Shadow on the Wall: Superhero | Magical Realism Novels (The SandStorm Chronicles | Magical Realism Books Book 1) (25 page)

"All right, there's usually an envelope. It isn't big, but it's heavy. It should say ‘For Aliya' on it. You get that for us."

"Okay, I'll find it."

Abdullah skittered back to the office, making sure to avoid bumping into the third officer, who was assessing the limited ice cream selection in the freezer section.

The back room was cluttered as usual. Papers lay scattered on top of the desk. His father's version of bookkeeping meant stuffing every piece of paper into an envelope and then piling the envelopes on his desk. The financials of the business overflowed onto the floor in a steady stream of purchase orders, receipts, and shipping invoices.

"For Aliya…for Aliya…" he mumbled to himself.

Abdullah searched, going through each of the envelopes on the desk. None of them were labeled in any way. He pulled out the drawers, searched the bags on the floor that were full of bills and used checkbooks. The computer sat silent on the secretary's desk against the wall, boxes of toilet paper stacked on top of it.

"Damn it!"

Abdullah searched again, frantic to find whatever his brother had for the RTK. He was sure it wasn't legal, but who better to be in league with than the RTK? Selfishly, he wanted whatever his brother had for himself. Maybe if he had more money, more respect, Maryam would rethink his ill-timed proposal.

Leaning against the cases of soda lining the far wall, Abdullah was about to give up hope. Back in the corner there was one more place to look. A filing cabinet that held the deed to the building, the insurance policies, his parent's marriage certificate, and every legal document his father wanted to keep safe. They were all back there locked inside a fire box.

Squeezing himself through the narrow space, Abdullah stepped over the packing boxes he was supposed to have broken down and hauled to the dumpster yesterday. The florescent light flickered overhead.

Wrenching the ancient file cabinet drawer open, Abdullah found the key for the fire box taped inside the file labeled "Ballet Classes." He shoved the drawer closed with his arm and bent down to the bottom drawer. There was just enough room to open it and unlock the small safe.

Inside, on top of the family's documents was a thick envelope labeled "For Aliya."

At home, in the comfort of his own space, Recai slept. His feet were dirty against the Egyptian cotton of his sheets, and his soiled clothes lay on the floor in disarray. Exhausted and confused, Recai escaped reality into the realm of dreams.

Maryam had left for her apartment after accompanying him home from their strange meeting place. She made him swear to Allah he would call her before going on any more suicidal adventures. Hasad retreated to his own room, spent. His body ached and creaked more with each step. Tomorrow they would regroup, refocus—but for now they all just needed to rest.

As they slept, dust sparkled in the evening air. Sand particles slowly drifted from atop doorways and between minute cracks in the wall. Sailing along the current of the breeze, sand migrated toward its home. Like recognizes like and is drawn together by the comfort of similarity. Along the floor a dusting of sand was gathering in Recai's room.

Tossing with visions from the dreamscape, Recai's arm fell from the side of his bed, reaching down into the soft sand below. Its warmth and comfort calmed his unseen fears and lulled him deeper into slumber.

Night crashed against the horizon, leaving the sky over the desert defenseless against the piercing starlight. The daylight hibernation of nocturnal creatures ended, and the fight for survival continued on under the cloak of black. Sand moved along the dunes, shifting beneath the footsteps of nomadic wanderers and hunting scorpions. Sand drifted along unseen waves, creating and destroying its own landscape.

Sand lay in wait, gently piling around the resting form of the man the desert chose to save.

Abdullah was elated when Maryam came into the store the next morning. He feared she'd been avoiding him since their last conversation. His palms were moist from the heat of the air despite the fan pointing directly at him behind the counter, and his excitement at seeing her made his heart pound.

Their last nighttime encounter hadn't gone the way he had dreamed it would. In his mind, she had been delighted to see him, willing to talk to him, maybe accompany him to one of the coffee shops or bars open late. He should have known better, should have seen the hesitation in her eyes when he approached. But he was too focused on the possibilities within his mind to see the reality of what played out before him.

"Are you working today?" he asked casually when she approached.

"Yes, well…" she indicated the scrubs she was wearing over her thin, long sleeved shirt and hijab.

"Oh, well, I didn't know if… I mean you could have just gotten home or something," he stuttered; wiping his hands on his pants he wished there was air-conditioning so he wasn't sweaty as he spoke to her.

"Are there any sandwiches left?"

"Yes! Oh, yes there are a few! I think I have one more egg and cheese if you want it."

"No bacon?" she teased.

"If it were up to me, for you, I would serve pork."

Abdullah's smile was open and broad. She was speaking to him, joking even. He couldn't have been happier if he'd won a million lira. Perhaps he hadn't ruined things. In'shallah, he would have the chance to try to win her heart again.

He pulled a sandwich out of the insulated bag his mother packed every morning and placed it in a paper bag with an orange. Maryam dropped money on the counter, but when he set the bag in front of her, he pushed it back.

"No, you take this. I was too forward the other night." Abdullah lowered his eyes and ran a nervous hand through his curls. "I owe you an apology."

She didn't respond immediately, and Abdullah worried that the hope he'd gleaned from her friendly demeanor this morning hadn't been misplaced.

"I'd be more comfortable if I paid," she said before taking the bag from the counter, leaving the money where it lay. Then, she spoke again.

"I'd like to be your friend. It's not haram; men and women can be friends, but maybe I've been wrong taking your gifts. I don't want to be someone who hurts you, Abdullah, so let me pay, and I'll accept your apology, and we can go back to being friends."

He groaned, his chest constricting tightly as he looked at her long fingers grasping the bag. Her smile was sad and kind. He wished he could reach out and touch her face.

"I don't want to be your friend. I want to show you I can be right for you." His voice pleaded despite his attempt to retain his dignity.

"You are a good man."

Maryam smiled sadly, fatigue showing in her flat eyes, their usual sparkle dimmed. Opening the paper bag, she pulled out the orange and placed it next to the money. Without glancing up, she turned away and walked out the door; the bells jingled with mocking lightness.

"Damn!" he swore, slapping his hand on the counter, sending the money she had left floating toward the floor. Laying his head on the counter, he cursed his luck, his life, his parents, Maryam, everything but himself. He knew he could be more than this. He had to find a way to show her.

Pulling from his pocket the piece of paper that the RTK officers had given him to pass on to his brother, Abdullah decided maybe it was time to be a part of something bigger than himself.

The sun set behind Isik on the loading dock as he pulled the metal side door open. Purple skies faded to gray, outlining his body with bruising colors. Shoving a wedge beneath it, he left the heavy door open.

Weeks of planning had gone into arranging this meeting. Convincing Darya to take action against their uncle hadn't been difficult, but the logistics of a coup had proven to be more complicated than he'd expected. The mayor had been announced missing already—now it was a question of salesmanship.

Stepping inside, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket and plucked one out. After lighting it he inhaled deeply, allowing the tobacco to calm his nerves. He loved the soft high that a simple cigarette could induce and relished the quiet moment alone before his sister arrived.

Darya was a pain in his ass. She had everything he was denied; a family that claimed her, money, power. Fuck, he would have been happy just to have an apartment someone else paid for instead of sleeping in the room he rented from a distant cousin of his mother's. The entire place smelled like Jew, just like his childhood. The smell was as much to blame for his misfortune as his parentage.

He dragged on his cigarette while he surveyed the warehouse. Women's designer clothing filled racks and were dressed on mannequins. All the kinds of things you'd never see anyone wearing in public: miniskirts and halter-tops. "Couture fashion," Darya had told him. Stupid crap women put on under their abayas. The amount of money Turkish women spent on their hair, getting it cut and colored, along with the designer clothing was disgusting. No one would see it but their husbands, and who cares what wrapping you put on something when you already know what's underneath.

Isik switched on the office lights and pulled the floor lamp into the main space before flicking the last embers of his cigarette toward the door.

Darya had spent the day in her small office around the block, finishing paperwork or filing or whatever it was she did in there. There wasn't enough time to bother wasting it working like that, following other people's rules. Isik was more interested in making new rules, in building a new life for himself. The money and influence Darya had gathered was making this possible, but he knew no one would ever take her seriously. Just the idea of a woman in charge was like a bad joke. Elih wasn't Pakistan or India, and Darya wasn't some damn incarnation of Fatimah whom the people of the city could look up to as an icon of Islam.

Besides, since he'd ditched their loving uncle's body out in the desert for her, Darya had been quiet. She'd always been hard, tough. Her silence was more unsettling than her anger. Isik sat on one of the metal chairs scattered about and lit another cigarette, waiting for the lemmings to arrive.