“Um, it’s all right,” Zan mumbled. “I know you’re busy.”
Rainer’s face twisted in a way Zan had never seen from him. She couldn’t tell what he was feeling. He looked like he was feeling everything.
“No! I’m never too busy for you!” he exclaimed.
Why is he acting so wacky?
“Okay, um, thanks. Look, I know your contacts haven’t been able to find out where the daggers came from, but if you could give me a short list of dealers or auction houses, or whatever, that handle similar items, I can take it from there. Sometimes a seemingly unimportant bit of information can turn into your best lead.”
Another series of extraordinary expressions crossed Rainer’s face. “I’ll do it,” he pronounced with an air of finality. “I’ll give you the names of the people most likely to lead you to the origin of those daggers. I inquired only with Europeans. Perhaps I was wrong.”
Shaking her head at his behavior, Zan reached over and took his hand. “Thank you. You’re too good to me.”
Rainer expelled a rough breath. He spoke in a voice so intense you would think he was discussing plans for war. “I can never be as good to you as I want to be.”
Is he still angry with himself because he couldn’t find out where those knives came from?
Touched by his reaction, Zan stroked his forearm. “No one has ever been so good to me.”
He covered his mouth with his hand and stared at the floor. Zan wondered what was going on in his head. She decided they should forget about it for now. She shouldn’t have let work intrude upon their evening. Clearing the dishes, she said, “You know what? It’s time for that fancy gelato we bought. Gourmet gelato makes everything better.”
When Rainer looked up, he had regained his composure. He gave her a sunny smile. “Yes, it does.”
After dessert, they did exactly what Rainer wanted to do, which was not much of anything. They plunked down on the couch and stared at the television. Zan leaned on Rainer’s chest and he circled her with his arms. They barely spoke. Every now and then Rainer would nuzzle her cheek, shrouding her in tenderness. She didn’t really watch the movie. She kept still, her hands lightly resting on Rainer’s arms. She felt weak, but she didn’t care. Through the sweet haze she recognized that for her, this was astounding.
When the movie was over they got ready for bed. In the bathroom, Zan stared at herself in the mirror, wondering at her imagination and thankful for it.
I can feel him, waiting for me in my bed.
As she slipped under the covers she could see Rainer watching her in the light from the street lamps outside. “Come here,” he said, spooning her. “Mmmmm, this feels good.”
With one hand he cupped her breast, resting the other on the curve of her knee. Zan wanted every single one of her days to end like this.
He’s mine. He’ll always be mine.
She rolled to face him. He kissed her and caressed her thigh as she ran her hands through his hair. He shifted to dance his fingers along her the contours of her lips, the curve of her jaw, the hollow of her neck, the mound of her breast. He slid one arm beneath her as his gentle touch ran down her belly and her leg. Everywhere he touched her, she felt a trace of current, warm and inviting. A current that chased away all her pain.
I didn’t know I could feel like this.
Tears seeped from her eyes. Rainer wiped them from her face with soft kisses before he locked his arms around her.
“Oh, Zan. I was alone for so long I’d grown used to it,” he whispered, “but now I realize I was only half alive. You brought me back to life, Zan.”
More tears. She gripped him tightly and crushed her face to his neck. “I love you, Rainer. I love you.”
The pressure of his embrace subsided. He leaned back to look in her eyes.
“I love you, too.”
He swept her beneath him then fell into her, kissing and pressing as if he wanted to disappear within her. She welcomed him and let her barriers fall away.
As soon as Zan opened her eyes the next morning, Rainer ran his hands down her back and cupped her ass, bringing her against him. She savored the sensation of her skin joined with his.
We belong to each other.
“Good morning, my love,” he said.
Zan chirped with satisfaction as she stretched within his grasp. She kissed him.
“Call me that again.”
“All right, my love. Do you feel as good as I do?”
“I feel fantastic.” She rolled on top of him, smoothed back his hair and traced her fingers along his cheek.
“You like my face,” he said.
“Your face makes me feel like everything is right with the world.”
“Mmmmm, so romantic.”
Zan kissed him again. “I’ll have to practice my romantic phrases a lot more before I catch up to you.” She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Hey, do you want some coffee? I bought some of that coffee you like. And a grinder. I know you like it fresh-ground.”
Rainer ran his hand along her silky hair. “Already your love spoils me.”
They got up and went into the kitchen, where the strong May sun poured in through the French doors. They made coffee and the aroma filled the room. After it brewed, they went out on the balcony.
“On the weekend, it’s quiet even here,” Zan said.
“I love the city on a morning like this,” Rainer said. “To know there are so many people right around you, all subdued at the same time. The fragility of the quiet somehow makes it more palpable.”
Zan tilted her head to look at him. “I know what you mean.”
They sat on the balcony for almost an hour. Zan told Rainer what she knew about her neighbors. They laughed about their noisy chin-up bar sex.
“I guess now they’re aware I have a boyfriend who knows how to please a woman.”
“They’re aware I have a girlfriend who elicits the diligent application of my skill.”
She tried to hide her pleasure at the compliment. He stroked her upper arm, seemingly entranced. “The sun has touched your skin with color, like an ivory blush rose,” he murmured.
Zan stood behind him and kissed his neck.
“Well, if I want to keep my skin nice for you, I better get out of this sun.”
They went inside. Rainer spied her acoustic guitar on its stand in the living room. He asked her if she would give him another lesson.
“I think you should bring one of your violins here,” Zan said. “There’s a lot of great music for guitar and violin.”
“All right, next time I will. You know what we should do? We should try to write a piece of music. I’ve been trying my hand at it lately.”
“Yes, I think this morning I’m definitely feeling something that should be expressed.” Zan stroked his cheek. He leaned into it like a cat.
“I think we could come up with something good, as long as it’s simple,” Zan added. “I write songs for my band, and some acoustic stuff, ballads mostly.” She got her guitar and brought it into the kitchen. She began to tune up.
“You know what, Rainer, we need a notebook.” She moved to set down her guitar but Rainer said he would get it. She told him to look in the drawer of the sideboard in the living room. He came back in holding a black leather box with a vertical gold-leaf stripe down one side. It said, “United States of America.” He opened it to reveal a gold, star-shaped medal with a smaller silver star at its center.
“Zan, is this a Silver Star?” he asked.
She scowled at him. “You looked in the wrong drawer.”
“This is a Silver Star, isn’t it? Why didn’t you tell me you had been honored for your valor?”
“Because it’s none of your business.”
“Oh, ah, I’m sorry. I’ve offended you. I’ve violated your privacy.”
He left the kitchen to put the medal back in the drawer. He stayed in the living room. Zan figured he didn’t know what else to do. She put down her guitar and went to him.
“I’m sorry, Rainer. That was harsh. I didn’t mean it. I was just surprised.”
“No. I’m the one who should be sorry. I had no right to open that case.”
“Maybe not, but I think a lot of people would have opened it. You’re supposed to be proud of your medals, after all.”
“You’re not proud?”
“No. It reminds me of a painful time. That’s why it’s in a drawer.”
“And you’re right. It’s none of my business. Please forgive me.” He hugged her. She put her arms around his waist, leaned her head against his chest and sighed.
“I should tell you,” she murmured. “Maybe it will be good for me. The only person in my life now who knows this story is Mel, and it feels good to me that she knows.”
Rainer kissed her and gave a contrite little smile. They went back to the kitchen and sat down at the table. Zan told him the story of her Silver Star.
Afghanistan, Earthly Year 2005, Phase 18919
A faint line of red glowed between the jagged peaks on the horizon as the hour approached dawn. Zan huddled next to a boulder in a dusty ravine, grimacing as she swallowed the foul-tasting contents of her MRE. Her dismounted recon troop had been tracking a band of Taliban in the barren mountains along the border with Pakistan for two days. Their mission was to follow the enemy fighters, hopefully to a larger group, and call it in. In other words, provide a drone target.
“Time to gear up, sis,” said Patrick Mulrennan, the gunnery sergeant in command. “We’re out of here at oh-five-hundred.”
Zan stuffed the last of her powdered eggs in her face and cursed how fast the guys in her unit could eat.
“Yes, sir! But please stop calling me sis.” She gave him a look. Her indignation was only half fake.
Patrick ran his big hand through his dark brown hair, which made it stick up even worse than before. He frowned at her and walked off to check some equipment. Kurt, Patrick’s right-hand man, wandered over after he shouldered his rucksack.
“You need to let him call you, sis, you know.”
“Why? It’s patronizing.”
“Yeah. I get where you’re coming from, being the only woman and all, but it helps him to think of you as a little sister. He can’t think of you as anything else, can he?”
“He can think of me as a soldier.”
“Give him a break, Zan.”
Kurt had said this to her before. She handled it better when they were on base. Out among the wind-blasted rocks, deep in the peril, Zan had to work hard to view herself as a soldier as opposed to some frightened girl in over her head. Strictly speaking, her recon unit wasn’t cleared for combat because women weren’t allowed to fight. They were trackers only, at least on paper. But shit happened. No matter where they were they could find themselves under fire.
Of course, a firefight with the Taliban usually ended with a lot of dead Taliban. Patrick was a big reason for that. He’d seen so much action that his transfer to this particular recon unit was the army’s lame attempt to give him some relief. Everyone in the troop counted themselves lucky to be led by him, but he and Zan had especially hit it off. Patrick was from Idaho like her. Irish like her. Sure, she cared for all the guys, but Patrick was special. He understood her. He looked out for her. Off-duty, they were always singing Irish songs, annoying the hell out of everyone.
No doubt they were attracted to each other, but there was no room for romance there. Patrick was a professional, and unit cohesion could be the difference between life and death.
Zan shouldered her ruck and trudged off with the others to pick up the trail on the ridge to the northeast. She and Reggie, the other tracker, had no problem detecting disturbances in the rubble-strewn terrain. The sand perpetually blew around, but the pebbles stayed put.
“This way, big bro,” she said to Patrick. He smiled.
“You trackers never let us down,” he said.
The troop followed the trail along the ridge for several miles until it led into a shallow valley with a dried-up creek bed at its center. When they reached the valley floor shots came tearing down from the ridge behind them, creating little puffs of dirt on the ground and hitting the rocks with hollow pings.
“Take cover!” Patrick yelled, pointing to an outcropping and a cluster of boulders about a twenty yards ahead to the right. Zan hightailed it and was shortly covered in sweat, whether from exertion or fear she didn’t know. She prayed her eyes weren’t rolling like she was a terror-stricken horse. They managed to make the rocks with only one wounded.
They knew the drill. She and Reggie, the trackers, took a position behind the combat veterans, joined by Malcolm, the medic. He was helping Phil, who’d been shot in the buttocks. Clem, the radio operator, also joined them. Just after Patrick finished counting heads fire rained on them from the other end of the valley, from the north. All of a sudden, the rear wasn’t the rear anymore.
“Motherfucker,” Reggie said, peeking above his boulder. “How the hell did two groups of enemy manage to communicate? I thought they were off coms ‘cause we can hear ‘em.”
“For all we know, they use pigeons,” Zan said. She could see the Taliban now, on both sides, picking their way forward by turns as their comrades laid down bursts of covering fire. Patrick and Kurt shot a high number of the enemy who approached from the south, but they outnumbered the Americans three to one. The band creeping down from the north had better cover. It suffered no casualties. Or maybe Zan, Reggie, and company were lousy shots.
Patrick and a few of the other combat guys ran in their direction, dashing from rock to rock. In a few minutes, Patrick was at her side.
“Clem,” he shouted. “Call for an exfil!”
The troop held out, clinging to their boulders while they waited for the helicopter to arrive.
When Malcolm and Patrick ran to retrieve two more wounded soldiers, Zan stepped out from behind her boulder to cover them. She got hit in the calf and stumbled before she breathed in a lungful of dust that made her cough violently.
“Zan! You good?” Patrick yelled.
“I’m good. A through-and-through. It can wait. Get the guys!” She hobbled over to another rock and leaned against it. She tied off her leg with a tourniquet just below the knee then resumed fire.
A few of her buddies weren’t so lucky. They were killed before the helicopter arrived. Others were hit but saved by their body armor. Kurt was wounded but kept up a barrage of bullets on the south side.
When the exfil team flew in about thirty minutes later, they landed behind a ridge to the east to avoid small arms fire. Patrick and the other experienced fighters told the rest of the troop to make for the helo while they provided cover. They darted from rock to rock, making themselves targets to draw fire. The rest retreated toward the ridge.
Reggie ran beside Zan. She heard a phfft, looked to her left and screamed to see Reggie in the dirt, blood pouring from a wound in his neck. She screamed for Malcolm, as flat to the ground as she could make herself. He rushed over.
“I don’t know if he’s going to make it,” he said in a wobbly voice as he worked to stanch the bleeding. “We’ve got to take him over the ridge. Oh, man.” Malcolm looked back towards the firefight. Zan put her hand on his shoulder.
The only medic. He feels like he has to save everybody.
“Please, please be all right,” he mumbled. He half fell on Reggie.
“I’ll go back, Malcolm. You take Reggie.”
Most of the others were close. A few ran over to help. Zan couldn’t see what was going on behind the ridge. She charged towards it, every thought on Patrick. She crested the ridge to see both bands of Taliban converging on his position. Rage allowed her to ignore the pain in her leg. She half ran, half slid down the slope.
I won’t let you die, Patrick. I won’t.
He and Kurt were the only two left to keep the Taliban at bay. Both had been shot. Zan ran to the boulders on the north side.
“What the fuck, Zan?” Patrick shouted. “Oh please, oh god. Get over the ridge. I thought you were gone. I thought you were safe.” He choked on his words. “Go, goddammit. Get the fuck out of here.”
“I won’t leave without you.”
“The fuck you won’t! Go. Right now!”
“I won’t. Come on.” She tried to drag him back toward the ridge.
“If you want to save someone, go get Kurt. He’s hit worse than me. I can get over the ridge on my own power.”
Zan brought her hand over her mouth to hide her quivering lips. Brought it over her nose to ward off the smell of death and gunpowder.
“Now! That’s an order!” Patrick shouted.
She did as he said. She got Kurt over the ridge, but only because Patrick stood up and ran right into the Taliban. They mowed him down. When she looked back she saw his body, all crumpled and bloody in the dirt. She wailed and screeched, her vision blurring from an onslaught of tears, sweat, and grit.
Malcolm and the others came to carry Kurt to the helicopter. Zan tried to run back toward Patrick but they dragged her along. The helicopter took off. They couldn’t risk retrieving Patrick’s body. Not with the Taliban rushing the ridge.
“We can’t leave him!” Zan screamed. “We can’t!”
Her wailing continued until Malcolm hugged her, holding her face to his chest. She closed her eyes as they flew away from Patrick, vibrations playing through her weary bones, the thwap thwap of the rotor blades assaulting her ears.
Philadelphia, Earthly Year 2014, Phase 18997
Barakiel held her. For several minutes after Zan finished her story, she leaned against him, making soft noises and wiping at her nose with a crumpled tissue. He stroked her hair, reliving the din and stink of battle on her behalf.
I understand, my love. I wish I could tell you why.
When Zan had exhausted her emotion, she sat up.
“That’s why they gave me the Silver Star,” she said. “For saving Kurt. For trying to save Patrick. I didn’t even want to save Kurt, and I didn’t save anyone. Patrick saved us. He gave his life to save us.” She wiped her eyes.
“Did they not honor him?” Barakiel asked quietly. He held her hand.
“Yes, they did. A posthumous Medal of Honor. He came from a military family and I think it gave them some comfort, everyone knowing he was a hero. They were proud.”
“As well they should have been. He was the finest kind of soldier. He was the finest kind of man.”
“He was.” They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“I wrote a song for Patrick,” Zan finally said. “No one has ever heard it. Would you like me to play it for you?”
Barakiel felt a tightness in his chest. He couldn’t speak, but he nodded.
She will share this with me. She loves me.
Zan explained that, like many soldiers, Patrick was haunted by some of the things he had done. One night, he told her he didn’t think he’d ever be able to lead a normal life. She tried to reassure him. He appreciated her words, but he’d made his peace with it. He said he accepted what he was. It made her sad. Made her feel like he was lost to her. She wrote the song because, after his death, she understood a little more of what he meant.
“After all that crying just now, maybe I can manage to get through it without breaking down.” She picked up her guitar and plucked a couple strings to make sure it was in tune. She strummed in a minor key and sang.
When I was a child, I laughed ready and easy,
And the sky seemed like magic to me.
But I left home and I took up a duty,
And I learned that the world takes its fee.
If I die in these mountains, be happy for me.
I can never go back to Boise.
With death in my mouth and machine gun dreams,
I can never go back to Boise.
That boy in the street, saw his eyes as I killed him.
As he died he turned into me.
I try to let go of his eyes as I killed him,
But we are what we do, what we see.
If I die in these mountains, be happy for me.
I can never go back to Boise.
With death in my mouth and machine gun dreams,
I can never go back to Boise.
The mournful notes mirrored the pain in Zan’s voice.
She creates this beauty out of loss. She is perfect.
When Zan finished the song, she hung her head. “I couldn’t save him.”
“No.” Barakiel moved in front of her and put his hands on her knees, hoping his touch would express his desire to share her sorrow.
“That helplessness is the worst thing anyone can ever experience,” he said. “The pain of failing to save someone you love, it never fades. It will make you hollow if you let it. You cannot let it. You must remember that you tried, Zan, the best you could. Find some peace in that.”
“You sound like you know what it’s like,” Zan said in a frail voice. “Did you try to save someone?”
Barakiel lowered his eyes. He wanted to tell her everything. About his mother, his exile. He wanted to tell her that he was a warrior, just like her.
I cannot. It is far too soon.
“Yes, but this is about you, not me, and I don’t think I’m ready to tell you that story. I’m sorry.”
She touched his face. “That’s okay. I understand.”
How can she understand? I practically forced her to bare herself to me today. I do not deserve her.
“Zan, it’s a beautiful, sunny day. Let us go to the ocean. We can consign our pain to the waves, and listen to them whisper their comfort.”
“The things you say, Rainer,” Zan mumbled, shaking her head. “And yes, that sounds like a good idea to me.”