Salaam, Love

by Ayesha Mattu

  After I’d frequented the coffeehouse for nearly three months without incident, a woman walked in. She was dressed in business attire and wearing a pair of designer sunglasses. She was visibly startled by my presence. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I knew she was looking at me. After a few seconds, her surprise at seeing a black man in an obscure coffeehouse faded, and she approached the counter.

  She was carrying a large purse, from which she produced a wrinkled piece of torn legal paper. She began to speak unintelligibly to the barista, who obligingly nodded and smiled. I watched for several minutes, as she tried desperately to summon enough Japanese to make herself understood, before finally deciding to get involved.

  “Miss? Maybe I can help you.”

  She turned to me, flustered, disheveled. A thin layer of sweat had formed on her forehead from the summer heat.

  “Thank God. Someone who speaks English. Do you speak Japanese as well? I am trying to find this place.” Her English was perfect but she spoke with an accent. She handed me a poorly drawn map and an address. I didn’t know the area well since I typically came straight from the train station to the coffeehouse. I turned to the barista and asked him if he knew the address. Relieved, he began to tell me where the map had gone wrong.

  “Once you are back on the main street, go left and walk for three blocks,” I told her. She thanked me, took the paper from my hand, and left.

  I didn’t expect to see her again but hoped I would. Two weeks later I went back to the coffeehouse. She was there, hunched over her laptop, sipping a latte. I waited a few seconds for some sign of recognition before finding a place to sit. She was different that day, casual, relaxed. The only available seat was at a table right next to her. This was either going to be fortuitous or awkward. I found myself wanting to interact with her, though not for the obvious reasons. When I thought about it I felt a mixture of alarm and disappointment. The thing I tried to avoid by coming here was the thing that I most wanted at that moment: a conversation.

  The barista brought me a latte. I was about to settle in for an afternoon of writing when I saw from my periphery that her head had turned in my direction. She cocked her head slightly and her mouth opened as if she was about to speak. I pretended not to see so that my own desperation would not become apparent. She began typing again, sipped her drink, and then stopped. Again she turned to face me and this time managed to speak.

  “I thought I might run into you here.”

  I tried to hide my surprise at her candor. These days you can’t say anything like that, man or woman, without appearing a bit stalkery. Of a dozen things I thought she might say, that wasn’t close to any of them.

  “Oh yeah?” I responded, which was followed by several seconds of us staring awkwardly at one another.

  “Yes. I realized that I’d left without properly thanking you. It must have seemed quite curt and maybe a little rude.”

  “No worries. You seemed to be in a hurry. I didn’t take it personally,” I lied.

  That conversation continued for several hours. Her name was Rana and she was a physician from Canada taking a course in world health at the University of Tokyo. As we closed out the coffeehouse she asked if I would help her with her Japanese because she was struggling in her class. My heart sank a little. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but our interaction had suddenly become less personal. I agreed to help her and we exchanged information.

  Only a couple of days passed before she contacted me. I was leaving my office for a meeting, and it was turning out to be a particularly bad week at work. I wasn’t in the mood to tutor her. She asked if I was free that evening and I let her know that my workday rarely ended before 10 p.m. Despite my persistent feelings of dejection about the turn our interaction had taken, I was determined to be an adult about it.

  I asked myself: What are you expecting? In the U.S. it isn’t often that you see an Arab woman and a black man together. Part of the reason for my flight from the U.S. was my disaffection over the state of my life as a Muslim. I had fallen off the “Muslim Wagon,” and my spiritual and social pursuits had ground to a screeching halt. I found myself isolated, with only the judgments of my supposed peers to keep me company. I had interacted with many flavors of Muslims and most of those interactions were disappointing. To some I was not strict enough. With them I faced accusations that I craved secular life because I maintained my pre-Muslim friendships and I’d gone on dates with women. Certainly I wasn’t holding out for a rishta. Why, then, invite more disappointment into my life?

  “If you aren’t too tired after you finish work, would you like to meet for coffee or a late meal?”

  “I’m sorry, Rana, I don’t think I can tutor you tonight. It’s been a rough week and I don’t have the energy.”

  “Oh no. I guess I wasn’t clear,” she interjected. “I assumed we would do that on the weekends. I just wanted to see if you wanted to meet up.”

  I took the phone away from my ear and eyed the handset with a puzzled look. I quietly pumped my fist and mouthed the word “yes!”

  “Oh . . . of course,” I replied.

  I recommended a place we could go in Shibuya and asked her to meet me at the station’s entrance. No sooner had I hung up the phone than my previous doubts crept into my head. I tried desperately to stave off any notions that this might be a date. After all, Japan could be a lonely place for anyone, let alone someone whose grasp of the language was, at best, remedial. But no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t escape the anticipation or the giddiness. I was genuinely looking forward to seeing her.

  We met that evening in Shibuya. And then three times a week over the next two weeks. I was reserved and stoic most of the time. There were times when I showed her a more personable side, but I often quickly restrained myself when the interaction became too familiar. We didn’t meet once to study Japanese and yet I was steady in my belief that her interest was platonic. My status as a Muslim didn’t play into my reservations. It was a fear that I had that perhaps I was completely misreading the situation. It was a fear of rejection.

  The outings to Shibuya had become ritual. There was an area near the station that sat in the shadow of a bunch of “love hotels” that had the best food in the city. Every time we went out, we chose a different place and we would talk well into the night. On occasion the sun would be rising when we left. One particular night she seemed a little down. When I asked her if everything was okay, she said yes and we continued talking. I asked her a couple more times during the course of the evening, and the last time she became visibly frustrated.

  “I wish you would stop asking me that. I’m fine.”

  There it was. The word. Fine. Internally I began kicking myself. We ate in silence for about half an hour, after which she said she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to go. I’d been silently berating myself; now I began to panic.

  I paid the tab and offered to walk her home. She said she would be fine; she would get a cab. My panic accelerated as she waved a taxi over. I knew if I let her get into that cab, I would never see her again. I didn’t have time for self-flagellation, or doubt. It hadn’t been my style, but if I let things go down this way I was going to have to wear it for a long time.

  “Wait.” I came up behind her as she was opening the door to the cab. I took her hand and turned her toward me. “What is going on with you?” I asked.

  Without turning away she responded. “You.”

  I felt like a giant ass even before the word left her mouth. I made her say it, when I should have been the one. It should have been my neck hanging out there in the cool Tokyo air. But it wasn’t. Even as I pulled her closer to me I was numb with disbelief. She put her arms around my neck and laid her head on my chest. We stood there in Dogenzaka Square, embracing in the shadow of love hotels. When I got up the nerve I pulled away just far enough to kiss her. I was breathing a sigh of relief into her.

  Two weeks after that night in Shibuya, we were on the bullet train together rocketing toward Osaka
at nearly three hundred miles per hour. Our relationship had progressed quickly, to the point where we were staying over at each other’s apartments. I had my reservations about what was happening, but those reservations, again, had nothing to do with religion. They didn’t have anything to do with being ambiguous about commitment either. I knew, as we relaxed into each other, that I wanted to be with her. But I didn’t know if that was what she wanted. I couldn’t broach the topic without either appearing overeager or demonstrating a fear of commitment.

  I decided to let it play out. She was leaving in a few weeks and wanted to see more of the country. I took some time off from work so that we could hit Nagoya and Osaka together on a little getaway. We had a week together. The topic was bound to come up. I was simply reluctant to ruin the mood. Why shouldn’t I be reluctant? I was happy. I wouldn’t say that I loved her, but I certainly saw that potential. I cared enough for her to know that I wanted to follow this to the end. In my mind I even crafted ridiculous disqualifying criteria: Wanted by Interpol, or trying to harvest my organs. Those were the only two things I could think of that would make me not want to be with her.

  At the last minute we decided to make a stop in Nara, the birthplace of my mother. I thought it would be a nice change from all the big-city stops we were making. We jumped off the bullet train and took a local line into Nara. It was already after noon when we arrived so I made arrangements for us to stay there that night. After a day of sightseeing and shopping we made our way to our accommodations, a tiny bungalow outside the city. It was almost rural.

  Our lovemaking that night was particularly passionate. It was as if we both sensed the end of our time together in Japan and wanted as much of each other as we could have. We both drifted off to sleep. I awoke in the middle of the night because I was too hot. I got up, careful not to wake her, and stepped outside into the chilly summer air. The moon was full and I didn’t need any other light. I sat on the porch of the bungalow, crossed my arms over my knees, and rested my head there. I knew where I wanted this path to go, but the way forward was obfuscated by unanswered questions. My heart had been beating so fast these last weeks, and yet it was heavy.

  I heard her stir, followed by the sound of her feet padding across the wooden floor. The door creaked as she opened it. She immediately came behind me and knelt so she could lay her head on my shoulder. Her onyx hair spilled over my shoulder and I took in its scent.

  “What are you doing out here?” she said softly and sleepily into my ear.

  “Thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “About us.”

  She came around and sat on the porch step next to me. “What about us?”

  I remembered the night we first kissed. I wasn’t going to let this conversation go down like that. There could be no stalling or rationalizing. I wanted her to know.

  “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” She looked at me quizzically. “I’m in this. All the way. For you.” She stood up and held out her hand, which I took.

  “Of course you are, silly. So am I. Now come back inside. I’m cold.”

  I was shocked. Was it possible I was overthinking it all this time? It appeared so. I followed her back to bed, where she curled up next to me. Her skin was still cold from the night air. I fell asleep and got some of the best rest I’d had in a while.

  Everything became easy after that conversation, or rather more organic and natural. I felt free to really experience the happiness that had been bestowed upon us. We talked about life after Japan, and she was pleased that I was flexible. The details were never decided, but I was willing to muddle through a long-distance relationship until more-permanent arrangements could be made. In my mind “more-permanent” meant marriage. Quebec was only a few hours from DC by plane, and we decided on a tentative visitation schedule. We discussed how we would stay in touch, and how frequently we could realistically see each other. But there was one more hurdle to overcome.

  On our way back to Tokyo she told me her parents were coming to visit her in her last week here. They had never been to Japan and wanted to see her and the city before she left. She asked if I would meet them. I could sense her reticence and nervousness when we discussed it. In her mind this was something that was unavoidable, and was best to get out of the way. I didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what that meant. But I meant what I’d said to her in Nara.

  Two weeks later I stood at the entrance to the suite on the fiftieth floor of the Park Hyatt Tokyo. From the other side of the door I could hear hushed yet emphatic words in Arabic, which only served to heighten my anxiety. I suddenly felt foolish holding a bouquet of flowers and other assorted gifts. Were it not for the air conditioning vent directly above me, I might have sweat through my shirt and jacket. After some shushing the door opened and an older woman, whom I guessed was Rana’s mother, stood there with her best attempt at a smile, beckoning me in. I handed her the flowers.

  “Asalaamu alaykum,” I managed to say while trying to swallow. Suddenly my throat was dry.

  She struggled to maintain her smile and reciprocated the greeting halfheartedly, as if not expecting to have to say it. I followed her into the common area of the suite, where two men sat. The man I assumed was Rana’s father sat scowling in an armchair in front of a floor-to-ceiling window. The other man, her brother, well groomed and in his twenties, sat on an adjacent love seat trying his best not to meet my gaze. In the distance behind them I could see the treetops of Shinjuku Central Park. Suddenly I wanted to be anywhere but here. There was some commotion to my right, down the hallway to the living area, but I did my best to ignore it.

  I steeled myself and entered the common area, ushered in by Rana’s mother. She offered me a seat opposite the men. I paused and extended my hand to Rana’s father, which he took. I removed the gift I had brought for him and offered the obligatory greeting again: “Asalaamu alaykum.” Like the mother he reciprocated, but it was much more practiced. He took the gift in his hand and eyed it with what seemed like suspicion before unceremoniously tossing it onto an end table next to what appeared to be a glass of scotch. I turned to the younger man and offered my salutations for a third time before taking the seat I’d been offered.

  “This thing with you and my daughter must end.” My butt had barely hit the seat when her father started. This thing? I maintained my composure but remained silent for some time, considering how to respond. Meanwhile, Rana had appeared from the living area, her eyes swollen and red. She walked awkwardly past me and sat next to her brother and mother on the loveseat.

  “I did not come here to be dictated to,” I said. “And certainly not to be insulted.”

  “I don’t care why you came here!” he shouted. “I know you will not leave with what you came for!”

  “Baba—” Rana began, but she was stopped by her father’s icy stare.

  “I’ve come here out of respect,” I said. “But the decision I will abide by is Rana’s. If she tells me it is not possible for us to be together, then I will respect her wishes.” I turned to look at her. Her head hung, and I saw tears running from her cheeks to her hands, which she was wringing in her lap.

  “Rana, who is this man?” her father said. “What do you know about him? Where is his family from? I doubt if he even knows!” The implication could not have been any more clear, and though I was insulted, I held my tongue. I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that I did know the origins of my family, that I came from generations of educated and successful people. But I didn’t. My anger wouldn’t allow it. I was a black man being judged for being black, or, at the very least, for not being Arab. All of those things I wanted him to know, I suddenly didn’t want to say. I cared for Rana. I loved her. But what kind of man would she be getting if I bowed to this kind of behavior?

  “Is he even a good Muslim?” he asked. I eyed the glass of scotch next to my discarded gift.

  After a long and anxious silence fell over the room, Rana spoke. “I think you should go, John
.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. The father’s countenance remained impassive. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I had only enough life and will in me to stand, button my jacket, and walk toward the door.

  “Have a good evening.” I walked from the common area and to the door. There was complete silence even as the door closed behind me. I continued slowly toward the elevator, trying to comprehend what had happened. Part of me wanted to give Rana a chance to come sprinting down the hallway after me. She didn’t.

  I called and e-mailed her a couple of times after that. I was hoping to catch her at a time when she was clear of the influence of her father. I guess such a time never came. We never spoke to or saw each other again.

  How Did I End Up Here?

  By Arif Choudhury

  “Any dates lined up, Ma?”

  “No.”

  I was exhausted. After almost thirty hours of travel I finally arrived in Dhaka, the capital of Bangladesh. I took a nap, woke up, and was now talking to my mother, who had arrived two weeks earlier to visit relatives.

  “Am I meeting any girls?”

  “No.”

  “What? None?”

  “There are no dates.”

  I was disappointed. I had come to Bangladesh to take care of family business, visit relatives, and reconnect with a country that I loved to visit as a child. While I was here I had also hoped to meet my future bride. That last part sounded odd when I thought it. How did I end up here?

  Before I was born, my parents immigrated to the U.S. from what is now Bangladesh. I grew up in the northern, majority-white suburbs of Chicago. As the eldest child in an immigrant family I realized that my parents couldn’t teach me everything about America so I turned to television. It seemed like the most dependable source of information and I watched countless hours. Like the other boys in the neighborhood, my favorite shows were Knight Rider and The A-Team. I developed crushes on the women I saw, including Wonder Woman and Jeannie—one had an invisible jet and a golden lasso while the other one could grant wishes! My more age-appropriate affections were focused on Punky Brewster.