“What about after you do your knightly duty or whatever and deliver her safe and sound to America? What do you two actually have in common?” Chin on her hand, Tracy leaned more heavily on his desk. Her elbow knocked his papers out of order.
“She speaks Arabic. I speak Arabic. Do you know how rare that is?” Joe thumbed through the newspapers. Muhammad had said seven tomorrow night for the bachelor’s party. Not that he’d learn any intelligence at the tea-fest, but one did need to ingratiate oneself with intelligence assets. Also, unlike most Americans, Kay looked outside of herself and her own happy-sappy comforts. She wasn’t just a cog in a wheel. In that way, he and she were very similar.
“What else? She’s a blue state liberal. You’re…I’m not sure what ‘that’ is.” Tracy gestured in front of him, her yellow blouse sleeve flopping against his cheek. “Some combination of red-neck, fly-over-state charm, and Bible Baptist. Bet your folks wouldn’t send a dog to Harvard.”
“Wasn’t exactly an issue with their finances.” Joe opened a Word document and typed. Translation, Saudi newspaper clipping. Sure Kay didn’t come down on the same side as he on issues, but she cared enough about those issues to argue with him. Give him a person who valued their country enough to be civically active any day over an apathetic non-voter.
“You can’t just change people and make them into the image of you.”
“Christianity is the most rational choice.” Joe held the translation pages open with his elbow. How did he best translate that first sentence into colloquial English?
“Hey, I’m a Christian too. Little Episcopal church back home, good priest heard my confession for the last fifteen years. Doesn’t mean we see the world in common.” Tracy rolled her chair back one foot.
Joe looked at her. An uncomfortable feeling started in his chest. Surely God was bigger than that. The same God who could bring the dead to life and make the lame walk could touch the heart of a person from any culture, creed, or race, couldn’t he?
“Kay’s not a damsel in distress. She’s got her own opinions and ideas, some of which may be crazy, but they’re still hers.” Tracy rested her hands on her own chair’s armrests.
Joe searched his mind for a suitable response. He’d never said Kay couldn’t have ideas. He enjoyed discussing ideas with her. Granted, he fully intended to argue her into his way of thinking on those ideas. Not that he wouldn’t grow in his ideas through the process as well. Like iron sharpening iron, the Bible verse said about how two intelligent, passionate people could improve the other. Kay was intelligent and passionate.
“Even the way you talk about her is like some Jane Austen heroine, she had fine eyes and a pleasureful gait, still in the full bloom of her youth.”
“I thought women liked Jane Austen.” Joe crossed his arms. His twin sister always had Austen novels strewn across her bed, and he may or may not have read all of them one weekend when he had chicken pox. Darcy should have challenged Wickam to a duel. Colonel Brandon shooting Willoughby through the heart would have improved the plot tremendously too.
Tracy tilted her head. “Do you always fall for the girls who are entirely incompatible with you?”
Usually he didn’t fall for girls. Dad always said, “You should save enough for a house down payment before taking a girl out. Children come fast once you marry. You should be able to provide.” Since he’d joined the Green Berets, he hadn’t thought about marriage much, or consequentially, girls. His Green Beret buddies could call him crazy for that all they wished, but he’d prefer his morals to theirs any day.
“You move from Middle Eastern post to Middle Eastern post with the CIA.” Tracy swept her hand across the air, her thick rings glittering under the florescent lights. “I doubt her dreams involve abandoning her PhD to live in some embassy-issued apartment with you. Have you even asked this Kay what her ambitions are?”
Not exactly. That was scarcely his fault though. He’d been too busy converting her to have time for that.
“Go find some Midwestern Baptist girl who wants five babies. They do best with the CIA life. She’ll whip up fried chicken for the babies and smother you with kisses whenever you get home to the 1970s-style, government-issue apartment where turning the A/C on short-circuits the television.” Tracy picked up her pen and rolled her chair back to her desk.
Uncrossing his arms, Joe planted them on his armrests. “I don’t even know anyone who makes fried chicken. Have you ever been to the Midwest?”
“Ok, maybe casserole, but don’t you tell me you don’t know such a girl. You went to church growing up. There are probably five church pews full of girls longing to have your babies.” Tracy brought her ever-present coffee cup to her lips.
He scowled. “You have conservative Christianity and Mormon polygamy mixed up.” He and Kay would work. He liked her.
“Hate speech, Joe. Remember our diversity seminar? The LDS church outlawed polygamy decades ago.” Tracy smiled at him.
Would Kay and he even make a good match? Stupid question. She shared his passion for Arabic culture. She was interesting, smart, self-disciplined, and cared about helping people. Once he converted her, everything else would work out.
“You’re living in some fantasy where she’s a traditionalist. Right now, you’re her hero because you’re more liberal than this oppressive uncle. What about when you’re stateside and she’s marching in her women’s rights marches?”
“She won’t ever get stateside unless I rescue her.” Joe planted his elbows on his desk and flipped over another page of Arabic translation. Tracy didn’t understand Kay at all. Kay would never march in one of those crazy women marches.
Wednesday, October 5th, 8:45 p.m.
The bustle of Salaam Mall rushed around Kay, undeterred by the increasingly late hour. She rested her cloth-covered head against a display window. Lace twisted around the black velvet mannequins in the store behind her, the mannequins the only scantily clad women in this place.
Joe had said he’d meet her here after work to discuss the money laundering. He’d not had any leads on finding Alma a new housing arrangement so she could call off her wedding. Only two days left, and the possibility of Alma breaking the engagement grew lower every hour. If she was the praying sort, now was when she’d hit her knees.
Could Joe possibly be right about this God thing he kept shoving at her? Somewhere out there in the great unknown was there a higher power?
Part of her had always wished so. When other children talk fondly of seeing Grandma again in heaven, her parents had talked about the chemicals in Grandma’s decomposing corpse feeding the carbon cycle. From a scientific perspective, all views, no matter how improbable, were worth consideration before rejecting. She turned her face skyward.
Dear God, Eternal Force, Great Spirit, whatever you like to be called, I’m willing to make a deal. If you show me some proof of life, I’ll believe in you. Worship you even. How about you levitate something? Any time, any place. Not asking for it right now.
Beep. Her mom’s picture popped on her phone screen. How’s Saudi? I want one of those abayas, excellent to wear for my International Women in Politics class.
Kay tapped the screen. Darkness iced the pane of glass to her left, which overlooked the parking lot. The niqab veil hung over her nose, every breath she took reflecting sticky heat back on her face. No, you don’t. They’re suffocating and ugly.
Don’t be narrow-minded. When will you arrive home?
Not sure yet. Narrow-minded, the same word Dr. Benson had used about her. Kay sighed. Who would have known how much narrow-mindedness being forced to wear a garbage bag would summon up in her? With a groan, she leaned against the hard glass. She needed to muster more enthusiasm for Saudi culture before she put pen to paper on this dissertation.
We’re excited for the presidential debate. Oct 22nd. Got reservations at Oleana after.
The message app on her phone lighted. Dr. Benson. Kay clicked over.
I read your research notes.
/> Kay’s heart pounded hard against the black garbage bag. What would he think?
“Saudi Arabia lacks freedom of religion.” What possible relevance does that have to your research paper?
She gulped. I plan to tie in the lack of religious diversity as a possible cause for the religious tension in Western nations between Christians and Muslims. As much as the West is unaccustomed to Islamic cultural practices, so too some Muslims may be unused to free interaction and exchanges between a multitude of faiths.
Or basic first amendment rights as Joe would say. Kay rolled her eyes. She’d miss seeing Joe when she left Saudi. They had nothing in common. She wouldn’t even be able to invite him to cocktails with friends without things turning into a gigantic argument. Still, she’d miss his Captain-America-worthy rescue instincts and MacGyver resourcefulness. He came across as genuine too, which was refreshing in a guy.
Don’t tell me you’re losing all focus on academic rigor and going Western on me?
She swallowed hard. Had she allowed her prejudices about this shroud Saudi Arabia forced her to wear to influence her judgment? Fashion consciousness was well and good, but many more traditional cultures valued modesty. She’d have to set aside her Western revulsion to dressing in a garbage bag and focus on truly engaging Eastern culture.
Acting on a feeling rather than reason is what had gotten her into all that trouble with Felipe. I’ll rewrite the notes, Dr. Benson.
Are you a Christian? The suspicion filtered through the World Wide Web. Rumor had it, Dr. Benson had rejected a student’s dissertation last year merely because he “got religion” at some rock band concert. The student’s professor mentor had said the dissertation was brilliant in every way, and the case had even gone to the dean as religious persecution. Of course, Benson had won the case and the student had left in disgrace.
Kay hit her fingers against the keyboard screen. No.
Good. Keep it that way. How is your host family?
Not great. A U.S. government official contacted me. My host is under suspicion for money laundering. Also, the man had struck her. Perhaps that is what had pushed her into irrational bias. She pulled up the journal archive on her other browser. She’d do more reading and strive for intellectual honesty.
Disengage from that. I have a student from the Kingdom, Saeed, who told me U.S. officials often abuse diplomatic power to harass innocent Saudis.
Kay squirmed inside her abaya. Joe knew what he was doing, though she had felt guilty rifling through Muhammad’s curio cabinet. What kind of guest did that? Joe’s legit.
You’re a PhD student, not a spy.
A man passed her. Kay raised her gaze. Joe. He glanced back and forth, looking at the slit of eyes visible beneath niqabs and white faces rounded by black cloth. He looked as uncomfortable making eye contact with the women who passed this meeting point they’d agreed on, a few paces from the Saaj Reefi sandwich place, as a man in a ladies’ dressing room.
What did Joe think would happen if he accidentally engaged the wrong Saudi woman in conversation? Get his head lopped off in a deera square honor-killing?
The man truly did believe Fox News propaganda. She felt herself smile beneath the black cloth. “Hey, Joe.”
Joe spun toward Kay’s voice. There she stood, only her almond eyes showing beneath the all encompassing covering. She leaned against a glass shop front, the abaya draping around the curves of her body.
“Kay.” He stepped closer. No mutwas in sight. He needed to warn her about Abdullah’s terrorism. “Found anything out today?”
“I don’t know if I want to spy. He is my uncle.”
“He’s not your uncle.” Joe jerked away. Black cloth stared back at him, making whatever expression lit the curves of Kay’s face invisible. Only yesterday, she’d called him trying to gain information. What had changed?
“Well, he’s my friend’s uncle.” Kay fidgeted with the hem of her pocket.
“Your friend who he planned to marry off as third wife to a terrorist.” Voice low, Joe stared into her dark eyes. She needed to recognize the danger before she got herself killed.
“Abdullah’s a terrorist?” Kay drew back. Fear glimmered in her dark eyes.
“Don’t repeat that.” Or tell Brian Schmidt he’d revealed the information. Joe clenched his hand. Tonight, she’d go back into a house with a man who thought nothing of striking a woman. Muhammad probably even condoned honor-killings.
This morning, Kamal had texted him that the other student’s sister was dead, the family honor avenged with her murder.
Joe kicked the edge of the floorboard molding. A plastic piece wiggled off. He kicked it again.
“What’s eating you?”
“A Saudi girl.” Joe glared at the linoleum. A few people passed down the hallway, but none looked their way. “The brother honor-killed her.”
“Poor girl.” Kay reached out. She touched his shoulder, her hand so soft against him.
“I tried to get his friends to talk him out of it.” Joe kicked the molding. “Said why don’t they just get married? Ha.”
Kay looked at him.
“That plot only works in Christian romance novels.” He slammed his boot against the molding so hard the glass shook. How had they killed her? A knife? Hanging? Did the girl’s eyes light with betrayal before her very own brother took her life? Or had the girl come to expect such evil?
“You read romance novels?” Kay widened her eyes, the only part of her visible underneath that stupid niqab.
“My twin sister stored them under her pillow.” He needed to stop kicking that molding before a security guard arrived to accuse him of vandalism. “When I was ten, I thought they must be desperately wicked, and thus fascinating. Gilbert Morris had a good gunfight or two. Janette Oke’s book though, way too many babies, put you to sleep faster than Gibbons’ Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire.” A man of true honor would die protecting a sister, wife, or daughter, not kill her himself.
The bridge of Kay’s nose stretched the black cloth, showing the ivory of her skin. The cloth on her forehead revealed only half of her slender eyebrows. “You are such a …”
“Nerd? I’ll take that as a compliment.” He smiled.
“No, I was going to say religious nut. Nerds do normal things, like become fluent in elvish.” Her voice puffed out the black cloth. The abaya sleeve shifted with her movement, revealing the tiniest sliver of wrist.
Ha, she didn’t know the half of the religious nut piece of his childhood, and he didn’t intend to tell her. Reaching out, he flicked the black cloth up. Sure enough, she smiled beneath the niqab, her ruby lips curved.
“Hey boy, know how many Koranic suras you’re breaking right now?” She stepped into him. The abaya drew tight around her skin where her hip touched his leg, a black silhouette showing.
“The Persians invented the veil, not Muhammad.” He fingered the edge of her face veil. A tendril of Kay’s hair escaped the black and brushed against his knuckle. Her hair glistened like night skies, the mystery of winter evenings in the blackness. A sliver of her earlobe showed beneath the black cloth.
If he moved his thumb half an inch closer, he’d touch her cheek. Did her skin feel as soft as it looked?
She flicked her fingers against his arm. “Excellent observation. I’m impressed.” Twisting her fingers around his, she pulled his hand down. As she smiled, the black cloth fell back across her mouth. Her dark eyes possessed the luster of the desert.
If only he could yank off that piece of cloth and kiss those lips the blackness hid.
“These types of murders happen in America too, you know. I read a case of a fifteen-year-old, turned out in the cold to die after she told her dad that she was lesbian.”
He stared at her. How could Kay actually believe that America and Saudi Arabia treated women similarly? She couldn’t. No one could believe something that irrational. “Saudi Arabia is not the United States.”
Burying her hands deep in her abaya pockets, sh
e squared her shoulders. Perhaps she opened her mouth, but who would know beneath that funeral shroud.
Saudi Arabia, the hell-hole of the Middle East, comparable to the United States’ constitutional freedoms? Should he break into quoting the Declaration of Independence right now? Perhaps cite Federalist No. 84 by Alexander Hamilton?
Feet shuffled. A cry rose. Kay spun. Across from the family section of the Saaj Reefi sandwich place, three men in short thobes and long beards muscled through patrons.
“Mutwas, quick.” Joe pointed to a shoe store and sprinted.
She ducked down behind a display. Her breath came fast, puffing at the niqab veil.
Overhead, loud speakers sounded a call to prayer. He shoved a shoe display in front of Kay and prayed no one would discover them not going to prayer.
The fat store owner waddled out of the store. He didn’t bother to lock the door, just tugged a metal grating across it. When the penalty for theft was losing a hand, not many aspired to be thieves.
Kay hunkered back against a case of shoe boxes. A lit rack of perfumes shone on her head. With a laugh, she tugged her head scarf off. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, her cheeks glowing as she smiled at him. “Good call hiding here.”
Despite the idiocy she’d recently spouted, Joe smiled back at her. “You find the Committee for the Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice humorous?”
“I was just thinking, when I’m back in America I should actually spend an evening with you that doesn’t involve running from the religious police.”
He reached out and touched her hand. Even her knuckles possessed an ethereal grace. They had a good fifteen to twenty minutes before prayers ended and the store clerk returned.
The abaya fabric hung loose around her slender neck. Her eyes shone bright as stars.
No. He stopped himself. Modern words for a modern girl. Despite Tracy’s opinion, he was rooted in reality, seeing Kay for who she was, not imagining her as some ideal woman like Cyrano de Bergerac’s Roxanne.
Veiled By Privilege (Radical Book 1) Page 16
