A Pure Heart

by Rajia Hassib

  * * *

  —

  FOR DAYS she had been troubled by Saaber’s incessant messages. She pitied the boy and felt guilty about her role in what happened to him. After all, she was the one who asked Fouad if he knew anyone whom Mark could interview for his series of profiles. Fouad would never have brought Mark to Saaber were it not for her. She had a moral obligation to help the boy. More important, she had a religious obligation to do so. For the previous days, she had been reassessing her religious journey so far. After the initial dive into devotion and the subsequent calmer, more content bobbing at what she believed was a less strict level of religious adherence, she was now ready to move past the phase of obsession with the rituals of Islam and into a more proactive phase, one where she could do things, act and see material results of her actions. This, to her, was the true meaning of jihad—this constant striving to do good in the world. The revolution of 2011 had given her a taste of the adrenaline rush accompanying action, of the power one felt when one could initiate change. That chance was gone now—striving for political change seemed futile. But personal change was still doable. She hungered for it, itched to mold her character into a stronger, better version of herself, one who helped others even if all those around her were content with complacency. She would change Saaber’s life, too. She would help him—how, she wasn’t sure. But she would respond to his call for help, even if Fouad refused to do so.

  Besides, she had to admit that she was devoured by curiosity. Every time the phone beeped, she had to resist an urge to pick it up, call Saaber, and ask him to reveal, in great detail, why he was so insistent on seeing Fouad.

  “We can go meet him together. I already travel to Cairo every week; you can come with me one time, see what he wants, and we’ll drive back to Rasheed together a couple of days later,” she had pleaded with Fouad as he walked around the farm, inspecting the newly raised bed of a couple of acres, she trailing behind him.

  “There is nothing more I can do for him. I already told him this repeatedly.”

  “But the poor boy keeps texting you.”

  “I can’t help that he doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  “But what if he truly needs something? What if he is in some great bind that only you can help him get out of? What if he has no one else to turn to?”

  “If he was in a bind, he would have said so by now. He did it before, when he had his mom ask me to hire him a lawyer. But he refuses to explain why he needs to see me. It’s insane to expect me to take off and go all the way to Cairo to meet with him without knowing why he needs me. He can’t order me around without providing an explanation.”

  “He must have his reasons!”

  Fouad stopped, turning to face Gameela. “So you’re asking me to trust the judgment of a boy who just spent a year and a half in jail on terrorism charges?”

  “Not terrorism, conspiring with the enemy,” Gameela corrected him. “And he was never charged. He merely got in trouble over that poor orderly he pushed off the roof.”

  “Merely!” Fouad shook his head. “He is merely homicidal?”

  “He says it was an accident!”

  “Even if. I don’t need to be anywhere near this boy. Neither do you.”

  Gameela looked up at him, arms crossed. “You’re just afraid, aren’t you?”

  “Afraid to mess with someone doubtless watched by the police? Yes. As I have every right to be,” he hissed, leaning closer to her. “Afraid to have you anywhere near a boy who has a talent for trouble? Yes.”

  “It’s not right, Fouad. Abandoning him that way.”

  “I did all I could for him.”

  “He is just a young boy who got in trouble with the police for speaking his mind. You of all people should understand that.”

  “I, of all people, totally understand that. Which is why I’m not going anywhere near him.”

  “Easy for you to say. When you got out of jail, you had all of this waiting for you.” She raised both arms, gesturing at the sprawling farm around them. “Pity the poor boy doesn’t come from a family of landowners.”

  “Enough, Gameela,” he grimaced, waving a dismissive hand her way. “I’ve humored you long enough. This has already been settled.”

  “Humored me?”

  He walked off, not turning to see if she followed him. Gameela stood in place, marveling at how easily Fouad had slipped into a superior attitude, a rare but reoccurring theme, she was noticing, of him playing his age card as if that brought any argument to a definitive stop. He had not acted so superior back in 2011, when she was the one leading the way into the protests as he marched behind her, echoing the chants that she initiated. Back then, they had been peers, fellows in a fight for justice. Now that they had a chance to act again, he was backing off and expecting her to follow suit, hide with him in his small piece of heaven, sit under the shade of his guava tree and pretend that those who suffered did not exist.

  But Fouad was a hapless victim of a society that told him that his gender and age elevated him above her. She did not question his authority over her—religiously, she was expected to obey her husband once she got married—but she was seeing now, clearer and clearer each day, that there were ways around this. That when dealing with matters of justice and of what was right versus what was wrong, her obedience to God overruled her obedience to her husband. And God ordered humans to help each other.

  * * *

  —

  FINDING A WAY to implement her will was so easy, she marveled again at why she spent so many years listening to others, when she could do whatever she knew was right and pass it under their noses without their noticing.

  For example, breaking into Fouad’s apartment that time he disappeared and seeking out all the assurances of his return that he refused to give her.

  For example, getting married despite the disapproval of her parents, who rejected Fouad based on unfair, classist criteria.

  For example, texting Saaber from Fouad’s phone, pretending to be Fouad, agreeing on a meeting time and place, giving him her own phone number as a “new contact number” that he should be using from now on, and then deleting the entire text exchange. She even remembered to check Fouad’s laptop to make sure no texts were forwarded there.

  Simple. Child’s play. Now she would be meeting with a young man who, she knew, would not have agreed to meet with her had she not pretended to be Fouad. She doubted he would have remembered her, and even if he had, she was certain he would not have agreed to receive help from a woman. Just like Fouad, Saaber, too, was a victim of a society that told him that men had to be strong, that cries for help were signs of weakness, especially if those cries were directed at a woman. She would change that, too, in her journey to change herself. Challenge it. She would exercise her God-given right and obligation to help others, even if they were too stubborn to realize they needed her help.

  She felt invincible. A more modestly dressed but just as powerful incarnation of Irene Adler, a woman who can outwit all men.

  Including this poor boy, who was now walking into the street café where she had been waiting to meet him. On seeing her, Saaber took a step back, as if he had just set eyes on Medusa, and froze in place.

  “Assalamu aleikum, Saaber,” she said, getting up, remembering to use the Islamic greeting that she favored anyway and that she knew he would, too. Peace be upon you.

  “Where is Fouad?”

  “He’s not feeling well and couldn’t be here, but he didn’t want you to come and find no one, so he sent me instead.” Which was not a total lie—he had not been feeling well this morning, refusing to say goodbye to her. Walking out into the fields as if he were Heathcliff on the dunes.

  “Why did he send you?”

  Gameela ignored the condescending tone. “Because he trusts me.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m his wife.”

  Saaber look
ed her up and down, apparently reluctant to believe her. “He should have called me.”

  “Why don’t you sit down for a while? I’m sure I can take care of whatever it was you wanted of him.”

  He stood in place, shifting his weight from foot to foot, not making eye contact with her, which was typical of religious men who thought that looking at a woman’s face was sinful. But he did not look as obviously religious as he had when they’d last met, two and a half years earlier. His beard was gone, and he was wearing blue jeans and a polo shirt, which would have made him look younger, had his face not aged so. Gameela scrutinized him, his hollow cheeks noticeable without the protection of the beard, his eyes baggy and dark.

  “I can’t stay,” he finally said.

  “Not even for a few minutes? I made the trip specifically to meet you. I’m sure I can be of help.”

  He looked at her but still did not sit down. She took a deep breath in, telling herself to remain calm—she had been right in assuming he would never have met with a woman, especially one as young as she was. If she were an older man, he would have been pouring his heart out by now.

  “I’m sure I’m quite capable of taking care of whatever you need.” She tried to keep her voice as friendly as possible. “If you would just tell me why you wanted Fouad to meet with you, I can help.” Then, rethinking his ability to accept help from a woman, “Or I can convey your message to Fouad, and he can help.”

  He looked at her with resigned disappointment. “I guess.” He sighed. “Whatever God proclaimed shall be.”

  “Exactly. Sit down. Please.”

  He pulled a chair out, carefully placing his backpack on his lap.

  “Can I order you something to drink?” she asked, signaling for the waiter to come.

  He shook his head. “Do you know the American journalist?”

  “Yes.” She took a sip out of her minted lemonade, the cold glass covered with condensation. She wiped her hand on her jeans.

  “You know how to get in touch with him?”

  “Yes.” She left it at that, not mentioning her sister’s marriage, knowing the stigma associated with a marriage between a Muslim woman and a foreign man, even if he converted. Saaber would distrust her if he found out her sister had transgressed so.

  “Would you be able to give him something?”

  He was already opening the front compartment of his backpack, pulling out a yellow manila envelope and handing it to her. Gameela took it.

  “He will know what to do with this. You must give it to him.”

  “Yes, of course. But—”

  “Swear you will.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Swear.”

  He was staring straight into her eyes, his own eyes wide but strangely out of focus, as if he were looking through her and at something directly behind her.

  Gameela sighed. “Wallahi al-Azim I will give it to him. But there must be something I can do for you. I really would like to help you in any—”

  Already he had zipped his backpack shut and picked it up, lifting one strap to hang it off his shoulder. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”

  “Seriously?” Gameela stared at him in disbelief. For days she had imagined countless scenarios of the moment when she finally got to meet him and prove herself useful, do something that she could be proud of in front of God. She had not imagined that thing was as common as delivering a package. “You texted Fouad for weeks just for this? You dragged me all the way here just for this?” She waved the manila envelope at his face, getting up, too. “What do you think we are? Your personal homing pigeons?”

  He looked up at her, taken back. An older man sitting at a table next to them glanced away from his newspaper. Gameela shot him an angry glare and he looked back down. She turned to face Saaber again.

  “Because if all I am is your mail carrier, you can have that back.” She held the envelope up to Saaber’s face. “There is such a thing as a mail service, you know. Just mail it to him.”

  “But I don’t have his address!”

  The sudden panic in his voice and eyes, mixed with his failure to read anything beyond the literal meaning of her words, assuaged her anger. Suddenly, he looked young again. She pulled the envelope back to her chest.

  “You don’t know how to reach him?”

  He shook his head.

  “That’s why you kept texting Fouad?”

  He nodded, wiped the sweat dripping off his forehead on his wrist. Gameela examined his black curls, moist with perspiration, and couldn’t bring herself to tell him that he could have googled Mark’s name and he would have gotten his email address. Then again, the boy surely didn’t speak English, let alone write it.

  “Can we sit down for a while?”

  “Are you going to take this to the journalist or not?”

  She narrowed her eyes, standing straight. “No. Not unless you talk to me first.”

  He tilted his head, peering at her with apparent contempt. “You would break your own helfan? Take God’s name in vain, refusing to do that which you have sworn to do?”

  “I will fast for three days to atone for the unfulfilled promise,” she retorted, feeling a bit childish.

  “I should have known better.” Behind them, a pair of older men playing backgammon burst into laughter, and Saaber glanced at them. When he turned back to face her, he seemed calm again. “You’re probably lying. I bet you don’t even know the journalist. And I bet you’re not married to Fouad. What are you—his mistress?”

  Gameela’s face flushed. “I am married to him! And I do know the journalist. In fact, I was the one who introduced them.”

  Saaber snickered, shaking his head.

  “The journalist is married to my sister,” Gameela could not resist saying. She pulled out her phone, scrolled through the hundreds of photos she had on there, and found an old one she had kept since her sister’s wedding: Rose in her wedding dress, Mark next to her, and Gameela next to Rose, her arm around her waist. She held the phone up to Saaber’s face. “See?”

  Saaber squinted at the screen. “Your sister is married to the American?”

  Gameela, already regretting having revealed that piece of information, added, “He converted. He’s a Muslim.”

  She expected the information to relieve Saaber, but instead, she saw something change in his face, a cloud she could not understand. He still stared at the phone. She pulled it away, tucking it in her pocket.

  “Now do you believe me? I only want to help you.”

  Saaber looked at her, his eyes narrow. She tried to decipher his face.Was he angry? Upset? She couldn’t tell. She was usually good at reading people’s faces, and his opaqueness suddenly scared her. She remembered Fouad’s words: that boy has a talent for trouble.

  “All I want is to help you out, if I can,” she repeated, both to reassure him and to remind herself. “Please, just let me help you. I feel I owe it to you.”

  Saaber said nothing. He remained standing, his backpack hanging on his shoulder. She waited.

  “Let me think about it,” he finally said.

  “Yes, please do. You can reach me at the phone number I sent you,” she said, then realizing her mistake, added, “Fouad’s phone number, that is. I have his phone.”

  Saaber nodded. “Yes. I’ll think about it.”

  * * *

  —

  SHE DIDN’T HEAR back from him for three days. Lying in bed in the morning of the third day, spread-eagled, the covers kicked off, she stared at the ceiling fan as it whooshed on. The restlessness of the previous days had reached a peak so high, she felt paralyzed by anxiety, certain that her arms and legs would refuse to obey her if she tried to move them. She was due at the farm that day, and she couldn’t decide whether to go back or wait in Cairo. I’m not at his beck and call, Fouad had said of Saaber, and Gameela now e
mpathized.

  The whole thing had lost its edge. The burning curiosity that had consumed her the entire time Saaber was texting Fouad had fallen flat, now that she learned he only needed to get that envelope to Mark—such a meaningless request. Once she got home after her meeting with Saaber, she had opened the envelope, toiled through reading the first few pages, and then set it aside on her nightstand, where it still lay. The boy’s handwriting and his Arabic were both pathetic, and he went on and on about all the injustices done to him, which she truly sympathized with but which she felt Mark had no need to read and could do nothing about anyway. It’s not as if publishing that would erase the boy’s one and a half years of imprisonment;on the contrary, it might get him in even more trouble. Besides, the whole thing was in Arabic—all twelve pages. What was she supposed to do? Translate it before sending it to Mark? She guessed she could contact him and ask if he wanted it, but she couldn’t fathom why he would be interested in a dozen pages of self-pity. She wondered whether she should contact Rose instead, but decided against it.

  Rose. Gameela watched the ceiling fan, tried and failed to discern its movement, which was too fast for her eyes to follow. She glanced at the bed next to hers, where Rose used to sleep. They often fought over this same ceiling fan—Rose, perpetually hot, wanting it on all night, Gameela resisting. Gameela picked up her phone, started to text Rose, then hesitated. How would she start? I miss you? I’m sorry I was such an asshole about your marriage? I now know how it feels to love someone? I understand?

  Maybe start small. She began to type a simple good morning, then remembered the time difference: 9:00 A.M. in Cairo; 3:00 A.M. on the East Coast. She put the phone down. She would text Rose later.

  She got out of bed, went into the bathroom, showered, then walked back to her room, her wet hair wrapped in a towel, and started packing her duffel bag. Not until she had zipped it up, placed it next to the front door, and walked back into her room did she notice the text notification on her phone.