She took him to his classroom and introduced him to his students. She had a way about her that put Ramzi at ease. He felt he could talk to her about almost anything. An involuntary shudder moved through him as he thought back to that day. He had told her more about himself than he ever meant to. After that, she had adopted him, helping him become part of the school community, helping him to follow his prime directive: Blend in, attract no notice.
“This isn’t the place. We can’t talk here, someone might overhear,” Beryl said.
Ramzi scrunched himself up as small as he could, even gritting his teeth and grimacing like a kid trying to make himself invisible. He didn’t dare look in their direction.
“Look. It’s empty—not a soul here. Come on, you’re going to crack up if you don’t tell someone.”
“I’m so ashamed,” Beryl said between sobs. “When I started it wasn’t so bad. I mean, I thought it was terrible, those boring dates with fat guys. But this one, Mike, he didn’t just rape me, he beat the hell out of me, and then robbed me.”
“You should have said something. When was this?”
Ramzi craned his neck in their direction to hear better.
“The beginning of summer. The marks faded just in time for the start of school in September.” Beryl’s sobs drowned out the wheezing radiator.
Lucy responded with those little clucking noises women make when they comfort each other. The thought of someone raping Beryl brought heat to Ramzi’s cheeks. Who would do such a thing? Beryl’s rape caused him a dilemma. Yes, he knew the infidel whore deserved what she got—she was divorced, a matter of shame for any decent Muslim woman. She had brought shame to her whole family, in fact. Yet Beryl was kind, and raised her children with no help from their father. Though jihad had separated him from his Fatima, she was provided for and had staff to help run the household. If he died in jihad, she would be taken care of, and if, Allah forbid, he fell out with Azis, he had paid a great uncle in Karachi enough to ensure she would disappear and be safe. But no one was there for Beryl. Ramzi struggled for control of his mind. He must banish thoughts of Beryl’s goodness. Her loneliness presented him with an opportunity. Her fate was in Allah’s hands.
“But what was the alternative? I was lonely. Do you know how many single women there are out there? I didn’t stand a chance. Who’d look at me?” Beryl said, a bitter edge to her voice.
Ramzi had looked closely at Beryl when they first met, and he liked what he saw. Though a bit older than he, she was still a handsome woman. Rich, black hair (although he knew it was probably dyed, as all of the women in this country colored their hair), complemented by deep blue eyes. A soft face, lines around the eyes and mouth. To him the lines indicated character.
Beryl had a lush figure, and this was so much more appealing than the skinny, barren women so highly prized here. American women were either stick-thin or waddling giants. The women of Islam were robust and fertile.
Beryl blew her nose loudly, bringing Ramzi back to the present. He struggled to keep his breath even, to remain undetected. Before either spoke again, the school bell went off. The room would be crowded within minutes.
“Come on,” Lucy said. “Let’s get out of here.”
He heard the door flung open. Teachers flooded into the room, talking, laughing, heading for their desks. Ramzi, with two free periods back-to-back, waited until the room filled up to slip out.
* * *
Ramzi kneeled on the carpet in the corner of the large prayer room at the mosque. Azis, his imam, kneeled next to him, smiled indulgently, and took Ramzi’s hand in his. The warmth and strength of Azis’s touch comforted Ramzi.
Ramzi guessed the imam was in his mid-forties, the wiry black beard showing streaks of gray. Azis’s leathery skin fit tight over his facial bones, a result of early deprivation, a testament to years of living in the harsh light of Pakistan’s mountains. He had a cruel mouth and Ramzi was pleased he could not see Azis’s eyes. The times when he had, he’d been unnerved by the black void that stared back at him. Warm hands, cold heart.
“I’m confused,” Ramzi said, searching the room with his eyes. It was empty but for the rich, blood-red carpet and three low squat desks along the opposite wall. The faint odor of working men emanated from the worn rug.
Azis stroked the back of Ramzi’s hand with his index finger. Ramzi watched this, and for the first time in his life he felt uncomfortable with the physicality of it. Among the people of the Great Satan, when one man touched another it led to the abomination of homosexuality. But in Pakistan, men never hesitated to express their affection and concern for one another in this way. Watching Azis’s hand, Ramzi wondered if this was how Adam felt once he had eaten from the forbidden tree. The Great Satan corrupted all that was good, even to the point of undermining the purity of his contact with Azis.
“If your feelings for this woman are strong, you should take her,” Azis counseled, “but remember that Americans pride themselves on turning their wives and daughters into whores, and that any goodness you see in her is an illusion. This woman, the Jew, Beryl, is a whore.”
Ramzi glanced then at Azis. Being an imam had freed Azis from the need to assimilate. The infidel seemed to expect him to retain his ethnicity, and he hadn’t disappointed. His perfectly white turban was arranged so skillfully it appeared to be an extension of his brow. Azis wore a long beard which extended to his ears. He shaved it almost to the edge of his jaw line, leaving his face exposed and causing the beard to jut out at an angle from his chin that gave Ramzi the impression that Azis’s face grew out of his facial hair instead of the other way around. Azis shifted slightly and the glare left the bifocals he habitually wore. Ramzi saw that Azis was contemplating him fondly.
Ramzi turned his hand over, allowing him to wrap his fingers around Azis’s. Why had he doubted? He let his breath out and with it went his anxiety about Beryl. Allah is all-knowing. Azis was wise indeed. Richmond Hill High bragged at its role in producing fallen women. Mae West and Cyndi Lauper were two of its proudest alumni. He need not fear becoming too involved with the hussy, Beryl.
He smiled at Azis, who smiled back.
“You came to me with the idea to take this Jew woman. It is a good idea. It will deepen your cover, and I see in your eyes you know it is right. Now that you are sure, there are things I must tell you, things you need to know about these fornicating She-Devils . . .”
* * *
A week later, Ramzi waited by the staff room door. “Heading out?” he asked, trying to sound casual when he saw Beryl. He fell in with her as she left for the day. When he pushed the door open for her, his jaw was tight and his stomach fluttered. It was ridiculous; he was forty years old, after all. Beryl wore a tight skirt and a low-cut blouse, and as she sauntered along beside him her coat flared open revealing cleavage. Ramzi looked away discreetly. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“Not bad. How are you doing with 9B? Have they settled down?”
“Yes, thanks to you. You told me to get on top of Kasan and you were right. Once he was under control the others fell in line.”
Beryl grinned. “He’s a tough customer that one. Way too big and strong for his years. His father is in the Russian mafia.”
Ramzi raised his eyebrows and shook his head as if he were shocked, although he knew all about Kasan’s connections.
Beryl’s heels clicked pleasantly to the end of the hallway and then stopped as she paused inside the door to do up her coat. Their eyes met and Ramzi smiled at her. He felt a pang of guilt. But why? Beryl was an infidel hussy, and he had Azis’s dispensation. Ramzi opened the outside door and held it for her. As Beryl passed him, he caught a whiff of perfume. It brought to mind lilacs and spring.
The air was frigid, turning their breath into clouds of vapor. Azis’s warning haunted him. He caught himself staring at Beryl. He blushed and forced himself to focus on the ground as they walked in silence to her car. The moody sky threatened snow, and it would be dark by 4:30 p.m. Beryl dr
ew her scarf tight around her neck. Her cheeks, ears, and the tip of her nose had turned red; her beauty made him ache. If her husband were a real man, if he’d stuck by his wife, then Ramzi could never have contemplated using her in this way. The thought that it was Jeff’s fault, not his, comforted him.
Taking a woman would help deepen his cover. Handled correctly, it would make him even more invisible. Beside an American woman, his surveillance wouldn’t draw suspicion. And there were other benefits. He could go to the beach and to the Museum of Natural History and all the other places in New York he wanted to see, but felt too conspicuous to go alone.
Beryl pushed the key into her car door. It was now or never. He cleared his throat.
“Beryl, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner and a movie this Saturday night?”
She looked confused, then slightly amused—he had been too formal, he knew. He had met Fatima on their wedding day; today was the first time in his life he had asked a woman out. He was more nervous than he expected to be and cursed himself for this.
She smiled. “Dinner and a movie. Why not?”
It was all Ramzi could do not to high-five her.
* * *
Ramzi swept inside the mosque amid a flurry of coats and scarves and wet umbrellas. Azis stood against the wall surrounded by his followers. Ramzi tried to control his expression. He wanted to appear his usual calm self but his emotions were in turmoil. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry when he caught the imam’s eye. Azis shook his head and lowered his gaze.
Back on the street, Ramzi realized Beryl’s acceptance had left him cranky. A woman her age shouldn’t be dating at all. Azis had not only approved his plan to take a woman, he had encouraged it. But now Ramzi no longer wanted to go through with it.
The wind picked up, and icy needles attacked his exposed cheeks. He moved quickly and almost went flying when his foot hit ice and shot out in front of him. By the time he got to his apartment, he was moving at a steady trot. He paused on his stoop, ripped open his mailbox, and flipped through the contents. He sweated and his legs twitched from the run. What must it feel like? His breathing didn’t slow even though he’d been still for several minutes. To his eternal shame, there was movement in his trousers. He must complete his mission and leave this country. But first, dinner and a movie with Beryl.
* * *
Ramzi squeezed Beryl’s hand. To think he’d once dreaded dating her. She had become as familiar to him as his leather recliner. Today she wore her cobalt-blue jacket open, revealing a long-sleeved T-shirt that looked perfect with her jeans and sneakers.
He parked on Utopia Parkway near the off-ramp of the Cross Island Parkway. Behind them was an entrance to Little Bay Park that followed the water’s edge to Fort Totten and then on to the Bayside Marina. On his first visit he had discovered that if you keep walking south, the path leads beneath the Long Island Rail Road and up onto Northern Boulevard.
He got out of the car, opened the trunk, and grabbed a picnic basket and blanket. Beryl scanned for the entrance. Along the road, just inside the park, was a dark wooded area where the spring grass was unkempt, and several ragged trees made it seem unwelcoming.
“Follow me,” Ramzi said. He headed back up toward the off-ramp and waited for her by two rectangular brick piles that marked the entry to the park. “This is the back way, but you get a nice view of the bridge and water.”
“How do you know so many beautiful places? I’ve lived in Queens all my life and I never knew this was here,” Beryl said.
As they entered the park, Ramzi touched his finger to his lip to silence her. A crumbling concrete trail began at the entrance, but petered out within fifty yards of the gate, leaving them to walk through grass. Ramzi breathed in the scent. Fresh cut grass, blossoms, and manure, it all added up to spring. It was barely April, but the forecast said seventy, and already it was warm and sunny. The sky was the richest blue, and the water, though grayish-green, was mirror-still, reflecting the bridge.
“I came from the mountains in what is almost desert, not this lush green and expanse of water,” he said by way of explanation.
Had he made a mistake? Yes, it was a good idea to use this woman for cover, but he should have chosen a more brazen, less likeable one. It was a constant struggle to keep her at a distance. It troubled him. He had to remind himself this was a She-Devil, however kind, and that he was performing his duty to Allah by deceiving her. But he couldn’t banish the thought that she was a good woman trapped in an evil culture. He felt her round hip rub against his, and despite himself he was aroused. The first time they’d slept together he’d been terrified. He had listened to Azis’s warning, and read New York magazine every week. The sexual habits of New Yorkers repelled, yet fascinated him.
He had been content with his wife. In truth, sex wasn’t something he’d given much thought to before coming to live in Queens. Americans seemed obsessed with it, as if it were the most important thing in the world. It was true that he enjoyed sex. When he and Fatima did it, he felt close and safe. No one in Pakistan ever talked about love. That was something for the blasphemers of Bollywood to churn out in their endless stream of movies. Seeing Fatima was often accompanied by a feeling of warmth and longing, and if he’d ever given it any thought, he’d have been happy to call that love.
Beryl turned to him and smiled. He knew she looked forward to these outings. She’d lost fifteen pounds from the exercise and claimed to be fitter than she’d been in years. Even in winter, Ramzi had led her along the water’s edge, although one day in early March he’d had to abandon his plans because the path was slick with ice. Instead, he’d taken her on a luxury water cruise. He felt a twinge of guilt when he remembered Beryl that night—giggling like a schoolgirl, posing for his pictures. She couldn’t have guessed that the true subject of those photos were the bridges and buildings and port facilities in the background. He’d taken enough photos to fill a 256MB memory card. Their expeditions became more frequent as the weather warmed up. They’d explored the whole length of the Long Island waterfront from the Brooklyn Bridge to today’s outing at the Throgs Neck Bridge.
“What’s that?” Ramzi asked, pointing to a chicken-wire enclosure about the size of a residential building block.
The park was crowded with people, some lone walkers, some in groups, and some on bicycles. The slope down to the water was dotted with sunbathers who had dragged fold-up chairs to the park and sprawled in their swimsuits. Two women in leotards power-walked, while another couple glided by on rollerblades. Inside the enclosure he’d pointed at, the grass had been worn to dirt. It was mobbed with people and dogs, and the stench of animal excrement, fur, dog breath, and urine wafted from it.
“It’s a dog run.”
“A what?”
“A dog run. In New York City you have to keep your dog leashed most of the time. Inside that, you can let it run free.”
“Really?” Ramzi was appalled: In his country, dogs were rabid curs. Here they were more pampered than children.
They made their way down the gentle, sloping lawn toward the path, and met up with it under the bridge’s pylons. The tide was low and the air had a decidedly fishy tinge to it.
“Look at this bridge,” he said. “What a magnificent achievement. Look at the pylons, they’re solid. And the cables could hold it up on their own.”
“I suppose I should be grateful we’re not discussing piston engines,” Beryl said.
Ramzi turned his attention from the bridge to his companion. He glared at her. “You know how much I admire these bridges, not just the engineering either, they are magnificent.” He slid his arm around her. They passed under the bridge and beside some soccer fields where elementary and middle school children battled it out. The shouts from the parents fought with the noise of the traffic on the bridge overhead.
Ramzi’s mission loomed before him, and the thought of it filled him with dread. The longer he stayed here, the harder it was to maintain his rage. Jihad had s
aved him from shiftlessness and had given him direction. Of course, he despised Beryl, but until he started to date her he hadn’t realized how much he missed a woman’s touch. Then, despite himself, Beryl had begun to mean something to him. In time, he began to know the infidel, and had developed a liking for many of them.
Beryl’s hand crept around his waist and she kissed his cheek as they strolled along. At the same time, he was fully cognizant that a war was being fought and he had chosen a side. Beryl was a weapon the Great Satan had abandoned in the field. He had merely picked it up where it lay and was putting it to good use.
They rounded a bend. “Let’s look for a place to eat,” Beryl said. There was a hilly section where man-made mounds of earth had long since become part of the landscape; grass and trees grew on them.
“Let’s eat up there on the plateau,” he suggested. “That way you can watch the view and I can watch the soccer.” Ramzi laid out the blanket and Beryl spread the food on it. She’d made sandwiches, brought sodas, and packed grapes into Ziploc bags. She’d gotten used to Ramzi not drinking alcohol, and had given it up herself. For dessert, she’d bought a pie at The Stork in College Point.
After they ate, Ramzi lay his head on her lap and stared at the sky. Several trees were just coming into blossom and filled the air with a heady but pleasant scent. Immediately, an image of Beryl on her knees before him, her mouth clamped firmly around his penis, came to mind. He remembered the fear he felt when she did it the first time. Ramzi had never hit a woman, but looking down on Beryl’s soft, shiny hair, her head bobbing at his crotch, he wanted to knock her across the room and scream, Have you no pride, woman? No fear of God?
Azis had given Ramzi absolution when he first warned him this would happen. They had prayed together. In the end, Ramzi grew too ashamed to face Azis. Perhaps God would forgive him. After all, he had submitted to serve Allah. But Beryl would go to Hell.
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