Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  “Can’t say I do. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be on my ninth or tenth comeback.” “Wouldn’t you?” The professional again.

  Travis noticed. “You ask a lot of questions. What do you do for a living?” “I’m a psychologist,” she said, wondering why she sounded so apologetic.

  He grinned wide, his gray eyes sparkling with amusement. “Well, I’ll be damned. I sure know when to open my mouth. So have you been shrinking me, doc?”

  Jenna smiled and said nothing.

  “Well, okay, then, if you won’t answer that question, I’ll try another. How about taking in my show at the Hilton tonight? Ringside seat, champagne—the whole nine yards.”

  Jenna was startled. It had been a while, a long while, since anyone had asked her out. Her manner and demeanor didn’t normally encourage flirtation or banter.

  “I’m going to be very busy,” she said with a polite smile. “I don’t think I’ll have time for any shows.”

  But she had underestimated Travis’s persistence. Before the meal was served, he had cajoled her into agreeing to see his “ninth or tenth comeback.” And by the time they’d landed, she had learned a few basic facts of his life. He was forty-one, younger than he looked. He’d been singing since he was twelve—“for pay, that is. Just singin’ for fun, I been doin’ a lot longer than that.” Although he’d never been a star of the first magnitude, Travis had made lots of money, spent it, made more, spent it again. “I guess I do that so I have to keep working,” he explained. And Jenna allowed that he might be right.

  O

  Is this really me? she wondered as she sang “You Are My Sunshine” with Travis to the accompaniment of the karaoke in the Hilton lounge. It certainly wasn’t Amira Badir. And as for Jenna Sorrel, had she ever been this silly, this giddy? She hadn’t—and yet she was enjoying every minute of it.

  The show had been great fun—the sequined dancers, the so-so magician, even the corny ventriloquist. She had enjoyed the meaningful smiles Travis had aimed in her direction when he sang, the squeals of delight emitted by his female fans. And she could not deny she was flattered when he introduced her at the end of his set as “my beautiful lady friend from Bahston.”

  His easy, guileless enthusiasm swept her along to an impromptu party in the lounge, Travis singing his personal favorites for the crowd that gathered happily to hear him. And when he’d had enough of singing, he took Jenna by the hand and showed her around the casino, encouraging her to try her hand at roulette and blackjack and craps.

  It was all very different from her experience in London and Monte Carlo with Ali. Travis made it all seem like a big joyful game for overaged children.

  When he lost, he moaned and groaned dramatically. And when he won, he whooped and shouted and ordered drinks for the table.

  Is this really me? she wondered again later, in his arms. Could there be a more mismatched couple? But differences didn’t seem to matter when they walked the beach at dawn, when they swam at sunrise, and kissed just before falling asleep in Travis’s enormous king-sized bed.

  For the rest of her all-too-short stay in Puerto Rico, Travis courted and wooed Jenna as she had not been courted before. With flowers and compliments, and laughter. He gave her fun by day—the kind she might have known as a teenager, had she grown up in America—and tenderness by night. And though she slept very little, she felt refreshed and renewed.

  When it was time to go, she felt awkward. Had this been the beginning of a relationship? An interlude? What did she want it to be?

  They separated at the airport. Travis had one more week in San Juan, then an engagement in Los Angeles.

  “I want to see you again,” he said solemnly. She nodded and gave him her card.

  They kissed good-bye.

  On the flight home, the whole weekend seemed almost like a dream, something far removed from the reality to which she was returning. How on Earth could she explain Travis to Karim? Or to herself, for that matter? All she knew was that he’d been like the proverbial breath of fresh air, bringing a new dimension to her monastic life.

  She tried to think of ways to prepare her son. ‘‘I had a lovely time,” she told him. “Puerto Rico is beautiful.”

  “Uh-huh,” he replied.

  “I met a lot of new people. Nice people.” “That’s good.”

  She needn’t have worried. It was more than six weeks before she heard from Travis.

  “I’m doing two nights in Toronto,” he said without prelude or apology, as if they’d spoken a day or two ago, “and then two nights in Boston. I’d like to come see you, if that’s okay.”

  “All right,” she said, not at all sure it would be. Once again, she tried to pave the way by telling Karim that a friend would be coming by that weekend to take her to dinner. “His name is Travis Haynes.”

  “A man? You’re going out to dinner with a man? When did all this happen?”

  “There is no ‘this,’” she said, trying to remain calm. Maybe her son was deliberately kidding her, but his proprietary attitude reminded her too much of his father.

  Travis arrived on a Friday night, still wearing his stage costume: a cow- boy suit of white satin embellished with rhinestones. Karim and Jacqueline were in the kitchen making popcorn. Karim scowled as he was introduced. Jacqueline smirked.

  “I’ve got a present for you, darlin’,” Travis said, handing Jenna a big, brightly wrapped package.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she said. And when it turned out to be an out- fit that matched his, she repeated the sentiment, not daring to look at either Karim or Jacqueline.

  As quickly as politeness would allow, she whisked Travis away from the apartment. Once they were away from disapproving eyes, she relaxed enough to enjoy mussels and pasta in the North End and coffee and dessert at the Copley Plaza, where Travis was staying. She could not, however, relax enough for anything more.

  “I can’t,” she said, not altogether regretfully, for what seemed right in Puerto Rico just didn’t seem appropriate in Boston. “Karim just wouldn’t understand.” “Well, if he won’t, then I guess I’ll just have to,” Travis drawled, and Jenna kissed him for that.

  O

  “He’s not right for you,” Karim pronounced the following morning, sounding so much like a parent that she would have laughed had she not been so annoyed.

  His reaction was normal enough. Karim had never had to deal with the prospect of sharing her with anyone else. It didn’t take a degree in psychol- ogy to understand that.

  But when Travis called several times over the next few months, it was clear Karim’s objections were more specific: “If you have to date someone, why don’t you date an Arab man? Are you ashamed of what you are?”

  “I wasn’t searching for anyone to date,” she explained patiently. “I just met a very nice man while I was on the plane. Don’t you think I should have any life of my own?”

  Karim glowered at her. Again, for a terrible moment, she thought she glimpsed Ali.

  O

  Travis’s schedule—and his natural inclination to roam—did not allow him to be a constant presence in Jenna’s life. And, in truth, this suited her. Though it wasn’t the kind of emotional connection she had made with Philippe, Travis had brought her out of her self-imposed isolation. He had allowed her to play, to be less serious, less intense, to laugh at herself once in a while, and at life. To be young. After she jokingly referred to their part-time love affair, Travis wrote a song called “Part-Time Lover” and dedicated it to her.

  O

  “Badir Fined, Ending Mirage Case” read the headline in the Wall Street Journal. After months of murky revelations about dubious international banking practices and the business, and personal habits of several high European officials, the investigation into Malik’s business affairs ended with a series of low-level results. Several minor bureaucrats were forced to resign. Malik, except for the fine—which was huge—got off unscathed.

  Elated and relieved that Malik would be all right, Jenna
was in a celebratory mood. Unfortunately, she couldn’t tell anyone why. Probably, it was her mood of willfully suppressed happiness that caused her to say, “Why not?” when Travis called that very night and invited her to accompany him on part of his summer tour. She could easily manage a couple of weeks’ vacation in August, especially since Karim had already made plans to spend most of the month at the Chandler home in Newport.

  Yet, no sooner had she said yes than Jenna began to have second thoughts. She had never spent more than a weekend in Travis’s company. What would they do for days on end? And how would she adapt to his gypsy lifestyle?

  Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself. We’ll have a great time. It will do me good to break out of my routine.

  But her concerns turned out to be well founded. The tour wasn’t the fun interlude she had expected. It was more like nonstop madness. Worse, Travis’s drinking, gambling, and partying weren’t as charming to her on a daily basis as they’d been for a night or two snatched here and there. And Jenna’s interest in intellectual topics didn’t fascinate Travis over the long run as much as it had in short installments.

  As August ended, it was clear to both of them that their peripatetic love affair was over.

  Their parting was neither bitter nor angry.

  “Still friends?” Travis asked with his trademark grin.

  “Always,” Jenna promised, feeling both sad and relieved. She had been raised to believe that relationships were a serious matter. And she had never been really comfortable with the idea that sex—or a man—could be simply for recreation. Yet … what it amounted to was that, before Travis, she had never really known how lonely she was. And now she knew.

  Ironically, their breakup made Travis’s career. He wrote a bittersweet song about their parting titled “That’s You and Me All Over.” It hit the top of the country charts, the first of his songs to do so. After nine or ten comebacks, he was, at last, a star.

  O

  That same August brought the Iraqi invasion of Kuwait, and the winter that followed, with Operation Desert Storm, was the winter of Karim’s greatest discontent. It was not that he favored Iraq and Saddam Hussein, but he fervently believed that Egypt had been coerced into the war on the American side and that Americans had no understanding of or sympathy for the Arab world. It was strange to hear all this from a boy who still had a poster of former Red Sox third baseman Wade Boggs on his wall, and who spoke in a pure Bos- ton accent. But in fact, Jenna could agree with him up to a point. The problem was that she had seen Middle Eastern politics from backstage and was far less inclined than Karim to draw hard moral lines.

  Unfortunately, any word of moderation from her led to torrential idealistic arguments from him. Part of the problem, she was certain, was Karim’s continued hero worship of Nasser Hamid. Under the influence of Jacqueline’s father, Karim had been reading voraciously about the Middle East in general and Egypt in particular. He had decided that the history and politics of the region would be his area of specialization in college. Perhaps he would become a diplomat—a career that would bring him a sense of connection with what he believed were his roots.

  “Don’t diplomats have to learn to see both sides of issues?” she asked pointedly.

  “Not all diplomats are cowards,” he answered.

  Like his anger, Karim’s plans made Jenna feel guiltier than ever. Her son was building on something that never was. Well, his grandmother was Egyptian—at least that part was true, wasn’t it?

  Not good enough, her conscience responded. You’ve cheated the boy. You’ve filled his head with fairy tales when he is, in fact, a royal prince.

  But it couldn’t be helped. It just couldn’t be helped.

  Evasion

  In al-Remal the weather rarely changed in any way except slowly and gradually. In Boston it could go from warm sunlight to icy storm in a matter of minutes. Living with Karim was a bit like living with the Boston weather. For example, there was the morning the car arrived.

  It was a Saturday, and Jenna had made Karim an enormous brunch. They had eaten in relative peace, exchanging a few innocuous comments about the colleges he was considering:

  Harvard, Yale, Dartmouth, and Brown.

  A car horn broke the stillness of their quiet, sedate street. It didn’t sound like the usual angry signal that someone was double-parked, blocking the signaler. The honking was enthusiastic, exuberant. Jenna went to the window. A bright red Corvette sat at the curb. A young man in a sports coat and tie was looking for someone else—there were, after all, four other apartments in the building. Then her bell rang, three staccato bursts.

  “Delivery for Dr. Jenna Sorrel,” said the voice on the intercom. “You’ll have to come down to accept it, though.”

  “What’s up?” said Karim from the table.

  “A mistake of some kind. Come down with me, would you, Karim?”

  Karim took one look at the Corvette and delivered an “Awesome” that sounded genuinely awed.

  With an elaborate flourish, the sports-coated stranger led Jenna to the car, then presented her with keys and the title paper. On the windshield was a note: “The gift tax is paid, too. I couldn’t have done it without you. Love. Trav.”

  When Karim saw the note, the sun-to-ice change took place. He glared at his mother and at the car, his expression that of an executioner. “What,” he demanded, “did you do to earn this?” He went inside without looking back.

  For a moment, she debated sending the car back. She could call Travis, explain it in a way that wouldn’t hurt his feelings. But, damn it, this was her gift, and she wasn’t going to let her son spoil it. If she started running her life according to his moods, she would be institutionalized in a week.

  “Hop in,” she said to the young man. “I’ll give you a lift back to your shop.” When she returned, Karim was in his room, the door shut tight.

  It was one episode among many. Jenna missed the easy closeness she and her son had once shared. Where had he gone, the good-natured boy who believed she could do no wrong? And how long would the new one be in residence, the one who argued, criticized, disapproved?

  She understood that this was normal teenage behavior. Her son was testing his limits, extending his boundaries, reaching for adult status. Being angry with your parents, disapproving of them, was part of growing up, of making the separations that pave the road to independence. It was natural.

  All well and good. But as a mother, Jenna simply wanted her son to behave as if he loved her.

  Ah, well; if the change was inevitable, it was also probably temporary. Some- day, when Karim was secure in his own adulthood, they would come together again, on a new and more equal basis. Wouldn’t they? Surely, they would.

  It was a comforting assumption. How could she know that, in a few short seasons, it would be blown away like chaff on the wind?

  O

  Another sudden storm, this time over Jenna’s avoidance of the Hamids, peretfille. Professor Hamid was hosting a small party, mainly for his faculty friends, to whom he would show slides from his last trip to Luxor. Jenna, Karim emphasized, was especially invited.

  She begged off, pleading work to do. Karim went alone, in a huff.

  What could she have done, Jenna wondered guiltily. She couldn’t tell her son that if there was anything she dreaded, it was being in a room full of specialists on her alleged country of birth. She couldn’t tell him that Professor Hamid’s unctuous flirtations made her skin crawl. And she most certainly couldn’t tell him that she heartily disliked Jacqueline’s air of superiority and almost everything else about her. Almost everything. At least the girl didn’t use drugs, and she didn’t appear to be sexually precocious. To the contrary, Jenna observed, she apparently had a zealot’s aversion to the pleasures of the flesh. And heaven knows, she was politically correct.

  To assuage her guilt over the white lie about work, Jenna called Toni Ferrante to ask how she was doing.

  “I had brunch with the boys on Sunday,” Toni
reported. “They’re still living with their father, but they said they’d spend the weekend with me.”

  One for the good guys, Jenna thought. Maybe Toni’s years of suffering and self-doubt were, at last, leading to a positive outcome. Jenna felt a satisfaction that was as much personal as professional, for she had really come to care for Toni.

  There was one genuine piece of work to do—keying in and printing out a grant proposal she had prepared on behalf of the Sanctuary. Jenna had labored long and hard on her plea for funds. She considered her work at the shelter as important as anything she’d ever done.

  She had never ceased to wonder how many American women—often capable, talented, otherwise independent women—suffered abuse in their personal lives. She felt an ongoing frustration at this dark, dirty little secret that so many women carried alone for so long, the shame they suffered, the feeling that the abuse was their fault—and somehow even deserved. What made Jenna’s work harder was the lack of empathy and compassion. Even professionals in other fields would ask, “Why don’t these women just leave? What’s wrong with them? Why do they stay with men who beat them?”

  There were so many answers, Jenna tried to explain. Fear of the unknown. Fear of enraging the violence-prone spouse. Low self-esteem. A sense that there was no place to go. And in the end, sometimes there were no easy answers at all. Because while there were women who stayed and stayed, beyond daily abuse until their own deaths, there were others who left. Some came to the Sanctuary or a thousand other places like it. Some simply ran, as Jenna had done, with no idea where their stories would end.

  When the doorbell rang, she assumed it was Karim, habitually forgetful of his keys.

  It was Laila.

  “Hi,” the girl—the young woman—said, as if it had been only yesterday that they’d parted in front of the Plaza.

  Jenna stared for a long moment, almost overcome by a rush of tender- ness. She found her voice, trying to keep her manner light. “Laila! What a surprise. How good to see you! What brings you here?”