Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  “Can we watch TV, Mom?” “Nice try. Homework first.”

  “Awww …” But he dutifully retrieved his bookbag and hauled it to his room. Jenna had a half-dozen library books herself, along with two hundred new blank index cards, but somehow she couldn’t generate the energy for doing research tonight. When Karim vanished into his cave, she puttered aimlessly around the apartment. Bring a guest. She wouldn’t, of course. But if she were to invite someone, which of her male colleagues and acquaintances would it be? No one. Very well, if she could invent someone, what would he be like? She couldn’t form a picture. Yes, she could: Philippe. Suddenly, the longing for him hit her like a physical blow. We won’t lose each other, he had promised. Was there something of him out there still, knowing her loneliness, her love? Stop it, she commanded herself. Of all the emotional reactions she encountered in her work, the most common and the least productive was self-pity.

  Wanting to shut out thought, she switched on the evening news. Dan Rather and various correspondents were discussing a compromise between President Reagan and the Democrats in Congress. Jenna half listened, convinced that she would never grasp the nuances of American politics. The two parties opposed each other noisily, but what was the real difference between them? She was searching for the TV Guide when she became aware of a woman’s face on the screen. It looked so much like—

  “Tragedy today in France,” Rather intoned, “where Genevieve Badir, wife of international financial magnate Malik Badir, died in a car accident.

  According to French police, her Mercedes was struck head on by a produce truck near the town of Saint-Tropez, where the Badirs had one of their many vacation homes.”

  Jenna clawed for the volume control as the story continued: “Madame Badir, a former singer remembered by friends as a woman of simple tastes and warm- hearted good humor, was driving alone to a favorite restaurant. A source close to the family told reporters that Malik Badir would normally have been in the car but had been called away unexpectedly on business.

  “Badir’s name has been linked with intrigue at high levels of the military and government in France and elsewhere, but authorities stress that they do not suspect foul play in his wife’s death. The truck driver, who was also killed, was said to be, quote, ‘profoundly drunk.’ Genevieve Badir, dead at thirty-six in France.”

  The images of Rather and Genevieve dissolved to a commercial. Jenna stared numbly. “No,” she heard herself say, “no, no, no!” She was too shocked for tears. Poor Genevieve. Except for that brief moment of kindred feeling in al-Remal, Jenna had never known her sister-in-law, and now she never would. She flipped through the channels, hoping to learn more about the accident. Finding nothing, she replayed the story from memory. One thing especially struck her: Malik might easily have been in the car. If so, he would have died believing in her own “death.” The idea filled her with unbearable guilt.

  Turning off the television, she rummaged through her desk until she found some plain white stationery and wrote:

  Dearest brother,

  My heart aches for you. I can only try to imagine your pain and your loss. I wish I could kiss and comfort you. But I cannot. I beg your forgiveness for causing you sorrow. That choice was not lightly made, and I can only hope that you understand how necessary it was.

  Life has been lonely and hard, but I am well, thank God, and so is Karim. I have established a successful career in work I love. That and my son sustain me. I hope that you, too, can find solace in your daughter’s love and in knowing that your sister thinks of you often and wishes with all her heart to see you once more.

  She would mail it in the morning—first thing, before she could lose her nerve. But when morning came, so did doubt and fear. If she simply dropped the letter in the nearest mailbox, the Boston postmark would give her away. She should drive to some little town in the countryside, maybe even across the line in Rhode Island or Connecticut. Maybe even New York. She slipped the letter into her shoulder bag. She would mail it, she promised herself, definitely she would. But not just now.

  Carolyn

  Preoccupied with Genevieve’s death, and how it must be affecting Malik and Laila, Jenna would have forgotten the brunch invitation had Carolyn not called to remind her, and she would have canceled if she could have invented a plausible excuse on the spur of the moment. As it was, she promised to be there.

  It turned out to be an anticlimax—pleasant, but hardly the adventure Jenna had half hoped for and half dreaded. The guests all seemed to have gone to college together and to know the same people and the same stories. A faint aura of Beacon Hill hung over the whole scene. The lone single male, a corporate lawyer—rather transparently a pairing for Jenna—drank several Bloody Marys and became sentimental about his ex-wife; it was, apparently, the first anniversary of their divorce.

  Carolyn called later to apologize. She made several wicked comments at the lawyer’s expense. Jenna couldn’t help laughing. That was the real beginning of their friendship.

  It was an unusual one. Carolyn, a few years older, tried to be a mentor, instructing Jenna in subtleties of American—or at least Bostonian—tastes in dress, makeup, and interior decoration. She even prodded Jenna to take up ten- nis, and Jenna, eager to please her new friend, went so far as to take lessons. It was a disaster; as the pro put it on the morning that he advised her to try almost any other sport, “Jenna, you simply have no concept of hitting a racket ball.’’

  At the same time that Carolyn took a dominant role socially, she also leaned on Jenna emotionally. It was obvious that she badly wanted a confidante, preferably one from outside her accustomed circle. Yet, her confidences were slow in coming, delivered in little bits and pieces. They had to do, of course, with her husband.

  Cameron Chandler was a mystery to Jenna. His demeanor toward her was, at first, cordial, then merely indulgent, then almost hostile. She suspected that he was threatened by her closeness to Carolyn; many men felt that way about their wives’ friends. She finally mentioned it to Carolyn.

  “Please, Jenna. It’s the same way he reacts to my family. He feels insecure around them, and so he makes up reasons to dislike them. God, the nonsense. It’s a real problem.”

  “Why should he feel insecure?”

  “Do you really want to know? I wonder if you’ll understand. What it comes down to is that his people have been better-fixed financially over the last couple of generations than mine, but mine have been in Boston two centuries longer.” It was no news to Jenna that discrepancies in family prestige might contribute to marital discord, although when she was new to the country, it had come as a surprise to her that Americans could concern themselves with such matters almost as much as Remalis. The Americans she had known in the Middle East had never mentioned their ancestors farther back than a grandparent or two, and even then, their stories often seemed to emphasize how poor their families had been. In any case, the idea of the ancientness of Carolyn’s line versus the wealth of Cameron’s as a major cause of strife rang untrue—more likely, it was only a symptom of a deeper problem. Nor did it explain Cameron’s obvious resentment of Jenna.

  As more months went by and Jenna’s friendship with Carolyn deepened, it became clear that something was seriously wrong between the Camerons. Little hints disguised as conversational slips, little shades of intonation, pointed to a deep lack of respect on both their parts, as well as a clinging, almost desperate possessiveness. It did no good to ask probing questions. Carolyn could demonstrate a true New England reticence when she wanted to. And any suggestion that professional counseling might be a solution met with immediate dismissal: “Please, Jenna, we don’t do that in our crowd. If someone goes loony, we just ship ’em off to New York or Provincetown, where nobody will notice.” On the other hand, she could be positively voluble in making excuses for Cameron after having disparaged him. A favorite theme was the pressure of his work. “You know, when Cameron started in banking, not that long ago really, it was still a gentleman’s business
—in Boston, I mean; I can’t speak for anyplace else. But now all of a sudden, there are these dozens of bloodthirsty yuppies with the MBAs and ugly power ties, working twenty hours a day and coming up with schemes that would have got them thrown in jail a few years ago. It’s hard on Cameron. Thank God his father’s on the board. Of course, he won’t be there forever.”

  One bright spring day, Jenna found out just how much she and Carolyn had in common. It was at a soccer game. Josh, with his long reach, was playing goal. Karim, to even Jenna’s surprise, showed every sign of becoming a star striker— fast, sure with his feet, agile as a mongoose, slipping by larger defenders, as if they were anchored in cement; his only flaw, according to the coach, was a reluctance to pass the ball to his teammates.

  The game was an exciting one, but despite several spectacular saves by Josh, Carolyn hardly stirred from her perch on her old-fashioned, Brit- ish-style shooting stick with a fold-out leather seat on a single tubular-steel leg. Undoubtedly, her great-grandfather had used it while big-game hunting with Teddy Roosevelt, but it was not the most stable of foundations, and at one point, Carolyn leaned too far and had to brace herself. When she did, she gasped in pain and fell to her knees.

  Jenna was right beside her. “My God, are you hurt?”

  “Just help me to the car,” whispered Carolyn between clenched teeth. In the front seat, she began to cry. “That bastard! I think he’s broken my ribs!”

  “Cameron? He hit you?”

  “Yes, he hit me. Where it won’t show. That’s his little trick.”

  Jenna couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You mean he’s done it before?” “Yes.” But Carolyn’s face already was showing the familiar signs of closing the subject.

  “Carolyn, listen to me. You’ve got to get help—you and Cameron both.” Carolyn said nothing.

  “I know about this,” Jenna stressed, then added, “I’ve seen this among some of my regular patients. You need to get out immediately—you’re in real danger. After that, the two of you can get help.”

  Carolyn turned on Jenna with something very much like hatred in her eyes. “I’m not a patient at the free clinic. And I don’t need help. What I need is for my husband to be the man I married.”

  The sense of déjà vu was almost sickening. How many times had Jenna— Amira—thought the same words about Ali?

  Carolyn would say no more. By her standards, she had gone too far. For a week, when Jenna phoned, the maid answered and said that Mrs. Chandler was out. Then one night, Carolyn called. She talked about trivia. It was clear that she wanted to pretend nothing had happened. When Jenna tried to broach the subject of Cameron, Carolyn said with brittle finality, “Everything’s fine.” The message was unmistakable: Don’t mention it again.

  After that, Jenna and Carolyn did the old things together, going to the theater, to soccer games, for tea and cappuccino at the Village Greenery, but it was never quite the same. Jenna kept hoping for an opening, some way by which she could lend Carolyn her experience and her expertise, but Carolyn would never let it happen. At least—as far as Jenna could tell—Cameron had not attacked her physically again.

  Jenna had her work. Carolyn had tennis and fundraisers.

  Gradually, the two friends became more distant. Gradually, they became hardly friends at all.

  Incident in Toronto

  Ancient Chains had made Jenna a minor celebrity in academic circles, especially among feminist scholars. One result was a steady stream of invitations to conferences and symposia. She always turned them down. Even though the media generally ignored the small, insular world of academia, any public exposure seemed risky to her. But when she was asked to sit on a panel discussing “Women, History, and Therapy” at a convention in Toronto, she decided to accept. The topic was important, and the city was, after all, in another country.

  After her years in Boston, she found Toronto remarkably clean and orderly, its citizens polite and quiet, and the whole experience rather dull. If the city lacked the dirt and danger of its American counterparts, it also seemed to lack their capacity for the serendipitous encounter with something new and excellent. The restaurants where Jenna and her colleagues dined were all tasteful in their decor and commendable in their cuisine, but hardly memorable. The university reminded her less of Harvard than of the pictures Malik had sent home from the manicured grounds of Victoria College. And why did the Canadian professor who seemed to be making a pass retreat so meekly at the first sign of her habitual reserve?

  All in all, when the time came to return to Boston, she was more than ready. And then, at the airport, there was one of those small, chance occurrences that change more lives than wars, epidemics, or natural disasters. Jenna’s flight was delayed, and she went to a coffee shop. Sipping her tea, wondering what Karim was doing, she couldn’t help overhearing the two men in the next booth. They apparently were business acquaintances whose paths had crossed here in their travels. After some chat about wives and children, one man—he had a British accent—said, “I must tell you I had a bit of a turn in Rome two days back. I’d taken a client to Checchino dal 1887. We’d just ordered when all hell broke loose. Gunfire all over the place, people diving for the floor—including me, you can be assured.”

  “My God. What was it? Mafia?”

  “A kidnapping attempt. Some bloody billionaire was in the place with his daughter. Apparently, she was the target. Badir, whatever his name is.” For Jenna, everything else in the restaurant vanished.

  “So, what happened?” said the second man. “Why all the shooting?” “Apparently, someone’s bodyguard outside spotted the kidnappers going in, and one thing led to another. Frightening, I can tell you. I’ve never been in a war, but …”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “The two kidnappers shot up rather badly. And I believe a policeman and two or three patrons were wounded, including this Badir chap.” Jenna whirled around. “Malik was shot?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Malik Badir—he was wounded?” “Yes, but not too badly, I believe.” “And Laila—is she all right?” “Laila?”

  “The girl. The daughter.”

  “She wasn’t hurt. Rather shaken, I imagine. You talk as if you know these people.”

  “I … I’m an acquaintance of the family. Are you sure he wasn’t badly hurt?” “Well, I don’t have all the details, naturally. It was rather hectic there in the restaurant. Actually, most of what I know comes from Le Monde—I left Rome for Paris that night.”

  “It was in Le Monde?” She had to find the paper. Surely, there was an international newsstand in the airport.

  The Britisher was rummaging in his attache case. “… may still have a copy. Yes, here it is.” He handed the newspaper to Jenna. “Please keep it, since you have a personal interest in the matter. If I may ask—”

  “Thank you,” said Jenna before he could ask anything. “Thank you so much.” In the concourse, she read about the kidnapping attempt. It was as the man had said. Laila was unharmed. Malik had a “painful but not dangerous” wound to his arm.

  Her flight was called. As she checked her purse for her ticket, the letter to Malik caught her eye. She had never mailed it. A bookshop had stamps, and the cashier directed her to a mailbox. She dropped the letter into it before second thoughts could take hold.

  There, she had done it, she thought as she hurried for the plane. But what had she done?

  Laila

  In the weeks that followed, Jenna often wondered what effect her letter had on Malik. Had he simply been relieved that she was alive? Furious at being deceived?

  A little of each? If she were to see him, would he still be the Malik she knew? Or would he be a stranger?

  And what would Laila be like now, having grown up in the perpetual pageant of her billionaire father’s life?

  The tabloids had become strangely silent on the subject of Malik. Per- haps, thought Jenna, he was sheltering himself and Laila after the trouble in Rome. Then, two mont
hs after the shooting, Jenna read that her brother had acquired yet another lavish residence, an apartment at the Pierre Hotel in New York. The brief article—a regular news item in the Boston Globe—noted that Malik was still recuperating from the attack in Rome and that “a source who asked not to be named stated that Badir believes his daughter will be safer in the United States than in Europe.”

  That might be true, thought Jenna, but she couldn’t help wondering if her letter had something to do with Malik’s decision. Could it be that he was reaching out, just as she had?

  Despite her education, she still harbored an ingrained belief in portents and in destiny, and when, a month later, she read in the New York Post’s ‘‘Page Six” that Laila had been enrolled at the Brearley School, she was sure it was a sign, fate calling out to her. Should she answer? Dared she?

  O

  Squeezed into a cramped seat on the Boston-New York shuttle, Jenna tried to convince herself that she really did need to keep in touch with colleagues such as her old Adlerian-theory professor, now in private practice in New York, with whom she had a lunch date. In rebuttal, the remnants of her objective, analytical powers delivered a more succinct, if unprofessional, opinion: You’re crazy, Jenna, absolutely crazy. But her heart, not her head, had all the votes.

  Donald Weltman’s offices, off Park Avenue, could have belonged to one of the neighborhood’s star plastic surgeons. The former professor wore an Armani suit rather than the patchy tweeds Jenna remembered from the lecture hall. His iron-gray hair, flyaway at Harvard, was elegantly coiffed. Obviously, he was doing very well.

  He had a reservation at the L’Argenteuil and insisted on picking up the tab. For much of the meal, he was still the lecturer and she the student, although instead of Adler, the topic was the beauty of private practice in Manhattan.