In the Shadow of the Quran By Harry Viens c Copyright 2005 All Rights Reserved Gerry fancied himself an atypical Starbucks customer. He wasn’t there to read books, write a first novel, or scout the local talent. Some days he was just a coffee drinker with a few extra minutes on his hands or a newspaper to read during lunchtime. Most days, in truth, he was an observer of life and Starbucks was a terrific people-watching spot. Monday was a slow news-day and his copy of the New York Times was thin. He’d eaten like a pig all weekend and had decided to skip lunch. Today would be mostly about drinking coffee and relaxing, that is, if he could find a table. The Starbucks was full. Every table was spoken for so Gerry switched to plan B, finding a table with a single occupant who might not mind sharing. There was only one; it was tucked in a corner by the fireplace and occupied by a woman, Indian probably, with raven black hair and olive skin. She radiated exoticism, the dark allure of a Kipling novel, an aura redolent with spices and sitar music. She had a pretty face and from what he could see of her figure above the top of the table she was also Rubenesque: busty. A Nautsch girl. A Bollywood beauty with blemish-free skin. Alluring. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and was absorbed in scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. About half the pages had been written on and were folded over the top spine. As Gerry moved to the table she finished another page, raising the pad, folding the sheet over and laying it back down on the table. She paused for a moment seemingly deep in thought as Gerry approached the table. He hesitated, put on his best smile and leaned forward, “Excuse me, Miss,” he said, pulling back slightly as she raised her head to look him over. Her smile was tight and thin. “Yes, can I help you?” Her voice threw him off. He’d been expecting the sing-song accent of the subcontinent, but her voice was pure Crocodile Dundee Australian. ”Sorry to interrupt you, Miss. I was wondering if you’d mind sharing the table?” Her smile remained tight, but she pushed back her chair a little, as if to distance herself from him and then waved her right hand at the empty chair across from her and answered, “Go right ahead, mate.” Gerry smiled as broadly as he could and said, “Thanks,” settling into the chair facing the gas fire placed there by some Seattle designer for atmosphere. His tablemate returned to her notes, scribbling intently, looking up occasionally, and seeing nothing, then returning to her labor. Gerry took a sip of the coffee puddled on the lid of his cup, then peeled the top back and sipped delicately, his upper lip pursed over the edge, sucking the coffee into his mouth. He was hooked. It was the accent. It didn’t make any sense to him. There had to be a story behind it, and for a natural born observer, he couldn’t shake his curiosity yet he didn’t know how to broach the subject. She was so absorbed in her writing that there was no opportune or awkward moment he could take advantage of; no opening of convenience to strike up a conversation and explore her world. Gerry sipped at his coffee, shuffling the pages of his Times, wondering what she was all about. Five minutes later, maybe six, she raised the pad again, flipping the pages over to their original position. Rumpled from her writing and flipping they had bulked-up and lay uneasily, making the pad look thicker than it really was. Tucking the pad into a shoulder bag she stood, nodded her head at Gerry and pushed her chair away, “All yours, Mate. G’day.” Stern. Foreboding. She was steeled for something important. She radiated hardness. She walked across the room and out the door, her hips rolling as she walked, her entire torso falling into the rhythm. It was sensual yet somehow innocent. “Damn,” Gerry thought. Returning to his newspaper he tried to imagine what he might have said, where it might have gone, what she might have been about. Scenarios began to percolate through his brain, but he couldn’t focus on any of them. He just didn’t know enough about her to convince himself that any of his sensual fantasies “fit” the possibilities. An article about the Federal Reserve caught his eye and he burrowed into the story wondering where rates might be headed, trying to forget about the young woman. Thursday found him in Starbucks again, this time getting a Caramel Macchiata coffee to take back to the office. As he was exiting the order line with his prize in hand, the Indian woman walked in. She scanned the room, selected a table with her eyes, and then took a few steps swinging her bag onto the tabletop, staking her claim before she headed to the line to order. Sensing the chance to sort out some unfinished business, Gerry forgot about the office and took a position by the door waiting for her to return to the table. A few moments later, having paid for her coffee and Danish, she headed for the table. As she pulled her chair back to sit Gerry stepped to the table edge and said, “Hi again.” She looked at him neither recognizing him nor shooing him away. “Sorry, Mate?” “From Monday. We shared a table, well I did, and you were pretty absorbed with something, writing on your pad there.” She stood staring at him impassively. He felt like he was rambling. This wasn’t going well. She smiled a tad more broadly than Monday and nodded. “I remember.” “Mind if I join you again, today?” Her smile didn’t fade, but he thought he detected just a hint of shrinkage in the breadth of her lips. She added, “I’m married.” The comment stopped him for a moment as he contemplated his real interest in her. He was attracted to her, but more than anything else at this moment he was just curious. It gave him strength to go on. “That’s fine, I’m not hitting on you, I was just sort of curious.” She cocked her head to the right. “About what?” How to put it without looking like an asshole? “Well, to be frank, you don’t look like you sound, or maybe you don’t sound like you look. I was just curious about where you’re from.” The thin lips broke into a smile, followed by a deep belly laugh. Her body rocked back and forth a couple of times before she straightened up, snorted, and wiping her nose with the back of her forefinger she pulled back her chair. Finishing her laugh with a big smile her right hand raised towards him as if she were going to slap him on the shoulder then retracted as if an afterthought had given her pause. “Sorry, Mate. That’s either a great pick-up line or very sincere. Sit down.” She gathered her long skirt around her as she sat, pulling her chair towards the table, hiding her legs. Her elbows planted on the table, she leaned forward, her face alive with amusement, waiting for him to settle in opposite her. Without waiting for him to ask again she started talking. “My family is from Pakistan. We emigrated to Australia when I was very little. We speak Pashtun at home, but my brothers and I all have Aussie accents. Environment you know.” Such a simple answer. Gerry had his answer, but felt obliged to make small talk at this point. “So how’d you end up in America?” “Moved here with my husband, also Pakistani. He’s an accountant. Took a job with one of the insurance companies and like a good Muslim wife I came along.” “Makes sense.” Feeling affable, Gerry introduced himself, “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude, I’m Gerry,” extending his hand across the table. She smiled, nodded, and replied, “I’m Zehra.” Her hands stayed tucked under her chin. “I’m a good Muslim; I can’t shake your hand.” Taken aback, Gerry stammered, “Why, why not?” “It’s not proper for a woman to touch any male who is not her husband or a blood relative. I really shouldn’t even be talking to you, but I make some allowances for the culture here.” “Like not wearing a headscarf?” “Correct.” “Oh, so you try to fit in, but only on the surface?” Gerry was lost now, unfamiliar with Islamic practice; he’d exhausted his knowledge in one short exchange. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.” He was now worrying that he had crossed some line that might result in her husband dropping by to relieve him of his head or something. “No need to tell your husband anything. No offense, I mean.” “None taken.” A sigh and her eyes now looked at the tabletop. “Besides, I misled you. I’m married, but in the middle of a divorce.” Another sigh. “I don’t think my husband would bother you. He’s too busy with his girlfriend I think.” Her head dropped as she said this, and bringing her hands to cover her face she started sobbing quietly. Her body shook with a wave of suppressed emotion, and beneath her loose blouse, Gerry sensed the rippling and swaying of her breasts, pushing against the thin cotton. It was gut wrenching and sexy at the same time, confusing him, exciting him, yet he was uncertain. Again, he didn’t know what to do. What was proper? A moment’s hesitation and he jumped up and walked to the counter, returning with a handful of napkins. “Here.” He placed them in the middle of the table and withdrew his hand, not wanting to cross some line he wasn’t aware of. She picked them up, wiped her eyes and murmured something that sounded like “Thanks.” Silence for a few moments. He’d come this far he thought, why not get it all out? “So your husband left you?” She was in the aftermath of sobbing, collecting herself and drying her tears. The question seemed to harden her resolve. “Yeah, the prick.” It was Gerry’s turn to laugh. She scrunched her carefully trimmed black eyebrows, “What’s so funny?” His laughter wasn’t as deep as hers and he composed himself quickly, “Sorry. Somehow I wasn’t expecting a nice Muslim girl to use that particular noun to describe her husband. A smile crossed her face and she laughed, sniffling a little, and Gerry laughed with her. It was nice, somehow comforting and over in a moment, but a line of familiarity or intimacy had been crossed and they both relaxed. “The Quran says you must always tell the truth, so I did.” she continued primly, “I remain a good Muslim.” Then added, “I guess you can take the girl out of Australia but you can’t take Australia out of the girl.” A self-satisfied smile followed as she sipped her coffee and picked at her Danish, waiting for Gerry to say something. Once again Gerry felt off-balance. She was prim and proper, saucy and sexy. The contradictions were making him crazy, throwing him off balance. Still unsure of how to engage her, he asked rather dully, “So what happened, Zehra? Between you and your husband?” A sigh as she picked apart the Danish, eating it in small bits, between sips of coffee. “The clash of East and West I think. He met a woman here at work. She’s not Muslim.” A look of disgust. “I don’t know what the bitch is, other than a bitch. Late nights together, a smile here, an embrace there and pretty soon he’s in her bed and she’s treating him to every filthy thing you can imagine.” Gerry nodded, not knowing how to respond, yet imagining what might be involved. It excited him. “How do you compete with that?” She asked. Gerry shook his head from side to side, “I don’t know.” “I was raised to be a good woman; a wife, a mother, not a whore, and what does he want?” “A whore?” Gerry ventured. She put her coffee down and nodded, “A whore!” “What will you do?” Zehra added some sugar to her coffee and stirred it with a plastic stick, then folded the empty sugar bag as she talked. “I call him every night. I describe the things I will do for him, to him. Things I’ve read about in the magazines here.” She put her head down, blushing, “Things I never knew about until I came to America.” Waving her hand over her briefcase, “That’s what I’ve been writing. I have to practice and rehearse and get the words just right. It doesn’t come naturally.” “Are you serious?” He hesitated a moment as she stared back. Was she indignant at the question, or just waiting for him to finish? “About doing whatever it is you describe?” With surprising dignity she replied, “I will do whatever I need to do to get my husband back.” “Is it working?” Gerry sipped his coffee, relaxed, entranced, and wondering where she got her strength. Zehra exhaled the heavy breath of defeat. “No. So far, no. He is continuing the divorce. He won’t leave his whore for his wife.” “So what will you do?” “I will keep trying, Gerry. If I fail…” She threw her hands up, “What can I do? A divorce here means nothing! Only the Imam who married us in Australia can grant a divorce, and then no man will marry me because I’m no longer, pure.” She whispered the word, seemingly filled with both shame and longing. Gerry’s heart was breaking. “You could meet somebody. Date. Find a new love. America is filled with eligible men.” “No. I can only marry a Muslim, and no Muslim will have me now. I’m damaged goods, Mate. Damaged goods alone and adrift in a world I don’t understand.” Gerry snorted, “I think you understand it very well. Why not try it our way? You’re a beautiful woman. You can make it here.” She dropped her hands to the table and clasped them together. Looking around the room she pursed her lips and fell silent for a moment. “To make it here, Mate, would cost me my soul. I have no choice. Allah demands that I remain faithful to my marriage vows, the Quran is very specific.” The room had emptied. Gerry and Zehra were among the few people left, the others having hurried back to their offices. Gerry toyed with his coffee, rotating the cup left and right, his eyes dancing back and forth from the brim where the coffee, once brown and hot, was now mottled and cool. He was trying to find words to give this beautiful woman hope. He stared into her black eyes. They were alive with passion and sorrow and determination. Gerry was entranced; ensnared, his heart captured and swept up like Mohammed on the night of his ascension. He leaned forward, “There may be a way….”