The Apostate (7 page)

Abra smiled semi-apologetically. “You'll laugh.”

“No, I won't,” he promised.

Abra gave him a doubtful look. “Princess.”

“Princess! I'm dining with royalty.” Despite himself, Ray laughed for an instant, and then caught himself.

“Hardly. Abra's a common enough name.”

“It's a lovely name, and very fitting.”

“How gallant,” Abra trilled. “Thank you,” She looking down demurely at her iced tea. Ray also gazed away. It was like, he thought with mild amazement, that they were both embarrassed at letting a moment of real feeling emerge before they really knew each other.

“So how long have you worked for the complex?” Ray asked at last to resume a less intense moment. He liked how Abra could be both shy and direct at the same time. But now when he looked into the wells of her shining eyes he felt caught again by their allure. It was all he could do to look quickly away and not show his entrapment.

“Since I graduated from college, but I started as a secretary to the imam.”

“Well, he's in charge, isn't he?”

“In many ways,” Abra said. “He's also my uncle.”

Ray couldn't help but react with surprise. Was this an advantage or not? If he kept seeing Abra, as he wanted to, he'd eventually meet the imam. That might be an acid test of how well he was doing. Perkins, he was sure, would be impressed and no doubt have a batch of suggestions. Complicating everything was the critical fact, a growing one, that he was very attracted to Abra—and she seemed quite responsive. When he took her home they stood outside the four-story building for a moment. She didn't invite him in, but her eyes were warm and liquid and she smiled with interest. He was disappointed, though, when she only permitted a peck on her cheek.

“It was a very nice evening, Ray, and thank you for dinner.”

“Very nice for me, too.”

She turned at the door and gave him a wave.

But it was a start as they had already made plans to get together again. He was on the right track, but what would Perkins have to say?

Ray reread his letter to the editorial pages of the
Los Angeles Times
, glad that he didn't have to submit it for review to Perkins, who was quite in favor of the editorial venture. His handler was also pleased by his dating an imam's niece. “Good going!” Perkins said, “Keep me posted.” That was the extent of their brief conversation and the end to a short life for one cell phone.

It certainly wasn't necessary to run the letter past Benson, who was sure to notice it or have it brought to his attention. Then he'd have to say something to defend why he took the trouble to pen such a letter. It was odd how defensive he felt. Didn't he have a perfect right to express himself?

The
Los Angeles Times
, of course, would review his letter and chances were it would be turned down. Most letters to the section were. But the submission itself would be another factor in his dramatic change into a supporter of Muslim causes. He was just expressing the viewpoint of a concerned non-Muslim American, which were hardly the ranting of some rabid activist. He could certainly cite the letter to Abra. He had made another date with her and this time he hoped to meet her uncle, the imam. She would be pleased by his letter
;
the imam was another story.

Christians, Jews, and other religious minorities are subject to various indignities in some Islamic countries, and this is to be deplored. But why should the United States, which supposedly has higher and more humane standards, expose its Muslim community to an even greater outrage. Corrosive suspicion that jihadism lurks in every American Muslim heart and mind has materialized, abetted by the unfortunate McCarthy-like antics
shown in committee hearings in Washington. No American Muslim is safe from this unspoken but nagging doubt, stoked by the political fear-mongers with their false sense of duty. They sow latent discord with their mistaken notion, that anyone in the
Islamic community, particularly the youth, are credible if not likely domestic recruits to attempt acts of terrorism.

The upshot of this insidious furor is to make American Muslims feel like second-class citizens in their own country. It isn't fair. It isn't American. And it ought to be stopped in its tracks.

Japanese-Americans were mistreated in World War II, though the Nisei units were commended for their bravery in the European theater. Eventually, the country apologized for its unnecessary internment of Japanese-Americans in concentration camps during the war and made belated reparations to survivors. History has a way of repeating itself. Will we be apologizing to the Muslim community in coming years for our shameful behavior to them now?

Satisfied with the theme, and his language, Ray printed an extra copy to show Abra and sealed an envelope holding another copy to be sent to the
Los Angeles Times
. Chances were it would be turned down, and if it ran, it would be truncated and heavily edited. But it would have his name!

The same points, now clearly stated, were going to be used in every blog on the Internet he could find. He still had letters to write to his political representatives including the governor of California, his congressman, and both senators. Another copy went into his electronic journal file. Comments on Abra, the fairy tale book, and now the letter were printed with the electronic version then duly deleted. But he hadn't decided yet where to stick the hard copy of his journal for safekeeping.

Nuisance or gadfly, he was going to make a name for himself in his drive to become a Muslim. Now it was Abra, more than Perkins and his monthly stipend, that was spurring him on.

Abra came to his apartment on their second date, and Ray was glad that he had the foresight to give his apartment a thorough cleaning. He wasn't a slob, but his experience, gained with some embarrassment, was that girls generally had higher standards of cleanliness. For all he knew he might violate some Islamic notion of tidiness.

He couldn't risk going astray with anything on the roster of what Islam prohibited.

The more he read the Islamic
hadiths
, the sayings and admonitions of Mohammed that guided the faithful, the more he understood how the religion affected every part of a Muslim's life. That is, if they were truly faithful, and that he had to doubt. Catholics didn't do everything the Pope wanted. Jews flouted the Talmud daily. Why should Muslims be different in their adherence to the Qur'an? Meanwhile, he was still wading through the Qur'an and the 114 suras or chapters.

Again he was impressed by how intrinsically American Abra was. But why, he wondered, did he expect otherwise? Why did he still think, like some foul thought seeping up into his mind from a poisoned well, that she was some fierce, wild-eyed, desert-driven tigress ready to slit his throat for any perceived transgression? His letter to
The Times
, which had been accepted, was a warning against the very thoughts that now soiled his mind. A strange irony, he thought, trying to balance his immediate and deeper impressions.

Abra certainly dressed like a regular American woman with considerable sartorial taste. Her skirt came up just above her shapely knees, and Ray was sure this must be the current style. Jewelry hung from her ears and adorned her neck and wrist. And there was no problem seeing her trim figure and lovely face. But he feared making a misstep and sabotaging his campaign with a false move. Moreover, he was struggling with the growing conflict in himself: He was increasingly attracted to Abra, and yet he was being devious and dishonest.

They had gone to the movies and watched a German film about a tragedy in a Turkish family in Hamburg where the conservative parents disowned a daughter who had a non-Turk, non-Muslim boyfriend. Subsequently, the daughter ran away with her lover, only to be found and slain in an honor killing. The connection to their relationship, though strained, was still palpable.

Ray brought the subject up first as he drove to his apartment. “It's hard to bridge the generations.”

“Yes,” Abra said, “but it needs to be done to avoid tragedies like this.”

Encouraging and modern, Ray thought. “So the two worlds can compromise?”

“Of course,” she said. “It's normal for Islamic parents to want their children to marry other Muslims, but that doesn't mean there can't be exceptions. Obviously, you're driving one around. Like I told you, I have no problem going out with you. I'm sorry your parents have passed, but would they approve of me if they were alive?”

She was putting the situation to him aggressively whereas he was fearful of saying the wrong thing, something she probably realized. Her stance was admirable; his less so.

“I don't know,” he said. His parents had died when he was still a teenager and he had been raised by an aunt who was now dead herself. He didn't have a clear idea of their views on any number of subjects. “But your point is well taken.”

Abra nodded. “Parents have to accept that their children are likely to be more liberal than they are, and this is a natural progression. But their children should be tactful and honest and not sneak around.”

“You're wise and beautiful at the same time,” he said, smiling as he parked his car.

Abra smiled. “Neither, I'm afraid, but compliments are always welcome.”

Inside his small one-bedroom apartment Abra cast a critical eye around and then said, “You have a nice place.”

“Thanks, but it's a bit claustrophobic at times. Please make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, vodka?”

Abra had a good sense of humor, and he felt more comfortable joking with her now. She sat on his single couch. A small kitchen area was separated from the living room by a counter with a Formica top.

“Tea will do,” she said, sitting on the couch. She smoothed her light brown skirt over her knees.

Ray prepared tea while Abra got up to look at his selection of books, which had received their annual dusting earlier.

“Interesting selection of books,” she noted, returning to the couch as he brought a tray of tea and put it on the rectangular wooden table.

“If I had more room, I'd have more books.”

Abra nodded. “My apartment is small, too. There's never enough room.”

Ray sat on the couch but not next to Abra. A horrible silence overtook them as if they had exhausted all their small talk. He had never been so nervous with a girl before. Longing to reach out and make his move, he held back, gripped in a self-made lock.

“Congratulations, again, on
The Times
publishing your letter,” Abra said, finally breaking the awkward silence.

“Thanks. I didn't think they would.”

Abra took exception. “Why not? It was an excellent letter. You brought up points that everyone should realize.”

“You mean for a non-Muslim?”

Abra pouted. “That's what made your letter so strong.”

“But it wasn't signed, Non-Muslim.”

“No matter,” she said. “Anyway, I think that was implicit. Ray, I admire the breath of your views, and others will, too.”

Ray nodded, hoping Abra was right. If only other Muslims, like her uncle the imam, agreed. “I'm encouraged enough to contribute to a few blogs now.”

More than encouraged, Ray told himself, as he was busy seeking out relevant blogs as editorial stepping stones to his immersion into the Islamic community.

“You should write a book yourself,” she said.

Ray had to smile. Was Abra stroking him? Why would she do that? But he decided she was sincere. Her nature was to be straightforward, a quality he greatly admired and appreciated. She didn't stint on sharing her viewpoints. “I don't have quite that much to say,” he said in a self-depreciative tone, feeling a deep irony as he spoke.

“Surprise yourself then.” Abra gave him an encouraging smile. She spoke softly, but there was steel behind her tone.

Taken aback by her comment Ray realized, ironically, that he was doing just that, just not the kind of surprise Abra had in mind. But her support was so sincere that it was all that he could do not to suddenly reach out to embrace her. Instead, he said, “In time, maybe. What about you?”

Now Abra seemed surprised. “I'm not a writer.”

“But you have opinions.”

“Lots of them,” she said, laughing.

“And good looks to go with them,” he said, finally sliding over to kiss her. This was his moment, and he was going to take it.

Abra met his lips, and they enjoyed a long kiss. But as he tried to kiss her neck, with his right hand slipping down to lightly touch her breasts, she pulled back.

“Ray,” she said softly. “We have to go slow. I don't want either of us to get too excited.”

He leaned back with a sheepish grin.
Us!
She slid toward him. “Ray, I like you. I'm just not ready for …”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry,” she whispered, and then kissed him. “Don't be sorry,” she repeated, as their tongues met.

“I'm afraid your uncles won't approve of me,” Ray said to Abra as he picked her up and then drove to the imam's house for dinner. He was delighted to get the invitation. Abra had held off letting him meet her uncles, Radwan Malouse, the imam, and his half-brother, Tariq Esaaba, who was the treasurer of the complex. Presumably, she had felt uncertain in presenting a non-Muslim as her date. But their relationship had really flourished. They had gone to museums and movies, dined at restaurants, walked in parks, and talked endlessly and candidly about a multitude of subjects. She had visited him again at his apartment, and they had made out, though she said no to making love. He didn't know if she was a virgin, if it was against her religious scruples, or she just wasn't sure of him. Regardless, he made it clear he still wanted to see her, and she was greatly pleased that he accepted their growing relationship as it was. Ray felt intermittently guilty, proceeding on this unlikely double track, but he would see it through.