Elliot Ackerman - Dark at the Crossing

According to the writing, the cat’s name was Simi — Simi with a heart at either end. “That’s my tabby,” said Latia.

Amir suppressed an affectionate laugh. “You’re a wonderful girl,” he said. Then he glanced at Daphne. “She stayed for her tabby!”

“Why didn’t you take the cat with you?” asked Haris.

“Simi became pregnant. I couldn’t abandon her and her kittens.”

“So where are they?” asked Amir.

The waiter returned, bringing out the first of their orders, placing a bottle of raki in the table’s center. Amir leaned toward Latia. He filled her glass, adding an ice cube and some water, which turned the clear liquor a cloudy white. He filled his own glass in the same manner, returning the bottle to the table’s center. Daphne gazed at her husband, her eyes seeming to wonder if she’d be offered the same courtesy. Haris grabbed the bottle’s neck. He poured out Daphne’s glass and then his own, fumbling with the ice cubes, forgetting the water.

“Cheers,” he offered weakly.

The four of them clinked glasses.

While the others ate, Latia continued: “Simi had a large litter, eleven kittens. She couldn’t nurse all of them. Each day I had to run five blocks to the store, dodging snipers so I might barter what little I had — some jewelry, silverware, a tea set — for fresh cream smuggled in from the few working farms in the countryside. The city had been nearly destroyed, but for those of us who stayed it was a strangely magical time. The rebels hung bedsheets across the major road intersections, screening their movements and ours. A beautiful tactic. The sun would pass through the sheets glowing red, blue or yellow. If there was wind, it was like walking between the sails of an endless tall ship. My whole world was reduced to five city blocks, eleven kittens and their daily ration of cream.”

Latia looked directly at Haris. “Does this sound horrible to you? To call it a magical time.”

Haris shook his head no. What he wanted to say, he couldn’t — he admired her. She had reduced her world to a single thing worth fighting for. He drank down the rest of his raki, poured another glass, letting his head swim pleasantly with it.

“I would’ve sacrificed myself for Simi,” said Latia, “but her kittens eventually grew large enough to survive without me. They no longer needed cream. One morning they all left, moved on it seemed. So I’ve done the same, coming here.”

Latia blew her bangs from her face again. Without asking, she reached across the table and took one of Daphne’s cigarettes.

“When’s your bus?” asked Haris.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“I told her she could stay with us,” interrupted Daphne.

Haris glanced down at his glass.

Amir, who’d been watching Latia intently, turned to his wife. “Haris is staying with us.”

Latia bit at her other thumb’s cuticle.

“I can call Marty,” said Amir. He hooked his arm on the back of Latia’s chair, lowering his head slightly so it became even with hers. “I work with him at the Syria Analysis Group. He’s a good guy.”

“Do good guys make money off bad wars?” said Daphne. She lit a cigarette and began to tip ash onto the rim of her plate, having lost interest in her meal. “Why doesn’t Haris stay with Marty?”

“I wanted to talk with him about a bit of work for Haris. It’s probably best he not be sleeping at his place, too.”

“Marty’s your business partner,” she said to Amir. “You talk as if you’re his employee. Getting Haris a job should be easy.”

Amir took a thick roll of Turkish lira from his pocket. He set it next to his plate as if affirming to his wife the necessity of his relationship with Marty. He waved over the waiter, who brought the bill.

“Excuse my prying,” Daphne said to Haris, “but what’s brought you to the border?”

Haris spoke about his home in Iraq, about where he’d lived in Michigan. He talked about coming to fight with the Free Army, but gave few details. When Amir began to explain how Haris had been squatting with Jamil and the boys he interviewed for information on refugee conditions around Kilis, Daphne interrupted her husband. She leaned forward and placed both her hands on the table, closely regarding Haris.

“Your plan is to cross?” she asked.

Haris nodded.

Daphne leaned back in her seat. Her regard shifted from Haris to her hands, which had slid into her lap. Before she could ask anything more, Latia interjected: “I have money for a hotel. It’s really no trouble.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Amir. He punched out a text message to set things up with Marty. “You walk Haris back to the apartment,” he told Daphne. “I’ll drive Latia to the office.” On their journey back from the border, Amir had told Haris about the office, a nine-bedroom villa situated in Ibrahimli, one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Antep. The Syria Analysis Group’s headquarters had a pool, a deep bathtub built off each bedroom, and a Syrian woman who did all of the cooking and cleaning. Resplendent as it was, nobody referred to it as anything other than the office.

“You’re too drunk to drive,” said Daphne.

“And you never learned to drive a manual,” replied Amir. He held up his near-empty glass to Latia’s full one, forcing her to toast with him and drink a little more.

“I hate to be so much trouble,” Haris said.

“It’s no trouble,” said Daphne as she stood, buttoning up her coat and stuffing her sunglasses in its pocket. “We’ll have a nice stroll.” Then, addressing Haris but speaking toward Amir, she said: “We’ll get to know each other a little better.”

Haris glanced out the terrace window, toward Antep City Park. Its trees clawed at the night sky. Beneath them the earth looked cold and foreboding. He followed Daphne from the restaurant. As they left, he asked the waiter to point him toward the bathroom. Haris passed through a swinging door and stood in front of the sink. His reflection upset him — hollow cheeks, lips chapped like coils of old clay, thinning hair flattened to his scalp. The image swam a bit from the raki. He turned the tap cold, splashing water on his face. He turned it hot and washed his hands. They were dry and cracked from his long journey. Like Latia’s, his cuticles were frayed.

Haris left the bathroom, crossing the restaurant to meet Daphne outside. As he went, he had a view of their table. A waiter had brought coffee. Amir didn’t seem in any rush to leave. He and Latia still sat next to each other, his arm wrapped around the back of her chair, his handsome face considering hers. Whispering in her ear, Amir pressed a fold of cash into her palm, which she quickly buried in her pants pocket. Whatever he said lifted a smile across her lips. He spoke more and more quickly, raising that smile as if he were hoisting some triumphant flag.

Although Latia appeared amused, Haris noticed her eyes. They wouldn’t look at Amir. Her stare was fixed right in front of her on the table. She concentrated on a small porcelain pitcher next to Amir’s coffee. It was filled with perfectly white cream.

Daphne insistedthey return home through the park. A dark cobblestone path wound among the trees. She followed it, staying a half step in front of Haris. Her shoes had heels, nothing too high, but enough to cause her strides to fall in an elegant line. As she walked, she led with her chest, her shoulders thrown back like she was forever stepping onstage to accept an award.

At first neither of them spoke. Haris felt this park was Daphne’s place, and he should share the silence until she chose to break it. Bundled heaps slept at the bases of the elms. Haris’s boots padded silently past them, but Daphne’s heels clacked against the path. A little ways into the park, one of the bundles stirred at her approach. Haris strode in front of Daphne, to shield her from whoever might come at them. She placed her palm on his elbow, nudging him back.