Path of Jen: Bloodborne (8 page)

Seconds later, the engine rumbled to life and
the truck swung around and began re-tracing its path the way it had
come. Jen hugged her knees and bowed her head against them.
“Dear God, why are you letting this happen?"
She felt hands
upon her and she looked up to four of the girls smiling at her. One
of them mimicked throwing a rock and the others giggled. Jen didn’t
smile back. She looked at the girl curled up in the corner and
shook her head.
“Where are you God?”

Jen’s mom was on the ground at Tehran’s Imam
Khomeini International Airport. She braced herself for the reality
of being a woman in Iran and followed the other passengers down the
aircraft isle toward the jetway. Part of her wanted to fight
convention and refuse to dress as her heritage demanded, but she
also knew that she needed help if she was going to see her Little
Bird again.
“How is it possible that human trafficking and
kidnapping exist in this modern age?”
she wondered.
“I am
asking that while standing in a country ruled by Ayatollah Ali
Khamenei,”
Fouzia shook her head
. “Human rights mean nothing
here where a woman has no value. It’s hard to believe that less
than forty years ago women could vote and even be members of
parliament. Now a woman must have permission to go outside and
cannot even have custody of her own children if her husband
dies.”

When Fouzia descended the escalator to the
baggage claim, she saw Najid waiting for her. Tears flooded her
eyes and she ran to him. Her knees gave out and she held onto him
as all of her anguish came pouring out. Najid held her tightly and
wept too. “
Fouzia, I am so sorry,
” he
whispered haltingly in her ear. She hugged him tighter and
stood.

“It is not your fault Najid,” she said with a
firm voice. She looked him in the eye and repeated it even more
sternly, “This was not your fault." They hugged again, and he gave
her a kiss on the cheek.

“Let’s get your bags and get to Mahmoud’s. I
want both of us to talk to Fatima. She was the last one to see
Jena,” Najid said. Putting his arm around her shoulders, they
turned toward the baggage carousel and waited for her luggage to
come around.

Fouzia looked around at the people in the
airport. Most seemed tired, but happy. The women, although dressed
more modestly than many in the US, seemed otherwise quite similar.
Makeup and jewelry was abundant, and colors were everywhere.
“It’s like looking at a picture of Panama City, Panama and
thinking everything is so pretty, but you can’t see the garbage and
ruins of the old city hidden behind the big new buildings and
makeshift walls.”

With all of her bags in tow, Fouzia and Najid
made their way outside to the curb and hailed a taxi. Fouzia
noticed a taxi driver in his car nearby with the in-service light
off, waiting and watching while another taxi pulled out and ahead
of him to pick them up. When the bags were loaded, Fouzia took one
more look at the man in the darkened taxi before climbing in next
to Najid. Something about the way he sat there in the dark,
cigarette smoke slowly rolling out of the windows, made her feel
uneasy. Fouzia shook her head and decided to focus on the upcoming
talk with Fatima. She leaned her head against Najid and closed her
eyes. She was not interested in seeing the city. She just wanted to
find Jena and go home.

Mahmoud and Fatima were waiting when they
arrived at the house. Fouzia could not help but cry again when
Fatima hugged her and sobbed how sorry she was. Just as she had
with Najid, Fouzia firmly told Fatima that it was not her fault.
Part of her wanted to shout at Fatima and blame her for being
careless and losing Jena, but she could not. She could not blame
anyone but the horrible man who had taken her daughter, and the
government whose blatant disregard for women made this sort of
crime so easy to perpetrate. Fouzia kept the last part to herself.
She knew it would only come across as insulting.

When they were all seated, and each had
coffee or tea to sip on, Fatima recounted the details of her day
with Jena and Armand. She told them everything she remembered, from
the moment she awoke to the moment she saw Jena being taken away in
a taxi. She broke down crying often, and it was impossible for the
others to not join in. It was emotional and exhausting for
everyone, but Fouzia refused to go to bed until she had heard the
story several times. She wanted to know and remember every
detail.

“Come to bed Fouzia,” coaxed Najid with a
whisper. She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and nodded. Fouzia
stood up and let him lead her up the stairs. When they reached the
hallway at the top, Fouzia asked, “Where is Jena’
s room?
”

Najid sighed and pointed to the second door.
Fouzia moved his arm from around her shoulders and walked softly to
the door. She stood fixed in front of the closed bedroom door,
suddenly unsure what she should do. She was about to knock, but
caught herself and reached for the knob instead. The door opened
easily and she immediately saw familiar things that belonged to
Jena. Some of her clothes were scattered about, there was a brush
on the dresser, and her matching luggage was near the closet.

Fouzia walked to the bed and sat down. She
gathered the clothes to her and smelled them. She held them tightly
and closed her eyes.
“My Little Bird,”
she thought.
“If
you can hear me, I am thinking of you! I love you, Jena."
She
lay on her side, on top of the covers, looking at Najid standing
solemnly in the doorway.

“Would you like to sleep in here tonight, my
love?” he asked. Fouzia nodded yes and closed her eyes as fresh
tears streamed out of her eyes. A moment later, her suitcase was
next to the bed and the door to the bedroom carefully closed. She
was alone. “Are you alone too Little Bird?” she whispered. “Are you
frightened?" She put her hand over her mouth and cried quietly for
her daughter.

Fouzia fought sleep, but it finally overtook
her.

As she slept, she dreamed of dark alleys and
dangerous men with hot, stinking breath. She was a frightened
little girl, much younger than Jena and unable to speak. Her
parents were distracted and arguing about dinner when she was taken
by a stealthy man and swept away on a swift riverboat. They didn’t
even notice she was gone. Only one old woman saw her being carried
away to the boat, and she said nothing. She just smiled and waved
as if Fouzia was going on a whimsical trip.

When the boat finally docked, a grizzled old
man with a bushy beard and curly black hair picked her up from
behind and carried her up a hill and into an alley between stone
buildings. There, in the darkness, he made her lie with crippled
and degenerate men who smelled like decay and filth. She felt an
unbearable pressure on her chest, as if the life was being crushed
out of her. She tried to cry out for help, but the pressure was too
great and she couldn’t make any sounds.

Fouzia awoke with a start. It was still late
at night and the house was still. She was sweating and her whole
body was shaking. Frightened and ashamed all at once, she ran to
join Najid in the other room. She climbed into bed without a word
and clung to him until morning.

The next day, Fouzia and Najid took a taxi to
the police station. Fouzia wore dark sunglasses and a black hijab.
Her eyes were red and puffy from crying and a lack of sleep. Najid
looked professional, as always, in a gray suit. Together, they rode
in silence; each looking out opposite windows, yet holding hands in
a small gesture of solidarity. Fouzia found herself thinking of the
darkened taxi at the airport.
“Was he one of these
kidnappers?”
she wondered.
“Was he just on a break, or was
he waiting unnoticed in the darkness for a vulnerable target?"
She decided to ask the Police Inspector if they had any leads on
the taxi driver Fatima saw.

When they arrived at the police station,
Najid did all the talking. They had discussed it before leaving the
house that morning. It was decided that the best way to get help
from the police was to follow convention and let the father make
all of the inquiries.
“A mother does not really have rights
concerning her children anyway,”
thought Fouzia bitterly.
“How could that be Allah’s will
?" She held her tongue, but
it was not easy.

The Inspector assigned to their case was
decidedly plain. He seemed to lack personality, and for a little
while, Fouzia took it for a lack of interest. Over the course of
the day she found that her initial impression was wrong. He was
actually quite intelligent, and seemed acutely interested in
solving the case. He simply had no skill in expressing himself
beyond factual statements and logical inquiries. From time to time,
she would whisper questions or opinions to Najid, and he would
present them to the Inspector as his own thoughts when appropriate.
That is how Fouzia influenced the Inspector to investigate the taxi
driver at the airport, although at first she thought he
wouldn’t.

The police had already questioned several
suspects and searched their taxis, but none of the leads had panned
out. The Inspector was afraid the trail would soon go cold. When
Najid mentioned the taxi at the airport that Fouzia had quietly
described, the Inspector seemed to dismiss it and quickly moved to
something else. It was already late in the day, and he urged them
to go home and rest. Heartbroken and feeling helpless, Fouzia
followed Najid out of the station and into another taxi.

The next day, the Inspector called and asked
Mahmoud to bring Fatima to the station. They had a man in custody
they thought might be the driver who took Jena. All four of them
went to the station, and for the first two hours, Fouzia and Fatima
sat in the hall, while Mahmoud and Najid spoke with the inspector.
Finally, the Inspector and Mahmoud came out and Fatima was asked to
follow them down the hall to see a line-up of suspects. Fouzia was
invited to join Najid in the conference room while they waited. It
was another hour before Fatima and Mahmoud returned and joined
them. Fatima was crying and Mahmoud had to share the news.

“They have the man who kidnapped Jena,” he
said with a shaky voice. He seemed near to tears, but he coughed
and cleared his throat and was able to continue. “Fatima recognized
him immediately. They will interrogate him and try to find out
where she is." He leaned forward and reached across the table
toward Najid and Fouzia with his hands open and palms upturned. He
wore a pained expression as he added, “The Inspector says the man
is probably just the first link in a long chain, and that by now
she may be too far away." He choked and began crying. “Even
now…even after they found the man who took her.”

“Was it him?” asked Fouzia sharply. “Was it
the taxi from the airport?”

Mahmoud nodded and looked as if he wished he
could somehow say something or do something more to help.

“They have to find her!” she shouted. “Beat
him until he tells them who the next link is! Then do the same
until they find the end of the chain and get my daughter back!” she
yelled. Fouzia stood and started toward the door. A police officer
peeked his head into the conference room to see what the commotion
was about and quickly ducked back out when he saw Fouzia angrily
walking toward the door.

“Fouzia!” Najid called after her and stood up
to give chase. Mahmoud also stood and took her by the arm as she
stormed by. She jerked her arm away and gave him a hard stare that
said, “Back off!" He did. Fatima cried harder and covered her face
with her hands.

Fouzia was walking through the door when the
Inspector stepped in front of her and blocked her path. She pressed
her lips together and took a deep breath. She looked the Inspector
in the eye and slowly exhaled, trying to regain control. Somehow,
she knew he understood her emotions, and felt as if she could trust
him. She allowed Najid to take her by the shoulders and lead her
back to her seat. They all sat down and the Inspector explained in
greater detail what Mahmoud had quickly shared with them a moment
before.

Fouzia tried to listen as the inspector
briefed them, but her mind kept wandering to thoughts of a little
girl in a dark alley. Soon an unbearable pressure crept into her
chest. It threatened to squeeze the life right out of her. She
remembered seeing Najid standing over her and looking concerned. He
was saying something she couldn’t understand, and then everything
went black.

Jen awoke to the sound of the engine cutting
off. Unlike the other stops as they were traveling through the
desolate wilderness, this time there was commotion outside. Jen
heard the sounds of many voices, vehicles in the distance, and dogs
barking. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and took the last drink
of water from the plastic bottle she cradled. The camper shell was
opened and the tail gate was dropped. The same two young men, who
had shepherded them since the switch several nights before, stood
at the end of the truck and beckoned the girls to get out. Although
these younger men protected the girls against the old man when Jen
struck him with a rock, they were not kind. They did not try to
molest the girls, but they had no patience or understanding. The
girls were hit or kicked when they did not immediately obey. They
were hit or kicked if they looked at the men, or if they spoke
without permission.

The girls quickly disembarked from the small
truck and stood in a tight group, looking at the ground. Jen
glanced about as she hopped down, but then joined the others in
obediently looking down. She had her share of bruises for
disobeying, and did not want any more. Before she cast her gaze
down, she saw many men dressed in traditional Muslim garb, four
single level buildings made from stone and earth, and a few small
wooden shacks. Dust from a vehicle passing slowly by made her
cough. There was no grass or pavement nearby, only dust and more
dust.