At the beginning Shaymaa was assailed several times by heavy pangs of conscience. Her prayers became irregular, then she stopped performing them entirely. She had frightening nightmares. Her father appeared to her more than once yelling at her then giving her sound beatings while her mother, in the background, cried in agony but could do nothing to protect her from the beating. Gradually she reached a comforting logical resolution. She went to the Arabic section at the Chicago Public Library and verified the noble hadiths that Tariq spoke of. She found them in al-Bukhari. The canonical punishment was for zina only: what did zina mean? “The flesh entering the flesh like the kohl applicator entering the kohl jar.” There was an authenticated story about a man who had committed zina and he went to the Prophet, peace be upon him, to apply the penalty of the canon law on him. The Prophet, out of mercy on him, pretended not to pay attention; perhaps the man would think it through or run away, but the man insisted that the Prophet punish him. The Prophet then asked him: “Have you actually committed zina? Perhaps you just kissed, touched, or your thighs touched.” So all of those were degrees of sexual contact that fell short of zina and there were no canonical punishments for them, but God forgave whomever he willed.
So she was not committing zina with Tariq, and they both had great hopes for God’s forgiveness because he knew their sincere intention to get married. If they could get married right now they wouldn’t hesitate for a moment. But what could they do? They couldn’t marry in Chicago without the families’ approval, and at the same time they couldn’t interrupt their scholarships. They would get married on the first trip that the scholarships’ conditions allow, in two years. Tariq would have his PhD and she would be entitled to a midscholarship furlough. She made him swear on the Holy Qur’an that they would write the marriage contract as soon as they arrived in Egypt. She even made him repeat after her a formula that she improvised: “I marry you, Shaymaa, before God and in the manner sanctioned by the Prophet’s practice and I will conclude the contract with you as soon as we arrive in Egypt and God is my witness.” Thus she was reassured; nightmares no longer oppressed her and she resumed performing her prayers. Now she was a full-fledged legally married wife (except for the red line). The only thing lacking was registering the marriage. And, by the way, registration procedures were not prescribed by the principal legal edicts of Islam; rather, they were a necessity imposed by governments only recently. During the days of the Prophet, peace be upon him, marriage vows were oral: the man and woman said a few words whereupon they were married before God Almighty. And this was exactly what she had done with Tariq. She convinced herself that she was his wife before God and in the manner sanctioned by the Prophet’s practice, and began to read about the duties of a Muslim wife toward her husband in religious books and tried to fulfill them: to protect his honor and property, to cherish him in his presence and absence, and to provide him with comfort and safe refuge.
As for Tariq, his life was turned upside down. It was as if he had discovered a treasure. All this pleasure? All this happiness? Now he could understand the crimes he read about in the newspapers: a man stealing or killing to keep the woman he loved. At one point that pleasure became more important than life itself. How much he regretted not knowing of it earlier. For thirty-five years he’d lived a harsh, hermetic existence, like a hungry man trying to fill himself by imagining food. Now he was a new person; he was different. He no longer resented the world. He no longer treated others provocatively, ready to fight at any moment. He’d become so calm and contented that his face looked different. “I swear by God Almighty that it now looks different,” he would say as he examined his face in the mirror. His complexion looked fresh and clean, his bulging eyes became less so, and his muscles no longer contracted and his mouth did not become crooked when he spoke. More surprising, he was no longer fond of pornographic movies. Even wrestling matches, which he had loved watching ever since he was a child, he rarely desired to watch anymore. The wellbeing that he felt as he surrendered his body to the hot shower after lovemaking could not be described in words. But did he really intend to marry Shaymaa? That was a difficult question that no one, not even Tariq himself, could definitively answer. He was passionately in love with her. He had once read that a man could test his real feelings for a woman after he had slept with her: if he got bored and wanted to leave her company soon after achieving his pleasure, that meant that he didn’t love her and vice versa. And Tariq could never get his fill of Shaymaa. He clung to her in bed. In her bosom he felt so serene, as if she were his mother. Sometimes he became so full of longing that he kissed every part of her body, licked it, wished he could devour it. His relationship with her then was not one of mere lust that he satisfied. He loved her and missed her very much all day long. But did that mean that he would marry her? The answer was an incomprehensible mumbling. He had promised to marry her and had repeated her vow to that intent. He had assured her a thousand times that he still respected her and that he was sure he was to be her first and last man. Had he done that out of conviction or pity, or (oh what an evil thought!) had he gone with her as far as he had from the beginning knowing that by so doing he was excluding her for good from any possibility of marriage? Could it be that, when he felt he was getting attached to her, he had deliberately had sex with her to undermine the thought of marrying her? He didn’t know the answer and did not dwell on it long. Why should he ruin his happiness with unsettling thoughts? Why was he in a hurry to worry? He had two years to face up to the decision. So let him dip into the spring of happiness, then let come what may. That was what he told himself, thereby achieving peace of mind and several months, the sweetest of his life, in heaven.
When did happiness last, and for whom? Yesterday, at about
3:00 p. m., Tariq finished reviewing samples of his research as usual, closed his office, and got ready to leave. But he was surprised to see Dr. Bill Friedman, chairman of the department, standing in front of him. He greeted him with a nod and said in a serious tone of voice, “I’ve come to see you, Tariq. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, come with me then.”
Chapter 29
It was an elegant three-story building surrounded by a beautiful garden. Dr. Thabit crossed the entryway in a hurry. The office of the counselor was to the right. He knocked on the door and went in. Then he smiled and said, “My name is Ra’fat Thabit. Sorry for being late. I had a hard time finding parking.”
“Don’t worry about it. Please have a seat.”
The counselor looked like a kindhearted grandmother. Her short gray hair covered the sides of her small head. Her smiling face conveyed a sense of familiarity and kindness. By way of introduction she said, “My name is Catherine. I am here to help you.”
“Have you been working here a long time?”
“Actually I don’t work. I am a volunteer, helping addicts and their families.”
“I salute you for your noble sentiment.”
Ra’fat was trying to steer the conversation away from the subject for which he came, perhaps until he decided how he should begin.
“Thank you, but what made me volunteer was not exactly a noble sentiment. My only son, Teddy, died of addiction,” Catherine said calmly, her smile disappearing. “I felt I was primarily responsible for his death. After separating from his father, I gave myself over completely to my work for twenty years. I wanted to prove to myself that I was a successful person. I owned a detergent sales company, to which I gave all my time until it became one of the most important companies in Chicago. Then I woke up when it was too late to save my son.”
Ra’fat listened in silence. She took a sip of water from a glass in front of her and added, “I think you, as a father, can fully feel my shock at his death. I was in therapy for a full year after he died. The first thing I did after coming out of the hospital was to liquidate my company. I began to hate it, as if it were the reason he died. Right now I am living off my bank savings and I spend my time
helping addicts and their families. Whenever I help an addict with their recovery, I feel I am doing something for Teddy.”
The room was plunged into profound silence. Ra’fat stared at the wall to escape the gloom. There were many certificates of appreciation for Catherine from various organizations and pictures of her with young men and women whom he supposed were addicts that she had helped. Catherine sighed and smiled gently, as if turning over that page of sorrow, and said, “I’m sorry. I’m here to listen to you, not to talk about myself. Please go ahead. Tell me the story. I’m all ears.”
Ra’fat told her everything about Sarah, as if he were making a confession behind a curtain to a benevolent priest. He told her what he had seen and how he felt then, exerting extraordinary effort to control his features, and finished the story with the words “My life has stopped completely. I can hardly work. I want to do something for her.”
The counselor held a pen between her fingers and began to examine it closely, as if weighing what to say.
“The way you describe it, your daughter is most likely doing cocaine. Treating this kind of addiction is not easy. Young people are enticed to try it because early on it increases the levels of dopamine in the brain, which produces a heightened feeling of delight and comfort.”
“Have you treated such addicts before?” The words addicts sounded strange to his ears.
“I don’t treat. I am a counselor. I’ve taken courses on helping addicts. When we start the treatment we will have psychiatrists on our team. But I have taken part in helping cocaine addicts before.”
“What’s the success rate?”
“Fifty-fifty, it depends.”
“That’s a low rate.”
“I consider it high because half the addicts are in recovery. Remember, treating addiction is not easy. We have to lower our expectations so as not to be disappointed.”
Ra’fat bowed his head in silence. Catherine added, “Now to work. Listen, from my experience, in the case of your daughter Sarah, the love team might be an effective way to begin.”
He looked at her quizzically. She went on, “The love team is a method to motivate the addict to accept treatment. We bring together a group of people they love: relatives, neighbors, and colleagues at work or school. They begin to visit him or her regularly and help him admit he’s an addict and in need of help. If the love team is successful, the addict will be ready to begin a twelve-step treatment program. Allow me to ask you a question I don’t like to ask but I have to.”
“Please go ahead.”
“Concerning the costs of the program?”
“The insurance company will take care of that. I have requested that addiction be added in the policy.”
“Well, then. Please take this form and fill it in, and before you leave, drop it at the receptionist’s office.”
Ra’fat took the form, and for a few moments he didn’t know what to do with it as he continued to look at her. She said, “Your task now is to convince two or three of Sarah’s friends to come with us to visit her. This brochure explains the role of the love team in treating addiction.”
Ra’fat left her office carrying many brochures and flyers about addiction and the work of the society. At home he carefully started to read. Turning the situation into tasks, procedures, and data helped him run away from the tragedy that began to present itself to him gradually as a huge mountain. Sarah has turned into an addict. It wasn’t fair to blame her. She assured him that what had happened to Sarah could happen to anyone: to try once, and then try once more to recapture the pleasure. Eventually that person could become an addict. How could he blame her? She was not in full control of her faculties and was not responsible for her actions. It was not her fault. It was that criminal Jeff who had led her to addiction. What a poor girl! How he blamed himself for hitting her! He was so upset about it that he felt that his right hand was separate from his body. It was the hand that had hit Sarah. Why had he hit her? Why couldn’t he control himself? How cruel he was to her! He spent several days grappling with his thoughts before he was able to cope with his sorrow. He said to himself: there are two ways to deal with this tragedy. One is to be a backward Oriental father and disown and curse her; the other is to act like a civilized person and help her get over her ordeal.
He and Michelle went over the list of Sarah’s friends who could join the love team. When he contacted them he discovered that they all knew she had a problem. Her friend Sylvia told him, “Jeff is the reason she’s an addict. I’ve often warned her about him, but she loved him too much to listen to me.”
Sylvia agreed to join the love team and so did a young man named Jesse who used to sit next to her in class. The two of them started developing a plan: Sylvia said she’d buy Sarah an apple and banana pie, which she knew she just loved. Jesse, on the other hand, decided to get her a kitten or a puppy because she loved animals. Catherine, the counselor, got very enthusiastic and said, “These are very positive ideas; reminding her of her favorite dishes and raising a little animal would put her in a mood to help her combat addiction.”
Everything was ready, and the following Sunday, at about ten in the morning, the love team headed for Sarah’s house in Oakland. Michelle sat next to Ra’fat while Sylvia and Jesse sat in the Cadillac’s backseat. They talked about various things in short, disconnected spurts and laughed nervously for no reason in order to escape the gravity of the situation. Ra’fat was driving at an incredibly high speed, which prompted Michelle to ask him, “Are you trying to get a speeding ticket?”
But he was driven by a mysterious, resentful energy, so he didn’t reduce his speed until he got to Oakland, where he slowed down to remember the way. The neighborhood looked different during the day: the streets were empty, as if they had been abandoned. Graffiti in black and red was sprayed on the walls. Ra’fat parked the car in the parking lot where he had been robbed. As soon as they got out of the car they stood in front of Catherine, the counselor, as if they were players receiving the coach’s instructions before the game. Catherine, maintaining her calm smile, said, “Please, Ra’fat, wait in the car. Last time you saw Sarah, you had a fight. We don’t want to provoke her negative feelings. Unfortunately addicts tend to be irascible. Stay here, and after we talk with her for a little bit, we’ll ask her if she would like to see you.”
Ra’fat acquiesced. He bowed his head and moved one step away as Catherine resumed her instructions to the team. “The most important thing we should convey to Sarah is that we love her: no pity and no sermons. Remember that well. It’s quite possible that we’ll find her in a condition that we don’t like. She might receive us badly or be hostile. She might even kick us out. Prepare yourselves for the worst possibility. The young lady we will see in a few moments is not the Sarah that we know. Now she is an addict. This is the truth we should not forget.”
They listened to her in silence, but Sylvia suddenly cried in a hoarse voice that sounded strange, “Oh, Jesus, save poor Sarah,” then started to sob. Michelle hugged her. The counselor’s voice came calm and firm this time. “Sylvia, get a grip on yourself. We have to convey to her our positive feelings. If you cannot stop crying, it’d be best if you stayed in the car with Ra’fat.”
Ra’fat backed off slowly, opened the car, and sat behind the steering wheel while the rest of the team proceeded toward the house: Jesse holding the little puppy and Sylvia carrying the apple and banana pie. They walked slowly toward the house as if in a funeral procession. They found the garden gate open and the outside lights on even though it was daylight. They climbed the front stairs and Michelle rang the bell. A whole minute passed and no one opened. She rang again. After another minute the door opened and a large black man, wearing a blue workman’s suit, appeared. Michelle said, “Good morning. Is Sarah here?”
“Who?”
“Pardon me. Isn’t this Jeff Anderson and Sarah Thabit’s house?”
“I believe those are the names of the tenants who moved.”
“Did they move
?”
“Yes, a few days ago. The landlord sent me over to paint the house. I think he’s renting it to a new tenant.”
They remained silent for a moment, then Michelle said, “I’m Sarah’s mom. I’ve come to check on her with these friends of hers. Do you have her new address?”
“Sorry, ma’am, I don’t know it.”
* * *
“Even if you are an official at the Egyptian embassy, that doesn’t give you the right to break into my house,” I shouted. He looked at me defiantly and moved one step to the center of the living room,
taking his time as if affirming his control of the situation.
“I’ve invited myself to a cup of coffee with you. Listen, Nagi, you have a superior academic record, you’re intelligent, and you have a great future ahead of you.”
“What exactly do you want?”
“I want to help you.”
“What makes you want to do that?”
“My fear for you.”
“Fear of what?”
“Your stupidity.”
“Watch your words.”
“You’ve come to America to get an education, and instead of looking after your future, you’ve brought a catastrophe upon yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re collecting signatures on a statement against our revered president. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
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