The Shelter for Buttered Women

by J. Clayton Rogers

  Tareq gave Ari a long, baleful look.

  "When did you hear of the events of last night?" Ari asked.

  "The hijacking?"

  "Were there any other noteworthy events?"

  "Kiss my ass," growled Tareq.

  "Such an eventuality pertains to the future," said Ari. "I am speaking of past events. The immediate past. Who told you there had been another hijacking?"

  "It was on the news," said Tareq.

  "Is this true?" Ari asked Singh. Not having a television, his knowledge of local news was limited. He had given up on the radio, which played no music he was interested in.

  "The hijacking took place almost at midnight, too late for the evening news…"

  "It was on the morning news," Tareq said, scratching his lip with a sneer. "You two must have still been in bed."

  "You are quite correct," Ari nodded amiably. The longer one slept, the less time was needed to nurse a hangover. "We shall dismiss the possibility that the driver called you."

  "The driver is in the Rockingham Memorial Hospital in Harrisonburg," shouted Tareq, clutching at his chest as though suffering a heart attack. "Did you not bother to inform yourself of the details beforehand? Is this the kind of service we are to expect from the people who demand such extravagant premiums?"

  "It was a short haul to Maryland," Badawi Bahrani added calmly. "He has not regained consciousness."

  "Says the man who knows all the transponder codes," said Tareq, his eyes narrowing.

  Not a good beginning. Ari noted some snickering from the dockworkers still within earshot. This was the old boss they knew so well. Whether or not he was a martinet (and he probably was, if the evidence before Ari's eyes meant anything), he knew how to handle disputes with mindless bureaucrats. The same mindless bureaucrats Ari now represented.

  A man pumping down on the handle of a pallet truck paused and glanced Ari's way. Nouri Salim, guilty of transgressions against property (he was a robber). Seeing that Ari had noticed him, he looked down and began pulling the truck across a dock board. The pallet truck wheels sounded like a cannonade in the back of the empty trailer.

  "Kun saborum," Ari shrugged.

  "How do you expect me to be patient?" Tareq demanded. "This is our fourth hijacking! It is time for impatience!"

  "This is the first occasion I have heard of violence against one of Mrs. Sadiq's drivers," said Ari. "This leads me to think that your drivers are loyal and will fight back against hijackers if given the opportunity."

  Ari had raised his voice. He wanted the dockworkers to hear, to think he was an ally of the little man, and would not assume they were conspiring against their own company. Naturally, this would have minimal effect if they were all conspiring against their own company. It was a gamble. They might see him as a chump. They might also be more willing to confide in him.

  "These men know what would happen to them if I caught one of them stealing from O'Connor's," Tareq said in loud response. He, too, wanted them to hear.

  Badawi Bahrani stood silently before all of this, but he was not inactive. His eyes moved left and then right, and then he looked down at the clipboard in his hand.

  "Tamkeen," he called out in a voice barely raised from the conversational. Somehow, in spite of the noise inherent in such an enterprise, Tamkeen (the man listed in Iraqi police records as Nouri Salim) heard him and turned in the foreman's direction. Bahrani continued: "Your shipment must depart at 10:30 precisely. I understand there has been turmoil and distraction, but you must hustle along. Please…"

  "Please!" Tareq roared. "Please! Ya sharmouta! Little bitch wants big boy to 'hustle'? Why don't you just tell him you'll crack his skull open if he doesn't ship in time? And what's this? I didn't hire all of these men, after all. I see some new hires here." He turned to the dockworkers. "I'll bet they've already figured out you couldn't crack an eggshell if your life depended on it!"

  Martinet, Ari nodded inwardly. He noticed that Tamkeen had picked up his pace. Whether that was due to Badawi Bahrani's injunction or Tareq's venomous kick-in-the-ass, it was impossible to say.

  The noise and clangy bustle of the depot stopped in an instant when a woman in a full burqa entered the bay. She was accompanied by Yilmaz, who assumed a combative stance when she saw Tareq. Ari stifled a laugh. Yilmaz looked like a character out of a Japanese cartoon. But she was dead serious.

  There was a contextual element with the full burqa. Ari had seen many women similarly dressed in the Middle East, though not often in Iraq…or Egypt. The full burqa was sharia-compliant, shielding women from the view of non-mahram men—unmarriageable kin. Yet to see it in the American heartland could send a frisson up the spines of the susceptible. Even among Arabs living in America, especially when an eyeveil (the cloth grille in the hood) removed all sense of identity.

  Like a dark ghost, the woman resumed her procession up the broad concrete landing. Her robe caught briefly on an oversized dock bumper. Yilmaz lifted it off so quickly that the misstep might never have happened. The apparition stopped before Ari, Singh and Tareq.

  "Nabihah?" Tareq asked in a voice almost timorous.

  "You don't know who I am?" asked the apparition.

  "Now I do…" said Tareq on hearing her voice.

  "Is this not how you want me?" asked Nabihah. "Unseen? Unspoken?"

  "I can see you perfectly well," said Tareq.

  "But if I had not spoken, I would have been the perfect woman."

  Tareq cocked his chin. "It suits you."

  "I am glad."

  Was she smiling? Hard to say. Nabihah wore only the best, and her eyeveil had a lacey pattern that lured you to the vicinity of her unseen eyes.

  "Badawi Bahrani?" she said.

  "Yes?" said the foreman with an impassivity that would have bordered rudeness in anyone else.

  "Continue your business while we retire to the office," said Nabihah with polite gravity, as though telling a dinner guest to continue with his meal while she took an important call.

  "I never left off," said Bahrani, unfazed by the dark cavern from which the woman's voice had emerged.

  The same could not be said for the dockworkers. Ari did not know if Nabihah had ever appeared at the depot dressed this way, but from the reaction around him he suspected this was a first. If so, what were the dockworkers to think? Was this a sign that Tareq had imposed harsh Sharia on his upstart wife? Did that mean she would lose her court case, and that the martinet would soon be strutting across the loading docks, in full command? Or was Nabihah sending them a message, that cultural forms would be strictly adhered to and that they should not forget where they had come from? But how could they forget? Everywhere they turned they were reminded that this was not Alexandria, nor Basra, nor Amman, nor Damman, nor Dubai, nor Bursa, nor Aleppo. O'Connor's must be a comfortable home away from their second home for them. The flat-nosed rigs of their homeland might seem quaintly antique compared to the massive semi-trailer tractors of North America, which were practically motels on wheels, but freight terminals around the world were essentially the same. Throw in the added bonus that Arabic was the primary language at O'Connor's, and employees might prove reluctant to go home at night. Some of the men wore keffiyehs and did not look out of place. Did their wives wear hijabs? Were they allowed to go out of the house or apartment while their husbands were at work? There being no cultural consensus in their new home, there would be no one to report a wayward wife scampering alone through a shopping mall. Would Nabihah's appearance in a burqa send a thrill of horror through some of them? 'You thought you were in America! Busted! You have betrayed God! Go home and put your house in order!'

  Ari noted Baqir al-Rubaie speaking to Khaled al-Khufaji. They were looking in Ari's direction.

  Awlad il kara, Ari thought, turning away from the sons of shit to find Nabihah looking at him. At least he thought she was looking at him.

  "Aren't you coming?" she asked.

  Singh, Yilmaz and Tareq—suddenly subdued—were driftin
g towards a windowed office facing out on the loading docks.

  "I was surveying your ethnic universe," Ari explained. "Many lands are represented here."

  "You can tell them apart?" said Nabihah in an amused voice. "That's pretty good, for an Italian."

  "I do not say I can I recognize them all, but certainly you have a few sayyids here."

  "You mean the green keffiyehs. They've been in America for years. Marsh Arabs who escaped from that sick fuck Saddam, may his soul rot in hell."

  This woman was a handful, make no mistake. But Ari's small cough of protest was not only the result of hearing 'fuck' spoken from the dark confines of a burqa. Saddam Hussein had been his employer, and he still had mixed feelings about him. He had wept when the Iraqi leader was hanged. Full grown men often cry like babies when drunk.

  "Anyone else?" she asked.

  "Those checkered keffiyehs…Palestinian?"

  "Go on."

  He wasn't about to tell her he knew the Iraqis from their police records. "Well…some of the men have scarves about their necks…"

  "From Urban Outfitters. Don't you know the keffiyeh has become chic?"

  "But they are Arabs, are they not?"

  "We also have some Indians…even a couple of Jews…"

  "Yes, the sudras."

  "Does that bother you? I brought them in when I took over. They annoy my husband no end."

  Ari had no great fondness for Jews, but he still found that amusing.

  "Come."

  Ari followed her to the back of the dock. The other three were waiting for her at the office door and followed her inside. She stopped the Sikh as he leaned down to enter.

  "Sirdar Singh, this is a very small office, as you know. It would be best if we weren't cramped."

  "But Yilmaz—"

  "Yilmaz could fit in a teacup, while you…"

  Singh scowled. "You should not be in the room with him without—"

  "Yilmaz will protect me from my husband. You can guard the door. If the Namus puts in an appearance, you'll know what to do."

  Given purpose, Singh's scowl deepened with determination. "Tear him into tiger meat."

  "Tigers need no help chewing up their prey, but I'm sure they'll appreciate the sentiment."

  "Abu Rigi Maslukah," Tareq sneered as Nabihah closed the door behind her.

  Ari had heard of this Egyptian version of the bogeyman. The 'man with the burnt leg' was conjured up by parents for disobedient children. Legend said Abu Rigi Maslukah had been burned by his parents for mocking their commands. From then on, his spirit cooked naughty kids alive for dinner. Parents worldwide were so kind….

  Nabihah faced the executive desk as her husband lowered himself into the wide seat. He continued:

  "Is that what you're doing? Is that why you have that indecent harem in my mansion? They're terrified by the Namus? Ridiculous."

  "Please, be seated," Nabihah told Ari and Yilmaz, pointing to some chairs in front of the desk. Ari had to push aside some fronds jutting out from a potted palm tree before he could find a spot on a pleasantly cushioned chair. Yilmaz swatted the fronds aside and thrust herself downwards. "Yilmaz, don't kill my plant," Nabihah admonished.

  "It bit me," Yilmaz complained.

  "Yes, it can be sharp, but it's a mindless plant, Yilmaz. Don't accuse it of assault."

  Yilmaz grunted.

  "You're too light." Tareq was shifting around in the executive chair, as though readjusting it to his male posterior. "Feels like no one has sat here for months."

  "What are you doing here, my husband?" Nabihah said quietly.

  "I had to come," Tareq said with a trace of contrition. "The business is going to hell. What's the use of winning the case in court if I come back to nothing?"

  "Businesses rise and fall. It is none of your concern."

  "What! How dare—" Tareq glared up at her. "Why are you wearing that thing? I can't see your face."

  "Isn't that the purpose?" said Nabihah, her voice still low. "You don't want me to show my charms to the heathens, do you?"

  "It never bothered you before."

  "Nor you, my husband. You were quite proud to show me off before the Unbelievers."

  "You want to shame me, is that it? The shame is all yours. I know what you've done. This man from the insurance company…" Tareq nodded at Ari. "…he doesn't know your tricks—"

  "Pardon me," Ari interrupted. "Your wife has advised me that you desired to contract business with the Commonwealth of Virginia. In order to do that you had to meet a peculiar requirement of the state. You had to register as a minority enterprise—"

  "SWAM," Tareq said venomously.

  "That is 'Small Woman and Minority' owned, as I understand it."

  "Have you ever heard anything like that?" Tareq demanded. "Do they have anything like that in Italy…or anywhere else in the sane world? If a business can get the job done at a good cost, what does it matter who runs it?"

  "Nevertheless, it is the law of the Commonwealth," Ari said. "In order to conform to this, you signed the ownership of O'Connor's over to your wife."

  "Ha!" Yilmaz exclaimed, falling silent again when the head under the burqa turned in her direction.

  "Since your wife now owns the company, it only makes sense that she operates it," said Ari. The palm frond interfered with his view of the desk. He pushed it aside. It bit him. He had to fight down an impulse to torch it with his lighter.

  "Tareq…I was more than willing to keep you on as a deputy administrator," Nabihah said.

  "A fucking deputy! I founded the company!"

  "And we both know the trick you played to arrange that." Only the slightest tinge of wrath came from the veil's darkness—but it was there. Ari's picture was a little clearer. And yet, for the briefest moment, something passed between husband and wife. A tacit agreement that some things would not be mentioned in Ari's presence. This did nothing to tone down the argument.

  "You filed a grievance against me! You almost lost the contract by telling the state the company wasn't SWAM, after all."

  "But I managed to keep our registration valid when I won my case," said Nabihah. "If you win the appeal, you can kiss your state contract good-bye."

  "It would be worth it, to get my company back."

  "Whatever happens, it is written. Which brings us back to the question: my husband, what are you doing here? And what claim do you have to my chair?"

  "It's my chair," Tareq snapped. "I bought it."

  "It's my chair," said Nabihah. "I own it. I will allow you to stay, but you'll have to sit over there, next to Yilmaz."

  "You can go to hell."

  The burqa rose and fell as she sighed. "I was willing to go halfway, my husband. Was that so hard? In spite of everything…I wanted you by my side."

  "A partner? A deputy?" Tareq drew himself back against the broad leather back of the chair. "How dare you!"

  Ari considered making a comment. But he didn't. In spite of his quick tongue, silence was one of his greatest virtues. As it was for all men who succeeded in public conduct.

  "If you do not remove yourself from my chair, I will have Yilmaz remove you. E wallah."

  This idea appealed to Yilmaz, who leaned forward, grinning. Tareq must have been aware of her gold medal. He glowered at her. And yet the idea of having this tiny sprite of a girl evict him from his rightful seat offended his sensibility.

  "You think Yilmaz is not capable?" Nabihah said. "I'm afraid you're right. I mean, she could not eject you without breaking one or both of your arms, depending on her mood…which I admit I am not always capable of controlling. However, Sirdar Singh could pick you up and fling you out the door without harming more than your dignity. At least, I think he is capable of doing so without breaking your neck. And Mr. Ciminon could add his weight, if only to carry you off the premises. He looks very fit…"

  Ari twisted his lips. He had not come here in anticipation of a fight.

  "Fuck you," said Tareq.

  "I wo
uld be remiss if I didn't return the sentiment," said his wife.

  "Your father—"

  "Shall remained unmentioned," said Nabihah, showing real emotion for the first time.

  Tareq drummed his fingers on the green felt of the blotter, casting his eyes left and right over the memos, the computer keypad, the small wire stand crammed with a multitude of business cards. A general saying farewell to his troops, with the promise that he would return to lead them to greater glories. Then he propped his hands on the blotter and pushed himself to his feet.

  "That's it, then."

  "Are you sure you don't want to take a seat over—"

  Tareq bumped against his wife as he barreled for the door.

  "I am inviting you, my—"

  "If you 'my husband' me again, I'll knock your teeth down your throat."

  "No," said Nabihah as Yilmaz rose to her feet. "Let him go."

  When Tareq flung the door open, only to confront Singh, she repeated in a shout, "Let him go!"

  Singh stood aside. Tareq slammed the door behind him.

  Nabihah fell into the executive chair and lowered her head to the desk.

  "Oh!" she cried, her fingers churning into the blotter. "Oh!"

  After a decent interval, Ari asked, "Madame, do you think your husband capable of hiring the Namus?"

  Nabihah sat straight in the chair. After a moment, she reached up and pulled off the hood of her burqa, slamming it on the desk and admitting them to her tears.

  "God, I hate that thing!"

  "Yes?" Ari persisted.

  "Yes!" Nabihah cried. "Yes, in his state…"

  "He'd hire him in a heartbeat," Yilmaz finished.

  "That is most unfortunate," said Ari.

  "Putting it mildly," Nabihah half-laughed.

  "Perhaps we should then focus our attention on determining if the Namus exists."

  "Oh, he exists," Nabihah finally admitted.

  "Then our next step will be to eliminate him."

  Nabihah palmed her tears out of her eyes and gauged Ari narrowly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ciminon. I thought you were here to ascertain the validity of my insurance claims."

  "I am a man of many contortions," said Ari.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "To what extent do you trust your employees?"