Читать книгу Escape From Paradise - Majid MD Amini - Страница 11

The driver drew the maximum power out of the bus’s aged clunking engine and kept a steady speed of 75 miles per hour on the newly asphalted, rain-washed four-lane highway going towards the city of Marand. Halfway to Marand, he down shifted the gear to second and then to first, reduced the speed almost to a crawl, and took a sharp turn to the east. Once he was on an old two-lane road covered with cracked asphalt, he accelerated his speed and maintained 60 miles per hour, heading straight toward the city of Shabestar.

The passengers were all quiet, bewildered, engaged with their own thoughts. They were concerned about the uncertainties of their lives awaiting them beyond the border and were in no mood to pay any attention to the outside world, the splendor of spring so majestically spreading its rainbow colors all over the plains and foothills.

The winding road twisted and snaked like a large boa through the hills’ highs and lows, surrounded by cotton-white snow-covered peaks brilliantly shining under the generous glare of the April sun. The twisted fluffy patches of white clouds suspended in the sky, plump but not threatening, appeared weightless. Some large patches, daringly low, rolled over the earth, with the dubious intention to embrace and blanket the hills, to conceal the abundance of all their splendors from the heavens above. On the other side, the sky tilted downward to arrive at the mountains. The yellow sun was higher, like a large fully bloomed sunflower, glittering in the east. A soft April breeze was the sure messenger of spring. Except for the considerable anxiety reflected in the people’s faces riding the bus, it was a splendid day.

During the more than two hours of an agonizing ride that felt much longer to the passengers, they all remained quiet, keeping every distressing thought that crossed their minds to themselves. The engine moaned and groaned over the fifteen-degree upward slope of the road, a detour route that bypassed the city of Shabestar. The detour ended at the main two-lane old asphalt road to Salmas.

After an hour of steady driving while all the passengers remained silent, Lake Rezaiyeh appeared on the left side of the road. The ripples of the lake glittering like millions of jewels under the glare of the April sun couldn’t reduce the despair in the hearts of even those who noticed all that natural beauty.

They were all still deep in their thoughts, worryingly contemplating their unknown destinies coming at them, rushing to embrace them, when the bus came over a high hill overlooking the picturesque view of Salmas – a city in the far distance sparkling under the midday sun.

Reza left his seat, went and sat next to each passenger, in an attempt to collect the second half of his payment – the cost of smuggling that they owed him. Everybody paid without offering any argument except two people, one of which was the blonde woman, who had agreed to pay in dollars to a person designated by Reza in Ankara, Turkey, instead of on this side of the border. As he went on insisting that he had to have his money now, he felt the tap of a hand on his shoulder. He turned and met the stern eyes of the tall lanky man.

“You heard the lady. She’ll pay you on the other side of the border,” the lanky man spoke firmly.

“But I’m not crossing the border, sir,” Reza said with shifty eyes.

“That’s your problem. She’ll pay it in Ankara to anyone you designate as was agreed to in Tehran.”

“But ...”

“You are pushing it, and I am getting tired of being pushed! Give it a rest, boy!” the man interrupted him.

Reza stared into the man’s eyes and instantly knew he’d get nowhere in this argument, not with the firmness he saw in those serious eyes. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, scribbled something on it, and handed it to the blonde woman.

“Here’s my bank account in the National Bank of Turkey in Ankara. Would you please deposit the three thousand dollars you owe me in my account when you get to Ankara.”

“I will,” the blonde woman replied firmly.

Deep down he doubted he would ever see a penny of that money. Disappointed, he left the seat and sat next to the bearded man with the head wound and demanded money. The wounded man had a legitimate reason for being unable to pay the second half of his fare; he had been robbed in Tabriz of all his money. He promised Reza to send him the money he owed once he reached Europe. A toughened opportunist, Reza knew he couldn’t suck blood from a turnip. Also, he was certain that once the man crossed the border, he would definitely forget all about his debt, but he had no intention whatsoever of letting the man whom he suspected of an unscrupulous nature take him for a sucker.

“I’m not gonna hold my breath waiting for it, you know,” Reza said in response to the man swearing to God that he definitely intended to pay his debt.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” the man asked.

“Look, man. I’m everything you can think of, but don’t take me for a sucker, because that will drive me totally nuts, and I may do something nasty to you. ... Let me give it to you straight. Some day, our paths may cross. If they do, I may cut off your other ear, or your fucking tongue, or even your balls,” Reza said, rising; but before leaving, he turned, looked the man in the eyes, and said, “You’re lucky, man ... or I feel generous today. Consider it on me.”

The bastard must have been in cahoots with those savages who robbed me and cut off my ear, the wounded man suspected. That’s why he let me go so easy.

Reza walked to Fatemeh's seat, sat and offered a sincere and warm farewell. He was less nervous now. It was the end of his mission, a successful one, and the end of the line for him, with pockets full of money and a head full of desires and dreams.

“We’re getting close to Salmas. That’s where I get off.”

“Oh ...”

“Goodbye, Fatemeh, and good luck,” he said sincerely.

“I owe you some money,” she said as she tried to reach her purse.

“No, you don’t.”

“Don’t be crazy. Let me pay you,” she insisted.

“Wherever you’re going, you’ll need a lot more money than you think.”

She met the softness in his eyes head-on with moistened eyes of her own.

“Let me know where you’ll be settling down. Who knows, I may drop by just to say hello some day.” He then gave her a piece of paper and said, “Here’s my address. You can write to me.”

“I’ve got money somewhere here. Let me pay you at least part of what I owe you,” she said and continued searching inside her purse.

“Forget it. The advance you gave me in Tehran covers the whole thing.”

“No, no. I gave you my word,” she insisted.

“Please don’t. ... I tell you what. Instead, do me a favor.”

“What?”

In a cracking, halting voice, Reza said, “Oh well ... try ... try to forgive me.”

She reached for his face with hers, gently kissed his cheek and with a faltering soft voice that was clear she said, “Who in hell am I to forgive you? I’m suffering from my own mistakes.”

Feeling redeemed from the pain he had caused her, he took her hand, lifted it to his lips and gently placed a kiss on the back. He then gathered himself up, stood in the aisle, looked outside, and checked to see where they were. He walked to the front and asked the driver to stop. They were about ten miles outside the city when the bus made a sharp right turn to the northwest onto a gravel road and came to a sudden stop, with a thick cloud of dust chasing it.

Reza turned to the passengers and said, “Hey, have a nice trip. I wish you all the best. ... I really do. It was nice knowing you.” His farewell and wishing them the best was brief but at least it was sincere. He stepped out. The older guard hurriedly followed him and the bus started moving again, leaving the city of Salmas behind.

Fatemeh locked her gaze on him as the bus kept moving. He blew a kiss at her with one hand and waved with the other.

The gravel road gradually left the rolling flatland, going upward on a steep incline, becoming narrowly mountainous, with many sharp twists and turns. Whining and moaning, the aged bus continued rolling over the desolated road in lower speed, disturbing the surrounding tranquility, invading and fragmenting the road’s solitude. No word passed through the lips of any passenger.

At eleven o'clock in the morning, the driver brought the bus to a halt near a man standing on the roadside seemingly waiting for its arrival. The driver and the guard left the bus with its engine idling roughly. They hurried to meet and speak to the middle-aged man who wore native Kurdish clothes. The driver pulled out a bundle of paper money and handed it to the man. The Kurd moistened his fingers and started counting the bills.

The several minutes they stood in the middle of nowhere talking and arguing poured more worries into the passengers’ hearts, already beating faster with anxiety. The driver and the guard finally returned to the bus. The driver stood in the aisle facing the passengers and addressed them, “This is it. ... The man standing out there is your first guide. ... He'll be with you the rest of today and tonight,” he said, pointing to the man standing outside. “He's gonna take you around to the next village and will hand you over to the next guide tomorrow morning. If you wanna get to where you’re going, you better listen to him and do whatever he tells you.”

Everyone trudged off the bus. As soon as the guide saw the women and children, he addressed the driver, speaking Farsi with a thick Kurdish accent, shouting angrily, “Mahmoud, you told everybody that it's gonna be no women and no children! What the hell is this? We're not in the tourist business! ... Take them back to Tabriz!”

The notably agitated Kurdish man was tall and skinny. He had an extraordinary face, sunburned, wind-worn and wrinkled, distinctly showing the footprints of hard years, rugged but attractive. His eyes were sharp, not savage, but young and shining despite his age. Though his shoulders were slightly stooped, making him appear older, he was visibly strong. With an automatic weapon hanging across his shoulder, a wide belt packed with ammunition across his chest and a small backpack, he looked well prepared for any extraordinary circumstances thrown his way. With his weather-beaten face, his commanding voice, and the manner in which he moved, he appeared as if he were in full control of the situation. His demeanor demanded immediate attention and respect.

“Akbar, the people in Tehran told you that; that goddamn Reza told you that,” Mahmoud the driver shouted back angrily. “It's not my fault,” he pleaded, then continued, “I'm not gonna take them back! You can take them back yourself if you want to! I got paid to bring them here! You got paid to take them to the border!” He paused for a few seconds and then said, “If you want me to take them back, you gotta pay me double!”

“Brother Mahmoud, listen to me carefully, things are bad nowadays,” Akbar said lowering his voice, “Mountains are full of soldiers, and now these trigger-happy Revolutionary Guards are everywhere. It's rough as hell. It’s getting tougher every day, all the way to the border. Women and children cannot make it. Now the godless, communist bastards Komoleh and the Azerbaijani Turks are hitting us from everywhere. The whole damn world is against us Kurks. I won't take the responsibility,” the guide said firmly. By putting the bundle of money he had received on the top of a rock, with determined steps, defiantly, walking away, heading up the mountain, he gave a distinct impression that he has washed his hands of the problem.

Mahmoud picked up the money and hurried after him pleading, “Believe me, I had nothing to do with this mess!”

Joining them with determined steps, the elderly, tall lanky passenger said loudly, “We can't go back! We've made our choices! Damn it, we've ended our lives back there!”

“You stay out of this and get back on the bus!” Mahmoud issued the order.

“You don’t make decisions for us,” the tall lanky man responded firmly. “We've burned our bridges back there,” he said, pointing to the east. “The women are strong, dead set. Men will carry the children if they must. We will not go back! Do you hear me alright, or you’re deaf?” His voice gradually changed, as it became exasperated. Spontaneously, he turned to the others and shouted, “It's not for him to decide! It’s our lives! We make the decision! Let's take a vote on this matter here and now!”

“I’m with you,” Fatemeh shouted.

“Goddamn it! I have had it! I'm tired of having others tell me what to do, where I can go, and how I can live my life!” the tall lanky man said defiantly.

“Me too! I have had it,” Fatemeh said.

“That goes for me, too!” the intense young man expressed his opinion.

All the passengers gathered around the tall lanky man slowly, with the guide and the driver watching, stunned.

“Whoever is in favor of going, with or without this man, please raise your hand,” the man announced authoritatively.

One by one, a few reluctantly, they all raised their hands in the air. The two children watched their mother’s hand go up and they too raised theirs. The tall lanky man cleared his throat and victoriously declared, “Good. It's unanimously approved. I know these mountains. I'll take you to the border myself.” He then turned to the driver and spoke with authority, “You can take the bus and go back now!” He then turned to the guard and asserted himself strongly, brushing him off with his hand, “And you can go to hell!”

The guide seeing the unwavering determination of the group, walked to the driver, received the money, and softened his voice, “Tell Reza do not send any more women and children. Otherwise ... otherwise, tell him to get yourself Azerbaijani guides. ... There's gonna be extra charges for this group, too. I'll tell Sardar Ghaisar when I see him.” He didn’t wait for Mahmoud’s response but instead turned to the group, staring at them as if he were evaluating their strength for the journey ahead. The anger gradually vanished from his face, which blossomed with a wide smile; he had been caught in his bluff.

“Let me tell you something. If you think this is gonna be a picnic, you’re dead wrong. You gotta walk all day today,” he spoke, warning them, not threatening, but trying to establish his authority and more importantly, to save face. He continued, “We're gonna stay away from villages along the way and stay on the mountain’s path. Let's go now!”

As he spoke the last word, he led off setting a slow pace, leaving the gravel road heading straight toward high ground. He had not gone more than a few yards when he turned and addressed the driver again, “Go back to your damn filthy city, you city boy!”

The driver smiled, ran to the bus and jumped in with the guard following him. He turned the bus around and left in a swirling cloud of dust. The hills gradually devoured the bus.

The older male passenger who had boarded the bus with his wife and was quietly walking next to her, quickened his steps to reach the tall man who had spoken on the group’s behalf and was now walking quietly only a few steps behind the guide. As he approached him, and with a complimentary tone of voice, he said, “That was very good, I mean what you did back there.”

The lanky man turned, arched his eyebrows, looked at the man next to him, flashed a smile, but kept quiet and continued walking.

“By the way, my name is Rayan,” the older man introduced himself.

Without changing pace, the tall man turned again, took a friendly good look at the man and said firmly, “I'm Javad Arash!” He paused and then continued, “I know who you are. Who doesn't?”

Caught by surprise Rayan changed the subject by offering a comment, “What I don’t understand is that we are in Azerbaijan Province, but our guide is a Kurd.”

“I think the smugglers don’t trust the Azerbaijani Turks.”

“I think that was wonderful the way you handled the situation.”

“I thought so too,” Javad responded indulgently and continued, “That was the will of the people at work back there – the will of the majority.”

“You risked it and it worked,” Rayan said.

“It wasn't totally a gamble. I’d have taken you all to the border myself, if he had refused. I spent a great deal of my life in these mountains.” He hesitated, and then said, “You know?”

“What?”

“That's the interesting thing about democracy. There is always a little gamble involved.”

Rayan liked the man's confidence. He extended his right hand and shook Javad's hand firmly and felt its enormous strength.