by Gus Leodas
Evening was pleasant for walking and for a nonchalant, drifting attitude. She stopped and browsed a bookstore window. Cursory glances absorbed the display. She crossed to the east side. Continuing on, the Tiffany windows drew her like a magnet, widening eyes bigger than her purse. She entered; browsed and dreamed for forty minutes, handling the jewelry and glassware with yearning pretending they belonged to her and Tiffany held them on consignment – looking, only touching. Buying exceeded her means. Shaba never knew wealth. Her family always lived poverty stricken on essentials in Congo. Her economic status improved after she married Kintubi, a young army officer. Her salary in New York was barely comfortable. She left Tiffany when reality overcame fantasy.
Oh, well, maybe someday.
Regulations restricted her husband from sending money to her. Just as well, she reconciled.
The unchartered course continued to 58th Street. At the Plaza Hotel, she turned left and headed west. At Avenue of the Americas, she crossed northward and strolled westerly along the southern edge of Central Park floating in a casual meandering state.
A cafeteria invited on Broadway past Columbus Circle and she entered. She exited at 7:30. The walk placed her at Lincoln Center. Her first visit, she gazed as a tourist awed by beautiful architecture and enormous Chagall painting in the Metropolitan Opera lobby. She studied sidewalk billboards at the entrance to Symphony Hall. The New York Philharmonic performed. She gambled on a ticket although signs advertised the performance as sold out. Standing room was available. She accepted, entered, and then swept away by Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony and Tchaikovsky’s Pathetique Symphony Number 6. The concert ended at 10:50.
She arrived at her apartment building on 51st Street at 11:20.
Ali Fuad Kahil, the Syrian ambassador, always left the apartment before 10:30. Standing through the concert was reason to look forward to getting into bed, stretching out, and allowing the symphonies to carom within her. As she exited the cab, Kahil, dressed in suit and tie rushed from the building to reserve the taxi. She got out. He dashed in head down thoughts elsewhere. Shaba almost said hello but the door closed. With despair, she watched him pull away.
There’s a problem.
She was glad coming home later than usual. On the occasions she arrived late, Alise slept; unlikely Alise slept tonight. When Shaba entered the apartment, Alise stood near a window, arms folded, staring out, unseeing.
Although expecting Alise in a sad mood, Shaba alarmed at her dejected posture. She approached with curiosity and sensitive footing.
“Alise?” Shaba nudged her shoulder. “What happened?”
Alise remained expressionless.
“I’m beginning to hate him for the first time.”
Shaba enveloped her with a comforting hug.
“Come, let’s talk.” She herded Alise towards the red crushed velvet sofa. “We know you’ll never hate him enough to leave him. What did he do this time?” Alise delayed a response. Removing shoes from tired feet, Shaba curled her feet as she sat next to Alise. “He’s definitely a constant aggravation, unworthy of you. I know you love him, but what good is it if he doesn’t love or respect you? He’s punishment and heartache.”
Tears overcame Alise, flowing having Shaba for consolation.
She sobbed. “Can’t help myself.”
“Looks like a long night. I’ll make coffee.”
Shaba jumped up, prepared instant coffee, and returned with two cups. Alise lit a cigarette, inhaling deep for the smoke to repress her remorseful demeanor.
Shaba tried to brighten the moment with a new subject.
“Alise, you know what I did tonight? I surrounded myself with elegance. First, I went to Tiffany then to Lincoln Center.”
Alise remained distant. “Whom did you see?” she mumbled as a courtesy.
“The New York Philharmonic. Shostakovich and Tchaikovsky.”
Alise retained the distant look. Shaba realized the futility of changing subjects. Her lover consumed her.
“Did he hit you?”
“No, Ali will never hit me, not the type.”
“Dump him.”
“I can’t.”
“Why stick with blight void of emotional attachment. When did a month pass, a week when he didn’t cover you with his depression blanket? He has no love for you, Alise. He may say so but…” She shrugged. “Is his attitude the same?” Alise nodded with a sob. “What now?” Shaba asked. Alise lowered her head. “He refused to marry you?”
“Yes.”
“What about the baby?”
“He couldn’t care less.”
Shaba fumed. “Force him to marry you, create a scandal over this. In his high position, a scandal will ruin him.”
“No, I don’t want him that way.”
“What about your pregnancy?”
“I want his child more than anything. But it’s unrealistic and I can’t support my baby.”
“Meaning?”
“Abortion.”
Shaba threw her hands up with sarcasm. “That’s terrific. Terrific! Do you want me to talk to him?”
“No. Your interfering will outrage him. I’m convinced he never respected me even after I changed for him. I guess he’ll never forget or allow me to.”
“Paying you for sex is an imprint he’ll never forget though a long time ago. Men like him are users. Best is to drop him.”
“Can’t. I want to stay here and work.”
“Either put out or get out. Is that it?”
“I don’t want to go back to Syria at this time. War and civil unrest is a continuing threat. I’ll pretend things are all right with Ali and me, have the abortion then smiling challenge him to try and do it again.”
“You sound like a fool.”
“Maybe he’ll change.”
“The only thing he’ll change is his socks. If you continue your foolish ways protect yourself.”
“My pregnancy wasn’t an accident.”
The stunner came as a casual statement.
“Don’t tell me. Do…not…tell…me. I don’t want to believe it.”
“I panicked, afraid he was slipping away.”
Shaba seethed considering Alise’s reason – stupidity.
“Three years, Alise. Three years hoping and waiting shutting out the world for that leper. I bet he doubts it’s his, right?” Shaba hit a soft spot. Alise nodded demurely staring at the floor. Shaba threw up her hands again. “That figures. Drink your coffee!” It was an order. Alise obeyed. “I ought to take you to Africa with me and have you circumcised.”
“Circumcised? What are you saying?”
“Circumcision is a ritual to discourage women from having unsanctioned sexual intercourse. According to United Nation’s estimates the practice is common in twenty African nations and affects over one hundred and fifty million women.”
“How horrible! How do you circumcise a woman?”
“Young girls are circumcised, many forcefully as a rite of passage. Their clitoris is cut with a knife or razor without an anesthetic.”
“What a horror. The thought is painful.”
“Then they stitch the vulva together. It is ancient, cruel, backwards and unhealthy depriving the woman from enjoying sex. The UN is attempting to educate women to end the abusing practice of clitoridectomies.”
“Were you circumcised?”
“No, thank goodness. Knowing what sex is like I’ll kill anyone who tries to circumcise me today.”
“What a terrible practice. That’s child abuse.”
“Not to the societies and religions that practice it on boys and girls. There is social pressure to be a virgin at marriage. Many women accept circumcision, brainwashed to believe sexual pleasure is men’s domain. I’ll bet your man Ali subscribes to that philosophy.”
“Please. Change the subject.”
“Nothing will change your feelings about Ali?”
Alise shook her head, sipped her coffee and turned pensive, withdrawn. Shaba meandered out to the b
alcony to let the night air massage aggravated nerves, to pacify their scraping by Alise’s hopeless position. The situation tore Shaba’s heart. Medicine was absent in the night air, only heavier scraping. Alise was desperate, and desperate people do desperate things. She breathed deep, closed the door, and looked at Alise sitting defeated then sat on the sofa again. Although Ali never abused her physically, mental abuse proved as bad. Shaba’s pain witnessed her closest friend’s abuse and knew there was no alternative to abortion, what Ali wanted.
“Shaba, how does one get an abortion in this country?”
“Beats me. I’ll ask Laura or Kim. Kim should know.”
“I don’t want them to know yet. Soon, later.”
“You have legal choices; a hospital or an abortion clinic. I’ll check tomorrow. What about cost? Is he willing to pay the clinic?”
Alise pointed to an envelope on the cocktail table.
“What’s in the envelope?” Shaba inquired.
“Five hundred dollars.”
“Looks like he bought his conscience. But that doesn’t seem like a sufficient amount.”
“I’ll check around, also. I recall seeing an advertisement last week for an abortion clinic for pregnancy tests and termination with anesthesia, a nonprofit organization. Maybe I can find the ad.”
“You ought to make the bastard accompany you.”
“That’s public suicide to him.”
“Incredible! You’re more concerned about him than about yourself. I guess love also makes people stupid. I’m glad I never loved a man. Somebody has to be concerned about you. Let me know when and I’ll take the day off.”
“I can go alone.”
“Going with company is better. You need support.”
“From what I hear you go in and out the same day. Is that true?”
“Don’t ask me. Sure,” came with sarcasm, “like going to the dentist for a cleaning. Like it or not, one day in or not, I’m going with you.”
Alise smiled and held Shaba’s hand.
“Thanks. The thought scares me to death.”
Shaba leaned over, picked up the envelope, and examined the five one-hundred dollar bills. Then she sniffed them.
“They smell dirty, his ambassadorial and political body odor.” She returned them to the envelope with disdain. The envelope tapped her palm. “Five hundred dollars – an expensive erection. Alise, let’s look at this from an unemotional view. As far as he’s concerned all he wants to do is stick you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I won’t say this, understand, if he loved you. He pays you twelve hundred a month for your half of this apartment, sees you once or twice a week. In a month’s time that makes ten times, figuring a couple of times a night. Math wise, it comes down to you’re a cheap screw. The girls on Eighth Avenue make more.”
“Shaba, that’s horrible.” Alise grinned. “Awful.” The grin changed to laughter and increased as depressed feelings released.
Shaba continued the ranking. “I count the days I know you two get together…and how about the few in between?”
“We sneak in a few…at the office.”
“Goodness! Now you’re down to twenty bucks a pop! And when here, you cook for him and pay for the food. You’re a maid, a cheap screwing maid. I always knew you were a classy broad.” Her sarcasm was humorous.
Alise looked at Shaba lovingly knowing she tried to lift her spirits.
“I wish I could look at it your way. I’m the aggressor more than he is sometimes. When he’s himself, he’s loveable…and humorous, makes me laugh.”
“Honey, you don’t marry a guy because he makes you laugh. You’re not an idiot. He showed his soul when the chips were down. How funny is he now? What will he do if you played hard to get?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out. Tell him you’re in pain for a month that you closed the shop.”
“A month? I’ll die without loving him for that long.”
“Pretend you’re circumcised. I would handle the problem differently. I would shut him off then listen to him grovel, beg, and scheme to find the shop key again – like Lysistrata, the ancient play by Aristophanes. To end the Peloponnesian War between Athens and Sparta, the women got together and refused to have sex until men found a way to end the war. The women won. Go on a sex strike. Be stronger. He might discover you’re a person, not a sex object. He may panic at losing a sure thing or worry there might be someone else, might even discover he cares for you.”
“Shaba, that’s good psychology. He wouldn’t care if I had someone else. I’ll tell you something new. He’s a friend of Defense Minister Kabani of Syria, both bachelors. He hinted the other day at lunch that when Kabani visits here in two weeks, I act nice to him and ingratiating as if offering myself as a gift from his loyal ambassador. He can’t afford to provide him with other female company chancing publicity or scandal, and that I’ll be discreet about it.”
“Wooo-weeeee!” shouted Shaba. “Wooo-weeeee! You are without a doubt the Joan of Arc of total abuse by the male of the species. It’s your torch, honey, to carry as you see fit. Damn, Alise, it’s an unhealthy relationship.”
Alise withdrew, her hands moving along her stomach.
“I wish I could have this baby,” she mumbled.
She projected far into the future. Shaba understood. She edged closer and removed Alise’s hands from her stomach.
“Don’t torture yourself. Have it. I’ll help you to raise your child. Once you give birth, your inconsiderate lover may repent. He’ll have to provide you with support. If he fails then expose him publicly. Okay? I promise you all the support I can give.”
Alise shook her head. “No, Shaba. All that’s no good.”
“You’re convinced?”
“After talking to him tonight, I have no choice. I don’t want to chance losing him.”
Shaba shook her head – love and weakness.
“Since I’m returning home at the end of next week. If you must abort then do it when I’m here.”
Alise replied in a low tone Shaba barely heard.
“I’ll do it early next week.”
At eleven the next morning, Erron Horsford called Shaba at her office for a luncheon date. She accepted. Unlike Pilar, Shaba refused to wear losing her two children everywhere. Shaba was socially active, outgoing, and positive. Anguish remained private, and she never felt sorry in public although agony and pain remained unbearable.
Shaba dated aloof of serious involvement, her form of external mourning and deprivation. Although men tried to corner her, she remained elusive. They soon abandoned the chase. When her occasional desire for physical contact surfaced, she suppressed the yearning with verbal maneuvers. After all, she reasoned, she was a married woman, unhappily but married.
She honored her marital commitment to a man she never loved.
Erron Horsford continued the chase. She failed to understand why. His closest physical contacts were two goodnight kisses on the cheek at her building’s front door. They dated periodically during the past four months, yet spoke often on the phone.
Erron persisted, thwarted more times than accepted by Shaba. Often he hoped for her initiative. Shaba accepted his luncheon invitation without hesitation after he urgently announced it was important they meet for what he considered a crisis.
Shaba had a habit, a personal tradition of always dressing up on Fridays to make the day a special occasion. Her philosophy evolved to celebrating the end of the workweek and starting the weekend looking her best.
Before leaving her office at noon, she scrutinized her twenty-eight year old face anticipating wrinkles. Her face remained smooth and taut. After straightening and adjusting the black and white vested slack suit and light green blouse, she headed for the Dorset Hotel on 52nd Street adjacent to the Museum of Modern Art.
Erron Horsford waited in the lobby overflowing with enthusiasm when she entered through the revolving door. Erron wore a blue suit and matchin
g shirt and tie. He was twenty-eight with cropped hair.
“Erron, what’s wrong? What’s the urgency? Are you all right?”
“I’ll tell you over lunch. You look lovely.”
“Thank you.” Shaba looked around in a humorous vein. “If we keep meeting in hotel lobbies I’m going to wonder about you.”
“Stay on your toes. Can we have a leisurely lunch? The food and ambiance in this restaurant is too good to rush.”
“Leisurely,” she replied as they waited at the entrance to the dining room. “I warned you about Fridays. I go first class today.”
“How well I remember and why I recommended this restaurant. You don’t scare me, lady.”
“I should, you fool.”
The maitre d’ offered a cordial greeting and seated them. They each ordered a Bloody Mary.
“Okay, Erron. Why must you see me? What’s important that’s going to cost you this expensive lunch?”
He reached inside his jacket’s right side pocket, pulled out an article clipped from the front page of The New York Times, and unfolded it.
She waited, curious. A rendering of a map of Africa accompanied the article with the title – War Continues in Congo. The Congo inset map was gray. Provinces in the war-torn eastern highlands were shaded in black.
“I read it this morning, first thing I do each day,” countered Shaba. “I review newspapers for clippings about The Democratic Republic of the Congo, magazines also. I stay as current as possible.”
“Aren’t you concerned at all?”
“The tragedy isn’t news to me.”
“I’m afraid Congo may change from a democracy. I believe this article is something to be alarmed about – about the rekindled hate, ethnic strife, and brutal and inhumane war in the east, especially in Ituri province. Shouldn’t you be alarmed?”
Shaba leaned her chin on her flattened intertwined fingers topped with a smile.
“Is that your urgency to see me?”
“Yes. I know you’re going back next week.”
“And you’re concerned I may be unable to leave the country again?”
“Concerned about your safety. A broader war is a possibility if these reports are correct.”
