Pandora First Four Chapters

W E book.com , the large st , m ost dy namic wor k shop for colla b or a tive w ri t i ng on the w e b.W E book goe s a step fur ther, b r id g ing the online st orie s, and e ssay s w rit te n on t he si te in a r a ng e of for ma ts. Author s and m aj or cont ribu tors re ce iv e cre dit in p ub lished wor k s a nd a sha r e

PANDORA

novel

and of fli ne w orld by pu bli shi ng t he best a nd most well-r eg a r d ed b ook s,

novel

a COMMUNITY SOURCED

W E book know s that w ri t e rs lov e co mp a ny. No one wr ites a lone a t

PA ND O RA

On the Upper West Side of Manhattan, a man and a woman, each harboring a secret of global consequence, have fallen in love. Pandora is an exotic beauty who teaches yoga, and Chris is a Columbia grad student from Louisiana who is immersed in political science. Cross-cultural love is tough enough, but when New York City is again attacked by terrorists, the couple’s East-West love affair threatens to put the entire United States in danger.

a COMMUNITY SOURCED

of roy altie s from sale s.P andora w as cr ea ted b y 34 wr iter s, ed itor s, a nd ot he r contri bu tors w orking toge the r at WEb ook . com. W Ebook is pr oud to pr esen t its debu t, commu ni ty sou rced novel, P an dor a, an edge-of-your seat th r il l er abou t the forces of good and evil , l ove an d h ate, yoga an d jambalaya.

S t o p w ait in g. S t ar t w r it in g. Jo in t h e r ev o lut io n at W E bo o k . c om . co ve r de s i g n by M i ch e lle B akke n ph o to g raph by Co lo r D ay P ro du cti o n

17 Authors Itai Kohavi

Patrick Van Slee Sigal Kerem Goldstein Alison Ashley Formento Barbara Puccia Sarah Rose Evans Michelle Heinz Dana Burnell Adam Nemett Brian Schaab Melissa Jones Kelly Nuxoll Alex Nowalk Tahra Seplowin Gila Tal Susie Bassett Daniel Stambler

pandora

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Pandora The WEbook Community

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Copyright © 2008 by WEbook, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval devices or systems, without prior written permission from the publisher, except that brief passages may be quoted for reviews. WEbook, Inc. 3 Bethesda Metro Center, Mezzanine 020B Bethesda, MD 20814 301.986.9060 www.WEbook.com ISBN: 978-1-935003-00-7 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

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About WEbook

Hey, thanks for picking up Pandora, a new thriller from the community of writers, editors and reviewers at WEbook. Right about now, moments away from digging in to the story, you might be asking: What is WEbook? WEbook is the vision of a few intermittently erudite people who believe there are millions of talented writers whose work is ignored by the staid and exclusive world of book publishing. It just makes sense that if you create a dynamic, irreverent, and open place for those bright folks to meet, write, react, and think together, the results would be extraordinary. Cue WEbook.com, an online platform that allows writers, editors, reviewers, illustrators and others to join forces to create great works of fiction and non-fiction, thrillers and essays, short stories, children’s books, articles, essays, and more. Who is WEbook? It’s you, the reader. It’s also your hyper-literate aunt who pens such resonant emails about pedestrian topics that you forward them to your close friends. It’s your college buddy who has been working on a novel for years on the side while holding down his day job. It’s your colleague who writes a hilarious and edgy political blog that only his friends have a chance to enjoy. WEbook

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is the thirty-four talented writers, reviewers, and editors who jointly wrote, revised, and refined this very book. Why is WEbook? Simple. It’s time. Shelve the notion of a solitary writer toiling alone for years. WEbook.com is a place for lively writing groups, groundbreaking titles, and a chance for an engaged and creative community to find unrecognized talent and select the very best books for publication as books, eBooks, and Audiobooks. Where is WEbook? Visit WEbook.com. Write the book you’ve been thinking about in the shower for years. Grab your friends or, if you don’t have any, find new ones willing and able to help refine your work. No pressure to write a book. You can also read, review, rant, and rate other work on the site. It’s time for a new way of looking at books. Be a part of the revolution at www.WEbook.com, where writing loves company.

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chapter 1

new york. winter 2006 “So, what’s this secret?” Pandora demanded, closing the flimsy door to her mother’s bedroom. She kept her expression steady. “What aren’t you telling me?” For a moment, the only sound in the room was the blaring of a car horn on Roosevelt Avenue two stories below. Chris shrugged. “Why would you think I have a secret?” “My mother knows these things,” said Pandora. She planted her hands on her slim hips, waiting. Chris strode past his girlfriend, into the kitchen, careful to avoid eye contact. Pandora followed closely behind. He opened cabinets and slammed them closed, stretching his lanky frame and nervously running a hand through his thick, unruly curls. “Well, maybe your mom’s internal lie detector or sixth sense, or whatever you think it is, is broken.” Chris looked out the window and squinted through parted blinds. Who was the idiot who kept honking? All he saw was a van with tinted windows parked under the oversized awning of Flushing Food Mart across the street. Pandora took a deep breath. “You know I love you, but I can’t be with someone I don’t trust,” she exhaled. “Is there something I should know?”

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Chris shook his head in disbelief. How could the woman resting in the next room, a woman he’d only met twice, know something that only five other people in the world knew? How had she divined the secret Chris had carefully guarded since he was eighteen? What the hell was her secret?

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chapter 2

Nadeem had been looking forward to doing this: crowding into a vehicle stuffed with surveillance equipment, eating three-dayold takeout, peeing in a bottle. Just like in the movies. It was too bad his equipment was limited to a pencil, a clipboard, and a peephole cut out of the side of a van. Documenting the activities of this young woman was not, he thought, the best use of his abilities. Still, once the hierarchy of the last New York cell was established, the van would be allocated elsewhere, and he would be given a base of operations. Then he’d have plenty of high-tech gadgets. He just wouldn’t have a van. It had been a surprise to find that the young woman spent so much time with her mother. Nadeem had been led to believe she was thoroughly Americanized. When he got this assignment, he assumed he would be tailing her into clubs and shopping malls. But this woman and her boyfriend hung around with her mother more than most Arabs he knew. Field work. That’s what it was called here. Like on The XFiles. He tried to picture himself in a dark sedan with Gillian Anderson, tracking aliens in the ‘90s. “How do you like doing field work, Scully?” he asked aloud. There was movement in the window. The boyfriend’s moony face peered out between the blinds. When the blinds snapped back into place, Nadeem paused to make a confirmation note, then returned to his observations. Nadeem didn’t like the boy3

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friend. “He looks like a senator in training,” he had told his superiors. Nadeem wondered if Pandora’s father would share his distaste for this man. If so, Nadeem might get to blow something up soon. He decided not to get too excited about the thought. Such would be the will of God.

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chapter 3

sudan. summer 1984 Suha fingered the bright blue silk, warm from the sun, and imagined a new hijab. She wondered whether it would be a color Yusuf liked on her. He had been busy lately, and he was often short-tempered. Running his late father’s textile businesses and organizing weekly religious sermons didn’t leave much time for romance. Her parents had warned her to respect Yusuf, as his wealth and standing were well known in Khartoum. She was lucky to be Wife Number Two in his household, they said. Trying to tune out the noise of the outdoor market, Suha picked up the bolt of cloth and held it across one arm, examining the flow of the fabric against her own cotton shift. The merchant, Sayed Zehaf, was busy haggling with another customer. She tried to think like her husband. Would this please Yusuf? “It is agreeable to you?” Sayed Zehaf interrupted her thoughts. The merchant’s gruff voice startled Suha. At that moment a goat herder lumbered by, shouting at his bleating animals and pushing Suha much too close to the unbathed seller. Market day here always made her miss the local merchants in Jbail. Back in Lebanon, the man who had sold fabrics always gave her scraps to make clothing for her dolls. Deza, the friendly fruit seller would call out, “Suha, you eat my grapes and you will grow smart.” 5

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And smart she grew indeed, bolstered by the strong upbringing of her proud Lebanese family. Suha reflected on that fateful day of her childhood. When she was twelve, her mother burst into their home one afternoon, pale and frightened, to report that rebels had fired into the market. They had thrown grenades at the fruit stand. Her father decided that they must leave their home. Within two months, the whole family moved to Khartoum. Was that a reasonable trade-off, Suha wondered. To leave behind a family life in which a woman’s strength was accepted—if not honored—in exchange for a future with Yusuf? Yusuf provided security, but he also demanded a woman’s obedience, and he already had one woman too many. “Well? Come on. I am a busy man.” These Sudanese were impatient people, Suha had learned since living here. “How much?” she asked, tersely. “4,200 dinar. Per meter.” Suha sucked in her breath at the outrageous sum. Zehaf’s reputation for inflating his prices was well known; luckily, she was a clever bargainer. “I need two and a half meters. I’ll pay you three thousand dinar total.” Zehaf laughed at her. “This silk is the finest in all of Sudan.” “Then it is fine enough to be sold at a reasonable price, if you are the honest man that my husband Yusuf admires.” Suha lowered her head, showing respect to Sayed Zehaf. He placed a hand on her arm. She looked up, and Zehaf opened the cloth to reveal a collection of herbs and pharmaceutical containers hidden inside the fold. “Do not worry,” he said. “I will tell him nothing, even should he ask me directly.” Zehaf closed the cloth and smiled. “Your husband need not know of your illicit good works for our women.” 6

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Suha resisted the urge to scan the area for onlookers. Mentioning Yusuf’s name in the market could be a powerful bargaining tool, but she had to be careful. “It is all there?” she asked. “It is. Everything Saraji told me that you needed.” Suha smiled uncertainly. “Thank you, Zehaf. You are indeed a brave and honest man.” “I am not afraid of him.” “Anesa Ashta!” a young woman yelled. Suha was startled by the sound of her unmarried name, which she hadn’t used in three years. The young woman who had called to her wore a tan hijab that matched her skin, and held a young child in her arms. “Anesa Ashta, my heart is pleased to see you. I was a student of yours, remember? I was Zeja Tehaf before I married.” Even though Suha hadn’t taught since her first year of marriage—when Yusuf had forced her to leave her job as a high school teacher—she remembered this bright girl standing before her, now a grown woman with a child. She had loved that job, finding new ways to engage the teenage girl’s interest in biology. It had been her way to find some freedom from her parents after they moved to Sudan. “Zeja, how good to see you,” she said. “Yes, of course I remember, though now I am Sayadee Wazir. You were a superior student.” Suha watched Zeja’s eyes brighten. “And this is your son?” Zeja giggled as she tousled her toddler’s hair. “Yes, Mezi here is my only son, but as you see, I am soon to bear another. Right, Mezi?” Zeja rubbed her belly and Suha noticed the swelling beneath her robes. She suddenly felt unsteady and leaned against the table full of colorful fabrics. “Baby,” Mezi shouted. “That’s right, Mezi. Baby.” 7

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Suha smiled at the boy. He was cheerful and well behaved— just the sort of son she hoped to have with Yusuf. “And you, Sayadee Wazir, are you still teaching, filling girls’ heads with biology?” The older woman swallowed, remembering how she had tried to convince Yusuf to let her continue teaching. “It’s not proper!” he had bellowed. “You must remain at home to be mother to my children!” But that had been three years ago, when she was twenty-one years old, and still there were no children. It made her miss teaching even more. “I hope you will soon have a Mezi at home, too, Sayadee Ahmed,” Zeja continued eagerly. Suha looked at the happy woman bouncing her son on her hip, then thought of Yusuf holding her as he had last night. If only she could give him a son like this one. Sayed Zehaf growled at the women, “So, are you buying or gossiping?” He gave Suha a discreet wink as he thrust himself between her and Zeja. Suha counted out 3,500 dinar for the silk, which the merchant accepted with another thin-lipped smile. Clutching the bundle, she made her way toward home, passing the mosque and the new hotel being built by Americans, and turned onto a smaller road just past the clump of acacia trees she now knew so well. As she approached Yusuf’s compound, her steps got slower. What was it Sayed Zehaf had said: That he was not afraid of Yusuf? What had he to fear? It was she who had to answer to her husband. An idea had taken shape in the back of her mind in recent weeks that she was certain Yusuf would never allow her to pursue. Her grandmother had practiced midwifery all her life. Her encounter with Zeja made Suha wonder, not for the first time, whether she could be happy delivering other women’s 8

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babies. Unable to produce a child of her own, she might get no closer to motherhood than helping other women produce theirs.

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chapter 4

A year later, Suha quietly closed the front door behind her, and tip-toed across the threshold, hoping not to disturb her husband. “How did it go?” Yusuf’s voice came out of the darkness. Startled, Suha spun around quickly. Yusuf switched on a lamp. Its light cast a dim aura around him. His posture was as impeccable as ever, feet planted firmly on the floor, spine perfectly upright against the back of his chair. Yusuf always had a commanding presence, but tonight Suha could tell that something was bothering him. “I need to speak with you,” he said softly, “and I’m going to be direct. I have decided that we should divorce.” Suha’s heart leapt painfully in her chest, but she held her husband’s level gaze. “I believe this will be best for both of us,” he said. “I need a wife who can bear me sons.” Suha looked down at her lap. “I don’t think Allah intended for you to be my wife,” Yusuf continued. “These last few months, people come to my door at all hours, from all over, to get your advice or to get the benefit of your healing hands. You have become a very popular person, and it is not good for my business to have people coming to our home at all hours of the day and night. And yet, it would be 10

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unwise of me to try to alter the course Allah has set for you. Do you agree?” Suha often had imagined what her life would be like if she were not married to Yusuf. She entertained thoughts of living in a foreign country where she would be free to practice her skills, where she could be more than just a man’s wife. It was not that she didn’t love Yusuf, she thought, but deep down, her duties as a midwife had become far more important to her than her duties to him. “I agree,” she said. On some level, she was not surprised by her husband’s idea. Nonetheless, her heart clenched at the thought of facing the world without her husband, her home. Security—it was a luxury she had come to take for granted. “I know that you don’t accept money as a midwife, so I will provide for you. I want to make sure you are well taken care of,” said Yusuf. Suha lifted her eyes and fixed her gaze on him. “I am very grateful, Yusuf. It makes my heart glad that you care so much about my happiness.” “Of course. Anything for your happiness.” Suha caught her breath. “Anything?” “Anything.” “I want to move to America.” Her words surprised her, though she was proud of her boldness. She had never actually considered where she would go if she could leave. America came to mind so unexpectedly; it was as if Allah himself had put the idea there, as if he were pointing her to the place where she would be most likely to succeed at a brand-new life. “America?” he asked, coldly. “America.”

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