Chapter 31: Bad News

November 8, 2001, Los Angeles, California

🎤 Steve

On Thursday afternoon, I met Muhammed Kuftaro at one of his convenience stores, which was close to the mosque. As I’d expected, it was extremely clean, the building was perfectly maintained, and the clerks helpful and attentive. The clientele was largely Muslim, which wasn’t a surprise, and the traffic through the store was regular. We left the first store and went to the second, and while the clerks were all Muslims, the store traffic was largely Hispanic, which matched the neighborhood.

“All good?” Muhammed asked when we left the second store.

“Yes. Everything matches the photos and descriptions you sent, which I was sure would be the case.”

We left the second store he owned and headed to the first store he was buying and finally the second store. As he’d communicated, they weren’t in nearly the same condition as his own two stores, though the buildings were structurally sound and up to code, and had passed inspection. The neighborhoods were working class, but both stores were also along main surface streets and had parking lots, which meant they’d attract morning and evening drive customers as well.

“New store managers and assistant managers, as soon as I take possession,” Muhammed said after we left the second store. “Did you notice that product on the shelves was disorganized, and there were empty spots where items had not been restocked?”

I nodded, “Yes. I also noticed some stained carpet tiles, cracked laminate on the checkout counters, and chipped paint.”

“It’s the little things like that that make a big difference. They also don’t cost very much to repair. And the other thing is the clerks must always be polite and attentive, and the store manager friendly and helpful.”

“Everything looks good,” I said.

“Then I will see you at my home for dinner.”

We shook hands and got into our cars. Given the traffic in the LA region, I decided it was best to head towards Santa Barbara immediately, rather than risk arriving late. When I reached Santa Barbara, I found a coffee shop, and respecting the limits on caffeine, ordered decaf. I pulled out my laptop and updated my notes on the investment I was about to make, then wrote a bit in my journal, before heading to the Kuftaros’ house.

Their home was in the wooded Samarkand neighborhood of the city. It was about the same size in terms of square footage as my house in Kenwood, though the layout was somewhat different, as it had no basement nor attic room. The decor was not all that different from my ‘Indian’ room, though there was Western-style furniture in most rooms.

“A very lovely home,” I said to Muhammed and Maryam when we completed the tour.

I left my bag in the guest room, and we returned to what I would have called the ‘great room’ where Maryam offered tea or coffee. I asked for tea, and just as she served it, Aisyah arrived at the house. She had told me that she usually didn’t make the drive during the week, but felt she needed to be at dinner both Thursday and Friday nights.

The meal was wonderful, although with too many carbs. Once again I felt it would be OK, as I was taking my daily propranolol, and I didn’t want to refuse the hospitality. After a rich dessert, Muhammed and I went to his study to await his attorney and a notary, who we needed for what amounted to a promissory note, albeit with terms which satisfied Muslim finance rules, along with an agreement which gave SKJ Partners a formal interest in the LLC which actually owned the stores.

The structure of the purchase, which also conformed to Islamic finance, was a large initial contribution, made with the funds I was providing as well as funds from Muhammed, and regular structured payments. It also included a percentage of the profits during the period of structured payments, which was in lieu of interest on what amounted to the original owner carrying the loan. It was, for all intents and purposes, no different from the deals I’d made with Samantha over the years.

The attorney, Issa al-Masri, and the notary, Omar Belhouchet, arrived a few minutes later, and after coffee and cakes were served, Muhammed and I signed two copies of all of the documents, which were then notarized.

“The money needs to be wired to the nominated account no later than 5:00pm Monday,” Attorney al-Masri said. “That will allow us to close the deal on Wednesday.”

“I’ve already arranged things with the bank,” I replied. “I’ll call first thing in the morning and the SWIFT transfer should be made before noon, Chicago time, with the funds available as soon as Muhammed’s bank releases them.”

“Then I believe everything is complete,” he said. “Muhammed, our meeting to close the deal is at my office on Wednesday at 3:00pm. You’ll need a Cashier’s Check in the full amount of the initial payment, as agreed.”

“I will be there with the check,” Muhammed stated.

Everyone shook hands, and Muhammed showed the attorney and notary out. When they left, I elected to go to bed, giving the rationale that I wanted to be up at 5:00am so I could make it into the city without running into as much traffic as I would rising even thirty minutes later.

November 9, 2001, Los Angeles, California

On Friday morning, I ate breakfast made by Maryam Kuftaro, then headed into the city, meeting Aisyah at her apartment as planned. She had left about ten minutes after I did, so I’d had a short wait for her to arrive. She let us into the building, and when we were finally inside her apartment, we exchanged a hug and a quick, gentle kiss.

“What would you like to do today?” I asked.

“That’s up to you,” Aisyah replied. “You may have me as much as you wish, or if you prefer to do something else...”

I smiled, took her hand, and led her to her bedroom where I pleasured her orally, then enjoyed making love to her, savoring the sensations of her very tight tunnel. When we finished, I turned on my back and pulled her to me to cuddle. Aisyah snuggled close and sighed deeply in satisfaction.

“There are a couple of things we need to discuss,” I said after about five minutes of silence.

“Have I done something wrong?” Aisyah asked, quickly sitting up.

“No, not at all,” I replied, gently pulling her back down to cuddle.

Aisyah snuggled close and once again sighed contentedly.

“First, I spoke with the imam at the mosque in Chicago where my Saudi friends attended prayer services. According to him, if you confess to Allah that you have done wrong, no further action is necessary, and that at your wedding you simply remain silent when asked if you are already married or contracted to be married. The tradition is silence, and that is accepted as there being no impediment to marriage, and your husband has no right to ask further.

“The fact that you won’t bleed is something any reasonable man should know, and, if I may be a bit uncouth, or as my Russian friends say, «некультурный», as tight as you are, there will be no suspicion that you have been with a man before, so long as you don’t give it away by anything you say or do.”

“What does that Russian word mean?”

“«Некультурный»? It means ‘uncivilized’ or ‘rude’ or ‘uncouth’.”

“You’ve had me, so it’s not a problem to say that!”

“It is, in reference to a future husband. I think, if the imam is correct, you could easily marry without worrying about any accusations of «zina». The imam did suggest that you find a man who is Syrian, Lebanese, Turkish, or Jordanian, and avoid Saudi or Pakistani men. That sounds like excellent advice to me, if you do want to marry and have children. And I promise that if you do that, and things go badly, I will take you in and protect you.”

“You mean as a wife?”

“That would be one possibility, but we don’t have to work out the details for that contingency just yet. And that leads to the second thing I want to speak to you about, which also has a number of possible outcomes, depending on what you want.”

“And what you want.”

“What I want is for you to be happy and safe. Beyond that, all possibilities are open. The second thing I wanted to speak to you about is that next week we’ll be announcing a new business unit. It’s focused on hosted services - backups, email, web hosting, and so on, but we’ll also host the legal software for small offices which only want to use the web interface. I’m going to post a position for a Senior Infrastructure Engineer. You’re qualified, if you’re interested.”

“Working directly for you? In Chicago?”

“Yes. If you’re interested, you’d be the lead engineer responsible for building and maintaining servers, NAS equipment, network equipment, and firewalls. There are a couple of things you need to consider before you apply - first, a move to Chicago and a new mosque might be just what you need to find a husband. Second, and an important thing to consider - if we were to have any kind of ongoing intimate relationship, you would likely need to find a job at another company, as what we’re doing now breaks the rules. It’s also the case that we’d need to end our relationship before you applied for the new position.”

“I’m not sure what to do,” Aisyah said quietly.

“You have time to think about it,” I replied. “But remember, until you’ve spoken with Kara, there’s no promise I can give about being a wife, AND that would necessitate you leaving NIKA, as I said.”

“I know you’ve thought about it, so I’d like to know what you think I should do.”

I had, indeed thought about it, and had what I thought was the best possible solution. My concern was that Aisyah would simply do what I suggested, without giving it sufficient thought.

“I’ll tell you on one condition,” I said. “And that is you not decide before next Thursday, when I make the announcement, and you talk it over with your roommate.”

“I promise to do that,” Aisyah replied.

“Then my suggestion is that you apply for the new position and move to Chicago, something NIKA would pay for, then join a mosque, meet eligible men, and see if you find one who is suitable to marry and father your children. If you don’t, after a diligent search, then in December of next year, you may ask Kara about being my wife. If she’s amenable, then you would have to find a new role with a company in Chicago and resign from NIKA before you could move into my house.”

“I can’t give you an answer right now?”

“No. I want you to truly think it over, and decide what you want to do and what is in your best interest. The position won’t formally be announced until next Thursday, so a delay won’t really impact anything, other than me being assured that you’ve thought it through.”

Aisyah was quiet for a few minutes, with the only sound in her bedroom being our breathing and the soft tick of her old-fashioned alarm clock.

“Will you do something for me?” she asked.

“If it’s within my power, certainly.”

“In case this is the last time we can be together, stay until Sunday, and allow me to spend the night with you tomorrow night. I can tell my parents I have plans with Sosamma, and she’ll cover for me.”

I really didn’t have anything pressing, though it would mean missing Guys’ Night, but Jesse and Matthew were always thrilled to play host, and that would give some others a chance to win the poker tournament which had become a fixture of those gatherings. I also knew that my wives wouldn’t object, though I would get grief from Birgit about not being able to cuddle her on Sunday morning. I’d already let my students know I’d be missing the Saturday afternoon session, and made arrangements with Hope to see her on Sunday afternoon. I could just make that, though I’d have to cancel with Sarah.

“I can do that,” I said. “In fact, I’d like that very much.”

“Great!” Aisyah gushed. “Would you like me to suck you?”

“If you want, yes, but I’ll need to go wash.”

“You didn’t wash your face before you kissed me after licking me.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I totally forgot.”

“It wasn’t bad. Just lie back.”

I did, and allowed Aisyah to begin to pleasure me with the mouth, lips, and tongue. After a short time, I gently moved Aisyah so that I could pleasure her as well, and after a bit of resistance, she submitted, and I probed her very snug pussy with my tongue, then sucked gently on her clit, bringing her off just before I had my release. I was very tempted to try to French kiss her, but ultimately decided to simply allow her to go to the bathroom to spit and wash her mouth. I followed and washed my face, then we went back to bed where we made love twice more, once in the ‘adulting’ position and once with me on top, before we showered, dressed, and we went to the kitchen so Aisyah could prepare our lunch.

While Aisyah was working on the meal, I called Kara’s mobile phone and let her know I was planning to stay an additional night, and why, then called Liesel to have her reserve me a suite at the Omni and rebook my flight, which she did with alacrity, calling me back less than ten minutes later with the confirmations. When Aisyah had our food ready, we sat down at the dinette table to eat.

“That thing we did, both pleasuring each other with our mouths, do you like that?” she asked after she’d given thanks for the food.

“It’s called ‘69’, and yes, I do. Why?”

Aisyah laughed softly, “I couldn’t concentrate on what I was doing for you!”

“I have zero complaints!”

“Even though I spit out your seed?”

“The pleasure is the same either way,” I replied. “Remember - do nothing that you aren’t comfortable doing, or which you think is wrong.”

“Do your wives do that?”

“May I give you some advice?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t compare yourself to anyone else in that regard. No two people have identical sexuality, and nobody should feel pressured to do something simply because someone else does it. And in case you’re wondering, I derive the most pleasure from either the missionary position, or when we do it with you sitting in my lap facing me.”

“I like sitting in your lap that way best. But you said you enjoy licking me.”

I smiled, “Very much so.”

“And you don’t feel the need to wash your mouth afterwards?”

“No, I don’t. But again, that’s me.”

“I was taught that the wife is supposed to do whatever the husband says, within the limits imposed by the Holy Qur’an.”

“No disrespect to the Qur’an,” I replied, “but I don’t take my cues from ancient religious books.”

“You think God’s word has no value?”

“May I speak plainly without offending you?”

“Yes.”

“People disagree, often violently, over which writings are the words of God, and I have no logical or rational way to determine if any of them are right. In my view, it’s entirely possible all of them are wrong. Given that, I believe that insofar as they provide insight into the human condition, they have value, but only as an aid to finding my own path in the world.

“That said, I respect your beliefs and would never interfere with you practicing your faith as you see fit. And that applies to all faiths, on the condition they do not try to impose their beliefs or their moral systems on anyone else. If people want to voluntarily follow a moral code, they’re more than welcome to do so, but they aren’t welcome to tell me I have to follow that code if I don’t want to.”

“Isn’t that license to do anything?”

“Yes!” I said firmly. “But that is tempered by my commitment to do as little harm as possible and my belief that nobody should use force against another person.”

“So you decide for your family?”

“No, each of us decides for ourselves. I’ve taught my kids to be responsible and I allow them to make their own decisions about nearly everything. And even for things which I have to decide, I take into account what they want and what’s in their best interest. Similar to what I said to you earlier about you doing what’s in your best interest.”

“But isn’t that selfish?”

“Only if you assume that what’s in my best interest doesn’t take into account that my best interest includes keeping my wives happy and my children safe, among other things. What you’re describing would be narcissism, from which I don’t suffer. My diagnosis is that I’m mildly bipolar.”

“What?!” Aisyah asked in surprise.

“It’s something I’ve suffered from, along with a strange endocrinological problem, since puberty. They may actually be directly related, because both are controlled by diet, exercise, proper sleep, and medication. And, so long as I do those things, it doesn’t really impact my life, except for limiting alcohol, caffeine, and carbohydrates.”

“Why didn’t you say anything about the meals?”

“Because I felt accepting your hospitality was more important. Those are the kinds of judgments I make all the time, and the last thing I would want to do is give offense to you or your parents.”

“You are very different from any man I’ve ever met.”

I smiled, “The usual word people use is ‘strange’. And that’s something I actually embrace. As I said to someone last weekend, I completely embrace the craziness that is my life. And, honestly, that’s the reason I could begin the relationship with you that you wanted.”

“Your life is very different from my life.”

“Yes, and that’s something you should consider as well - living in my house, if that were to happen, would not be anything like your life here, nor would it conform even remotely to Islamic practice. And that is why a Muslim woman isn’t supposed to marry a Christian man. You know I don’t care about that, but I believe you do. And that has to factor into your decision.”

“I’ll consider everything you’ve said. We have a few hours after lunch, if you want to have me again...”

I did.

[Chicago, Illinois] 🎤 Ashley

“Ashley, would you let your mom know dinner is ready?” Kara Mom requested.

“Sure!”

I left the kitchen and went to find my mom. I found her in the ‘Indian’ room, standing in front of the display case where Dad kept the pictures of his friends who had died, along with his icon and statues.

“Mom?” I called out.

She didn’t seem to hear me so I went in and touched her arm. She looked down and I saw she was sad about something.

“Mom? Are you OK?” I asked.

“Yes. I was just remembering...”

“Whose day is it today?”

“Jorge’s,” Mom said quietly.

“He was special to you, wasn’t he?”

“Very much so.”

“And you miss him a lot?”

“I do,” Mom sighed. “He was a wonderful man, and ... well, no...”

“You can tell me, Mom. I’m ten! I’m almost a woman!”

Mom laughed softly, “You girls want to grow up so fast. I loved him.”

“Was he your boyfriend?”

Mom took my hand and moved to one of the basket chairs and sat down, and encouraged me to get into her lap, which was normal for Dad, but not something Mom usually did.