At the table, her mother sat quickly and slipped her head covering off, to rest on her shoulders. Martha could be selective as to when she wore it. “I want you to meet Mr. Jamison Raza.” She held out her hand as if she were delivering the original text of the Qur’an. “He’s a doctor at Fairview. Thoracic surgery, I understand. A very lucrative practice.” Martha smiled, her work almost done.
Zehra nodded and reached across the small table to shake Raza’s limp hand. Can’t imagine those could crack open a chest, she thought. He looked very Semitic. Long nose, dark skin, and black curly hair. The only attractive thing about him was the hair-any woman would kill for it. He looked down at the table all the time except to glance up at her when he spoke.
“I’m pleased to meet you.” He folded his hands, prayer-like, before him on the table.
Zehra felt a rumbling low in her stomach. Hunger? Fear? “Uh … yeah. Me, too.”
“Your mother tells me your whole family is very observant.”
“Huh?”
“You pray five times a day, attend mosque, and are faithful during Ramadan.”
The rumbling in her stomach became shaking. “Uh … well, I don’t know.”
“I’ve taken my hajj twice, now. It is a profoundly moving experience. Have you made yours?”
“It’s coming up next year … after I go to Greece.” She looked hard at her mother. “Can I talk to you?”
Martha giggled. “I’ve got to run and freshen-up. You two get acquainted.” Her mother left in a puff of old-fashioned cologne.
“I’m Pakistani. My parents are related to the Bhutto family, the former Prime Minister? Benazir Bhutto?” he said. “We own much land near Lahore.”
“Bhutto was just killed, right?”
“The liberals did it.”
“Who?” Zehra felt afloat without a life raft.
“She tried to change the laws of the Prophet. There’s a reason order has prevailed for hundreds of years it’s because people were faithful to the Prophet.”
“What kind of surgery do you do, Jamison?”
“Thank Allah, I have an education and could provide for any woman. She would not have to work but could be faithful and bear children.”
What an exciting thought. “Maybe you forget we’re in America?”
“That’s the problem here. Too many Muslim women have forgotten the True Way. Your mother told me that you’re faithful.”
“I am,” Zehra asserted. “But in a more progressive way…”
“Let me remind you of what the Qur’an says …”
“I can read the Qur’an. And I don’t need you to interpret it for me.”
Jamison sat back and blinked. “But … but I thought you understood that Muhammad had clearly told us what Allah expects of a faithful woman?”
“And the Prophet gave many equal rights to women, also. That was about fifteen hundred years ago.” She longed for a bite of a chocolate cupcake. Zerha’s phone buzzed. Thank Allah! She looked. Jackie. Zehra clicked it on.
Jackie spoke fast, “Zehra, Mr. Peterson’s called five times already. I didn’t think the deputies allowed them that many phone calls. What should I do?”
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” She snapped the phone off. Looked back at the doctor. Zehra counted to ten. He represented many of the things she fought against-the intolerant attitude toward women and the ultra-conservative interpretation of Islam.
When she felt calmer, she said, “I’ve got an emergency. I’m sure you know how it is.” She stood and hurried out so quickly, she forgot to look at the begonias. Besides her frustration, these dead-end men her mother brought all reminded Zehra of her loneliness.
In her car, driving back downtown to meet Jackie, Zehra’s mother called.
“All right, make this quick,” Zehra demanded, still mad.
“I’m sorry. He seemed like such a nice man.”
“Oh, that’s okay, I guess. Look, I’m busy, gotta run.”
“Oh, there’s something that’s bothering me. I don’t know if I should bother you with it.”
“What’s wrong, Mom.”
“Well, I’ve noticed a car parked outside our house a lot lately. A gold one. You know how quiet our street is. Even your father commented on it. I can’t imagine who it could be. But it, well, it makes me feel creepy.”
Zehra gripped the leather covered wheel harder. “How often is it there?”
“Almost every day.”
Zehra took a deep breath to calm her racing thoughts. A gold car had followed her on several occasions also. It couldn’t be a coincidence. She didn’t want her mother upset. “I’m sure it’s just an admirer looking at your gardens. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll have my friend BJ Washington check things out. Or maybe you should call the police.”
“Good idea. I’ll call the police.”
Zehra’s fear rose up through her arms. She had to concentrate on driving. “Gotta run, Mom.”
“I know you won’t like this now, but this time your father has a man for you to meet.”
“No!”
“Now, just calm down. He’s an engineer or some scientist who works with your father. Originally from Egypt. We’ll talk about it later.”
Sixteen
Michael declined a glass of wine for the sixth time. He weaved his way among the guests at the Health Tech party. Ostensibly held to celebrate the break-through in genetic engineering they’d made to the cold virus, it was really an excuse for the employees to get drunk at company expense. He was anxious to meet Zehra Hassan. He had to win her over and gain her trust. Trying to avoid Posten, he bumped into Michael at the food trough.
“Mikey-boy,” Posten lurched to the side. He balanced three small plates heaped with fried chicken wings in his hands. One almost flipped over onto Michael’s Armani sweater. “How ya doin’?”
“Fine, John. Just fine,” Michael said. He glanced at his Patek Philippe watch. He’d suffered through enough time to be polite. “Look, I have to run. Keep eating.” Posten’s smile broke through his reddened cheeks. He didn’t realize that Michael was mocking him.
“Great wings.” Posten smiled to show grease covered teeth with bits of chicken in the corners.
Michael made a point of greeting the CEO and the vice-president of his division. The social aspects of the party appealed to him. But he detested the drunken, gorging excesses. These Americans couldn’t seem to get enough. Especially if it was free.
He’d promised his co-worker, Joseph Hassan, that he’d stay long enough to meet his daughter. Joseph obviously liked Michael and was anxious to have her meet Muslim men.
This woman could be the key he needed for information. Probably dumpy like most Muslim American women, Michael was still anxious to meet her. He sipped a Diet Coke and waited for Joseph.
From across the noisy room, Michael spied him.
Next to him walked a beautiful woman. She looked Semitic-black hair, long nose, darker skin but, at the same time, thoroughly American. Maybe this will be worthwhile, Michael thought.
“Ah … Michael. There you are,” Joseph pushed through the crowd, pulling his daughter behind him. When she stood next to him, he said, “This is Zehra. I’ve told you about her. Now I know this is awkward, but I just wanted you two to meet.”
She gave Michael a tentative smile.
He didn’t hide his attraction and looked into her eyes. “Nice to meet you.”
Her eyes darted around. She was obviously uneasy.
“Would you like pop, tea?” he offered.
“I really could use a big glass of wine,” she laughed.
“I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Well, I do.” She led him to the bar and ordered a glass of white wine. When it came, she sipped it carefully. “My father says you’re a doctor here.”
“I have a doctorate in molecular biology.”
“Impressive.”
“No it isn’t. Not to you,” he insisted.
She laughed out loud. “Okay, you got me. I’m really not too impressed to be here but to keep my father happy …”
“I understand.” He turned on his warm, big smile. “Tell me about you.”
“Huh? You really want to know?”
“I do.”
“Well I’m a criminal defense lawyer. Uh, I like to garden.” She paused and looked into the air. “I guess I’m excited about my work and like it.”
“What cases are you working on?”
She frowned. “I’ve got a murder case I’m working … struggling through. Maybe you’ve heard about these Somali boys who have disappeared from the Twin Cities?”
He pretended to think about it. “Yes, I heard from people I know in the Somali community.”
“I’ve been forced to represent the guy accused of killing one of the boys.”
“Is that hard?”
“This guy is because … well, maybe you’d understand this better than these other people. The defendant is an extremist Muslim, a terrorist really. That’s opposite to everything I believe as a Muslim. So, it’s just torture to try and defend someone who thinks that way.”
Michael nodded. “It must be hard. I find it hard just living in America. So many people don’t know anything about Islam except what they see in the biased media.”
Her face brightened. “Absolutely. If Christians only knew how close our religions were, they’d be shocked. And most of us aren’t making bombs in our garages at night.”
He laughed. “No …”
“Instead of making bombs, what do you do?”
“My work? I’m trying to alter the genetic make-up of viruses. When I have time, I do a lot of volunteer work in the community.”
“Like what?”
“I try to give time to the poor people in the Somali community, even though they don’t accept outsiders, even Muslims. I also host science fairs in several of the schools.”
When Zehra nodded and looked at his eyes, Michael could tell she was interested. It usually worked this way. He could smell her perfume. Thank Allah it wasn’t floral like so many American women It smelled like sandalwood. She had a full figure and thick hair. And what a stroke of luck-Allah be praised-she was the defense lawyer in the murder case. That interested him.
The noise from the party rose higher. Both of them squeezed to a corner to avoid the wilder dancers who had just erupted from somewhere. It was difficult to talk. Michael had to leave. “I’d like to meet you again,” he said.
“So would I, Michael.”