by James Reston
I love you, Karima.
She never knew whether he had even opened her letter.
Perhaps she should call Gretchen’s lawyer brother and begin to talk about all this.
Then the phone rang, and it was Gretchen again, she saw. Karima let it ring and waited for the message.
“Karima, it’s Gretchen. My brother says you haven’t called.” Her voice trembled with worry. “Please call me back. Let us help you. You don’t have to face all this alone.” Dear Gretchen, Karima thought, forever watching out for me. I love her so much.
It had been Gretchen, Karima remembered, who’d really made her see the transformation in Sami during the winter of ’99. Not long after they had spent that wild night at the Fly-Boy club in Greifswald, he began to grow his patchy beard. The beard scratched her face when they kissed, and their kisses became less frequent. It annoyed her further how pleased he seemed when Arabs in Greifswald looked at him misty-eyed, interpreting his beard as the mark of a truly spiritual man. It was merely an experiment, he told her. He wanted to know how he would look with a “full growth.”
“More manly perhaps,” he said with a twinkle.
“More vain,” she responded. “Uglier.” She tried humor, calling him her “grand mufti” or “muffi” for short. He was not amused. Their conversations turned more often to religion. She sensed that he was going to the mosque occasionally and getting some rudimentary instruction. He parroted lessons that seemed to come from a grade school class in Islam. When they got deep into these discussions and she challenged his premises, his rote recitations broke down. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. It was another experiment in self-discovery, she allowed.
As she groused about his beard and deportment, so he became more critical of her flashy style. Her short shirts, her makeup, her streaked hair, her high heels—these were un-Islamic, he complained. “Good,” was her tart reply at first. But to mollify him, she began to dress in a less flashy style and even donned a headscarf occasionally. It pleased her when he said that wearing the headscarf made her sexier. (Of course, as soon as he boarded his train back to Hamburg, those demure dresses and satin headscarves went straight to the bottom of her closet.) He griped as well about her smoking and drinking, though he did not own up to the fact that in Hamburg, especially after an emotional session with Omar, he would sneak away for beer and schnapps at a Bierstube. She quit smoking and drinking.
His double life … and hers … had begun after their second anniversary. In Arabic it was called having two faces, but in effect, they had more than just two. She did not care so much about the face he presented to Omar and Atta. Or how he was lying to his family as the loving son or to his teachers as the earnest but struggling Arab. All she cared about was the false face he presented to her as her lover and as a spiritual seeker. It was an odd form of cheating. Perhaps he derived pleasure in juggling all these roles and, however unconsciously he was doing it, found the variety to be romantic and exciting.
They quarreled more. Their phone conversations became shorter and less frequent. When Karima struggled to read certain passages of the Koran, or to find clothes that would make Sami happy, Gretchen watched with dismay.
“Can you imagine being married to him?” she said. “You would have to give up your career. You would have to honor the restrictions of a tyrannical and hypocritical husband. It would be like living in a prison.”
“Sami knows how important my career is to me,” Karima said.
“Karima, aren’t you scared of him?”
“A little,” she confessed.
“Don’t you see what he’s becoming?”
Karima did see what Gretchen saw, but felt she had to defend Sami. She chalked it up to jealous roommate syndrome and tried to laugh about it with Sami. Soon enough, Sami caught wind of Gretchen’s efforts to undermine his relationship with Karima, and he was furious.
On one of his visits to Greifswald, Karima had insisted that Gretchen join them for pizza. The meal started out innocently enough, but when the conversation strayed onto the subject of Israel, the familiar passions rose to the surface. Sami seemed to go overboard just to irritate Gretchen, and she turned cold and patronizing. And then he exploded.
“Today we eat together,” he said coldly, “but tomorrow I will take you out of the picture.”
So searing, so shocking, so repellant had been that remark that Karima never forgot it. It showed a violent side of him she had never seen before. It scared her, and she let him know it.
“I don’t ever, ever want to hear something like that from you, never, ever again,” she told him.
After the ugly exchange with Sami, Gretchen claimed she wanted to move closer to school, found a new roommate, and moved out. She and Karima gradually saw less and less of each other. After that, Sami became more and more controlling, and eventually, Karima capitulated.
On another visit, when they had another spat over the headscarf, they broke up and did not see each other for two long months, until they couldn’t stand it any longer and reunited tearfully. Karima asked again about his courses. Sami said they were going fine. She threatened to call his parents. He told her she’d better not.
Through the tears and pouts. she demanded to meet his friends in Hamburg. He refused. It would be too embarrassing, he said.
“Embarrassing to whom?” she replied. “To you? To your friends? To me?” Karima felt herself more and more isolated. “Who is this Mohamed Atta?” she asked him. “And why do you talk about him all the time?” She blamed him for Gretchen’s move and felt more and more as if she were existing in a bubble.
And now? In a way, even in death, Sami continued to keep her in isolation. It was true. She did know more than she was telling Recht. There was no way she could call Gretchen’s brother for legal assistance now. Omar would regard that as consorting with the enemy. His threatening words about her mother rang in her ears. They terrified her all over again.
All the rage, fear, and guilt were making it impossible for her to sleep. Whenever she nodded off, she’d find herself inside a recurring nightmare: she saw herself huddled over a desk, hands on her earphones, and suddenly notice the pungent smell of Syrian tobacco … and turn to see Kommissar Recht, a self-satisfied smirk on his face, standing behind her and holding up handcuffs. Sometimes, the figure behind her was Omar, not Recht, and he was holding up her mother’s torn blouse.
It was three days to Witnessing Day. She had to speed up her listening.
June 12, 2001
“Yesterday, Timothy McVeigh was executed in Oklahoma. That’s a place in the middle of the US. He’s the one who bombed a government building in Oklahoma City. I watched the coverage most of the day. The headline in the Sarasota paper this morning asked the question, ‘Can We Forgive a Terrorist?’ And listen to this: the editorial reads, ‘There is no victory in killing innocent people. McVeigh’s crime was an act of cowardice and cruelty. It was pointless.’ And on the next page was the poem that he gave to his executioners before they killed him. I underlined these lines: ‘Under the bludgeonings of chance/My head is bloody but unbowed … I am the master of my fate/I am the captain of my soul.’ It was really upsetting. Am I Timothy McVeigh?
“I was telling you about Omar. I had a meeting with him shortly after our anniversary in Greifswald. We usually met in public places. At last I was invited into his inner sanctum, and I was honored. At his door Omar greeted me warmly, ushering me into a bright, modern apartment. He had posters of Formula One cars covering the walls.
“‘Well, what did you expect?’ Omar said, noticing my surprise. ‘Candlelight? The wail of the muezzin? Hamas call to arms?’
“‘Certainly not the roar of a Ferrari,’ I said.
“‘You should have seen the crash at the Belgian Grand Prix. You think my obsession with speed is strange?’
“‘I just hadn’t expected this.’
“‘Speed is exhilarating, Sa
mi. Well, I don’t have to tell you that.’
“I sat down on his couch. ‘You wanted to see me,’ I said nervously. ‘I wanted to see you too.’
“‘Yes. I know. Ahmad,’ Omar replied. ‘A very strange fellow. He has a big imagination.’
“‘He was following me.’
“‘Ahmad has a suspicious, conspiratorial nature. You should forget about him.’
“‘But he said—’
“‘He says all sorts of things, Sami. Actually I think he needs medical attention.’
“‘He mentioned a team. My team. What is that about? I demand to know!’
“‘Come on, Sami. We’re all on the same team. We’re all one big raucous, diverse team, under the Almighty.’
“‘How could he have known I was in Greifswald—at that club—at that time?’
“‘With your Karima,’ Omar said with a smirk.
“My anger welled up. Finally, I said, ‘Yes, with my Karima.’
“‘Did you know, Sami,that the glorious Islamic Caliphate ended with the Turks? Yes, it’s true. It was the Turks who destroyed our religious empire. Muslims have been looking for a caliph ever since.’
“‘Don’t change the subject,’ I snapped. ‘How did that guy know where I was?’
“‘He knew because I told him.’
“I was shocked, dumbfounded.
“‘Look, Sami. I have put myself out for you, way out. So has Atta. We’re believers, living in the land of the infidel. We worship a different God. We treasure different things. There are people out there who would do us harm, who want to destroy us or deport us or undermine our faith. We have to be careful, very careful, about who is invited into our circle.’
“‘I don’t like being spied on. I came here only to learn.’
“‘We have shared many confidences with you. We have trusted you, and we have to know that our trust is well-founded. We must be sure that our confidences are protected.’
“‘Why did you want to see me? Not to tell me that, or discuss the Belgian Grand Prix.’
“‘No.’
“‘Why am I here?’
“‘It’s about Atta.’
“‘What about him?’
“‘He has written his will.’
“‘Is he sick?’ I asked.
“‘It doesn’t matter why he has written it,’ Omar replied. ‘He just has. And he wants us to witness it.’
“‘Us? Atta hates me.’
“‘Yes, us. A proper will requires two witnesses, and he wants you and me.’
“‘You and ME?’
“‘Atta is honoring you by this request. As a good Muslim, it’s your duty to oblige. You may not like Atta, and he may not like you. In fact, Atta has no friends, not even me, and that’s the way he wants it. He’s on a quest, and we must honor that. His quest may be dangerous.’
“‘Dangerous,’ I scoffed. ‘He’s an architecture student.’
“‘I don’t know; maybe the danger he imagines is why he wants to get this done. I’m not sure. Sometimes when a person devotes himself totally to a cause, he takes big risks. You or I may not be so bold or courageous. But we must respect his commitment.’
“He reached behind his head and pulled a document from the bookshelf, handing it to me. It had an elaborate cover and really nice Egyptian calligraphy and an epigraph that read:
My prayers and my sacrifice
And my life and my death
Belong to Allah
Lord of the Worlds.
“Inside, scrawled on parchment as if it was done hurriedly, the will had a preamble. He stated his belief in resurrection. There was a plea that his survivors follow the path of the Prophet and a reference to Abraham, ‘a good Muslim, who brought his son to die.’ And then instructions about what should be done with his body.
“Let me tell you something, my darling. I had doubts about Atta’s manhood before. Now they were confirmed. No woman should beg pardon for him at his grave? Whoever washed his body should wear gloves and not touch his genitals? No woman should attend his burial? No pregnant woman ‘or other unclean persons’ should be allowed to be present at his burial? It seemed obvious. I had to know.
“‘Is Atta a homosexual?’ I asked.
“Omar leaned back on the couch and put his hand over his eyes, as if he was suddenly fatigued.
“‘Sami, it’s true that you’re different from the rest of us,’ he said finally. ‘You come from Lebanon, a land tainted by French sophistication. Unlike Atta and the rest of us, you hail from a well-to-do family. You have read too many French novels.’
“‘Well, is he?’ I insisted.
“‘You have become my project, Samir. But sometimes you try my patience almost to the limit, and I wonder if it’s worth it.’
“‘I’m sorry, but—’
“‘You are projecting your Western values onto him!’ he said. His voice was rising now. He sat up and turned on me. I tell you. He scared me. ‘Atta is on a spiritual journey. It may be beyond you now to understand it. He is preparing himself, and his will is part of his purification. This is a ritual for him. What you interpret in your adolescent way is for him an act of cleansing himself.’
“‘But women and genitals—’
“‘His manhood is not in question here! You think these references indicate that he hates women. The reverse is true. He worships the woman as pure and noble. Primarily it is his mother he is thinking about in this will. He knows his death would bring grief to his family. He cannot stand the thought of women wailing at his funeral. He does not want his mother weeping at his grave.’
“Again he slouched back, resting his head on the back of the couch, and closed his eyes.
“‘But no pregnant woman be allowed to say goodbye?’ I persisted, looking at the provisions of the will. ‘Associating that with an unclean person?’
“‘I’m not sure what he means by that, Sami,’ Omar replied, still with his eyes closed. ‘It’s true that’s strange. But it is not for us to comprehend everything that is swirling around in that head. In the name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful, we are mere witnesses here. We are being asked to witness his quest, so that for him, it is official, so that his affairs will be in order. We must do as he asks.’
“‘But wait—how can I be associated with this, if he’s planning to do something rash?’ I said. ‘You’re asking me to sign something that might get me into trouble.’
“‘As always we must look for understanding in the Holy Book.’ He reached around him and pulled his Koran from the shelf, handing it to me.
“‘Turn to Surah 74, verse 26.’
“‘Oh, please, not that. Not now.’
“‘I insist, Sami. Surah 74, verse 26.’
“I hated this. But I flipped through the wrinkled pages anyway until I found his passage. It was marked with three long red lines and three exclamation points.
“‘Read until I tell you to stop.’
“Flatly, without interest, I read: ‘“Soon will I cast him into Hell Fire. And what is Hell Fire? It spares no sinner nor leaves anything unburnt. It darkens and burns the skin of man. Over it are the nineteen angels. They are the guardians of the Fire. We have fixed their number as Nineteen only as a trial for the disbelievers.’”
“Omar raised his hand. ‘That’s enough.’
“I was mystified. ‘I don’t understand. Nineteen. Why nineteen?’
“‘That will be your next assignment, Sami. Let your mind rest on that passage. Now we must do our duty.’
“Again he reached behind him and handed me a pen.
“Pointing to the end of the document, ‘There,’ he said.
“I signed in my best Arabic calligraphy, Karima. I’m not proud of it. Not now. It seemed like a simple thing to do at the time. Simple and meaningless. The act of signing did have an impact on me. I felt good … and proud. It made
me downplay Atta’s faults.
“When I finished, Omar nodded in satisfaction, and then he signed as well.
“‘Now we are brothers,’ he said. He raised a crooked finger, and I returned the salute.”