Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,15

kameez, but the muscles bulging under Mateen’s shirt convinced Gabriel that the color somehow didn’t make the man look any less respectable.

“Mr. Khan sent me to tell you I will pick you up at eight for a little good-bye dinner,” Mateen announced. A smile twitched above Mateen’s bushy black beard and he bowed deferentially, then glided back towards the silver BMW idling outside the door.

You mean at ten, Gabriel raised an eyebrow at the departing guard. People accused Bolivians of always being tardy to everything, but really, they had no idea. Pakistanis had them beat.

Seeing the beard reminded Gabriel of his own pathetic attempt to grow a beard in order to be a good Muslim. The few inches of reddish, peachy fuzz dusting his chin at least showed that he had made the effort to be pious.

I will never be able to wear a pink shalwar kameez like Mateen, Gabriel thought. The door to the apartment pounded shut, and he sighed as he was left alone. A shiny, distorted image of himself glimmered back at him from a mirror in the golden wardrobe on the opposite wall, and Gabriel scowled at his measly beard

Pack. I’ve got to pack. Them maybe I can settle down and watch a sermon from one of the mullahs on TV.

His trusty hiker backpack was propped up next to the bed, and Gabriel opened the huge gold wardrobe and pulled out a stack of folded shalwar kameezs, sweaters and jeans. Now, on to his babies.

First, he carefully lifted his favorite Quran, inside its black leather Quran case, from its position of respect on the highest table in the room and gently placed it inside the backpack. Then came the hard shelled black case from under the bed. Gabriel fondly clicked the case open, revealing the smooth, honey wood of his violin.

This guy had been with him since his parents had given it to him for his sixteenth birthday, and the violin always came with Gabriel to anywhere he went that was important. He carefully placed the small case inside his backpack.

There. Now that the violin is here, wherever we go I’ll be home.

That left the money. He understood the reasons, but sometimes really wished his boss didn’t have to pay him in cash. Debit cards existed for a reason, didn’t they? Gabriel decided to deposit all this cash in the bank, one of the many banks close to the apartment where he had an account. He pulled a fraying gray sweater over his long shalwar kameez and headed to the bank.

Thirty minutes later, having disposed of the cash, Gabriel strolled lazily down one of Peshawar’s main thoroughfares under a thick haze of ochre smog and pollution. Bordering the sidewalk, heavy buses painted like kaleidoscopes rumbled by next to wooden donkey carts. A chorus of a thousand horns blared. Two female shapes, heavily-shrouded in black veils that fell to the ground, glided in front of Gabriel and began to weave their way across the street. Though modestly covered, the girls’ huge dark eyes were exposed and Gabriel could tell they must be young, maybe about his age.

Then he realized what he was thinking, and his face began a slow burn. He was ashamed for even noticing them.

Oh Allah, help me! Here I’ve been offered this great mission, and I’m so unworthy. You’ve got to make me pure and clean. Please!

Still praying, he ducked past a street vendor and a sizzling vat of curry into a winding alleyway, already shadowy in the approaching night. A crunching sensation of angst in his belly came at the same moment as Gabriel’s eyes told him he had erred and let his mind wander away from his surroundings. He barely registered the shadowy shapes of three men who had suddenly surged from behind into his peripheral vision, then came the flash of adrenaline. The force of their bodies propelled Gabriel face first against the coarse concrete wall.

Feeling true panic, Gabriel swore in Spanish. Two of the men gripped his arms tightly behind his back, while the third tore off Gabriel’s cap, threw it on the ground, and grabbed his hair so that he could not turn his face toward either side.

“What are you doing?” Gabriel gasped in Pashto. Maybe they had mistaken him for someone else. With his light skin, he did look a lot like an Afghani.

“Shut up! If you look at us, you’ll die!” yelled one of the men in a voice that sounded like a traffic accident. They yanked