The Art of Secrets (2 page)

On
TH
URSDAY, NOVEMBER 1, after receiving the keys for a temporary new home,

Farooq Khan, U.S. citizen,

stops by his mosque so that he may speak confidentially to the
imam.

“America, land of opportunities.” That's what we always heard in Pakistan, yes? All the opportunities to be found in America. Khawla and I laugh about it now, somewhat bitterly.

Opportunities, for example, like years of hard work in a factory, where I put shampoo bottles into shipping boxes.

Opportunities like the flames of a merciless fire that take away all the things we save my wages for.

Opportunities like
tennis
?

I did not play tennis in Pakistan. The first time I held a tennis ball in my hand, it was one my daughter, Saba, brought home. I did not expect its texture to be furry and soft, like an odd, neon-green fruit.

I went to all of Saba's tennis matches. If my daughter was going into the world wearing nothing but a T-shirt, I wanted the world to know I was there to protect her.

My wife went also, because she loves to watch Saba play. Saba is graceful, strong, and smart on the court. I admit there is something soothing about watching the ball sailing back and forth over the net; nothing but the sound of the ball hitting the racket, then the court, and the squeak and scuffle of rubber-soled shoes. When two opponents are playing well, it is almost like a prayer to watch. Excellence in all forms honors God.

Khawla and I went to every match, never missing one. We sat on the hood of our Ford sedan and watched from the parking lot, while our son, Salman, read library books in the front seat, or played with the dashboard—played at driving
,
a normal childhood fantasy, yes?

As the tennis season progressed, summer ended and fall arrived. The trees that surrounded the courts turned yellow, orange, and red—fiery, you could say. In retrospect, like an omen.

At the last match, against Fenwick, my wife found a vending machine and purchased a small bag of barbecue-flavored potato chips. We shared them during the match. “Delicious,” we agreed.

“Not as good as Pringles,” Khawla decided.

We eat the junk food. Sometimes we watch American television. Every Fourth of July, we picnic with the rest of Chicago at the lakeshore, waiting for the pinwheels and starbursts to appear over the water after dark.

Until the fire, we made our home in a two-bedroom apartment in a handsome brick building with a courtyard. A crowded, safe area, not trendy or expensive. Streets filled with people like us who came to this country in search of the best opportunities for our children.

Opportunities
—how we clung to that word! It is a dreamer's word.

After Saba's tennis match, we drove back to that apartment, with no idea of the inferno that awaited us. Khawla and I discussed supper, listing the ordinary, usual things that would be waiting for us in the cupboard. “If only we had more of the barbecue chips,” I said.

“Children, listen,” my wife laughed, “your father is a cowboy now.”

We approached our street, and my daughter remarked that the air smelled funny, like smoke from a fire.

A police SUV blocked the entrance to our street, lights flashing. And then we could see, farther down the block, the long red trucks.

My son became excited, overly so, as he does whenever he sees a fire truck. “Fire, fire!”

We parked and got out of the car. Our eyes followed the direction of the fire hoses, first to our own building, then incredulously to where our own windows would be—but here oddly open, black-rimmed, bold dancing flames inside. No longer like windows, but like three smoky wood ovens in a row.

The blaze was contained to our unit, everything charred in a flash. The rest of the building was spared, except for the smoke and water damage.

We had nothing left. Nothing but our rusty old Ford. Even Salman's books were from the library.

The fire marshal told us the fire might have been started on purpose. “It burned so fast,” he said. He used the word
arson.
He promised an investigation.

Arson.

My wife spoke up, saying this was impossible. We have no enemies in this country, nor in the one we left behind. We have only friends.

Her words were proven true by the swift offers of places to stay, friends from this mosque, neighbors. The community gathered around us, lifted us. Overnight a calendar was created, a weekly schedule of beds and meals, opportunities to donate food and furniture, all for us. I can hardly believe it myself, but starting tonight my family will sleep in a high-rise, luxury condominium with a view of Lake Michigan. Temporary, of course, but
free,
donated by a family at my daughter's school. The angels have cared for us.

And yet despite these blessings, or perhaps because of them, I have lived in a kind of misery these past weeks. I am a man who may have lost much more than the physical objects in his home.

[He removes his eyeglasses, placing them on the table between him and the imam.]

I have been carrying a secret—a burden I want to share with you now, so that this black spot on my conscience may be removed and I can pray again with a clean heart.

When the fire marshal told us that the fire might have been started on purpose, a sickening dread washed over my body, a suspicion that with all my strength I struggled to conceal. My eyes met the eyes of my son, and I realized with a paralyzing fear the likelihood that the arsonist was not an enemy to my family but my own innocent boy who has fallen prey to the seductive power of fire.

There were two occasions at tennis matches, our backs momentarily turned from him, when Salman had toyed with the cigarette lighter in the car, poking bits of paper and sticks at it to see how quickly smoke would appear. We could smell the smoke from where we sat. His mother slapped his fingers and took to keeping him on the grass where she could watch him.

Then late one night, only a week before the apartment fire, I found my son sitting in our kitchen, using a wooden match from the stove to set fire to a plastic toy soldier. He claimed to be repairing the figure, refastening its head by melting the plastic. I scolded him, but did not punish him for it. The Prophet said that a strong man controls his anger. But now I worry . . . this series of small events, this dangerous fascination . . .

In front of the fire marshal, I could not voice these fears. I cannot even discuss this suspicion with my wife. The fire has distressed the woman enough.

Today a member of the fire department visited me at the factory, accompanied by a police officer. They were friendly to me, but the news was not good. The initial investigation has confirmed that the fire was started with rags soaked in turpentine. Arson.

I listened and said nothing. What could I have said?

On SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 3, a day full of drizzle and chill,

Steve Davinski, senior,

leads a tour of the Highsmith School, a reputable yet no-longer-selective private high school, where Saba Khan also is a student.

Good morning, folks. Thanks for coming out on a day like this.

While we wait, everybody please take care to avoid the H there on the floor. This is our school seal. The H stands for Highsmith, of course, and also for Honor. This is considered a sacred spot on campus, a common belief shared by all students, so we need to watch our—

Ma'am? If you could . . . move your bag a tiny bit, please? Thanks.

I agree, the campus is very cool, especially since we are so close to the Loop. Some of the buildings are over a hundred years old. Visitors may like how everything looks, but students mostly complain about climbing stairs. Half the campus is stairs!

Can everybody hear me? Yeah, I know you all can
see
me. That's probably why they gave me this job.

[He smirks, in response to small, polite laughter from the crowd.]

I am “physically conspicuous,” one might say. Or “vertically enhanced.” Kids around here call me Da-
vine
-ski, since I'm like a vine, you know? Always growing.

Obviously I'm not wearing my uniform today, since it's Saturday. During the week, all Highsmith students wear a standard uniform: dress shirts and khaki pants, belt required, no tennis shoes. Men wear the signature Highsmith necktie, which, depending on who you ask, is either the color of our sacred honor or the color of all the dark red things that could possibly stain a young man's tie in the cafeteria.

Nobody likes wearing the uniform, of course, but even I admit it's for the best. Highsmith welcomes a few lucky students on need-based scholarships every year, always has. The idea behind the uniform is that we all dress the same, no matter what kind of job our parents have, and by graduation, we've all had the same valuable opportunities. By then, most of us have a stain or two on our neckties. I mean, we're only human!

Please try to stick close as we move around campus, so I don't have to yell so much. Sometimes after tours, my voice sounds like it's been through a blender. That's not good for someone like me. Trust me, I like to talk.

[He takes out a piece of paper and reads.]

“In 1911, The Highsmith School was created by Chicago's wealthiest citizens with an initial endowment of five hundred thousand dollars.”

[Looks up from the paper.]

I'm a numbers guy, folks, and no kidding, that was a pile of money back then. I guess it still is, to most of us.

[Goes back to reading.]

“Originally the school consisted of only the building we are standing in, but we have grown over the decades and now the campus has a total of four buildings, including the gymnasium, which remains the largest stand-alone school gymnasium in the city of Chicago.”

[Looks up from the paper.]

Seriously, wait until you see it. If you're thinking of coming here, you should definitely come to one of our basketball games this winter. Actually, I'm starting center on the varsity team, so, I mean . . . that's pretty cool, right?

[Waits for some perfunctory applause before going back to reading.]

“Highsmith's founders believed that a fine school required a handsome campus, no matter how expensive to maintain. They were convinced that the best education—the most progressive thinking—occurs in a beautiful setting. Think back to ancient Greece and Rome, the splendor of Egypt, or the great renovation of Paris during the reign of Napoleon III. All the most advanced thinking took place during a time of revolutionary architectural design—”

Excuse me? Ma'am, could you speak up, please?

[Takes a deep breath.]

Wow . . . wow. You heard about that? Holy cats, that is some fast-moving information. If only my guys were that speedy on the court.

Well, okay, yes, there has been some whispering the past couple of days about what we might call . . . a discovery . . . here at Highsmith. Something exciting is going on, and I understand your curiosity.

However, it is totally premature for us to discuss that topic today. There's no confirmation yet, so at this time—I mean,
at any time
, it would be wrong for us to speculate about other people's business. We all agree on that, I'm sure.

Sorry if this disappoints you, ma'am, but we will not be seeing any
strange watercolor paintings
on this tour today. This is a school, after all, not an art museum, and that's where the administration wants to keep the focus for now.

Okay, then . . . Exit's right over there. Have a good day, ma'am.

Folks, please don't think I'm being rude or anything, but we're here this morning to talk about the school. Clubs, traditions, that kind of stuff.

So, yeah.

Did I mention I'm senior class president? Three years in a row. “Three-peat!” everybody said, last time I got elected.

DA-VINE-SKI CLINGS TO OFFICE, the headline said.

Yeah, that was pretty cool.

Now if we can continue. . . By the way, we'll be seeing only two of the buildings on the tour. The other two don't get used so much anymore. Enrollment's been down, to be honest, so we're glad you're here!

Please follow me. Careful again, folks, not to step on the H. . . .

Two days later, on MONDAY, NOVEMBER 5, during a first-period study hall,

Javier Conejera, sophomore,

uses a library computer to write to his friend Jennifer in Oklahoma. Inadvertently, he uses the workstation that is reserved for catalog searches only.

A mi hermana Americana—

Now I am in Chicago, and I remember our good times last year. Now maybe I understand what you felt when you lived with my family in España. Now I am the toad from a different well!

You will laugh because I walk the streets here holding the GPS that my host family gives to me. I make all the turns the GPS announces. Somewhat embarrassing, yes, but in this way I see all the corners of this brutal, incredible city.

I tell you some things on the phone, but for others it is better to send via email, because I do not want my host family to learn them. Jen, this family is very strange. They are busy with the activities to the extreme, too busy to know me. I am alone in the house too often—and ay, the house! I do not have words to describe. In this place, the closets and cupboards cannot store the useful objects because they are so filled with the discarded objects. The most important object is the big calendar that tells the family where they need to be at all times. The calendar is in the kitchen. (Not in the “chicken”—I confuse these words at least one time every day!)

Do you remember, last year P. Hector told our class: “Admire the peacock, so beautiful in the garden. But if you invite it into the house, it will shit on the rug.” The truth is, my host family brings many peacocks into the house.

However . . . Maybe there is value to the numerous things people keep. For example, at the school, a student named Saba Khan lost her apartment in a terrible fire. We all saw this tragedy on the television. The people included the story on Facebook. This family lost it all, aside from their lives. The father works in a factory. Two children. Very sad.

Then in the recent days I see posters around the school, asking for all the people to bring things to sell. An auction to benefit this family of Khans.

The date for the event is the 15 of December. The “season of giving,” no? Many families have donated items for the auction. Extra items from the home, or special items. My host family donated a membership to a golf society. Mr. Hamilton, the teacher of music, donated tickets to the symphony of Chicago. Mrs. Langford, the teacher of psychology, donated five bottles of wine in a basket. All the money raised will go to this family.

Last week my classmate Kendra asked if I will donate items to the auction. I told her, “Very sorry, but I have nothing to give.” I felt ashamed, because I have admired this blonde, bold girl very much. One day I asked her for help, and she proofread my essay with such care, as if the work is hers. She helped me earn a B on the essay. Now she asked for help in return. She poked me with her notebook and smiled. “Javier,” she told me, gentle but firm, “all the people have something to give.”

When she told me this, I felt two things at the same time. First, a burden—a responsibility that I did not believe was mine. But also, like sudden rain falling over the head, this sense of belonging
.
Kendra suggested that I am part of the community, too, only because I am here in Chicago, present. And that feels like a dream coming true.

However, how can I help? I told her, “I came to this country with two suitcases.”

“I have the answer!” she told me very loud. “Spanish. Six free lessons or tutoring sessions, taught by a native speaker. That will be your donation.” She wrote it down before I found words to respond.

To disappoint such a girl—Jen, this is impossible. She represents beauty on the inside and on the outside. She is tall, and the long hair is straight and light, like the Danish girls who come to our beach. The eyes are pale and sparkle like the sea waves. She is smiling whenever I see her, and that makes me smile, too. Maybe Kendra will be a friend for me in this city.

I feel lonely still, but also grateful to have the opportunity to spend this school year observing these people. My dream always was to come and study in the U.S. I see how the Americans are on TV—so many groups of friends. Here I want to collect the friends the way my great-grandmother collects the brown sweaters, remember? You know how difficult it is for me always in situations that are social.

Well, it requires so much time to write to you in this manner. I wish we could Skype. That way we can see each other and talk about ordinary, boring matters, as we once did. I am eager to see you at the spring holiday!

I must go now. Several students wait to use this computer, even though others are free to be used. :\

Also, to help pay for my ticket to see you, I have taken a job in the school cafeteria (in the “kitchen,” “kitchen,” “kitchen,” not in the “chicken”). The job is good because it puts me with people, and not always in the house of my host family.

With love from your Spanish brother—now in Chicago!