Chapter 11

THE KISS

19th of Jumaada al-awal 1417

(October 2, 1996)

Khozem knew his decisions had been made for him, but he mused how the stars could be swept away one day. He strolled beneath a busy, sparkling sky on the main campus and noticed these same stars set into their background like gems fixed to a crown. The world would spin with or without the wreckage of human kind.

While speeding with his bodyguards towards Al Karim that afternoon, he was torn between his future position and grandiose thoughts of Rashida. The former represented rigidity, while the latter held sacred the right to enjoy the charms of a woman. Khozem’s grandiosity was not perversion. All he had known about women came from the hard-nosed Qu’ran. He had little interest in the laws of marriage and divorce. He pondered instead a man and woman’s erotic plunge:

O Mankind! fear

Your Guardian Lord, Who created you

From a single person,

Created, out of it,

His mate, and from them twain

Scattered (like seeds)

Countless men and women.

He arrived late as the university slept. He raided the fridge and drank Rooh Afza. Schooling seemed far from his mind. The next few months would hold little glory. He would be forced into constant study and training. He expected Dr. Farrukh in the morning, and so he pondered the stars, and how they never changed. Later, he climbed into bed. As the minutes turned into hours, he accepted his inability to sleep. He lay curled in a ball as Rashida penetrated his thoughts. Was it her face in that moment of madness? Was it the hair hanging to her shoulders? Or the legs running the length of the Nile? So achingly he wanted to touch her. He clutched the pillow as though it were her body.

He awoke as the sun captured his bed. He showered and conducted prayers in the privacy of his room, under a spell of grogginess.

He waited for Dr. Farrukh to arrive. In his mind’s eye he pictured Rashida from head to foot in the same outrageous clothing she revealed at the hearing. He asked Allah to stop tormenting him with such thoughts.

He saw his fellow students on their way to the big mosque. The strengthening sun moved above the horizon. He felt for Rashida’s phone number in his pocket. Phoning her would relieve his duress.

He slipped into worn sandals and went to the common room downstairs. A pay phone hung on the wall. University stationary had been tacked to the entrance door. It read: ‘Rashida Husseini Pendi, first year student of the women’s college has been expelled for direct disobedience, conduct unbecoming of a Muslim, the improper questioning of the president, and apostasy. Let it be known: the Dean of Students’ office will expel any student who violates any law of the Qu’ran and any rule in the university handbook endorsed by the Islamic Council and Syedna Tariq Bengaliwala. Let it be known the university considers this case closed, and under no circumstances are students to bring up this judgment with anyone. My peace be upon you.’

He forced a coin into the slot and dialed Rashida. A young woman answered. She said Rashida waited tables at the El Kabir cafe not far from the university grounds. Khozem was familiar with the cafe as some students occasionally went there.

He walked to this small coffee shop. He did not see Rashida at first. The temperature inside the café was warmer than outside. The small kitchen belched steam and sizzle from breakfast foods on the grill. Two old men in the corner hunched over a chess board while sipping tea. They must have been regulars, for they sat like statues before making their moves.

The cook must have been expecting a sizable crowd for breakfast.

He piled more food on the grill, which added more heat to the small area. A back room was equipped with foodstuffs. Khozem ordered a pot of tea and took his seat a few tables from the old men. He could not abolish the fear, but he wouldn’t budge until Rashida had showed. And so he sat drinking ten cups of tea. The café filled. The cook sweated and did all of the waitering. Khozem marveled at his speed. In a few hours Khozem drank twenty two cups of tea, had used the lavatory seven times, and had watched the old men play four games. The cook did not mind Khozem’s loitering as long as he purchased more tea. Khozem stopped ordering the tea as afternoon prayers came.

He had little hope he would see Rashida. He believed Allah had a hand in his disappointment. Half the day wasted, and with a heavy pound on the table he resolved to leave the cafe and abort Rashida from his mind. The only cures were time and distraction.

Despite his will to leave the El Kabir he found the smallest reason to stay. Something unidentifiable kept him sitting and drinking.

Rashida charged through the doorway, her hair tangled by the breeze and her face full of excuses. Khozem watched from the table as she argued with the cook. Khozem could not discern what was said. After the cook found defeat, Rashida disappeared to the back room, and Khozem reviewed his strategy.

He admitted this was a sickness but also a pleasure which comes from drowning in thoughts of a woman, untouchable yet visible, forcing him to be dominated by his emptiness, to dream of her, and to beg. She offered an exit from destiny’s stronghold. If only she would accept his proposal to spend some time, to talk about anything she liked, to be close.

Khozem prepared a greeting. He rehearsed for so long that he crumbled when she noticed him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked loudly.

“Uh, hello Rashida. Remember me?” asked Khozem quietly.

“This isn’t the best time. I’m very busy here.”

“Shall I come at another time?”

“I’m really very busy. I have no time.”

“I know that. Maybe I can meet you after work.”

“I’m busy after work.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“I’m busy tomorrow.

“When are you free?”

“I’m never free, and besides we have nothing to talk about.”

“Yes we do.”

“And what’s that?”

“The women’s college. You said I could call you about it.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“I walked all the way from the university. I’ve been sitting here for hours drinking tea, and now I’m missing afternoon prayers.”

“Then go back and pray. No one is forcing you to stay here. The women’s campus is made of women, not men. Women will do it by themselves. They have no need for men.”

“In such a short time you’ve decided this? I thought you wanted my help? You’re the only woman who wants to reform that college. You are alone on this.”

“And I suppose I need you?”

“I’m the only one who can make it happen.”

“Then I hope it doesn’t happen. I’m busy here, and there are customers. Run along to that little university of yours. You’re wasting your time.”

“I will waste my time sitting here then.”

Rashida fetched a tin tray and picked up an order of lamb. She wore beige overalls, loose in places. The cook served more tea. Rashida refused to serve him. Each time she passed she looked the other direction. Khozem stood firm.

He recalled how some of the students talked about women. In order to get a woman, one has to bother her. He heard women were fascinated by looks, that the first attraction was callously sexual in nature. Khozem never thought himself attractive. He knew money did not mean much to Rashida. What was Rashida looking for? Perhaps if he were taller with muscles she might be attracted to him. Or perhaps the way to her heart was through her father. Marriage was usually at the beginning, not in the middle or at the end of some long and drawn out relationship. Marriage was the equivalent of a blind date in which the participants have no choice but to see each other exclusively for the rest of their lives. And he would worship her. He did, however, have the capacity to step back and examine his emotions. Khozem loved Allah but feared Rashida. At worst Rashida was sent by Satan to derail Khozem’s ascension to the bavasaab’s position.

Through thousands of prayers and fastings and beatings on the chest he never had such feelings for anyone before. As he missed his prayers, he watched her float in and out of the storage room, pouring the tea for all the customers. He chose to rationalize the circumstance, as rationality would justify the most ridiculous of absurdities. She must have passed by his table thirty times. At the next round Khozem grabbed her arm.

“Are you crazy? Let go of me!” she cried.

“Not unless you talk with me.”

“Let go of me, or I’ll call the police!”

“Go ahead and call them. They won’t touch me.”

“I bet they won’t. Look around this dump. No one notices you. You are nothing without identification. Only then they’ll know who you are. But look around. None of these people know who the hell you are.”

“I expect you to sit down and talk. What’s the sudden change? Before you left the campus, you wanted me to call as soon as I was ready to implement women’s reform.”

“I don’t care about that place anymore. Now let go of my arm. Now!”

“What’s going on here?” called the sweating cook. “Let her go.”

“This is none of your concern. This is between me and her. Leave us be.”

“Hey, this is my restaurant,” shouted the cook. “I’ll beat you with my skillet. Release her!”

“Do that, and I’ll have your throat slit so wide you’ll have to force your greasy food down your neck to survive!”

“Get behind the grill,” advised Rashida to the cook. “You don’t know who this man is. Let me handle it.”

“This is my place,” answered the cook. “And I want him out this instant.”

“Please,” said Rashida to the cook, “let us talk for a few minutes. He’s obviously here to bother me, not you. Will you promise to leave after we talk?” asked Rashida of Khozem.

“Yes,” replied Khozem.

“You get out of line once, and I’ll come after you with my sharpest knife. Got me?” yelled the cook.

Khozem nodded, and Rashida took a seat. The cook returned to his grill.

“What do you want from me?” asked Rashida.

“I want your story, the story of your rebellion.”

“You’ve heard it already. Why do you want to hear it again?”

“Because it interests me. And please, have some tea.”

Khozem poured her a tepid cup, and she sipped it, telling him the torment of her dormitory and the defiant march to the administration building.

“It all went something like that,” she concluded as her sips turned into gulps. “You were smart to get my boss’s attention. He really hates people from the university. You would have been sitting here all night without a word from me.”

“I never intended to get the cook all worked up,” replied Khozem. “How about another cup?”

“Don’t you have any other questions for me?”

“Yes, of course. How about another cup?”

Khozem snapped his fingers, and with a grimace, the cook brought another pot of tea to the table.

“Who was it that answered the phone?” asked Khozem.

“What does that have to do with anything? Shouldn’t you be sticking to the story of my rebellion?”

“Of course. We will get to those matters as we drink, but for now I would like you to speak about your family life. Who was that girl on the line? Who do you live with? How did you stumble onto Al Karim? Are you, uh, ready for marriage?”

“Don’t be foolish. My parents don’t have plans for a wedding yet. Maybe in a year or two. As for my reasons for coming to Al Karim, my father is a member of the Islamic council, and I, like you, got a free ticket to Al Karim, although I was admitted with many good recommendations. I thought I told you this already? Why are you asking such irrelevant questions?”

“You have something against the Islamic council or the organization, shall we say?”

“No,” replied Rashida, “because they are far too detached. Their main goal is to see students transformed into good muslims, to make the student devout and learned in the ways of the faith. They do not see the Deans treating us like dogs. They don’t dawdle on the specifics of university life. They just care to see their objectives met. The organization has been aloof from Islamic education for nearly two centuries. They listen to the clerics more than they listen to themselves. If only the council knew.”

“Then tell your father.”

“He doesn’t listen to me.”

“And your family?”

“My parents were born in Syria, and I was born here in Cairo. My mother resides in Cairo, but she knows nothing of my expulsion. I live with a roommate. My father has five wives, and therefore five separate families to feed, so he’s usually out of Cairo, except for occasional meetings. The Organization meets regularly.”

“Ah, a man of prominence. What is his name? Maybe I know him.”

“Pendi. Iqbal Pendi.”

“I don’t recall. Why don’t you tell him about it?”

“See, the Organization needs to meet their objectives. It’s a matter of statistics to them. They leave such matters of student education to these confounded clerics. My father is buried in international issues. My problems are not worth a grain of dust. He even tells me this, but no matter how big a stink I make about the women’s college, my father would side with the clerics. They have been meeting Council standards for centuries, and they think they have done an adequate job. The fault is not with him or the council. It is not the organization I must challenge but these clerics and especially you who lead them.

“Before you it was your father, and before him your grandfather. Your family has given these clerics the leeway to degrade women and bury them in the worst possible place at the university. All the women may one day snap out of their complacency. But for now, these women are perfectly content playing whores. I’m not afraid to say it. I would even think some of the senior women are particularly intimate with the higher ranked administrators, just to ensure an easier ride through their final year.”

“How scandalous! How do you know such things?”

“One night I noticed a student running off with an administrator. My bed is by the window, and since all the first year students live with the senior students in one cramped bunk room, it’s easy to tell who’s awake and who’s not. Who stole out the hallway doors in the middle of the night, and who did not. I saw it all, even the administrator’s face.”

“Their names?”

“I better not. The senior woman was one of the nicer ones to me. I don’t want to incriminate her. But some women at Al Karim are actually whores.”

“Have your parents ever talked to you about marriage?”

“What is your great concern with my private affairs? Don’t you have anything else to ask, like how we can reform the women’s college? That is the reason for your visit, isn’t it?”

“So you don’t have a boyfriend at all? Cairo is a pretty liberal place for a woman. All kinds of strange men must be falling at your feet.”

“My question is why do you give a damn? I’ve had enough of this. You don’t care about reform. You are just an ordinary liar and a pervert. Either I go or you go. To think I trusted you for a minute...”

Khozem sensed this was the end of it. Rashida ran to the back room. She returned with her small handbag and headed for the street. Over the shouting of the cook Khozem begged: