“You know a lot about eggs,” I said.
“I looked up the USDA guidelines. I’ve been sitting on this for a while.” Intezar chuckled. “Get it? Sitting on it—”
“Yeah. I get it.”
“I’m right about this, Danyal,” he said, his voice more serious than I’d heard it in a long time. “You should listen to me.”
I sighed. “My mom said the same thing. You really think she’s that far out of my league?”
“Yaar, Kaval is the NFL Pro Bowl, all right? You’re like a game of kabbadi in a small village in fucking Gujranwala that no one showed up to.”
“I appreciate the sensitivity with which you answered my question.”
“What are friends for?”
“For helping. They’re for helping.”
“I got you the number for Pirji,” he protested.
“Thanks for that. Hey, listen, I gotta let you go. I’m here.”
A girl of around fourteen or so answered the door. The family resemblance was so strong that, even if I’d met her somewhere else, I would’ve known immediately that she was Bisma Akram’s sister. When I smiled and greeted her, she nodded but didn’t smile back.
“They’re in there.” She gave a swift, jerky wave in the direction of the formal living room and then scurried away.
That was weird. Maybe she was just shy.
The three Akrams I had met before were waiting for me in a nicely—if traditionally—decorated room. There was a red rug with a paisley pattern, and thick, heavy wood furniture with flowers carved on it. There were a few coffee tables with an assortment of religious knickknacks on them, like a miniature replica of the Prophet’s Mosque in Medina or a glass cube that said Allah on one side in Arabic, and Muhammad on the other.
On the far wall hung a painting with several verses from the Quran. The calligraphy was beautiful. It was from Ad-Duhaa, the chapter named “The Morning Hours.” It read: Did He not find you lost and guide you?
The Akrams were each sitting in different corners of the room, almost as if they were trying to stay as far away from each other as possible. Jaleel Akram, Bisma’s father, got up to greet me. He was one of those men I instantly resented a little because he had a gravity about him, something that makes you think that his broad shoulders and tall frame belong in a dignified black-and-white picture from the 1930s. I don’t have that impressiveness. I don’t think I ever will. He shook my hand.
“Thank you for coming, Danyal.”
His wife, a pleasantly round woman, managed a smile, though I could tell from her eyes that she’d been crying. I glanced behind me at where Bisma was sitting, dressed in a plain white shalwar kameez, but she wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“Sit here,” Jaleel Akram said, pointing to a couch directly opposite Bisma, “so you can look at her when you make your decision.”
I raised my eyebrows, but his back was to me already as he went and sat down next to his wife. I did what I was told.
Bisma’s eyes remained fixed on the floor.
Her father cleared his throat. “As you are aware,” he said, in a formal, emotionless manner, which made me think that he’d written out a script and memorized it, “my eldest daughter has, in her past, made a grave error, which has dishonored her and dishonored our family. She has left us unable to hold our heads high in society. She’s cut the noses off our faces.”
Bisma was picking viciously at her skin by her right thumbnail. I wanted to tell her to stop, that she would tear it open and make herself bleed, but I didn’t. Her breathing was labored, and I was certain that if she looked up, there would be tears in her eyes.
“Despite this, my wife has a delusion that this wretched girl of ours can have a normal life. My wife wants to get her married, and wastes our time, and the time of other people, by parading this…” He trailed off and gestured toward Bisma. “… in front of prospects like yourself. It always ends badly. She tells the boys the truth and, if she wouldn’t, I would. We won’t perpetrate a fraud on anyone. All of them refuse, as they naturally must. Of all the young men she has met, my understanding is that you were the kindest to her, and for that may Allah bless you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I didn’t even want to nod, because that would seem like I was agreeing with his cruel speech, but I felt like I should do or say something. Fortunately—unfortunately—Jaleel Akram was not done speaking.
“It is because of your kindness that I must now use you for a demonstration. My wife’s ridiculous hopes for this girl must be killed. Her attempts at getting this girl married must stop. I just… I’m sorry but I have to put an end to this once and for all. I must. So, I am going to make you an offer to see if you—the kindest of her would-be prospects—will accept her.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a USB drive. “I have what is hopefully the only copy of her filthy video with that horrid white boy here. If you agree to marry Bisma, you can have it. That way you can be sure it never gets out. I will pay you also, to compensate for the deficiency in her character.”
“Sir,” I said, “with all due respect, this is—” I wanted to say this was fucking insane, but I was truly speechless. Nothing in my experience, or the experience of anyone I’d ever known, had prepared me for an encounter like this. Bisma’s mother had tears running down her cheeks. She got to her feet to walk away, but in a cold tone, her husband commanded her to stay. Then, with a grimace, he turned his attention back to me.
“Ten thousand dollars?”
I shook my head, stunned. “What are you—”
“No? Twenty thousand, then.”
“If you will just listen for a—”
“Fifty thousand?” he asked.
“Stop,” Bisma pleaded quietly from across the room. “Please.”
Mrs. Akram, for her part, bolted from the room, weeping.
Her husband watched her go in silence, then continued. “You know, they say that before the Prophet Muhammad stopped the practice, in the dark days of Arabia, they used to bury daughters alive when they were born. I never understood that until—”
“That is enough.” I was on my feet, my voice raised, before I’d even fully considered what I was doing. In my life, I’d never spoken to an adult like this, and though I trembled with the daring of it, I couldn’t stop myself. It was like a new part of my being had woken, a part of me burning with a righteous, unquenchable fire. “There are limits to the respect your age and your relationship to Bisma give you, and you, Mr. Akram, are… you’re over that limit. This is mean, and it’s… I’m sorry, but it’s not how a man acts. It’s disgusting.”
I could feel the rage radiating from the older man. His eyes were wide with fury, and for a moment, I thought he might try to hit me. Somehow, I managed not to cringe at the thought of the blow. He didn’t do it, though. Instead, he said, “Get out of my house.”
Then, without waiting to see if I obeyed, he turned and stalked out of the room.
Bisma was sobbing now, slender arms wrapped around her waist, as if she was trying to comfort herself because there was no one else in the world who would.
I knelt down in front of her and took her hands in mine. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“He’s such an asshole,” she managed to say. “I hate him so much.”
I wanted to hold her then more than I’d wanted anything in my entire life.
That, however, wouldn’t have been proper. It would’ve been a sin. I shouldn’t have even been holding her hands, truth be told. I was surprised she hadn’t pulled them away.
I wanted to do something for her. I wanted to console her, but I also wanted—needed—her to know that I didn’t think the things her father had said were true. I wanted her to know… what? I couldn’t even think of all the things that I wanted to say, much less figure out how to say them.
An image from my childhood came to my mind. I’d dropped a Quran on the floor once, when I was a kid. It just slipped from my hand. I remember watching as my mother knelt down an
d picked it up. Then she pressed the Quran to her lips, kissing it once, and then raised it to one eye and then the next. It was an apology and a show of reverence for something holy that, even if it fell, would forever be exalted.
I leaned forward and kissed Bisma’s hands.
I raised them to one eye, and then the next.
Then I got to my feet.
Bisma’s younger sister was standing at the threshold to the room, staring at us. As soon as I stepped away, she rushed past me and threw her arms around Bisma.
I let myself out.
I just drove. Something about my anger longed for the growl of a powerful mechanical beast, converting fuel and fury into motion on the open road.
Of course, those are the dreams of muscle cars; I was driving a minivan with 150,000-odd miles on it. Even if I could’ve floored the accelerator, the aged Odyssey would’ve only managed a weak mewl.
I was near the heart of Silicon Valley, and there were no open roads. All the arteries feeding souls to San Francisco were blocked. The red brake lights of an endless supply of cars stood before me, stopped in the middle of a freeway, like a glowing river of blood. It was a picture of a cardiac arrest, painted in traffic.
I slapped a hand hard on the steering wheel, which did nothing but hurt.
I swore, swerving onto the shoulder and accelerating past the other trapped cars, prompting indignant honking from them. I took the next exit and headed to the BART station.
I parked in a nearly deserted lot, climbed out, and slammed the door shut. I ran a hand through my hair, pacing up and down aimlessly, wondering when the beat of my heart would return to normal, when the crushed weeping of Bisma would fade from my ears.
What Jaleel Akram had done was so messed up. It was practically inhuman. I’d never thought I’d see someone treat their own child that way. My dad railed against me all the time, but he’d never shame me in front of a stranger, and he’d never make me break like I’d seen Bisma break today.
Even worse, I knew that I could save her from that little hell she was trapped in. All I had to do was say yes. My parents would be ecstatic. Her family would be ecstatic. By the time her history became an issue, it would be too late. Yes, my parents would be mortified, but the reproach Bisma endured from them would be nothing compared to what I’d seen her father inflict on her. More important, she wouldn’t be alone. I’d be with her. I could protect her.
Yet there was another part of me, the part that had been dreaming of Kaval for years, that didn’t want to stop dreaming.
And a third part of me, perhaps the most sensible part, knew that the desire to be noble, to be chivalrous, was a bad reason to marry someone. The world was like a cheese board of misfortune made up of old Epoisses, moldy Camembert, and overripe Roquefort. It stank, in other words, and sometimes it gave people listeria. You could eat some of a partner’s cheese for them, but ultimately, there was a strong chance you’d just be sick with them, and then two people would be miserable.
I pinched the bridge of my nose with my fingers. I was starting to get a headache.
It was all the thinking. I wasn’t used to it.
I got on a train going to the City, because it was something to do.
I showed up at Remarquable. It was packed. A couple of waiters nodded at me as I made my way inside, pushing past the pleasant, low rhythm of customer conversations, past the tinkling melody of forks brushing against plates and glasses clinking, and stepped toward the kitchen, toward the savory, seductive smell of garlic butter and the primal call of perfectly roasted beef.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used the front entrance, and for a brief moment, it felt like all the bustle in the clean, efficient clockworks of the kitchen paused, that everyone stopped to look at me, and then the moment was gone, though I saw a few more smiles than I’d spotted when I’d first come in.
Chef Brodeur marched up to me. She was not smiling, but she wasn’t frowning either.
“Enfin, vous êtes là,” she said, and when I stared at her in confusion, she threw her arms up in the air. “What times I must live in that I see chefs without French. Took you long enough to get here.”
“You were… expecting me?”
“Of course, mon petit âne. The only way to advance at Remarquable is to choose to be here when you don’t have to be. When you don’t have to cook, but need to cook, that is when you’re a chef, yes? Now, go change into something worthy of your station and get to work.”
There is peace in the rapid motion of a sharp knife, in the surprising cooperation of a perfectly cracked egg, in the delicate perfection with which the sweet red of saffron infuses everything it touches with color and smell. In the chaos of a professional kitchen, among the shouting and the clanging of pots and the sizzling and the frying and the smoke, there is an astonishing amount of calm, if one knows where to stand and what to do.
That isn’t why I love to cook, but it’s a nice bonus.
A few hours in, Brodeur pulled me aside and asked, “Have you eaten?”
“Why?”
“Because you look hungry, of course,” she said with more exasperation than seemed necessary.
“I haven’t eaten, Chef.”
Turning to the kitchen at large, she yelled, “Who’s hungry?”
There was a pause, then a few timid hands went up. I counted seven.
“As am I,” Brodeur declared, rounding to face me. “It is slowing down. Take a break. Make dinner.”
“Uh… sure. What would you like me to make?”
“Surprise me,” she said. “Something, maybe, that is not on the menu.”
I would’ve thought this was some kind of ritual for the new guy on the night shift, if the other members of the staff weren’t staring at the chef, obviously surprised.
“Okay,” I said, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice. “I’ll… see what I can do, I guess.”
I stepped away from my station, thinking about what to serve. I was cooking for a master of French cuisine. Anything I made would be judged by the exacting standards of Remarquable and probably found wanting.
I told myself it didn’t matter. The first rule of cooking, in my opinion, is to make what you want to eat yourself, so that’s what I decided to do. Just then, I wanted something comfortable, like my mother’s biryani, but that would take much too long. Something quick and delicious and… there it was.
I rolled pici, a fat pasta, and went to work with Grana Padano and black pepper that I crushed using a mortar and pestle. When it was done, I presented it to Chef Brodeur with Pecorino Romano on top, the cheese melting into the creamy pasta.
She stared at my creation, horrified. “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s Cacio e Pepe. It’s—”
“I know that, you idiot.” She wrenched the fork I was holding from my hand and poked at the dish doubtfully. “It is not French.”
“Not really.”
“Then it isn’t really food, now, is it?” She jabbed at the pici and shoved it in her mouth. She raised her eyebrows and gave a harrumph of… not approval, precisely, but tolerance. Then, with the air of someone doing me a huge favor, she said, “I will eat it.”
“Thank you?”
“You are full of surprises tonight,” she said, waving her fork around thoughtfully. “You came here when you were not scheduled, and then instead of overreaching with something complex, you made… this.” Brodeur paused, then asked, “Who is she?”
“This isn’t about—”
“A Frenchman doesn’t make pasta unless he is thinking about a woman.”
I raised my eyebrows and almost reminded her that I was not French, when I realized that she had just given me a high compliment. I was also pretty sure that what she’d said was ridiculous, but that didn’t seem like the right thing to say either.
“It’s complicated.”
She shook her head. “And that’s why you made something simple. A young person’s mistake.”
“I�
��ve got no idea what you’re trying to say, Chef.”
“I know,” Brodeur said, almost sympathetically. “That’s because you are a moron. It is all right. You can’t help it.”
“Are you going to explain it to me?” I asked.
She chuckled. “I do not have that much time. Get back to work.”
The rest of the shift was relatively uneventful and passed quickly. As I made my way back to my locker, I realized that I was reasonably happy, which was amazing, given how awful the beginning of the night had been. Coming to work in a familiar kitchen, making food, had been exactly what I’d needed to recover after Mr. Akram’s behavior.
I hoped that Bisma Akram had something similar in her life, something that could bring joy and light when all seemed dark.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I was totally planning to spend the weekend reading up on Churchill, but Saturday slipped by like a ninja, and Sunday I ended up taking the BART back to Remarquable unexpectedly. I’d gotten a super weird call from the maître d’ claiming that there was a young woman asking after me. He had no other information, except that she’d said her name was Suraiya, but she liked to be called Suri for short.
I’d told the maître d’ that I didn’t know anyone by that name, which he’d said was fine, but the fact was that she obviously knew me, and she was waiting, so if I would be so kind, etcetera, etcetera.
When I got to the restaurant, I used the back entrance, washed my hands four times with industrial-strength soap to get BART germs off, and then made my way to the front. I recognized the mysterious Suri instantly. It was Bisma’s little sister.
She looked pretty cozy in an oversize heather-gray hoodie, reading a textbook at a table in the empty restaurant, sipping what I later learned was hot chocolate she’d prevailed on the maître d’ to give her, even though we didn’t serve hot chocolate, and Remarquable was closed.
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