by Teddy Wayne
“Some of what he says is logical,” I said. “Being a scientist is a difficult profession and requires graduate school and does not pay well. There is always a need for nurses, especially in Doha now.”
“Are you serious?” she said.
“It is necessary to have a backup plan. You should take preparatory classes next semester, and maybe you will discover you prefer nursing. It is an integral job.” My voice sounded deeper and quieter and slower than normal. I had to say something else, so I added, “If you disagree with him, you must talk to him. I cannot do it for you. You are an adult now.”
“He doesn’t treat me as an adult!” she said. “That is exactly the problem!”
“I am sorry, Zahira,” I said.
She made an angry sound by exhaling loudly through her teeth and said, “I thought I had a good brother,” which was the worst thing she could have said to me, because while I am not boastful about much, I am proud of my skills as a brother. Then she did to me what I did to my father: She disconnected.
She didn’t call back. I felt doubly bad, for (1) not defending her against our father and (2) lying to her. When I returned home, I could talk to him again and try to convince him. I could resolve to pay for her entire tuition, but she would remain in his home, and he might still reject the idea, and in fact it would probably make him even more certain. It’s even more difficult to change someone’s mind on a subject they have strong beliefs about than it is to make someone interested in a subject they are careless of.
I was about to call her to tell her this, but I hypothesized that she was still upset and my predicted outcomes weren’t very optimistic, so I decided to wait for her to stabilize and let her initiate contact with me when she was ready.
In bed that night I kept replaying what my father said about me not being in charge. I always thought earning a high salary would delete the lion’s share of problems for our family. But some problems are problematic independent of finances, and he was in fact correct: Money was not the solution to everything.
I didn’t see Rebecca again until late on Friday night. We had dinner to break my fast, and I was even more inferior at conversation than normal because I was focused on Zahira and also on Kapitoil and whether it meant Schrub leveraged other people’s problems even if we weren’t the source of the problems.
In her room she asked if I knew the musician Bob Dylan.
“I do not know most musicians, except for the Beatles,” I said.
“Why’s that?” She started playing a CD. “Are they big in Qatar?”
“No,” I said. “I merely know them well.”
It was enjoyable even though his voice was not as luxurious as John Lennon’s, and we kissed while we listened. He played a song called “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.” The melody was beautiful, but some of the words didn’t make sense, especially the line in the chorus “My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums.”
I paid attention the first time I heard it because of the word “Arabian,” but “warehouse eyes” frustrated me for two reasons: (1) A noun (“warehouse”) modifies another noun (“eyes”), which is grammatically poor, and (2) what does “warehouse eyes” mean? It does not present a logical visual analog for the listener.
So I asked Rebecca what “warehouse eyes” meant, and she said, “It’s a metaphor. But sometimes it’s just about the sound.”
I listened to the rest of the song, although it frustrated me that a musician could write something that he wants to be indecipherable, but then I remembered that Pollock’s paintings frustrated me initially before I adopted new strategies for viewing them. So I listened without analyzing the meaning in my conventional mode. And the fifth time he sang it, I suddenly had a mental tableau of a warehouse with two lighted windows, and even if my analysis was not parallel to Dylan’s original plan, his method now seemed like a slightly more valid way to write a song.
By the time the song was over, all our clothing was on the floor. I told myself it was incorrect behavior for Ramadan, but my body defeated my brain.
The CD changer switched and soon the song “With God on Our Side” played, and I continued listening. Like Lennon, Dylan was arguing that religion had caused many wars and made people act foolishly, e.g., “And you never ask questions, when God’s on your side.” Lennon and Dylan assumed that all religious people don’t evaluate what their religion tells them to do, when in fact some of the most thoughtful people I know are the most religious, because religion focuses not exclusively on spirituality but also on morality, which many people forget to consider.
And then I considered where I was: in bed with an American female, with both of us naked. I didn’t feel the way I did with Melissa, when it was as if I had committed a major crime, but possibly that was not a positive development. I remembered what Mr. Schrub said about how every day there are shifts that are so small you do not identify them, and finally you become a different person without even recognizing it.
I was truly not doing Ramadan this year.
“I should go home,” I said. She didn’t respond, so I exited the bed and replaced the white sheets partially over her body. “I am planning to be at the mosque all day tomorrow and will need to retire for a full night of sleep.”
She was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “Usually guys want to leave after.”
I didn’t want to explain why I wanted to leave, but I also didn’t want to make her feel bad, and I heard her incorrectly and thought she said “Usual guys,” so I said, “Well, I am an unusual guy.” It didn’t make her laugh, although I was uncertain if it was because (1) the logic of the joke was flawed from the launch; (2) she was not in the proper mood to laugh; or (3) it was merely humorless.
I told her I would call her soon, and left before I further damaged our relationship. It was a long subway ride home, and whenever the doors opened, the cold air entered the train like a strong punch to my body. The whole time I was thinking how I could instead be warm in bed with her, but I couldn’t go back. It was like wanting to return the suits after I purchased them. Once you make a significant decision, it is difficult or sometimes impossible to reverse it.
I was afraid that if I called her she’d still be upset with me and I would say other foolish things, and she would wonder why she had consented to be with me originally, and then reject me. I also wondered why she was with me. I didn’t possess the very handsome face of someone like Jefferson (although I knew Rebecca wouldn’t want to be with someone like Jefferson), or the knowledge base of music and movies and original clothing like her male friends, and I made many foolish errors in conversation, and now I was causing problems in other ways.
But some of it was possibly her fault, e.g., she didn’t truly consider how I might feel about seeing her during Ramadan. And in fact most Americans I had met only thought about my religion in relation to food or alcohol, not about the spiritual areas. I walked around my living room in a rectangular pattern, and the more I thought about this, the more upset I grew, and I decided to write an email. It wasn’t to Rebecca, however:
Mr. Ray, I am responding to Mr. Schrub’s request about a contract he has for me to sign. Can you please tell him I am available to meet him at his earliest convenience?
big in = popular in
warehouse eyes = an example of a metaphor that may not have a directly logical meaning
JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: DECEMBER 13
Rebecca didn’t contact me the remainder of the weekend, and on Monday I avoided her in the office. In the morning I received a response from Mr. Ray that Mr. Schrub could meet me that afternoon for lunch. I was nervous of course, but I also felt confident that my epidemiology proposal would intrigue him.
The restaurant had an Italian name and was in the Financial District, so I walked there. Every table was full of business-people, but it was also very quiet and partially dark even though it was lunchtime.
I waited for Mr. Schrub at the bar and ordered a Coke, and in ten minutes he arrived and the main gua
rd led us to a long table in a private section behind a door. Most of the eaters watched him as we walked past but pretended not to, and I felt their eyes observing me as well, and although attention usually makes me feel uncomfortable, now I felt stronger and sexier.
“I already arranged to do the chef’s menu,” Mr. Schrub told me. “And I made sure your food is vegetarian and otherwise appropriate.”
I reminded myself how much he had given me and that he was considering my needs and how luxurious the room we were in was, with paintings of apples and pears on the wall and a very white tablecloth that was simultaneously rigid and soft, and I told him I appreciated it.
Our waiter was probably the same age as Mr. Schrub, although he looked older. After he gave Mr. Schrub the wine menu, I said, “I have a new idea relating to Kapitoil.”
He put down the menu. “George said you hadn’t come up with anything.”
I felt foolish that Mr. Ray had said that, and it validated my fear that they were less impressed with me now, so I quickly explained how the epidemiology program would work and how my test results were robust so far.
Then, to conclude on another positive, I said, “I believe its applications are something your wife would find especially intriguing, as it can significantly enhance quality of life in the Third World.”
“How would you develop the program if, as you say, you don’t know much about epidemiology?” he asked.
“I would write the concept and reveal the algorithms for Kapitoil in an academic paper and release it to the public.” I turned my eyes to the wallpaper’s complex repeating pattern design of flower petals. “This means we would lose our monopoly on the program and it would no longer be valuable on the oil futures market.”
The waiter returned. “I don’t like to talk business over good food,” Mr. Schrub said quietly to me. “We’ll discuss it after the meal.”
He continued looking at the menu, and after 20 seconds the waiter said, “We have an ’88 Chianti that perfectly complements chef’s menu.”
Mr. Schrub didn’t look up from the menu, but his facial muscles compressed and he said, “If I wanted a recommendation I would have asked for one.”
The waiter’s face was already pale, but it seemed to turn paler. “I apologize, sir,” he said.
Mr. Schrub ordered a different wine I had never heard of, and the waiter said “Excellent choice,” and exited quickly.
Mr. Schrub didn’t discuss the contract at all while we ate, and he didn’t even talk about finance. Instead, he told me about the food we were eating. He and Mrs. Schrub owned a house in Tuscany and they went there every summer for at least a week and bought food at local markets and cooked together. “I recently cooked my first Italian meal,” I said. Then I added, “I taught myself.”
When I ate several gnocchi and grilled zucchini ASAP, he said, “Don’t just gulp it down like a philistine. You have to rotate between the flavors, savor them.” I decelerated my pace and was afraid he would find other flaws in my method of consuming and that it would somehow hurt my chances of convincing him to pursue the epidemiology project. “Break the taste apart into discrete essences—the fresh sweetness of the basil against the earthiness of the gnocchi.” This is why I could never be a restaurant critic, because my only descriptions for food I liked were “delicious” or “flavorful” or simple adjectives in that class, and if you lack specific vocabulary to describe something, it is almost as if you are also restricted from specific thoughts, parallel to how if you do not know a coding command, not only are you prevented from implementing the idea, but you may not even innovate the idea initially.
After we received coffee I thought we were finally going to discuss my idea, but the owner of the restaurant entered and greeted Mr. Schrub.
“You must be a very important young man if you’re lunching with Mr. Schrub,” the owner said after Mr. Schrub introduced me, and I did feel like a VIYM again.
“He’s only as important as I let him be,” Mr. Schrub said. They both laughed, and the owner asked about our meal. Mr. Schrub said the food was excellent. “The waiter was perhaps a little big for his britches. You may want to have a word.”
The owner apologized and said he would speak with him, then left us to drink our coffee. Mr. Schrub didn’t say anything for almost a minute as he breathed on his coffee, and I was afraid of deleting the silence. He was like Barron in that way, because when they were mute I knew they were having thoughts they were withholding but I didn’t know what the thoughts were, except Barron usually made me feel relieved after.
I finally said, “Have you thought about—”
He put up a finger as he poured milk into his cup. After he tasted it and licked his lips and dried them with his napkin and replaced his napkin on his lap, he said, “The epidemiology proposal sounds like a brilliant idea. But before we do something that rash, I think we should investigate further. Why don’t you give my programmers access to the code, they can bring it up with some confidential partners who know more about this subject, and we can figure out if this thing really does have a fighting chance.” He retrieved the contracts from his briefcase. “We’ve also gotten you some more money.”
There was something about his “Why don’t you” sentence that bothered me besides the fact that it was less a question and more a statement. I looked at the contracts that I still didn’t 100% understand on the rigid white tablecloth. The solitary thing I did understand was the amount of money, which was boldfaced and double the initial amount.
“If it is all right with you, I prefer to update my prototype further before I release it to your programmers,” I said.
He replaced the contracts in his briefcase as efficiently as if he was a printer feeding paper. “I understand,” he said. “You’re a perfectionist. So am I.” He discussed the snowstorm expected next weekend, and we finished our coffee and he refused to permit me to pay for my share and told me to recontact him when I was ready.
I walked slowly back to the office. I replayed his sentence that bothered me, and I deciphered what caused turmoil for me: He used the phrase “my programmers,” but I was also technically one of his programmers. Later in the sentence he said “we can figure out,” so he should have also said “our programmers.” It was a minor word choice, but it indicated something negative to me.
I had to consult with someone. There was only one person I could think of who was not upset with me now and who I thought could help me.
“No, you’re not bothering me,” Barron said on the telephone after I told him I didn’t require a ride. “How’s your lady friend?”
I said Rebecca was fine. But I truly wanted to speak about Mr. Schrub, although of course I couldn’t reveal the full details of the situation to Barron. So I said, “Barron, what do you advise in a situation like this: Another party has given one great trust, and one would like to trust the other party, but one slightly believes one possibly should not trust everything about the other party.”
Barron said, “Slow the hell down. If you say the words ‘trust’ and ‘one’ and ‘the other party’ one more time, I’m going to hang up. This is about Rebecca, right?”
This would be a convenient way to discuss Mr. Schrub, but I didn’t want to lie to Barron. So I said, “I would not like to identify the party or parties involved.”
“You don’t make this easy,” he said. “Let me ask you: Are you the kind of guy who doesn’t usually trust people?”
I stood in the middle of a cluster of business people waiting to cross Pine St. “No, I believe most people have positive values and goals and merit faith.”
“That’s a nice attitude, but it’s dangerous. Especially in this city—it’s full of phonies.” I asked what phonies were. “Fakes, frauds, exploiters, if that’s a word. You’ve got to watch your back. And if you think someone’s trying to stab it, you have to turn around and confront them.”
I was afraid Barron would say this. Typically people know what the correct answer is when they
search for advice, but they need someone else to state it first. It is similar to flipping a coin to make a decision but knowing what decision you want to make independent of the outcome. Or possibly of praying for an outcome that ultimately you have the power to influence.
“On the other hand, Rebecca is no phony,” he said.
“Rebecca is not the other party. Please do not hang up.” It was time to ask him for a major-league favor. “I have a contract someone wants me to sign, and I am uncertain about its contents. Are you skilled at deciphering legal language?”
“What, because I’m a cabbie I can’t read?” he asked.
“No, I only meant that the language is—”
“I’m messing around with you. You don’t always have to fear the wrath of the black man,” he said. “I’m okay with that stuff. But my wife deals with it all the time. You could fax it to her.”
“I would prefer not to transmit it via fax.” I thought for a few seconds. “Would you and your family like to come to my apartment for dinner?”
“Your place?” he asked.
“Well, shit, like I said, it’s nothing fancy, but you’re welcome to come over here.” He was surprised and confused by my words. “That is the same sentence you used when you permitted me to do Thanksgiving at your place. I was messing around with you as well.”
He whistled and said, “You’ve got a steel-trap mind there.” He told me he would have to check with his wife but he was fairly certain they could come. I gave him my address, because he drives so many people around and therefore does not have a steel-trap mind for that.
I prepared the same pasta meal I had cooked with Rebecca but utilized gnocchi this time and also blended the multi-fruit juice Michelle enjoyed at Thanksgiving. Barron and Cynthia brought nondairy cupcakes for dessert. It pleased me to be utilizing all four chairs for the first time. We had a pleasant conversation until they discussed what instrument Michelle should learn next year in school.