Joe clicked End Call. The hot air blew around his face, the smell of rotting fruit rising up in the heat as he stared at the concrete walls that rose high on either side of this garbage-filled alley.
Even though he fought against everything Kamal stood for, the kid reminded him of himself as a teen. Religiously fervent, passionate, self-controlled. At that age, he too had viewed the world as one massive struggle of a spiritual minority against the wicked political leaders.
What kind of havoc could an Imam Al-Ghamedi have twisted his passion into if he’d grown up in a place like Saudi Arabia?
As he leaned against the wall, the rough concrete surface dug into Joe’s hand. If only he could save the kid from this path that would see him dead by age twenty-five.
The desert sun shone through the alley, making everything so bright as to lose distinction, a haze of sand and heat and barrenness. Yanking out his keys, he headed toward the rental car he’d parked three buildings back. He needed to focus on what he could do: rescue Kay, convert her, and pre-empt the terrorist attack. Had Kay ever read Descartes’ ontological argument for God?
One street over, a shadow moved. Back turned to him, Kamal strode down the street as confident in the virtue of killing infidels as any churchgoer preaching against dancing or strong drink.
How could one ever win the war against terror when the enemy fought with the power of religion?
CHAPTER 10
Monday, Oct 3rd, 1:00 p.m.
Five feet into the house the driver had brought her to, Kay rooted to the lush carpet as a Genghis Khan-sized horde rushed her.
Children grabbed at her flowing robe. A young girl clutched her arm. A toddling baby in blue reached for her. Three teenage girls dropped their phones.
One threw her arms around Kay’s neck. “You are my betrothed’s niece. Welcome, welcome.”
“Um.” Claustrophobia itched across Kay’s body. Her robe oozed into a pile of black on the floor as she looked at Alma. How had a teenager got stuck marrying a thirty-five-year-old man?
“Girls, how many times do I need to tell you, we are memorizing the Al-Baqarah sura today?” A woman rapped her hand against the Moroccan-finish table and held up a Koran.
Grabbing Kay’s hand, Alma pulled her to a seat on the long couch. The teenager’s short flowered skirt puffed about her knees in a whoosh of starched tulle. She leaned toward Kay’s ear. “That’s my aunt. Her husband divorced her last year and now that she can’t see her three kids anymore, she’s turned all fundamentalist.”
“Oh.” The claustrophobia cinched a knot around Kay as the aunt started chanting Arabic in a monotone and five other people squeezed onto the couch. Legs pressed against hers, hot breath puffed on her face, and she could smell five kinds of perfume.
Alma rolled her brown eyes up. She had commercial-worthy skin and gorgeous hair that tumbled down around her shoulders. She looked maybe nineteen.
Wriggling a few inches away, Kay leaned toward the lovely poetry of the Koran read in its native language. She looked to Alma’s conservative aunt. “What do you believe ‘the sealed’ symbolizes?”
“You don’t ask questions about the Koran. You believe it.” Alma’s aunt scowled down her plump nose. She wore a baggy black dress even here in the company of only women.
“I do believe it, but I want to know how you interpret the verse.” Kay straightened her tank top over bra straps. Perhaps she should have worn something more conservative.
“Shh, you mustn’t talk of it.” Alma darted her gaze right and left across the rich tapestries adorning white walls.
“I thought we were supposed to memorize the Koran.”
“Yes, memorize. Not discuss it. You sound like the Christians.”
“I’m no Christian.”
Alma shoved a finger against Kay’s mouth. “You are questioning the Prophet, peace be upon him. That is haram, forbidden.”
She’d just asked a question. Even that hoodie-wearing glider stealer at Mariam’s Bible study had answered when she’d ask an, admittedly snarky, Bible question. “What if I’m not a Muslim? Corrupted by America and all.”
Alma grabbed Kay’s arm and jerked her across the couch cushion. “Mariam, you are not in America. Your parents are Muslim, then you are Muslim. If you abandon the faith, the penalty is death.”
Kay stared at Alma. “No!” The girl couldn’t be serious. That was probably some lie an Islamophobic talk show host had invented.
Alma popped a baklava in her mouth which, with the crazy lack of exercise here in Saudi Arabia, would more than likely go to her hips. “Let’s sneak out. Auntie’s Koran studies go on for hours.” Alma stood.
Her aunt’s chants rose and fell behind them as they snuck through a long hallway that smelled of tea.
A courtyard opened in front of them. Palm trees hung over a delightful fountain. The clear blue water of a swimming pool filled out the tranquil scene.
Kay breathed deep of the fresh air. The sun beat down on her bare arms, which she probably should have applied sunscreen to.
“Tell me about your uncle.” The teenager twisted. A palm tree’s fronds made dancing shadows on Alma’s brown hair as the wind blew her crisp skirt around her legs.
Kay scrunched up the left side of her face. “Um, he’s one of two kids. His brother, my dad, died six years ago.” Wait, maybe Mariam’s dad had sisters too? She should have interrogated Mariam about that along with Saudi customs. Hopefully Mariam had made it to Canada. She’d text her tonight. “He works for—” Actually, she had no idea where ‘Uncle’ Muhammad worked. Kay squirmed.
“What’s he like?”
This spending no time with the man you intended to wed was insane. Worse even than that TV show with the crazy Bible thumpers who wore denim jumpers and didn’t kiss before marriage. She’d made fun of that family for not kissing before they wed, but not meeting?
“Is he kind? Will he allow me to work?”
“Allow you? Just apply for the job.” She really shouldn’t let this teenager marry her abusive uncle. How did one break off an engagement in Saudi Arabia? Traditional cultures took family agreements seriously.
Alma blinked, tipped her chin up, then shook her head. “Is he a liberal?”
“He says he is. He drinks alcohol.” She wouldn’t call beating women liberal. Here though as the sunshine warmed her face and she met normal, non-violent Saudis, the fear of last night dissipated. Every culture had their bad apples. She’d just gotten unlucky and met one first thing.
“That is good.” Alma smiled. Then, with a sigh, she glanced to the concrete bench by the pool. A pile of textbooks sprawled across the bench. “Though I’d rather finish university then marry.”
“Do it. You should.” This teenager shouldn’t get stuck with a domestic violence perpetrator.
Alma raised her hands, palms up. “Allah has willed it. There is nothing I can do.” Her face was guardedly blank.
“How do you know the marriage is Allah’s will?” Honestly, this is where religious crap drove her nuts. Kay ran her gaze over the girl’s face. Could she help the girl apply for college scholarships? How much of a scandal would breaking off her wedding the week of cause for Alma?
“My father arranged it. I have no choice.” Alma paddled one hand through the pool, moving a fallen leaf. The water sparkled in the arid heat.
“I’ll help you fight this marriage. Which university do you want to go to?” Kay plopped on the concrete by Alma. She’d read an article about Saudi building its first co-ed university in Riyadh. She dug out her phone. Still dead.
“Fight, why? So my new husband will hate me and allow me even less freedoms than my father?” Alma plunged both legs into the pool. Wetness rimmed the hem of her skirt. “Phone charger’s there.”
Kay jumped up. Her bare feet made wet footprints as she crossed to the overhang where a charger protruded from an outlet. “Have you put in any applications yet? You might not have missed the deadline for the spring semester.” She ne
eded to help the girl find housing too. If Alma could get a job on campus, perhaps she could live in the dorms for a reduced price. Surely some financial aid was available.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” Kay hit the power button on her phone. “I’ll help you apply for student aid.” Now to do a Google search for local universities.
“My father would never allow it.” Gloom sagged Alma’s shoulders. She kicked the water. All at once, a lightness buoyed Alma’s expression. Her white teeth sparkled in the sunshine. “Do you think your uncle will allow me?”
The power of the charger flowed into her phone. With a whir, it popped back to life. Her phone buzzed and beeped uncontrollably as she typed “Universities near Riyadh” in the Google app. Joe’s picture appeared on her screen. Are you ok?
Kay typed with her thumbs. Yes. Thanks. The guy had broken into a house to rescue her and remembered to check on her the next day.
You need to come to the embassy.
Kay frowned. I can’t.
“Who do you keep texting?” Alma stood over her, gaze on Joe’s text, as her skirt dripped on the concrete deck!
With a jump, Kay clutched the phone to her chest. “My mom. I mean step-mom.” Mariam’s mom had died and her father’s second wife was in Pakistan, right? Did you call a second wife step-mom?
“Why does your mom have a blond-haired western guy as her avatar?” Alma brought her eyelashes down.
“Movies, she loves movies. He’s some movie star.” Kay fumbled for words. Alma had seen her phone’s screen. Did Alma read English? Her American name had appeared beside that text.
Alma laughed, a rippling sound that spread through the dry air. “I love how liberal your family is. I thought my dad would have chosen some dour conservative who’d want me to wear black gloves with my abaya as my husband. Come.” The girl made a beckoning motion.
Laying down the phone, Kay followed the teenager inside, up a flight of broad stairs, through a curtain, into a lavish room. A plush seat covered in pink silk sat in front of an overflowing dressing table. Hair ties, eye shadow, and brushes filled with hair scattered across the surface. An MP3 player and ear buds draped over the pillowcase of the unmade bed.
Shoving open a closet, Alma grabbed something white. “This is my dress.” Alma’s pearly teeth contrasted with her dark lips as she smiled.
Kay looked at the teenager who should be having crushes on boy bands and wailing about an upcoming trigonometry test, not getting married. The white silk set off the girl’s dark skin. The girl was lovely. Uncle Peeping-Tom Muhammad needn’t have worried on that score.
Alma swirled the white folds. Filmy lace secured the neck, sequins leading down to the white silk of the skirt. The dress looked like something out of Vogue magazine. Here she’d small-mindedly assumed Saudi women always wore black.
“You will be a bride soon too. Have you chosen who will do your henna tattoos?”
“Um.” Kay looked around the ornate room, white painted furniture contrasting with intricate wall mosaics. How would she convince Alma to call off her wedding mere days beforehand?
“I have my henna tattoo appointment Thursday right before sunset when everything closes for the men to attend mosque.”
A mosque visit. That’s what she needed for her dissertation. Kay straightened. “May I go to the mosque with you?” Going together would give her time to aid Alma in applying for scholarships.
“This is Riyadh. Women aren’t allowed in the mosque. Besides Muhammad, peace be upon him, said it was better for a woman to pray at home.” With one last swirl, Alma hung up the dress.
“I seriously am not allowed inside a mosque?” Freedom of religion, hello. Who didn’t allow women to learn about God? She’d attended the mosque next to the refugee center before. Of course, she had been confined to the downstairs, women’s section. Kay glanced at the closed window where a thick curtain blocked out all natural light. If only she had a place that didn’t belong to her abusive uncle to invite Alma so her father couldn’t force her to marry. Perhaps she could rent a room?
“Have you picked out your dress yet?”
“No. My uncle shoved this at me and told me to go shopping with you.” Kay tugged the creased envelope out of her jean pocket.
Paper note after paper note fell out. Enough Saudi riyals to equal at least a thousand U.S. dollars spread around her feet. She stared.
Alma clapped her hands. “Let’s go. Our driver’s free and I know just the shop to take you to in Salaam Mall.”
“I couldn’t.” Waste Uncle Muhammad’s money on a dress she would never use? She felt bad enough breaking this Abdullah’s heart without stealing Uncle Muhammad’s money. Kay looked at the fortune lying around her flip-flop-covered feet.
“When a man sends you shopping, never refuse.” Alma picked up a tube of lip gloss and smiled into her vanity mirror. “I’m starting to like the idea of becoming Mrs. Muhammad Al-Khatani.”
Kay watched a dimple appear on Alma’s right cheek as the girl’s smile grew. She should visit the mall for her dissertation anyway and shopping with Alma gave her more time to talk the girl out of marrying a domestic violence perpetrator. Besides, Muhammad had hit her. How bad did she actually need to feel wasting his money?
“I don’t usually say this, but you should wear niqab. Your cheek looks bad.” Alma tied a headscarf over her hair. Her veil covered even her nose, shrouding her cheeks in darkness.
Thus the opportunity arose. “Alma, I want you to listen very carefully. Muhammad,” Kay swallowed. Slowly, she touched Alma’s shoulder. How awful for the girl to have her dreams dashed a week before the altar. It was for the best though. Young marriages rarely went well. Just last month a twenty-year-old girl had arrived at the Cambridge domestic violence shelter because of a young marriage gone wrong. “He gave me this wound.”
“What? Why?” Alma drew back. Her polished nails scraped against the metal closet door.
“The psychology of domestic violence is a deep field of study. Therapists at the shelter where I volunteered posited a variety of theories as to why men abuse.” Kay rested a hand on the dressing table. How angry would the girl’s father be when Alma broke the match? Would he pay for her to go to university when he heard what a jerk her betrothed was?
“No, what did you do?”
“I,” Kay stepped back. Alma’s dressing table cut into her leg. Violence was never the victim’s fault, so why did her voice sound unsure? “I got surrounded by mutwas at the airport, then I interrupted his all-male meeting and touched a male guest. Domestic violence perpetrators will abuse regardless of circumstances.”
Alma waved her hand. “You should not keep calling it that. Domestic violence is wrong. It is against sharia. That, it is just a little anger. You should not have defied your uncle.”
Alma acted as if physical violence was commonplace. Kay’s legs shook. Alma accused her of inviting the assault. She should have given up her seat when Mr. Armani-Suit asked, embraced cultural sensitivity.
No! None of this was her fault. What kind of twisted logic had this place sucked her into?
“This will cover the wound.” Alma handed her a black face cloth.
“Why should I cover it? Let the world know my uncle’s a domestic violence perpetrator.” Kay squared her shoulders, moving the tank top over sun-tinged skin. The dressing table mirror reflected her bruised cheek. The shame of lying on that glass-shard-covered carpet last night, throat burning for water, in that locked room swept over her. If Joe hadn’t come, what would she have done?
“Mariam!” Alma took a sharp step forward. “Shaming your uncle will not prove anything. Besides, it is against Allah’s will. You have lovely hair, mashAllah.” The teenager wrapped the cloth around her face, fastening it over her hair.
The ivory-lined mirror reflected back a shrouded woman where Kay’s face had been. Reaching up, Kay touched her fingers to the black as she looked at herself, only her eyes showing around the bottomless blac
k.
How many other women in this city hid bruises behind the veil?
CHAPTER 11
Monday, Oct 3rd, 2:05 p.m.
With the scream of hot tires against hotter pavement, Kay’s driver brought the car to a halt.
Kay slid out of the backseat and the torrid air of Saudi hit her. She hadn’t even put on her headscarf and abaya yet and already sweat drizzled down her neck. Bending over the leather seat where Alma sat, Kay reached for the black cloth. “Man, is it hot.”
Two cars down a man whistled. Kay craned her neck. The man stared at her bent over body. Pervert! A boy cat-called.
Sexual harassment much? Jerking to upright, Kay slid her arms into the abaya sleeves, covering her jeans and tank top.
In an odd way, she felt safer with the clothing on. Kay gave the pervert a dirty glare as a black-robed Alma rounded the other side of the car.
A woman and four little children walked around the corner. Pervert man took the stroller from the woman, obviously his wife, and started pushing.
This incident was absolutely making it into her dissertation.
Blue neon letters stretched across the tall white structure in front of them. Salaam Mall. Kay’s flip-flops struck sizzling pavement as Alma and she moved toward the entrance.
As they passed the glass doors, the noise of shoppers surrounded her. Blue colored ceilings stretched tall above them, revealing floor after floor of shops. Fluorescent lights gleamed off headless mannequins. Familiar brands surrounded her.
Children filled the area. Five, six, seven children circled a mother clutching a tan purse. A train screeched around the corner, filled with cheering children.
The green rails of a roller coaster zigzagged around the central open space! Kay stared. The mall looked like an amusement park with kid-sized rides at every turn.
A sea of black swept around her in wave after wave as covered women milled, not one strand of a woman’s hair visible in this crowd.
Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1) Page 11
