Elliot Ackerman - Dark at the Crossing

Haris stubbed the butt out on the sole of his boot. Daphne’s head came off his shoulder, facing him. “I’m not coming back to Antep,” she said.

Haris’s first instinct was to ask her what she meant. How would they deliver Marty’s report if she didn’t come back? Where would she live in Aleppo? How would she support herself, or survive? The answers to these questions, or lack of answers, had no bearing on her decision. War can be a blessing, she’d said; if you’re trapped, its destruction can free you. In Antep she was trapped, and so she’d cross back over the border, free to search for all she’d lost.

It was the same for Haris.

“What if Kifa’s gone?” he asked.

She said nothing.

“Or if you do find her, what then?”

Still nothing.

So he touched her. His palms found her cheekbones. The pads of his fingers strummed her hair. Her motionless eyes seemed lost to him, like stones set among stones. From her lips Haris felt a longing to seize her assurances, that Kifa lived, that even a delusional hope should not be abandoned, that freedom to rebuild lay on the other side of destruction, like a silence enclosed in her mouth he felt she could unlock all of this. He bent toward her. But it was as if he had pressed his lips to his own hand.

“Tell Amir to find me when it’s over,” she said, turning away from Haris. “I’ll be waiting for him, but I can’t wait in Antep.”

Daphne exhaled, shutting her eyes. She leaned back against Haris, placing her head along his shoulder once more. He rested his cheek on her hair, noticing the dark little hole where she’d worn the nose ring. Haris felt his body going slack with sleep. Daphne’s remained rigid. He glanced down. Her eyelashes flitted nervously. Her hands rested in her lap, palms upturned. He put his arm around her. He sealed her palms in his. Her flitting lashes slowed, and then shut. Suddenly and fiercely, her hands squeezed his. He was there. Her breath slowed, easing into a gentle rhythm.

Haris shut his eyes, too, and took all the warmth of her sleep against his body. Then he returned to his dream, walking the Euphrates, searching its banks. Guided by the sound of the current.

“I thought it might be you,” he said.

Haris jolted awake. Daphne’s head came off his shoulder.

Athid stood over them. A single ceiling bulb cast a halo around the olive-green keffiyeh wrapped over his black curls. Slung across his chest was the satchel, with Bashar the dog poking his head from its flap. Beneath Athid’s eyes, his full beard hung from his face, creeping dark as moss toward the collar of his field jacket, which matched the keffiyeh. From his jacket pocket, Athid fished out a cellphone. Its screen shone against his bloodshot eyes, which Haris remembered clearly from the night in the culvert. Athid read from an email: “A pious fighter and a woman from Aleppo.” He gave Haris an examining look. “I take it you’re the pious fighter, ” he said with barely shielded contempt. His stare now fell on Daphne. “And you, you’re the woman from Aleppo.” Her uncovered hair, how she’d slept drawn up close to Haris — Athid’s disdain for her and the idea of her womanhood seemed greatest of all.

“And Saied?” asked Athid.

“Dead,” said Haris.

“I thought as much.” Athid kneaded his fingers through the brown-and-white fur on the pup’s head. “Peace be upon him,” he said, as if forgiving the faults of a friend only in death. “I suppose you want what I took from you.”

Haris shook his head no.

“You still wish to fight?”

Daphne flicked a quick, uncertain glance at Haris.

His eyes met hers. “Yes, I want to fight. But first I need to help her get home, to Aleppo.”

“What do I care about getting her to Aleppo?” asked Athid.

“We brought the five thousand,” he said.

Haris nodded for Daphne to retrieve the money from her room. As she stood, Athid snapped: “Not out here.” He looked at Haris. “In your room.” Daphne scuttled down the corridor. Athid followed Haris to where Amir slept. Passing through the door, Haris flipped on the light. Amir rolled over, letting out a groan and pulling his blanket over his head. Outside, the voices of morning birds slowly pricked awake and the low sun struggled against the horizon.

“There’s more than you two?” asked Athid, crossing his arms.

On hearing the unfamiliar voice, Amir sat up. Wearing only boxers and a T-shirt, he swung his bare feet to the floor.

“Amir drove us down here,” answered Haris.

A stiff, defiant look set into Amir’s face as he quickly made sense of who stood in front of him. “I am Amir Khalifa, Daphne’s husband,” he announced, then his eyes rested on the pup slung in the bag across Athid’s chest. “That’s your dog?”

Athid glanced down at Bashar, cradling his soft chin. “Yes,” he said, “that’s my dog. And she’s your wife?”

Amir nodded.

“But it’s you who are taking her across the border?” he asked Haris.

Haris’s stare fell to the ground.

Amir shifted uncomfortably on the bed. He quickly stood, crossing the room to a chair where he’d flung his khakis and sweater the night before. He changed behind it.

“Why aren’t you taking her?” Athid asked.

Amir froze, crouched forward with his pants pulled over only one leg. He looked back not at Athid but at Haris, as if it were he who had asked this pointed question. Feeling Amir’s gaze on him, Haris wanted his answer. He felt he deserved it. He knew Amir’s story. He’d inferred Amir’s reasons from it, but he’d yet to hear Amir say why he would never go back, only that he wouldn’t.

Amir finished dressing and explained to Athid that he’d been an activist in the revolution’s early days. He fired off a list of protests he’d been involved in, offering each as a credential. He explained his activity with the Syrian National Congress, the loss of his daughter, Daphne’s determination to return. With greater and greater speed he wove together his story of the revolution as if it might untangle the irrefutable truth that it had all failed.

Athid patiently allowed Amir to continue, but he didn’t seem to listen. Holding his mouth open just the slightest bit, Athid waited for the opportunity to again ask the obvious. Finally Amir grew quiet, giving him that chance. “If your wife wishes to return home, why aren’t you taking her?”

Athid spoke as if the story Amir had just told him was meaningless.

Amir came from behind the chair and stepped in front of Athid. Standing toe-to-toe with him, Amir seemed small. They were nearly the same height, but Athid’s hands hung heavily from his sides and his broad face seemed strong as an anvil, designed to absorb anything. “Why?” replied Amir. Emotion quivered through his narrow shoulders as he spoke. “Because I regret my revolution. Because you and other fighters have made a graveyard of my home. If we’d never created the revolution, the Daesh, the Free Army, none of you would exist.” He held a long, slender finger in Athid’s face. “You are my fault, everything I’ve lost is my fault. I won’t go back to see it.”

Daphne entered the room.

She now wore the hijab Marty had given her, and in one hand she clutched the bag of baklava by its wooden toggles. Athid’s eyes found the bag and, seeing Daphne was now covered, he warmed to her a bit. “What’s that you’ve got?” he asked.

“A gift,” she said.

Before Daphne could offer the baklava, Jamil pushed past her, shouldering his way into the room. Standing in its center, he found himself directly in front of Athid, his head not even rising to the level of Athid’s chin.

Jamil took a step backward.