Elliot Ackerman - Dark at the Crossing

“Has she always done that?”

Amir turned off the BBC. Without the news, the glare from Daphne’s door seemed brighter. Amir drew his eyes to the apartment’s window and Antep’s blinking skyline. “When we came here she started sleeping with the lights on and the door open. It’s been almost a year.”

“When you first arrived, how long did you think you’d stay?”

“Who knows? We came from Aleppo for the hospital. Daphne had been badly hurt in the accident where we lost our daughter, Kifa.” Amir took his empty bowl to the sink. Water sputtered and coughed out of the faucet. He turned quickly toward the bedroom, concerned the noise might wake Daphne. Then the water came quietly and he washed his bowl. “Delvet Hospital, where Daphne volunteers, that’s where I took her.”

Across the park the muezzin cried the morning prayer, bringing Amir to silence. Haris gazed out the window. Dawn broke just below the cityscape — satellite dishes on rooftops, a picket of minarets. The birds took off from their perches and flew, very black against the early sun. Amir held his face in his hands, exhausted, as if he wished to sleep but couldn’t.

“All I want is to be rid of here,” he told Haris. “Daphne has family abroad, we’d have somewhere to go, but she won’t leave.” Amir lay himself on the sofa bed, throwing his arm over his eyes, blocking out the daylight, which slowly filled the room. “She can’t even remember the accident. What she’s learned of her loss, she’s learned from me.”

Haris stared at him for a while. “What’ll you do?”

“I’ll stay,” said Amir. “I’ll work with Marty, conduct research, earn a good living.” He rolled his head to the side, glancing toward the apartment’s front door, as if into the place he’d come from earlier that evening. “I’m sorry I left you tonight. Latia and I go back a long way.”

Amir threw his arm back over his eyes. His mouth opened again as if he might say something more. Haris leaned toward him, listening.

Amir began to snore.

Outside, the sun dangled above the horizon, brightening the living room. Haris took his blanket from his shoulders and threw it over Amir. As he did, he heard the light in Daphne’s room switch off.

—

While Amir slept,Haris thought to make himself useful and fix breakfast. In a cabinet above the sink and in the small fridge he found ingredients: flour, sugar, eggs. In his old life, he’d used the same to cook pancakes for Samia on the weekends. He whisked everything in a bowl and plugged in the hot plate. Its coil soon glowed red. He couldn’t find any butter or oil to grease the skillet. From the bowl, he poured the batter into disks, which heated to porousness. Then Haris flipped the pancakes. They steamed and spat.

From Daphne’s room, Haris heard the shower running. He thought of her last night, her scars and white skin. He wondered how the hot water felt against her scars, if it pained her or if the steam softened them. He looked at the mirrored wall. The angle found Amir, his reflection stirred on the sofa bed, his snores broke into heavy breathing as he edged awake. Amir pulled the blanket over his head, burying himself in it, struggling to remain asleep.

The shower shut off.

Haris turned away from the mirror, glancing directly at Daphne’s slightly unclosed door. Her shadow was cast across the bed. Haris wondered what she was doing — holding the portrait of Kifa, writing in her journal, looking at her scars in the mirror?

He smelled the pancakes burning.

Haris snatched a fork, scraping beneath each one. They stuck to the skillet, lightly smoking up from its bottom. Haris turned off the hot plate. A scrambled heap of cooked batter remained for breakfast.

As he scooped it onto a single dish, Daphne ambled into the living room. She wore the same clothes — the blue trench coat, the red sunglasses perched on her head. She made for the door and then stopped, breathed the air, and found Haris bent over the skillet.

“Breakfast?” she said.

Amir stirred again on the sofa bed.

Haris looked at the mess. “I used to make this for my sister.”

He handed her a fork, and they stood above the plate, eating the broken pancakes together. The wet blond ends of Daphne’s hair were brushed back and cupped upward at the base of her neck. Standing close, Haris breathed in her freshly rinsed smell. Neither spoke. They didn’t want to wake Amir. This wasn’t out of courtesy to him. The quiet space they shared was something new, something they were trying out.

Daphne looked intently at Haris as she ate. Haris wondered how, with more time, they might come to know each other. The thought frightened him, but he held it in his mind. He felt an instinct to protect her, and this presented the possibility that she could undo him, that he could abandon the border for her. He knew this because he had felt the same instinct with Samia. His sacrifices for her, they had undone him in the same way.

Amir groaned, waking to the full force of his hangover.

Haris understood why Amir didn’t want to return and, pragmatic as that decision was, Daphne seemed betrayed by his wish to move on, by his ability to accept all they had lost. Of course Haris couldn’t abandon the border for her.

They finished the plate of scrambled pancakes. Daphne glanced over at Amir. Seeing her husband sprawled out and asleep in his powder-blue pajamas, she grabbed Haris by the elbow. “Good morning,” she whispered.

Haris moved to the faucet to rinse the plate and skillet. Water again coughed loudly from the pipes. Before Daphne could make her way out the door, Amir grumbled: “What time is it?”

Her hand froze on the dead bolt. “Just after nine.”

Amir hacked into the bend of his elbow. His eyes searched the room. “Is he still here?”

“Are you still here?” Daphne asked Haris, her eyes meeting his.

“Good morning,” Haris said, directing his words to Amir but also to Daphne.

“Will you take him to Marty’s?” Daphne asked.

Amir rose from the sofa bed. He crossed the room, standing in front of the wall’s mirror. Taking a set of clippers from the dresser, he began cutting his nails, except on the two fingers which had pink callused pads where the nails should have been. With a comb he tamed down his curls, speaking toward his reflection: “After last night, I don’t think anyone at Marty’s will be up until the afternoon. We’ll have better luck if we try tomorrow.”

Daphne turned toward Haris, a question in her gaze. Haris knew he’d eventually have to leave the apartment and, realizing Amir usually slept on the sofa bed, he knew it was time to go. “I can come meet you tomorrow,” he said, “if that’s better.”

“And stay where?” asked Daphne.

Haris looked out of the window, toward the park.

“You’re not sleeping out there with Daphne’s friends,” said Amir. “We’ve plenty of room. Marty will be glad to know you, so you’ll stay until I sort that out.”

Haris nodded a silent thank-you. He started the washing-up in the sink.

“Are you headed to the hospital?” Amir asked Daphne.

She stood quietly by the door, finally saying yes.

“Take Haris with you,” suggested Amir. He turned to Haris. “You’ll be bored here, and I’d like to get a bit more sleep. Plus, you’ll keep Daphne company.”

Haris turned toward her. Daphne busied herself with buttoning up her coat, betraying none of her preference. Haris didn’t move. He wasn’t sure what to do until Daphne threw him a sidelong glance.

Haris put on the cable-knit sweater Amir had lent him and tied his boots. As he dressed, Amir sniffed the air. “Smells good in here. What’d you make, Daphne?”

Before Haris could say anything, Daphne spoke deliberately, as if baiting a trap: “I made pancakes.”