Chapter 9

KIDNAPPED

25th of Rama’Dhaan 1417

February 4, 1997

Maryam awoke at dawn. She said her prayers to the East. She fixed warm milk and the last of the baby’s food. She was fasting couldn’t afford food for herself anyway. She changed his diaper. The long cold spell in the city broke. Maryam dreamt of spring, even though the break in the weather only teased her. She found a nursery on Amsterdam Avenue. The managers of the nursery reluctantly agreed to care for the baby Imam. Maryam paid them cash. She showed at her husband’s apartment on the late side.

“Come in,” said Queresh with a smile.

“I don’t need to come in. Just give me the check.”

“Not unless you come in. We have lots to talk about.”

“I don’t want to come in. Just give me the check.”

“Please, Maryam. Come in and stay a while.”

Maryam looked him over suspiciously. She walked in, and Queresh closed and locked the door. From the kitchen emerged a tall and bulky figure.

“Remember me?” asked Vasilla, having progressed in conversational English.

“I have no idea who you are,” she replied.

“I represent Syedna Tariq Bengaliwala.”

“If you want the baby, the baby isn’t here. You’ll never find him. The city is quite big, you know.”

“I know that.”

“And I’m not telling you where he is. I came to pick up my check.”

“You will get nothing without the baby,” said Vasilla.

“I guess this is a waste of time,” replied Maryam as she made for the elevators.

“Silence! You are not to leave the premises without the information.”

Queresh pulled her inside and blocked the door.

“You can’t be serious.”

The two men made her sit in the kitchen for hours. They checked through her purse without finding any documents which revealed her address. They deprived her of food and water. They pulled the blinds so she could not distinguish the day from the night. She was free to leave, only if she told the whereabouts of the Imam.

In the darkness she sat in a coerced silence, her hands bound and her mouth taped shut, should she scream for help. She tried to scream, but her grunts and mumbles were no louder than faint whispers. Her arms, tied by plastic packing tape, burned and ached as she tried to break free. And in her suffering she cared neither for herself nor for her own plight. She was concerned only for her son. Who would greet him after daycare?

She struggled to break free so rigorously that at times she thought she might lose consciousness. In the weak darkness of the kitchen colored spots floated in the air and out of reach, moving along the room like gentle snails. Her eyes swam with tears. She could hear her blood pumping. Flashes of heat interchanged with puddles of frost, and a long stream of sweat moved from her temples into her eyes which stung and burned. The television chattered in the adjacent room. With all of the strength left in her emaciated body, she gave breaking free one last chance. She pulled her hands apart, but to no avail. The packing tape remained as strong as manacles. She poked her tongue at the tape to loosen the glue. The tape would not give. Just when she declared defeat and fainted into the murky darkness of her own kitchen, the light was turned on, and her husband stood over her. He tightened the tape around her hands. He tore an extra band and stuck it over her mouth. She winced and struggled. He shoulders grew numb, and her entire body went slack.

“Maryam, dear Maryam,” whispered Queresh, “I’m not the one who’s causing all these problems, you are. Look at you, tied up like a beast out of the wilderness, and for what, for whom? One small child, not even your own? Look at you, making us act like beasts. You think I want this, huh? All you have to do is tell us where Mustafa is, that’s all, and all of this nonsense will be over. That Vasilla can go home with the child, and the rest of our lives can take place. Whether you know it or not, Maryam, I still love you, and if you’re smart, really keen, you will end this childish dream of yours. The baby was never, ever yours to begin with. Don’t you understand what the man in the big white turban told us? He was so serious that he sent this thug here to make sure we followed the rules. Now for your sake and mine, give me the damn address ... Please, Maryam. End this misery.”

In a wave of fatigue Maryam nodded her head. The gluey mounds of tape were removed easily, and she bellowed a pent-up and fuming exhalation. She breathed deeply and licked the mucus beneath her nose.

“See how easy it is. Soon you’ll be free to leave and start your life without this bavasaab on your back.”

“Come closer,” whispered Maryam.

“What? I can’t rightly hear you,” as Queresh put her face to hers.

“Closer, please Queresh, closer, I want, I want to tell you...”

And she spit in his face.

A strong hand cracked across her lips. Warm blood flooded her mouth. A dizziness and shortness of breath accompanied the throbbing. She lost consciousness.

After some time, cold and uncomfortable water dripped over her forehead. She clutched the pillow behind her and shook the water from her face. She hardly had the strength to open her eyes. Dizziness remained. She preferred sleep. A stinging captured her lips. Yet her thirst for the water overpowered her inclination for sleep. Her eyes shut, her body weak, she reached for the glass. She gulped the water, her eyes tired and slowly adjusting to the light. Spikes of pain seized her wrists, and she dropped the glass.

A slight delirium faded when she opened her eyes. A hefty, muscular man sat beside her. His features were dark as though the sun followed him. He carried a pistol at the side of his chest. She never met him before but remembered how this man demanded information. She had the urge to yell, to spit, to fight once more for her child, but the dizziness, the stinging of her lip, and the sharp pain of her wrists prevented her.

“More water,” she mumbled.

Vasilla brought her another glass.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Not so great.”

“I’m sorry it had to happen this way. Perhaps it was a bad mistake.”

“I’m calling the police.”

“Go ahead. The worse they could do is send me back to Mecca. Sure my superior would get involved, and the police would have to retrieve this Imam from the clutches of the likes of you.”

“Really? You underestimate the integrity of our police force.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Calling the police would only make it worse. Your baby would return to Mecca.”

“Diplomacy at its best.”

“I guess you can say that, although I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Enough chit-chat. Why don’t you just tie me up again and have my husband beat me?”

“I’ve thought of that. If we were in Mecca, it would work. But this is America, land of the free. Besides, I could not live with myself if I destroyed another woman.”

“I’m missing something.”

“I want good memories. Not bad ones.”

“Why? How many other women have you beaten?”

“Be thankful I’m sparing you. In fact, I want to help you.”

“You? Help me? Haven’t you done enough?”

“I will permit this separation. I will tell the bavasaab tomorrow that you and your husband have joined again.”

“I’d rather drink from the East River.”

“The what?”

“Forget it. Keep my husband far away from me.”

“That’s the plan. You may live with the baby Imam anywhere in the city you wish. I will provide all the funds necessary, provided we forget this night ever happened. Going to the police will make matters worse. If you agree to remain with your husband on paper, you may live with the baby Imam and have him as your own.”

“Couldn’t you have thought about this earlier?”

“I never encountered a woman as strong as you.”

“I won’t ever give you the address.”

“I expected that. You may meet with me at some remote location. My main interest is to see the Imam taken care of. Meet me anywhere you wish so I may distribute the Organization’s funds. You have proven worthy of the child.”

“Tell me one thing. You have kept me here for days. You could have tied me up, deprived me of food and drink, slapped me around until I gave you the location of my Mustafa. Why didn’t you?”

“Again, I want good memories, not bad ones.”

Before bolting from the savagery of the apartment, she insisted on saying prayers. She asked Vasilla for a prayer cloth. She laid the cotton cloth on the living room floor. She sat on the cloth with her legs underneath her. As she muttered the opening verses, she stopped for a moment. She wondered why Allah must be worshipped in such a manner. If Allah is truly Allah, would He not hurt as she did? Would He not lick the cuts or squirm at the pain shooting through His wrists? She had said the verses as a matter of routine, but while beginning her prayers she noticed how worn-out the verses had become. What if she broke free from the verses in Arabic and talked freely with Allah, perhaps asked him a few questions? She had never done so before, but the verses which spewed from her lips lost their meaning. Deviating from the guidelines of prayer frightened her. What right had she to be asking Allah questions, despite the soreness of her arms and wrists? Her fright forced her to pray routinely, and she finished in a matter of minutes. She scheduled a meeting with Vasilla after he handed over the first installment of the Organization’s checks.

She arrived at the day care center on the edge of Harlem, a walking distance from her apartment on Riverside Drive. The buildings along the avenue were boarded or gutted. The ornamentation at the entrances was worn, peeling, and chipped. Besides the buildings, the faces had changed, from white ruddy faces bundled in thickly-padded jackets to dark faces wearing wind-breakers, wandering in no particular direction. The divide between the races, both black and white, glared visually and economically: the boarded buildings, teen-agers loitering the fronts of grocery stores, graffiti on an old brick wall. She knew it a poor section, but it was her section as well, the place she had found herself when she had no place of her own. She could have easily drawn a chalk-line separating the white and black neighborhoods. With a high chin she accepted her African-American neighborhood as her own as it represented her first glorious days of independence.

She braced the oncoming wind. She smiled to the dark faces walking passed her. These sullen faces bloomed in the winter like violets in summer.

The pavement filled with the dustings of snow. She could have danced. She entered the day care center and sat in a small waiting area with lifeless magazines thrown upon a long coffee table. A few women waited with her. From behind a glass barrier a day care worker emerged.

“I’m Mrs...”

“Yes, we’ve been expecting you,” said the worker.

The worker took her behind the glass barrier and said in matter-of-factly: “Our supervisor will be meeting with you shortly, please have a seat.”

Maryam wondered why the supervisor had to meet with her. Her purpose was to collect the baby and leave. But she waited in a small office. The walls were painted beige, and a shoddy metal desk sat in front of her. Maryam knew it a conference room, not anyone’s office, as there were no papers on the desk, no telephone, nothing which indicated the room as an actual office. She heard voices in the hallway. These voices seemed cheery, as though she would collect The Imam without delay and head home. The supervisor, however, approached Maryam with solemnity.

“You, I take it, are the mother of Mustafa?”

“Yes, and now I’m here to pick him up. I’m in a rush.”

“Well, it’s time to slow down.”

“I see. Is there a problem?”

“Damn straight there’s a problem. You said you’d pick him up two days ago, and you didn’t show.”

“I was tied up. I meant to pick him up, but I ran into trouble.”

“Like that cut across your lip?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“What would have happened, let’s say, if we had to turn your child out into the cold? What if we didn’t have any beds left? What if your son were lost somewhere?”

“I hope that’s not the case,” said Maryam with a strain in her voice.

“It’s not the case, but it might have been. You can’t just leave a child somewhere and expect it to be cared for. It’s irresponsible and plain reckless. Put yourself in my position. Wouldn’t you be at least a little bit reluctant to return the child?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in your position before.”

“I want you to think about something. A mother, most likely on assistance, becomes pregnant. She has no idea who the father is, she only knows she has a baby in the pit of her stomach. She has little money. And she shoots that crap through her veins, and as she gets so high, she forgets about that child in the pit of her stomach. So with the husband gone, her mind deranged, she finds shelter in one of these burned-out buildings, even in the cold. She spends her money on the drugs, and she doesn’t pay any attention to that life growing inside of her. She snorts, inhales, and injects most of her money away, and in the days before her pregnancy, she wonders why she still is so damned hungry. All of a sudden, the baby is due, and she delivers it in some crack den with all these no-good hoodlums watching her. She wants to keep the baby alive. This, at least, I’ll grant her. She breast feeds the small child, and all of those drugs which float in her veins, suspended within her mother’s milk, go directly into that child’s body, and soon enough, that small baby who didn’t do a damn thing, that young innocence wanting nothing but to bring a little love and happiness into our world, is put on death row for doing nothing else but living on this earth. And where does that mother go with this new child? She goes absolutely nowhere. She stays in that same crack den snorting, inhaling, and infecting and then passing it off to her child. But one day as she walks on the street, the cold chilling her bones, her head lost in drugs, she passes our steps and sees the sign hanging out front. She knows at this point she can no longer care for her child. She leaves the child on our doorstep, not figuratively mind you, but literally. She leaves him on our steps in the freezing cold, no blanket, no nothing. She knocks on the door and runs away into the night, her arms and lungs lost in those damn needles and glass pipes.

“Now contrary to what you’ve been thinking, this baby is neither black nor white or red or yellow or brown. He’s a child of God, just like any other baby. This baby is filled with the same substances her mother had been abusing. And who do you think takes this child? The government? Those folks along Park Avenue? No. Men who give a damn? Sometimes. To be quite frank with you, the only people who take in these children are women like ourselves, women who care, women who understand what it means to be women, because in this day and age women are just plain lost, lost like that addict who abandoned the poor child. We care for that child, because he or she is our child. They say in all those movies that the military ‘is our last line of defense.’ Nothing can be farther from the truth. We are the last line of defense against a world unsuitable for small, precious infants. We took in the addicted baby. We gave him food and a warm place to sleep with warm milk. We invested so much in this child with our toil, our pain, and yet the good Lord took him away from us. Are we saddened? Are we discouraged? A little bit, but we are determined to continue, because we do God’s work, and with each child who arrives we remain encouraged, and some of our children go on to see school, some of our children go to college. Some of our infants become doctors and lawyers and judges and principals. So you see, not only did you nonchalantly drop off some child, you dropped off one of our own, and all of a sudden you show up with that cut on your lip, and I see those bruises and burns on your wrists, and you expect me, you expect us, to hand over one of our children because you’re in some goddamned rush? No. Out of conscience clear and respect for the welfare of our child and for all the children here I can’t give you the infant.”