Elliot Ackerman - Dark at the Crossing

Daphne inched toward him. He didn’t move, but waited for her. Her chin found its perch on his shoulder. The warm rhythm of her breaths fell by his ear. Beneath the duvet, she placed her hand on the small of his back. Tentatively it summited his side, descending onto his stomach. Her open palm rested there. Its fingers slowly expanded and contracted, as if probing for something within. Her fingers then came together, pressing gently. Haris breathed out deeply against them, feeling a part of him release to her. She seemed to feel it too, and her shoulders relaxed. They lay together like this in the light. Their eyes closed.

Just as Haris thought he might fall asleep, Daphne left the bed. Naked, she crossed the room. She stood by the door, her skin pale except where the single bulb overhead cast shadows against it. She turned off the light, returning to bed. They faced each other now. Through the silence, Haris heard the first raindrops pelting against the window as a storm blew in. And as Haris fell asleep to the sound, the last things he saw were the whites of Daphne’s eyes watching him through the dark.

The rain passed through in the night, and the bedroom was warm with late morning sun. An argument in the living room woke Haris. Bare-chested, he sprung up. His mind raced around itself. His eyes ricocheted among the walls, landing on the shut door. His clothes had been picked up from the floor and set on the foot of the bed. Daphne’s clothes were gone. He heard her clenched, whispered voice outside. He also heard Amir’s. Quickly he put on his shirt and pants. Gripping the doorknob, he now felt a fool. Where Amir had lost hope, Daphne had continued to believe their daughter was alive, and Haris had assumed this gulf allowed certain tolerances in their marriage. The cable-knit sweater he wore, the khakis — he would have to admit his infidelity with Amir’s wife while wearing Amir’s clothes.

Bracing himself for this task, he stepped into the living room.

“Five thousand is absurd!” said Amir. He stood in front of the television in his powder-blue pajamas, watching the news on mute. Daphne sat behind him on the sofa bed, which had been folded up from the night before. Amir turned briefly toward his wife, who glanced back at Haris.

“Good morning,” said Amir.

“Good morning,” replied Haris, shakily.

“Daph’s told me about your friend in the hospital,” Amir said. Then he rested his eyes on his wife. “Well, I guess we wouldn’t call him that, would we? Anyway, he’s asking for too much.”

Daphne interrupted: “You can get it from Marty.”

“That’s not the point,” said Amir. “This fellow conned you once before. He’s ripping you off again.” Haris hadn’t made it much past the door. Granting him a moment to catch up with the morning’s events, Amir stepped toward Daphne. “Would you mind running out to get us some…” He glanced around the kitchen. “Some milk.”

“Milk?” said Daphne.

“Yes, milk,” replied Amir, gesturing for Haris to join him on the sofa.

Daphne didn’t move.

“Please,” Amir insisted.

She put on her coat and left.

Haris and Amir sat next to each other. Neither spoke. Haris didn’t know what needed to be said, and Amir didn’t seem to know quite how to say it. They both gazed out the window into Antep City Park, Daphne’s place.

“I walked back through the park last night,” said Amir. He pointed to a wet heap of clothes crumpled at the bottom of the dresser.

“Where from?” asked Haris, grateful they’d begun with small talk.

“The mall. I had dinner there, did some work. When I was done I just felt like walking. With the rain, I wanted to see how everyone was making out.”

“How were they making out?”

“They slept in the mud, a few had tarps, but everyone was wet.”

Haris stood from the sofa, stepping to the window. Taking a closer look at the park, he could see clothes hanging from the elm branches. The leaves still cupped last night’s rain and, with each gust of wind, that rain fell in shimmers and landed among tarps spread in the grass, all of them drying in the sun, bright and wide as an SOS signal on a deserted island.

“The people in that park love Daphne,” said Amir. “I walk through there to check on them, in the rain no less, and all I get is dirty stares. Daphne walks through there dressed beautifully, barely looking Syrian, and they fall all over themselves with their as-salaam alaikum s.”

“They know the work she does at the hospital,” said Haris.

“They know me, too. They know about my research, the work I do for aid organizations and even some governments. It’s all on their behalf.” Amir turned away from the window as he said this. His words trailed off, becoming hollow. “If you think I don’t love her, you’re wrong,” he added, interrupting himself.

“I don’t think that,” answered Haris. He felt an impulse to say he loved her too, as if this might ennoble his actions, but to confess it kindled a shame similar to that of his declarations that he’d come to fight with the Free Army. Loving Daphne felt just as misguided, ephemeral, doomed. Also, he wasn’t certain he did love her.

“When I returned last night and her door was closed with the light off, do you know what I did?”

Haris shook his head no.

“I collapsed on this sofa, held my face in my hands, and thanked God for you. She is my wife. Although it tortures me, I need her happiness.” Amir glanced at Haris’s empty ring finger. “Do you understand?”

He thought of Samia, and nodded.

The Polaroid sat on the kitchen counter. Haris picked it up by its tab. “She told me you paid Latia to deliver this photo.”

“Latia is an old friend,” said Amir. “That’s why I helped her to leave.”

“You didn’t ask her to bring the photo?”

“I asked her to bring news of Kifa, for Daphne. That’s why she brought the photo. Since we left Aleppo, I’ve helped a number of our friends out of the country. They bring news of Kifa as a favor, and the news is always the same. Daphne then accuses me of paying them to tell her lies.”

“So that is Kifa’s grave?” asked Haris.

“It’s the grave of a small child buried near our old neighborhood. What does it matter if it’s Kifa’s or another’s? My daughter is dead. Our home is gone.”

“But Daphne believes she’s alive.”

“And that delusion is destroying her.” Amir snatched the photo from Haris. “I’ve tried to help my wife in the wrong way. A picture isn’t enough. She has to see what I’ve seen — that nothing is left. Our home, our family, the revolution — nothing. Then perhaps she will move on.” Amir took a final glance at the photo and let it hang limply at his side. “After a time, loyalty surpasses love in a marriage. If you’ll help her go back, to understand, my loyalty is greater than my claim to her.”

Amir rose, leaving Haris on the sofa. He opened the refrigerator, sticking his head inside as if looking for something. Haris followed Amir and stood mutely beside him. Then he spoke in a near whisper: “Will you help us get the five thousand together?”

“What did I just tell you?” Amir snapped. With his head hidden in the refrigerator, Amir’s expression remained concealed, yet his words sounded too large to escape his throat, as if he were struggling not to cry. “You might think I’m a bastard, making money here, the ways I’ve failed Daphne, but I’m a good husband. For her peace of mind, I will let her go.” He closed the refrigerator and straightened himself, staring at Haris through puffy, red-rimmed eyes. “But I won’t travel back with you. Don’t ask me to.”