—Paul Tournier
The secrets of a woman are not the same as a man’s.
The face in the mirror tells me I can’t keep this hidden long—Astrid being Astrid, and my bruises so pronounced—she’ll find out eventually.
Easier to tell your wife you’ve been unfaithful, than tell her you’ve been raped.
“You look a mess—were you mugged?”
Astrid drops her suitcases and stares at me with pity—it’d be so easy to lie.
“Mugged? You could say that.”
She crosses the room and gently tilts my face toward the light. “My God, Paul—did you see a doctor and get an MRI? You could have a concussion or some broken facial bones.”
“I went through the X-ray and CT scan—it’s mostly swelling and I’ve been applying ice packs.”
“When did this happen?”
“Four days ago.”
“Where?”
“Turkey.”
She arches an eyebrow.
“Mount Ararat, actually.”
She shakes her head. “We need to talk. I’ll fix us some tea and get you a fresh ice pack.”
She brings the tea and hands me the cup. I look into her eyes and begin to cry.
“My God, Paul—what happened to you?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her, turning away so she can’t see the tears. I’m not sure I can tell her at all.
The last time a woman served me was on Ararat—Simay handing me a steaming mug of coffee—that was just before it happened.
“How did you end up on Ararat?”
“Garth Winter at National Geographic sent me with Berk Kaplan and his two cousins.”
“You were going after Noah’s Ark?”
I force a brittle smile. “That was the plan.”
“So what was it," She asks, "—a gang of marauders?”
I nod.
She seems unconvinced.
“On the main ascent up Ararat?”
“We were taking a secondary route.”
“I can’t believe Berk allowed that.”
“I insisted.”
“Why?”
“It was the most direct way.”
She shakes her head, not believing my stupidity.
“So, what happened, Paul?”
“We were ambushed by a raiding party of a dozen women.”
“Women—on Ararat?”
“Berk figured they were the remnant of the lost tribe of Amazon warriors.”
Suddenly, she pauses, weighing the matter, and puts the pieces together.
“So, you’re telling me you were raped?”
“Yeah,” I hang my head,” I guess I am.”
She puts her arms around me and holds me like a child. “I’m so sorry, Paul.”
“It happens.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she hisses fiercely. “And now, I’ll bet you’re not going back, are you?”
“Not in a million years.”
She gets up, walks to the picture window and looks out—gazes across the penthouse terrace at the New York skyline and the red sun dying in the west.
“So, you’ll never go an expedition again?”
“That’s the idea.”
She wheels, facing me—anger seething out of every pore. “The hell you won’t. I won’t let you throw your career away—the thing you love—over something like this.”
“What can you do about it?”
“We’re going back to Ararat—the two of us—and we’re going to locate the Ark.”
Forty-eight hours later we touch down in Istanbul.
Berk and his beautiful cousins, Simay and Nazli, are waiting for us.
Berk’s eyes shine. “I can’t tell you how overjoyed I am to see you, my friend.”
Simay, uncharacteristically, approaches and hugs me.
Nazli, however, stays true to her Muslim roots, hanging back, but still brightly smiling.
“We’re all glad to see you,” Simay says and then, hugs Astrid too.
It’s awkward sitting in the airport lounge talking about the expedition and ignoring the elephant in the room. Finally, Astrid breaks the ice.
“I persuaded Paul to come back and finish the job.”
Simay nods, as if she understands. Berk looks uncomfortable.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Astrid consoles him. “Paul can be very insistent when he wants his own way—it was unfortunate—that’s all.”
“It was a mistake,” Berk replies, “one that won’t happen again.”
“Nonsense,” says Astrid, “we’re taking the same route again to the Ark –it’s the most direct.”
“But in light of what happened…”
She reaches out her hand and touches his. “All the more reason to do so—to finish what you set out to do.”
“You’re an exceptional woman,” he says admiringly.
“That’s what I’ve always told her,” I smile. I have to suppress a groan, though—my face is still sore and aching.
The next day we make good progress up the route. After four hours of gruelling climbing, we stop to eat on a high, windy plateau.
Berk points out a steep winding track.
“That’s where we’ll break off from the main route,” he says, motioning with his hand, “ and follow a way that will lead us closer to where the Ark was spotted.”
Astrid smiles and nods. The wind is picking up and makes conversation difficult.
We push off again and after another four hours, we stop and make camp on a rugged, upland slope.
There’s a rocky overhang and we shelter beneath it and light our fire.
The night is moonless and overcast. Within minutes, it begins to rain. We tie down canvas sheets angled from the overhang to the ground—it’s easier than erecting tents.
Berk takes out his Ney—a reed flute that looks like a long recorder with a hat over the mouthpiece—and he softly plays as the fire smokes and the rain slants on the wind.
Astrid cuddles close to me and Simay watches sadly. She wants a man and is restless to start a family.
Berk figures she’ll soon give up the guide work and take a job in Istanbul. Then, it will be just him and Nazli.
We’re suspended in some dreamy oasis of wood smoke, rain and flute music—and then, I look up and see them emerging from the lines of rain—a dozen women entering our circle, as if pushing aside a beaded curtain.
Berk reaches for his revolver—he’s taking no chances this time.
“Get the rifles,” he barks at the girls. In seconds, three gun muzzles are trained on our unwanted visitors.
He speaks harshly to the warriors.
“Do you know what he’s saying?” asks Astrid, unaware her fingers are digging into my arm.
“He’s talking to them in ancient Greek.”
Her eyes grow huge. “You’re kidding.”
I shake my head. “No, those woman could comfortably converse with Jason and the Argonauts.”
Astrid’s expression is horror mingled with awe.
“What do they want?” I ask Berk.
“They recognize you, Paul—they call you Helene’s Man.”
“I scrabble to my feet, fists clenched. “Where the hell is she?”
“She’s not here—they’re just out on a foraging mission—they need food.”
I grab one of the axes. “Let them starve,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
The warriors can read my rage—they know my answer.
They start to turn and melt back into the rain and the darkness, but suddenly, Astrid cries out, “Wait!”
They turn, surprised and stare at her curiously.
She grabs my hand and smiles warmly.
“Let them have some of our rations.”
Berk looks at her as if she’s lost her mind. “Have you gone insane? —These savages would kill you to look at you.”
“They’re starving and they won’t find food tonight.”
“So, you’d take our rations and share them with the very ones who raped your husband?”
“They’ve been isolated so long, they don’t know any other way. They’re like cornered animals—let them be—this is their mountain.”
Berk looks to me for support, but I shrug. “Let them have it,” I say softly.
He throws up his hands. “Maybe we should put down our guns and let them rape us.”
“They don’t want you,” Simay says quietly, smiling at me.
And then we all smile—Nazli, Simay and Astrid—we all stand there—shaking our heads and smiling.
Berk mutters angrily, but rummages through our backpacks and gives them a fourth of our rations.
The tall, brown-haired warrior, Helene’s friend, accepts the backpack.
They turn to leave, but then she stops and says something to Astrid. I have no idea what it is, but it isn’t harsh or angry—just a matter-of-fact.
And then, she goes.
After they’re gone, Nazli and Simay lower their rifles. Berk slumps down by the fire, lies back and stares up at the canvas sheet above his head.
There’s a long silence—finally, he speaks.
“They admire you, Astrid—that’s what she said—she admires you.”
“Why? Because I’m a strong woman?”
“No. Because you sacrificed for your man.”
“How do they figure that? —You had guns trained on them—you would have killed them.”
“Not really,” He sighs. “There were another dozen warriors standing behind us—I didn’t see them until the first group turned to leave.”
“So, it was a ruse?” I ask.
“If Astrid didn’t make that gesture of self-sacrifice, we’d all be dead.”
Astrid sleeps in my arms that night.
The next day, we find huge, blackened, rough-hewn beams of wood—so old they've petrified—turned to stone.
We break off samples for carbon dating, photograph the site and mark down the GPS co-ordinates.
Two days later we we’re on a plane back to New York.
A week later Garth Winter phones—the wood is dated to 4500 B.C. A new expedition is being planned for the spring.
When I put down the phone, Astrid comes over and curls up on the couch beside me. “Will we be going back in the spring?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“Why did you give the warriors our food?”
“It’s hard to explain—but when I was there, in that desolate spot—I felt pity for them.”
“Pity?”
“Yes, I know they hurt you—but they were like wounded animals under siege—their tribe slowly dying.”
“But, Helene raped me.”
“She was trying to create new offspring—perpetuate the tribe—it was kind of sad really.”
“Yeah, too bad she had to use violence and force,” I say bitterly.
“If she asked nicely, would you have co-operated?”
I just stare at her.
“You have your answer.”
We will go back to Ararat in the spring.
I don’t agree with Astrid, but I see her reasoning.
We save tigers and snow leopards even though they’re dangerous.
I guess I didn’t figure perpetuating a myth would require self-sacrifice—but then, ultimately anything of value requires some loss.
I think of Noah—he sacrificed a lifetime building an Ark.
Maybe, in enduring my shame, I’ve done my small part—helping save Helene’s tribe
Thank you!