Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1)

by Anne Garboczi Evans

  “Look.” Alma pointed as they walked. “When you go lingerie shopping that’s the place. Female clerks too. The king just passed a law allowing you to try clothes on in the store. Very progressive.”

  More people jostled to her right and left.

  She should interview a few for her dissertation. An older man stood by a GAP outlet. What would he have to say about the current state of politics under the new Al-Saud king? Kay took a step closer.

  “What size do you wear?” Alma’s hobo purse swung against her abaya as she turned.

  Kay glanced back. “Um, a six, maybe?”

  “Perfect for your eyes.” Alma pointed to a silk cocktail dress.

  “I have to try it on, I guess.” Kay scanned the swirling crowd of people. A restaurant stood on the other side, the tantalizing scent of shwarma rising from the tables. On one side, sat only men. On the other side, a bold sign proclaimed “family section” and men and women mixed.

  Even the Orange Julius waiting area across the aisle split into two lines separated by a wall. Men’s line. Women’s line. Hordes of children ran freely between the queues.

  “You can’t try it on.”

  “What do you mean?” Kay glanced to the old man she intended to interview. He gripped his cane.

  “Getting naked in public?” Alma tsked.

  “I wasn’t going to change here. There’s a dressing stall, I’m sure.” Kay laughed. What kind of exhibitionism did Saudis think went on in America? Though there had been that one Black Friday when the dressing room line stretched miles long. Let’s just say, she and her college roommates had found a way to try on those Victoria Secret sale items.

  She glanced to the clown who juggled in front of a pint-sized audience. What would the young man over there say about the Saudi government?

  Alma gasped. “But men will know you are naked inside the dressing room.”

  Twisting, Kay stared at her friend. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  “It’s no joke. The law prohibits changing. Except for the new level where it’s only women. Which is why it’s such a wonderful law and our king—” Alma chattered on.

  Rather than focusing on Alma’s words, Kay ran her unbelieving gaze across the masses surrounding her. These men were like middle school boys on steroids. Oh look a booby, must touch, cannot resist. Was self-control not a thing in the male world of Saudi Arabia?

  “Is America very different then?” Alma turned her brown eyes up to her. “I asked my father to let me apply to the government scholarships there, dreamed of getting my college degree.”

  “You should get your college degree. Call off the wedding and go to America.” Kay yanked out her phone. The government of Saudi Arabia offered scholarships. Mariam had gotten one. That would be a perfect way to get Alma away from her father’s pressure for a bit and help her find herself.

  “First off, I can’t. My father would never sign the exit visa. Second, it’s just a dream. I don’t really want to leave Saudi. It’s my home.”

  What was an exit visa? Kay opened a Saudi real estate app. “Register for classes in Riyadh then. Get your own apartment. I’ll help you.”

  “Women can’t rent an apartment without their male guardian’s permission.” Alma sorted through the rack of dresses. She held up a hem.

  “What?” Kay bit a wrinkle in the niqab veil. Even the oxygen felt clammy underneath this covering. “How about a women’s shelter then?”

  “They are like prisons. Also, you can go to jail for running away from your male guardian. You are sweet, mashAllah, but let us talk of other things.” Stepping away from her, Alma moved to another rack. Her blue-green purse swung against her shoulder.

  She would find a way to get Alma that college education she desired, even if it meant smuggling her back to America.

  “What about that dress?” Alma pointed to a display across the mall. A sleeveless dress in a princess waist draped around a black mannequin. Layer after layer of tulle flowed around the skirt. Alma moved into the noisy mall.

  Kay’s abaya caught in her flip-flops as she followed. She yanked at the fabric bunching around her knees. Ugh.

  A delicious smell rose from her left. A neon light said Al Saaj and people gathered around tables. The smell of a shawarma reefi sandwich wafted from the closest table along with the tang of kashkaval cheese. Two women sat there and a blond-haired man stood talking to them.

  Joe!

  The guy showed up everywhere. She suppressed a smile as she crossed toward the table. She touched the waist-high metal barrier that divided the family seating area from the mall walkway. “Joe Csontos, as I live and breathe.” Kay smiled beneath the niqab. It felt good to speak English words and she did need to thank him for last night.

  Joe jumped. He glanced at her and took a sharp step back.

  “It’s me, Kay,” she said through the black cloth that enveloped her face.

  “Oh.” He released breath. “You okay?” He kept his voice low. With his right hand, he touched the metal wall that separated them, confident, just as he’d been last night.

  The two women at the table turned their gazes. One called over to him. The gray-haired woman wore no headscarf and the younger girl’s red hair stuck out from hers. They looked American.

  “I’m fine. I need to talk to you though.” Kay tried to suck in oxygen through the suffocating rag over her face. Joe might know how to go about getting housing for a single woman. If she could find an international ATM, she could withdraw some money to help Alma pay for rent and school tuition.

  “How? This is Saudi.”

  Could co-workers date in the CIA? The way that younger woman stared at Joe, she sure wanted to date him. A twinge of something tugged at Kay. “You found a way yesterday.”

  Fingernails dug into Kay’s arm.

  Alma grabbed her. “Bismillah, why are you talking to that western man? What if the mutwas see you?” Voice high-pitched, Alma yanked her hand as if to dislocate her shoulder joint.

  “La taqlaq, I’m in a mall. Plenty of chaperones. It’s not like I’m going to kiss him or anything. Though,” Kay felt herself smile as she spoke in Arabic, a language which Joe didn’t understand. “It’s tempting, don’t you think?” Red-state guys were more resourceful than hippies like Felipe, she’d give Joe that. He’d made gauze, hydrogen peroxide, a flashlight, and a drink appear last night as if by magic.

  Crimson blazed across Alma’s face, visible even through the tiny piece of skin the niqab exposed.

  “Look at that build. Strong chin, mouth made of iron. Firm arms. Wouldn’t you want to kiss him?” Kay winked at her friend.

  “Mariam! Don’t even think that.” Alma yanked her left. “Do you want to dishonor your family?”

  At this moment, yeah she’d be totally down with that. The niqab only barely covered the scabs Muhammad had left. She motioned to Alma and switched to English. “Joe, this is my Uncle Muhammad’s fiancé, Alma. Alma this is—”

  Joe shook his head. “I didn’t realize you were with someone.”

  Oh, true. A government whatever-he-was person might not want others to know his name. “Sorry.” Kay dropped her hand.

  “Come, now,” Alma said in Arabic and pointed to a jewelry store across the mall.

  “How about we get something to eat?” Kay glanced to the empty seats at Joe and his co-workers’ table and pointed at the lighted menu that hung above the shop. “Those frango sandwiches look delicious.”

  “We can’t sit with him!” A horror worthy of blood-sucking zombies crossed Alma’s face.

  “It’s a family section. Two other women are there.” Kay gestured to the area of the restaurant where men and women mixed.

  “We’re not his family. You’re only allowed to sit together if you’re related.” Alma’s abaya sleeves fell back to her rounded elbows. She jolted away from Kay. “Religious police!” She ran.

  Kay turned. Half a dozen men in short thobes approached. They looked across the crowd. One glanced at her.<
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  “What do I do?” Kay reached over the metal barrier as the men in short thobes strode closer, their long beards thwacking against their chests.

  “Run, quick. I can’t help you,” Joe hissed and turned his back on her. With the scrape of metal, he tugged a chair out as if he’d never spoken to her.

  Gathering up her abaya, Kay took off at a sprint. One short thobed man set up a cry.

  Her lungs ached, the niqab sucking into her mouth as she increased her pace. She ducked behind a merry-go-round. The word “stairs” marked a metal door. Yanking it open, she pounded up. One of her flip-flops fell off.

  Still, she ran.

  The stairs ended. Jerking the door open, she entered the bottom story of the mall. People walked here and there, but none looked at her. She released the folds of her abaya and tugged her niqab out of her mouth.

  Reduced to racing through aisles like some six-year-old who had stolen a chocolate bar. Kay touched the cloth on her cheek. Fresh blood oozed onto her hand. The running had broken the scab.

  Her phone buzzed. Joe’s number. Moving away from the churning masses, Kay hit answer.

  Joe’s voice held concern. “I’m so sorry I got you in trouble. Did you get away okay?”

  “You seem to ask that a lot.” She let a smile into her voice. “I still want to meet up and talk. Can you pick me up at the house? Apparently I’m not allowed to have a driver’s license.” Joe would surely know about embassy resources to help Alma find an apartment.

  “How do you actually see that working out in a culture where people don’t even see each other before their wedding day, let alone allow strange American men to pick up their niece?”

  “Actually most do see each other pre-wedding. It’s called the showing. What about the mall tomorrow?” More people milled by Kay. Some glanced at her. She lowered her voice.

  “I can get here by six. You need to bring your passport and be ready to go the embassy with me from the mall.”

  “I can’t leave. I have a dissertation to write.” Kay frowned. No matter how sweet he was to ask, she couldn’t give in.

  An elbow dug into Kay’s side. Alma stood by her, or at least she recognized Alma’s handbag. “You’re talking to him again. Hang up.”

  Kay groaned. “Got to go, Joe. See you tomorrow.”

  “Enjoy it while you can.” Alma leaned against the glass display case, hands on her hips.

  “Enjoy what?” Sitting in a garbage bag, not even looking at the guy while sneaking phone calls like she was a thirteen-year-old with a crush? She had a professional relationship with Joe, not a romantic one, yet still the religious police pursued her.

  “The freedom to make phone calls with other men. Abdullah will lock you in the house and beat you if he ever suspects.” Alma narrowed her eyes, the rest of the expression lost under the sea of black.

  “And the police do nothing about it? What kind of wretched legal system is this?”

  “The Koran says beating your wife lightly is not wrong, only the husband must not strike her face.”

  “And you believe that?” Kay swallowed back filthy language. “Who even taught you that? Your conservative aunt?”

  “Ack.” Alma waved her hand, fluttering her black abaya. “She is a fundamentalist. She journeys to Mecca every year. Me, I feel if I read the Koran every day I have done well.”

  “What do you believe?” Kay looked at the teenager. Would Alma not even object when her future husband struck her because of how he perverted a religious text? The Koran was a lovely book of poetical suras, not a get-out-of-jail-free-card for domestic violence, yet these people seemed to not even have read it. She couldn’t let Alma marry Muhammad.

  Alma shrugged and shifted her handbag higher on her shoulder.

  “Haven’t you ever wished to go on a date with a man?”

  “I’m sure I’ll go on lots of dates with your uncle.” Alma rolled her eyes. “Let’s shop.” She started walking.

  Kay followed her. She had a dissertation outline due to Dr. Benson by six p.m. tonight and the insane mutwas were certainly making it into that dissertation. What a better place the world would be without religion.

  Joe glanced at the red Call Ended on his phone. She’d gotten away safe anyway. He’d never forgive himself if he got Kay thrown in jail, though her U.S. passport should save her from spending too much time there.

  Before the mutwas had shown up, Kay had talked about kissing him. She’d said it right in front of him, her eyes dancing to match her laugh, though he couldn’t see her smile through the black cloth covering her face.

  Joe fingered his pen, proof that until he solved the terrorist plot he was stuck as a desk jockey. Dad had always said, “If you’re not intending on marrying a girl, preferably already purchased the ring, don’t kiss her.” Well, he didn’t object to marrying Kay. He just had to convert her first.

  “You can’t meet up with a Saudi woman.” Ruby gave Joe a severe stare. She moved toward the mall exit, carrying a Styrofoam doggy bag. Tracy followed her.

  “Kay’s American.” Joe strode toward the exit. His Green Beret buddies would call him a moron for thinking the “marriage” word so soon, but they all moved in with their girlfriends within a month of meeting them, which was basically the same as marriage, only minus morals. He did have morals, and he saw no reason to suffer through some three-year “don’t-talk-about-marriage” purgatory just to match the time schedule of people with zero morals.

  Should he present the historical evidence for Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection first, or discuss the scientific evidence for intelligent design? Perhaps he should lead off with Pascal’s wager and then move to I.C.R.’s best scientific proof. Oh, and evidence for a Creator in thermodynamics and the galaxy, he couldn’t forget that. Biblically speaking, she had to profess faith in God before he could ask her out.

  “You do realize that woman’s insane.” Tracy pressed her mouth together. “You, cowboy, have got an insane streak too. What if the religious police had arrested you?”

  “I’m sure the CIA would have straightened it out after a few hours in jail.”

  “Get your head on straight, boy.” With a blast of wind, the air-conditioned mall gave way to the hot desert air. Tracy tugged her purse off her shoulder.

  “I have to meet with Kay to get her out of the country.” Joe looked past the high-rises on the edge of the crowded parking lot. None of the names at the imam’s Koran group had matched up to known terrorists. Also, Kay was smart, interesting, and cared about helping people. What was so insane about wanting a girl like that? She was also ravishing and he was a guy, moreover a guy who happened to have morals. Of course he was going to think about marriage.

  “She seems quite happy in country to me.” Ruby stuffed her sandwich leftovers into her purse. Fishing out a key chain, she hit Pop Lock and the black CIA issue SUV in front of them made a clicking noise. “This not driving sucks.” Ruby tossed the keys through the air.

  Joe caught them as Tracy moved to the other side of the SUV. Crossing to the passenger side, Joe opened the door for her.

  “No thanks.” Tracy yanked open the back door. “I sat upfront yesterday. Got more hoots and hollers than when I was sixteen and dived into the pool in my bikini in front of the high school football team. I’m fifty-one years old and at least forty pounds overweight. Something is seriously wrong with this country.”

  “You have to pity the Saudi women.” Ruby ducked around him and took the front seat. “Their guardian controls everything.”

  “Will you talk to Kay for me?” Joe looked at Ruby. As a woman, Ruby would have a much easier time meeting with Kay and convincing the girl to go to the embassy.

  “No way, cowboy. You draw down Brian’s ire if you want. I happen to like not getting fired.” Red locks slipped out from her head scarf as Ruby yanked the tail of her abaya up over the SUV’s door lip.

  Joe closed the door for her. Brian had given him this assignment with Kay.

  On t
he other hand, Brian would scarcely appreciate the way he was going about executing it. Joe shrugged.

  What would some P.O.G. who spent his entire military career in JAG drawing up legal paperwork know about executing missions in an indigenous population?

  Monday, October 3rd, 7:22 p.m.

  Knees drawn up on the couch, Kay scrolled through new emails on her phone. Apparently Harvard University had given undergrads the day off for the presidential debate.

  A text popped on the screen. Dr. Benson. Your outline’s trash.

  No! Kay bit her nail. She’d stayed up until 4:00 a.m. last night piecing together that outline.

  You’ve got potential.

  Wow, that was the kindest thing she’d ever heard from Dr. Benson.

  You’ve got to drop the Western attitude though. Learn to appreciate Eastern culture, not try to judge it.

  Muhammad had hit her. How did you not judge a man who hit you? Also mutwas were stupid and Alma’s father forcing her to marry a d.v. perp? She clicked her thumbs against the phone. I don’t think I was imposing values, sir. Just human rights.

  Kay.

  Even over text she could hear Dr. Benson’s annoyance and see him staring down his thin nose.

  We are practicing science, not emotion. Do you want your reputation to be one of flash judgment and cultural insensitivity or talented acumen?

  Talented acumen, of course. Guilt slid through her. She’d only written about what she’d experienced.

  Work harder. Understand this Eastern culture from within. Don’t make the mistakes of nineteenth century Western imperialists and assume Western culture is superior.

  Slumping into the plush couch, Kay raised her phone. I’ll do better, sir. I’m sorry. She’d judged hastily, just like how she’d acted with Felipe. If she kept digging, she’d find answers, right? Dr. Benson had said she would.

  If you want to graduate, you’d better.

  With a dissatisfied sigh, Kay stood. Back to jotting down outline notes. Why was not judging a culture becoming so difficult for her? She’d always considered herself an open-minded individual.