any argument except two people, one of which was the blonde woman, who had agreed to pay in dollars to a person designated by Reza in Ankara, Turkey, instead of on this side of the border. As he went on insisting that he had to have his money now, he felt the tap of a hand on his shoulder. He turned and met the stern eyes of the tall lanky man.
“You heard the lady. She’ll pay you on the other side of the border,” the lanky man spoke firmly.
“But I’m not crossing the border, sir,” Reza said with shifty eyes.
“That’s your problem. She’ll pay it in Ankara to anyone you designate as was agreed to in Tehran.”
“But ...”
“You are pushing it, and I am getting tired of being pushed! Give it a rest, boy!” the man interrupted him.
Reza stared into the man’s eyes and instantly knew he’d get nowhere in this argument, not with the firmness he saw in those serious eyes. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket, scribbled something on it, and handed it to the blonde woman.
“Here’s my bank account in the National Bank of Turkey in Ankara. Would you please deposit the three thousand dollars you owe me in my account when you get to Ankara.”
“I will,” the blonde woman replied firmly.
Deep down he doubted he would ever see a penny of that money. Disappointed, he left the seat and sat next to the bearded man with the head wound and demanded money. The wounded man had a legitimate reason for being unable to pay the second half of his fare; he had been robbed in Tabriz of all his money. He promised Reza to send him the money he owed once he reached Europe. A toughened opportunist, Reza knew he couldn’t suck blood from a turnip. Also, he was certain that once the man crossed the border, he would definitely forget all about his debt, but he had no intention whatsoever of letting the man whom he suspected of an unscrupulous nature take him for a sucker.
“I’m not gonna hold my breath waiting for it, you know,” Reza said in response to the man swearing to God that he definitely intended to pay his debt.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” the man asked.
“Look, man. I’m everything you can think of, but don’t take me for a sucker, because that will drive me totally nuts, and I may do something nasty to you. ... Let me give it to you straight. Some day, our paths may cross. If they do, I may cut off your other ear, or your fucking tongue, or even your balls,” Reza said, rising; but before leaving, he turned, looked the man in the eyes, and said, “You’re lucky, man ... or I feel generous today. Consider it on me.”
The bastard must have been in cahoots with those savages who robbed me and cut off my ear, the wounded man suspected. That’s why he let me go so easy.
Reza walked to Fatemeh's seat, sat and offered a sincere and warm farewell. He was less nervous now. It was the end of his mission, a successful one, and the end of the line for him, with pockets full of money and a head full of desires and dreams.
“We’re getting close to Salmas. That’s where I get off.”
“Oh ...”
“Goodbye, Fatemeh, and good luck,” he said sincerely.
“I owe you some money,” she said as she tried to reach her purse.
“No, you don’t.”
“Don’t be crazy. Let me pay you,” she insisted.
“Wherever you’re going, you’ll need a lot more money than you think.”
She met the softness in his eyes head-on with moistened eyes of her own.
“Let me know where you’ll be settling down. Who knows, I may drop by just to say hello some day.” He then gave her a piece of paper and said, “Here’s my address. You can write to me.”
“I’ve got money somewhere here. Let me pay you at least part of what I owe you,” she said and continued searching inside her purse.
“Forget it. The advance you gave me in Tehran covers the whole thing.”
“No, no. I gave you my word,” she insisted.
“Please don’t. ... I tell you what. Instead, do me a favor.”
“What?”
In a cracking, halting voice, Reza said, “Oh well ... try ... try to forgive me.”
She reached for his face with hers, gently kissed his cheek and with a faltering soft voice that was clear she said, “Who in hell am I to forgive you? I’m suffering from my own mistakes.”
Feeling redeemed from the pain he had caused her, he took her hand, lifted it to his lips and gently placed a kiss on the back. He then gathered himself up, stood in the aisle, looked outside, and checked to see where they were. He walked to the front and asked the driver to stop. They were about ten miles outside the city when the bus made a sharp right turn to the northwest onto a gravel road and came to a sudden stop, with a thick cloud of dust chasing it.
Reza turned to the passengers and said, “Hey, have a nice trip. I wish you all the best. ... I really do. It was nice knowing you.” His farewell and wishing them the best was brief but at least it was sincere. He stepped out. The older guard hurriedly followed him and the bus started moving again, leaving the city of Salmas behind.
Fatemeh locked her gaze on him as the bus kept moving. He blew a kiss at her with one hand and waved with the other.
The gravel road gradually left the rolling flatland, going upward on a steep incline, becoming narrowly mountainous, with many sharp twists and turns. Whining and moaning, the aged bus continued rolling over the desolated road in lower speed, disturbing the surrounding tranquility, invading and fragmenting the road’s solitude. No word passed through the lips of any passenger.
At eleven o'clock in the morning, the driver brought the bus to a halt near a man standing on the roadside seemingly waiting for its arrival. The driver and the guard left the bus with its engine idling roughly. They hurried to meet and speak to the middle-aged man who wore native Kurdish clothes. The driver pulled out a bundle of paper money and handed it to the man. The Kurd moistened his fingers and started counting the bills.
The several minutes they stood in the middle of nowhere talking and arguing poured more worries into the passengers’ hearts, already beating faster with anxiety. The driver and the guard finally returned to the bus. The driver stood in the aisle facing the passengers and addressed them, “This is it. ... The man standing out there is your first guide. ... He'll be with you the rest of today and tonight,” he said, pointing to the man standing outside. “He's gonna take you around to the next village and will hand you over to the next guide tomorrow morning. If you wanna get to where you’re going, you better listen to him and do whatever he tells you.”
Everyone trudged off the bus. As soon as the guide saw the women and children, he addressed the driver, speaking Farsi with a thick Kurdish accent, shouting angrily, “Mahmoud, you told everybody that it's gonna be no women and no children! What the hell is this? We're not in the tourist business! ... Take them back to Tabriz!”
The notably agitated Kurdish man was tall and skinny. He had an extraordinary face, sunburned, wind-worn and wrinkled, distinctly
