Elliot Ackerman - Dark at the Crossing

The three of them walked along Sanko Park’s marble promenade, toward the revolving doors at its exit. “What’s that?” asked Amir.

“I need to train a goalie for the team. I think you’d be perfect.”

Amir leaned back, laughing at Marty, who didn’t laugh at all.

“I’m serious,” said Marty. “The goalie needs to have a vision of everything going on in the game. You never get to score, but you’re probably the most important player on the team. You’re part and apart, a player, but not really. You’d be perfect.” Marty glanced over at Haris. “Don’t you think he’d be perfect?”

“He would be,” said Haris. “He’s a perfect goalie.”

They drove out of the mall’s underground parking lot and into the thick workday traffic. For nearly half an hour, Amir cranked through the Peugeot’s low gears while they crawled along Yusuf Bulvari. Haris rested his head against the window, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. In front of him, the low afternoon sun shone through the elms of Antep City Park. Light mixed with spots of shadow from the leaves, pulsing bright then dark on Haris’s lidded eyes. It was warm. A few blocks from the apartment, Amir’s cellphone rang. He was steering with one hand and working the gearshift with the other, so he asked Haris to check the number. It was Daphne.

“Will you see what she needs?” said Amir.

She told Haris to come meet her at Elit Baklava, a café.

He described how Marty had agreed to the five thousand.

“Just come meet me,” she repeated. Haris noticed a hollow, defeated tone in her voice.

He drew the phone from his ear and explained to Amir.

“That’s across town, on Paşa Bulvari,” he said. “Tell her to head over to the apartment.”

Haris went to tell her, but she’d hung up. He called her back. She didn’t answer.

“How did she sound?” asked Amir.

“Upset.”

“Shit,” he said, pressing the brakes. He spun the steering wheel and, in the middle of inching traffic, nosed his way into the oncoming lane. “Something’s the matter.”

For the next half hour, Amir and Haris sat in the Peugeot, just as they’d done before, crawling in the opposite direction along Yusuf Bulvari. While Amir tried Daphne’s cellphone a few more times, Haris rested his head against the window again. He shut his eyes. The sun was behind him now and he couldn’t feel any of it on his face.

Daphne satat a corner table, tucked in the back. Haris and Amir didn’t see her at first. The glare off the café’s white tiled floor and the sharp, sterile smell of bleach overwhelmed their senses after the time they’d spent traveling the dust-choked streets. Just by the door, shielded behind a panel of glass, stuffed aluminum platters held row upon row of blond, glazed phyllo dough, dusted with ground pistachio. Behind the platters, a squirrel-faced man with a swooping mustache stood with a boy of nine, maybe ten years, whose equally unfortunate appearance wasn’t concealed by a mustache. They both wore white lab coats, the same as the doctors from Delvet Hospital, only newer. The man grabbed a square of wax paper, twirled it between his fingers, and picked two samples of baklava from a platter.

He handed a piece to Haris and one to Amir. They both ate. Between bites, Amir asked: “Did a woman with a blue coat come in here?”

Haris tapped Amir’s shoulder, nodding to where Daphne sat. Before they could walk over to her, the man behind the counter frowned. “Bir şey satın,” he said, pointing to the baklava. Haris and Amir picked out another selection. The boy handed them a pay slip, to be settled when they left. Without asking, he added some tea to their order, which he loaded onto a pair of trays.

Haris and Amir took their trays to Daphne’s small, round table. She straddled a stool beside it. Four empty cups of tea and a large uneaten piece of baklava were spread in front of her. The stubbed-out ends of her many cigarettes sprouted from a filthy ashtray. Between her fingers, a fresh cigarette burned, its worm of ash growing long.

Haris sat next to her. He noticed a cheap Nokia smartphone, which wasn’t Daphne’s, resting on the table.

“What’s the matter?” asked Amir.

Daphne gazed past him. She had the faraway look of someone who’d become locked within her sadness.

Haris glanced at the table. “Whose phone is that, Daphne?”

When she heard him, the wide, blank expression on her face narrowed, resting solely on the Nokia. “It’s Saied’s.”

“Why do you have Saied’s phone?” asked Haris.

Daphne took a drag on her cigarette. As she exhaled, the long cylinder of ash toppled onto her plate. “Saied’s dead,” she muttered, glancing down at her untouched baklava. Dusted with ash, it was ruined. She pushed the plate away.

“What do you mean he’s dead?” asked Haris.

Daphne said nothing.

Amir reached across the table. Gently, he grasped Daphne’s arm, tethering her back to him. He touched her with the authority of a husband who believed it within his rights to demand certain concessions in mood from his wife.

Daphne slitted her eyes at them, as if Saied’s death were their fault. She seemed determined to retreat into herself, to find refuge, or at least control of a world within.

Haris picked up the Nokia. Its screen was locked. He began tapping in codes, trying to unlock it. Then it powered down, running out of batteries. Something in his meddling set Daphne off. “Leave it!” she snapped, swatting the phone from his hands, knocking it against his full cup of tea. The man at the counter held his finger to his lips, shushing them from behind his mustache. Haris waved back apologetically. He picked up the phone and wiped it dry with some napkins.

“I’m sorry,” said Daphne.

“It’s fine,” replied Amir. As her husband, he seemed to feel it was important that he forgive Daphne’s outburst before Haris did.

“So what happened?” asked Haris.

“I feel like a damn fool,” Daphne confessed. “As if I’ll find anything by returning to Aleppo. What’s done can’t be undone.” But she spoke the words without conviction. She seemed to want Haris to refute the idea. The alternative, that she continue living on the border, between her old life and a new one, was unbearable.

Again Haris asked what had happened.

“When I arrived at the hospital,” said Daphne, “I went to check on Saied. I got to his room, but he wasn’t there. His litter had been wheeled away. A nurse who I didn’t recognize was gathering his personal items — the black parka, red T-shirt, and phone. They must’ve just taken him to the morgue. I became upset. Not because of Saied, though I wouldn’t wish him dead, but because of our plans to cross the border. The nurse took me for a friend or relative of his. She asked if I wanted to claim any of his things. That’s when I took the phone. I explained that I’d seen Saied the day before, and he seemed to be recovering. She told me the operation he’d had was a liver transplant. He’d been doing fine but had suddenly become violently ill, convulsing and vomiting bile. The doctors administered a transfusion of fresh blood, but it made things worse. They typed his blood again, finding something strange. His new liver, the one he’d been given, had changed his blood from O-negative to O-positive, and the rapid switch was killing him. They administered another transfusion, but it was too late. He was too full of the old blood.”

“That makes no sense,” said Haris. “Your blood can’t simply change.” He picked up the Nokia again, examining its bottom. It looked as if it might use the same charger as his phone.

Amir didn’t disagree, and Haris said nothing else. Neither of them knew, and there seemed little point to the debate — Saied was dead.