LOVE AT GROUND ZERO
A novel
Charles Deemer
Copyright 2011 by Charles Deemer
Originally published in 2003 by Sextant Books
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Contact Charles Deemer at: cdeemer at yahoo dot com.
People who are sensible about love are incapable of it.
Douglas Yates
No love like first love.
English Proverb
We never forget those who make us blush.
Jean-François De La Harpe
First love is dangerous only when it is also the last.
Branislav Nusic
1
Before the New York sun had climbed to noon, by which time television stations around the world were repeating, like a film loop in a pornographic peep show, images of unthinkable catastrophe; before TV anchors found their gravest tones of voice with which to christen the shocking events “a day of infamy,” no less historic and horrific than December 7thor November 22nd, days etched permanently into memory by all who experienced them; before America’s violent baptism under the clear blue sky of a late summer morning; it was, after all, just an ordinary day beginning in an ordinary way.
Commuters by the tens of thousands streamed into the city by train and subway, by bus and car, by bicycle and on foot, rushing forward in a relentless march to another work day, with computers to boot, phone calls to make, meetings to attend, deals to close, new deals to initiate. Deals were lurking everywhere (“the business of America is business”) in this city that considered itself the financial center of the world and therefore the center of western civilization, New York, stretching awake with no suspicion of how much political innocence could be lost so quickly, oblivious to its vulnerability, oblivious to the march of history. September 11, 2001, was just another day as a great city scurried to life, a day like yesterday and presumably a day like tomorrow. Not an American hurrying to work could have guessed what was about to happen.
Wes, moving along in the flow of this commercial throng, felt apart from it. He was a student, after all, not an employee –and a creative writing student at that, which made him an observer more than a participant. He seldom ventured this far south of the NYU campus but this morning was a special occasion. Mike, his older brother, was in town, and Wes wanted to spend as much time as possible with him. Mike lived in San Francisco, where he worked for Jacobs & Smith, a lawyer like their father.
Despite their different career paths, indeed their different interests, Wes and Mike were close. Wes had missed his older brother since the last visit over Christmas, a brief appearance at the family dinner with the latest girlfriend, an attachment that gave the brothers precious little time alone together, which was why Wes especially valued the opportunity to be together today. Mike had taken care of business, the purpose of the trip, sooner than expected, giving them most of his last day together. Wes had no Tuesday classes at the university.
Mike’s college roommate, Jimmy, worked on the 88th floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center, another lawyer, but it turned out the timing was bad for a visit, so Mike and Jimmy decided to meet briefly before work. This was why the brothers had come to the towers this early in the morning.
“How long will you be?” Wes asked as they walked across a plaza toward the South Tower.
“Jimmy has a meeting at nine. I’ll meet you in the coffee shop.”
“How’s he like working for a big corporation?”
“Jimmy likes making money.”
“So do you, big brother.”
Mike smiled, letting the family renegade have the last word. He admired his little brother more than he’d ever told him. Mike fully expected Wes to write a hit movie or a best-selling novel and become the wealthiest member of the family.
They did not look like brothers. Mike, at six-two, retained the athletic build that had won him accolades in high school, though he hadn’t played organized football since then. His hair was dark and curly, after their mother. Wes took after their father, blond and stocky, though not yet fat, and short enough to wish he were taller.
At the entrance into the building, a balding man, surely a tourist, was bending precariously back, trying to shoot up the overwhelming reach of the tower, barely keeping his balance. Tens of thousands of tourists visited the twin towers of the World Trade Center daily – on normal days, that is, which this one was not destined to be.
Wes and Mike exchanged smiles as they passed the tourist. They entered the building, showed photo IDs to the security guard and moved on.
This was only the second time Wes had been in the building. As the first time, the experience of entering the lobby was overwhelming, and he gawked under the enormous presence of glass and steel, commerce as cathedral. Around him men and women rushed by with more mundane interests, getting to work, turning on computers, beginning the tasks of the day, but Wes hesitated as Mike walked on, taking it all in.
When he realized that Mike was moving away from him, heading toward the elevators, Wes called, “Look for me near the coffee stand!”
2
America was still capable of surprising her. Waiting for an elevator, Hayaam marveled at the American capacity to ignore miracles. What else was the extraordinary building in which she stood with Areeba, waiting for an elevator, this 110-story tower of the World Trade Center, but a miracle of engineering? The first time she saw it, two years ago when everything in America was still new to her, her eyes had been wide with marvel, much as Areeba was looking around now, but this had been on a Saturday when the tower and its twin across the way were filled inside and out with tourists like herself. Today was a Tuesday, a workday, and what impressed Hayaam most was not the miracle of engineering but how easily it was ignored by those who worked here, whether American or not (and clearly the tower was host to businesses from all around the world because already she had seen many races and national styles of dress in the building, including those from her homeland, Indonesia.). Hayaam, wearing traditional Muslim clothing or hijab, the long flowing dress purple, the head scarf orange, felt no one staring at her in such an international environment, the way students sometimes stared at her when she walked across campus at NYU.
Areeba also wore hijab, which was gray and drab in contrast to Hayaam’s bright presence. Neither woman wore makeup.
Areeba couldn’t keep her eyes still, taking in the wonder of the building.
“Quite a place, isn’t it?” Mike said. He smiled first at Areeba, then at Hayaam.
A bell rang, and the elevator door opened. Hayaam and Areeba waited their turn and entered. There was room for the man who had spoken to enter behind them.
Hayaam punched the button for the fifth floor, which was where the Employment Agency was located. She’d been studying to become an American citizen, though she’d told neither her brother nor written her father about this, and she was seeking a part-time job to reinforce her growing independence. Her father, she realized, might stop supporting her once he learned of her intentions.
As the elevator began to rise, Hayaam noticed the after-shave of the man standing in front of her, the man who had spoken to them. She found the aroma pleasant. She assumed the man was an American by the forwardness of his question, and she also guessed that he was there on business, like themselves, rather than an employee somewhere in the building because he was not wearing a tie.
The elevator made its first stop at the third floor, and a few people got off. At the fifth floor Hayaam said, “Excuse me,” and the man with the after-shave shuffled to the side so they could move past him.
Before the elevator door closed behind them, the man who had spoken spoke again.
“Have a nice day,” Mike said with a smile.
As they walked on, Areeba grinned, the reaction of an embarrassed schoolgirl, as if the man had been flirting with them, which was probably true. Hayaam smiled back.
Of course, you already know it would not turn out to be a nice day at all. But Hayaam didn’t know. Wes didn’t know.
3
Wes bought coffee at a stand, got a newspaper from a vending machine, and sat down at a table in an indoor courtyard off the lobby, figuring Mike could find him easily enough. He started reading the paper.
Suddenly there was a noise unlike anything Wes had heard before, not quite an explosion, not quite a crash, but clearly something of magnitude, strong enough to jar the foundation of the building as if some great force were sliding the floor out from under him. And then, just as suddenly, stillness, at least in the building’s foundation. But the air was heavy with menace, like a distant, humid echo of catastrophe.
Already people were racing to the windows and running outside to see what had happened. Wes watched the commotion with a forced calm, staying at the table.
Across the way a man yelled, “The north tower’s on fire!”
The news drew even more people to the windows and exits. Wes stood up, leaving the paper on the table but taking his coffee. He headed for the nearest exit, which faced north, trying not to join the growing panic. He mistrusted panic because it depended on first impressions.
Outside Wes couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, the north tower in flames several dozen stories up, spitting out great billows of dark smoke. Even harder to believe was what he could decipher from an anxious crowd of observers, many of whom were talking and yelling at once, as if trying to articulate their own disbelief. Apparently an airplane, a jetliner, had crashed into the north tower, an accident of colossal proportions.
High in the south tower above him, Mike would have quite a view of the situation. Wes decided to join him.
He made his way back inside, weaving through the crowd still coming out of the building. In the chaos, the security guard had abandoned his checkpoint, and Wes was able to enter without flashing identification. He found the building directory.
Mike had told him the name of the law firm where Jimmy worked. Wes scanned the directory, looking for a name that rang a bell.
On a loud speaker, a man was telling everyone not to panic, that the problem was in the north tower, not here, and that everyone should return to work. Few paid attention and a great flow of people continued to move outside.
Jacobs & Smith! That was the firm. The 88thfloor. Wes headed for the elevators.
The first to arrive was packed with people coming down to get out of the building, still ignoring the advice to go back to work. When the last woman stepped out, Wes entered the elevator. Only several others joined him.
There were no stops until the sixth floor. The door opened. Just as a woman was about to step in, a horrendous explosion rocked the elevator, knocking Wes and everyone else off their feet, the woman landing on top of him. He quickly maneuvered free and struggled to his feet, then helped the woman to hers. Someone yelled that they must get off the elevator, but Wes was a step ahead of the advice, wandering into the hallway. What the hell had happened?
The hallways were filled with stunned employees, everyone in shock, moving en masse toward the stairs, and Wes stepped along with the flow. Where had the explosion come from? Certainly from above, somewhere high in the building, somewhere closer to where Mike was.
Wes could hear screams coming from throughout the building. As he moved with the crowd to the stairwell of the fifth floor, one scream in particular caught his attention, a woman with a British accent, calling desperately for help from somewhere close. Wes moved into the hallway and found her only a few doorways down, a young woman in a gray robe, the style of dress worn by Arabs, who was kneeling over another Arab woman, whose robe was purple and orange.
“Someone help me!” the young woman cried.
Wes raced down the hallway.
“She can’t walk,” Areeba told him. “She twisted her ankle.”
Wes reached down to the young woman on the floor.
“Take my hand.”
Hayaam grasped the hand, and Wes pulled her to her feet. Hayaam grimaced in pain.
“I don’t think I can walk,” she told him, also with a British accent.
“Okay, here we go,” said Wes.
He lifted her up into his arms.
“You okay?”
Hayaam said, “Yes.”
“This way.”
Wes carried her back to the stairwell, where he joined the crowd that continued downstairs. Areeba took his arm and followed.
Something had changed. The air was now filled with dust and a pungent odor, strong and unpleasant, reminding Wes of the smell of burning oil. If his hands had been free, he would have held a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, but he was carrying the young woman in his arms, who was surprisingly light.
They continued downstairs with the flow, everyone staying calm, as if this collective routine was enough to put a temporary halt to fear and anxiety. But when they reached the ground floor, spilling out into the lobby, the crowd exploded into its panicked parts, with individuals suddenly racing for the exits and crying out in unintelligible anguish, the crowd becoming a mob.
Wes carried the young woman outside and moved far enough from the building so the crowd scattered a safe distance around them. He set her carefully on her feet.
“I have to go back inside,” he said. “Will you be okay?”
“Yes,” said Hayaam. “Thank you so much.”
“No problem.”
Hayaam recognized the same after-shave on the man as the earlier man was wearing, the one who had spoken to them. She offered her hand, the American gesture of gratitude.
“I am Hayaam. This is my cousin, Areeba.”
He took her hand.
“I’m Wes.”
There was a silence. When Wes realized he was still holding her hand, he released it.
“I have to go. I’m looking for someone.”
“Thank you for saving me.”
This had not occurred to him, and Wes had no time to reflect on the matter. His plan was to return inside the building and somehow find Mike, but when he looked up, as if expecting to find his brother staring down at him from some window high in the tower, Wes saw a horror of flames and dark smoke, and he realized that whatever catastrophe had happened in the north tower had occurred in the southern twin as well, creating a chaotic evacuation of the building which made it impossible to return inside. Wes had no choice but to leave Mike to his fate and to look out for himself and join the escaping frenzy of frightened people running randomly across the plaza, racing to go anywhere but here, racing to get as far from the towers, this center of western civilization, as possible.
4
Wes ended up watching the continuing nightmare on television. For blocks he trotted along with an anonymous mob, heading north in the direction of NYU, occasionally glancing back to see the twin towers engulfed in flames and smoke, the sight as confusing and surrealistic as it was frightening, because accidents this extraordinary did not happen in pairs, which meant that clearly New York had been attacked – but by whom and for what reason? The innocent are always shocked to learn that they have enemies.
Finally Wes stopped running and bent forward to catch his breath. Straightening up, he saw the neon sign of a bar and decided a drink was exactly what he needed.
Everyone along the bar was staring up at a television set. Many were talking at once and again, as he had outside the tower after the first explosion, Wes pieced together a semblance of coherence from the snippets of what he overheard. The Pentagon also had been attacked, America apparently coming under attack in many places at once. There was an unconfirmed story of a fourth plane, perhaps on route to the White House, which apparently had crashed in a field short of its target. This was like Pearl Harbor, more than one angry patron announced to no one and everyone. Staring up at the television’s replay after replay of the jetliner crashing into the south tower, Wes felt numb. Suicide bombers had come to America.
After a beer, Wes found a pay phone near the restroom and called home. His mother answered, and as soon as she recognized his voice she started crying, sounding so relieved that he stammered when assuring her that although Mike wasn’t with him, surely he was all right, which Wes believed less strongly than he could bear to admit, even to himself. He felt certain that Mike was located considerably higher than the plane’s point of contact, and under such circumstances it probably was safer to be higher than lower. All the same, it might be some time before anyone could get up to rescue people on the higher floors.
Soon enough Mike’s survival became a moot point. Shortly after ten the south tower collapsed on live television, imploding upon itself with devastation beyond comprehension, a slow crumbling descent that looked almost to be in slow motion, kicking up a cloud of thick dust and debris as horrific as a nuclear explosion, yet also obscenely sensual in the slow rise and pulsation of its contours. Somewhere in the great growing heap of rubble was his brother, and Wes understood that no one could survive the tragedy on the screen, and the higher your fall, the more certain your death. He felt sick in his stomach.
By the time the north tower collapsed, Wes was running again, north again, to get away from the threatening advance of smoke and dust that approached from the direction of the collapsed towers. Dust would hang in the air for days, as if one needed reminding of what had happened. Wes finally hailed down a cab and returned home, to the family house in Glen Cove on Long Island, expense be damned, even though Wes was living at home to save money so he could devote his time to the graduate creative writing program without taking a part-time job.
As soon as Wes entered the house, Evelyn, his mother, ran forward to embrace him, almost knocking him down. Where was Mike? Wes didn’t even have to answer the question. She saw the truth in his expression, and her response was immediate. I know you will tell me it’s a cliché if I write that she collapsed in grief, but this is exactly what she did.
5
No one found the body or parts of the body or any formal evidence of Mike’s death, but everyone in the family knew and accepted what had happened, and so Mike was given a memorial service and a burial, dedicating a tombstone over an empty grave.
Walter and Evelyn hosted a reception after the funeral, which was attended by over a hundred people, extended family and friends, but Wes found so many people less comforting than distracting, a diversion from facing his grief head-on in order to deal with it. The well-meaning condolences from uncles and aunts and cousins, from long family friends and recent neighbors – I’m so sorry, we share your loss, you’re in our prayers – the rhetoric of grief was repetitive and numbing. Finally Wes retreated in search of silence and found himself entering Mike’s old room, which had not been lived in for almost a decade.
But the room looked like it had been lived in yesterday, his mother having kept the room immaculate. Stepping into it was like stepping back into high school with the school pennant on the wall and several photographs of Mike, the high school jock, winding up for a pitch, shooting a free throw, poised to zing a pass. Wes sat on the edge of the bed and wept.
As he got up to go, thinking he would give the reception another shot, if only for his parents’ sake, he found Roger standing in the doorway. They had been good friends in high school but had drifted apart since then, although both were attending NYU. They still liked to shoot baskets together in the gym now and again.
“You okay?” Roger asked.
“Well as can be expected.”
“Want to get out of here? Go for a ride or something?”
“I’ll be okay.”
“I could use some air.”
That’s all it took. Wes followed Roger out the back door, and they walked out the long driveway to the sidewalk and began strolling through the neighborhood.
“You have any Arab friends?” Wes said after a long silence.
“That’s an interesting question. You mean, do I think they’re spies? Yeah, I’d be worried about that. Why? Do you have any?”
“No, I was just wondering.”
There was another silence.
Wes said, “When it happened in the first tower, I tried to take the elevator up to find Mike. I thought he must have a hell of a view up there. Then the plane crashed into our tower, and everything went crazy, we all had to use the stairs to get out of there. On the way down I heard a woman cry for help, and I checked it out. There were two Arab women, and one of them had sprained her ankle. I carried her out.”
Wes stopped. Roger said nothing, and they continued walking.
Finally Roger said, “And … ?”
“And what?”
“Is there a point to this story?”
“Not really. I was just wondering how she must be feeling now.”
Roger looked at him strangely.
“What’s wrong?” Wes asked.
“Thousands of people get killed. Your brother. Why are you bringing up a fucking A-rab with a sprained ankle?”
The hatred and anger in Roger’s tone couldn’t be missed. Wes had no energy for an argument and shrugged the question off, finally saying he’d better get back to the reception to please his parents, but as soon as they rejoined the gathering, Wes again slipped away, this time to his room, where he closed the door behind him.
6
Not every family gave a missing loved one a funeral. Not every family buried its missing and presumed dead. Testimonies to the human capacity for hope against all odds sprang up throughout the city in makeshift bulletin boards on building walls and kiosks on utility poles, in window displays and sidewalk memorials, and New York was awash in photographs of persons missing since the attack. None of these photographs was of Mike, of course, who had been put to rest. Evelyn still prayed for a miracle but did so secretly, not wanting her more logical husband or son to believe she had lost her mind.
Even stronger than hope was the capacity of New Yorkers for survival. The best defense against those who want to destroy our way of life, they were told by their mayor and their president, was to live life normally, steadfastly, doggedly refusing to let grief and fear destroy the freedoms Americans held most dear. Of course, there must be more security precautions now. But as much as possible, life must continue on as normally as possible. Americans gamely tried to follow their President’s advice.
Classes at NYU, which had begun the day after Labor Day, started up again. Wes had a meeting with his advisor. He was in the second year of his M.F.A. program in Fiction, and this year most of his energy would be devoted to writing his thesis, a novel. Two days prior to the attack he had given his advisor an outline of his proposed project, an historical novel based on the life of the great French playwright Moliere, a story Wes was calling The Comedian In Spite Of Himself. There had been a rumor during Moliere’s lifetime that he had married his own daughter, and the novel would focus on the psychological consequences of this in Moliere’s life and work. The meeting with the advisor was brief, the professor’s only comment being “Most ambitious,” and Wes walked away with his thesis proposal approved.
Walking across campus after the meeting, he saw a woman in traditional Arab dress ahead of him. Could it be her? Wes trotted up beside the woman but when she turned to face him, he saw that it was not Hayaam.
“What do you want?” the woman said, her voice shaking with fear in the new America.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
Then the next day he did see her.
Wes was working in his carrel in the library. Hayaam hobbled in on crutches. Today her hijab was a red robe with a white headscarf. As she passed the window of his carrel, he smiled but she didn’t notice him.
Wes put down his pen and stood up. He left the carrel and followed Hayaam into the book stacks.
He found her trying to fetch a book that was on a shelf too high for her. Quickly he came to her rescue.
“Let me.”
He brought down the book and handed it to her.
“Thank you.”
And then she recognized him. She lit up.
“Hello! I was wondering if I might ever run into you.”
“How’s the ankle?”
“I’m supposed to let it rest. Not so easy when you are a student. And are you also a student?”
“I’m studying for my M.F.A. in writing.”
Wes noticed the title of the book he had fetched for her, The Puritan Way.
Seeing his expression, Hayaam said, “I’m majoring in Comparative Religion.”
Wes cleared his throat.
“Listen, if you’re not busy, I was about to grab a cup of coffee.”
“Tea would be nice.”
Wes fetched his book bag from the carrel, and they left the library together. There was an awkward silence as they walked slowly across campus. Wes let Hayaam determine their pace toward the Student Union.
The coffee shop was on the ground floor. Wes told Hayaam to get a table, asked her what kind of tea she wanted, and got in line to order their beverages.
An hour later he couldn’t believe how easily he had opened up to her. In fact, he had monopolized the conversation. He told her about how disappointed his mother (but not his father) had been when he decided not to go to law school, choosing the graduate creative writing program instead. He told her about how guilty he felt that Mike had died in the south tower when he himself had survived. Somehow knowing how irrational these feelings were didn’t reduce their hold on him.
“You didn’t kill anyone,” said Hayaam. “Quite the opposite. You saved my life.”
Wes looked puzzled.
“If you hadn’t come along, I could have still been in there when the tower collapsed.”
Wes never had thought of it this way. He certainly didn’t feel like a hero.
“You are my life saver,” she repeated. “Thank you.”
Wes felt embarrassed and wanted to change the subject.
“Where are you from?”
“Indonesia.” She read surprise in his expression. “You thought I was an Arab, didn’t you?”
“I guess I did.”
“There are more Muslims in Indonesia than in any other country.”
“I didn’t know that.”
She talked about growing up in Jakarta but the more she talked, the more confused Wes became because nothing she was sharing fit his preconception of a Muslim woman. She was verbal and smart, with excellent English skills, and she showed no hesitation in expressing her opinion. Was this because he was an American? Would she talk so freely in the presence of a Muslim man? Although Wes had never studied Islam, he had grown up believing (learning by the osmosis of American culture) that Muslim women were weak and subordinate to their men. Yet there was no sign of such gender reticence in Hayaam.
Finally Hayaam said she had to go. Wes accompanied her outside, figuring to go back to his carrel.
7
A small crowd had gathered in front of the library. At first Wes thought nothing of it but as they approached, it was clear that some kind of commotion was going on.
“Abdul!” Hayaam suddenly cried out. She made an effort to move faster on her crutches.
“What is it?” Wes asked.
Then Wes understood what the trouble was: half-a-dozen guys, jocks and fraternity types by their varsity jackets, had surrounded a foreign student, whom Wes assumed was Abdul, someone known to Hayaam, and the American students were clearly harassing him.
“Foreign fuck,” said one.
“A-rab asshole,” said another.
Abdul looked frightened as he turned quickly around, looking for an opening in the circle surrounding him.
“Let him go!” Hayaam shouted.
She stopped, put her weight on her good leg and raised one crutch high over her head in a gesture of threat.
The jocks thought this was very funny.
“Hey, sweetie pie. What do you plan to do with that?”
Another said, “Why you got that scarf covering your hair? I bet you got pretty hair.”
This one stepped forward as if to see for himself, and Hayaam swung the crutch to keep him away.
“Oh, my!” said the intruder, stepping back.
Wes came forward.
“Hey, fellas, what’s going on?”
“You tell us.”
With the jocks distracted, Abdul slipped out of their circle and hurried beside Hayaam.
“Hayaam, this is not your fight,” he said.
A jock said, “Who said anything about a fight? We just want you to go the fuck home where you belong.”
“I am student here,” said Abdul, “so today this is my home. Hayaam, let’s go.”
Wes, staying behind, wondered if Abdul was her boyfriend.
“Something we can help you with?” a jock asked with menace, as if one confrontation was as good as another in the new America.
“No. I was just leaving.”
He caught up with Hayaam.
Abdul asked Hayaam, “Who is this?”
“He’s the one I told you about.” To Wes she added, “This is my brother, Abdul-Hakeem.”
Her brother! Wes couldn’t help but smile.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Wes.”
He offered his hand. Abdul hesitated before shaking it briefly.
“I give you gratitude for helping my sister,” Abdul said.
“I’m sorry for what happened back there.”
“Your countrymen decided I am a terrorist.”
Wes didn’t know what to say.
“Hayaam, we must go.”
“Thank you for the tea,” she told Wes.
“Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
She gave him a sweet smile. Abdul clutched her arm, a gesture repeating that they must go. She balanced her crutches and took the first swing of her leg to start forward.
Abdul glared at Wes as if he were about to say something unpleasant. Then he, too, turned and left.
Wes watched them go. Her brother didn’t like him. But it could have been worse, much worse. He could have been her boyfriend.
8
Evelyn would cry without warning. Over laundry, in the supermarket, on the phone. Tonight it happened at dinner.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, getting up from the table.
Wes couldn’t bear to look at her for fear he’d start crying himself.
“Evelyn, it’s okay,” said Walter.
“Stop saying everything is okay!”
Evelyn hurried away into the kitchen.
Walter let out a sigh of exasperation.
“I meant crying is okay.”
Wes nodded.
They continued eating in silence for a moment.
“Dad … do you know any Muslims?”
“We used to have a lawyer in the firm who was Muslim. Why?”
“If he was still in the firm, would you suspect him of being a terrorist?”
“Of course not. Why do you ask?”
“There was a scuffle at school today. Some jock types hassling a foreign student from Indonesia.”
“We’re going to see a lot of that, I fear. Stupidity and patriotism make a volatile mix.”
Wes encountered evidence of the truth of his father’s observation the very next afternoon. He was shooting baskets in the gym at school with Roger.
“I ran into Hayaam,” Wes said.
Roger gave him a puzzled look, then made a long jump shot. Three points.
“The girl I carried out of the tower before it collapsed. She’s a student here.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve gotten interested in an Arab girl.”
“She’s from Indonesia. We had coffee.”
Wes shot from outside the key and missed. Roger scrambled after the rebound.
“No big deal,” said Wes.
“Then why are you talking about her?”
Roger threw a hard pass to Wes, which he fumbled. When he recovered the ball, Wes shot again and this time got only net.
“Do me a favor,” said Roger after grabbing the rebound. “If you get involved with this Arab girl, keep it to yourself.”
9
Several days passed before Wes ran into Hayaam again. He was working in his carrel, which had a window overlooking campus as well as those looking into the library. He was having a hard time getting started on the novel about Moliere despite his outline. In the new America, the life of a 17th century Frenchman, however famous, seemed irrelevant. The year-long excitement that Wes had carried for the story, eager to get to his thesis-writing year so he could explore the incredible notion that Moliere might have married his own daughter, was gone. Why should he or anyone else care about Moliere when America was under attack?
Looking out the window, he saw Hayaam hobbling across campus on her crutches. He left the carrel immediately.
Outside he caught up with her and, out of breath, said, “Hey.”
“Hello.”
He decided she had the sweetest smile in the universe.
“You have a class now?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And afterwards?”
“I have a long break. Three hours.”
“Time for tea?”
“That would be very nice.”
They arranged to meet after her class in the coffee shop in the Student Union. She was late but Wes didn’t give up on her. He would have waited for as long as it took. It never occurred to him that she might not appear.
“I think you’re angry with me,” Hayaam said after Wes had accepted her apology for being late. She’d stayed after class to talk with her professor.
“No way.”
“You look upset.”
In fact, he was upset -- but not about Hayaam. Under the social façade of returning to normal existence, this being the official national defense against those who would destroy American freedoms, everyone in New York, indeed everyone in America, was breathing behind a veil of anxiety. In the new America, a brooding stress and uncertainty were becoming a way of life, hanging in the air like storm clouds. If the enemy, these terrorists, could bring down the twin towers so easily, what else could they do?
“What is it?” Hayaam asked.
“I still can’t believe what happened.”
“I know.”
Hayaam’s smile was different now, less sweet and more maternal.
Wes said, “Do you want to take a walk? Get off campus? I guess it’s hard for you …”
“No. As long as you don’t mind walking slowly.”
“Nowhere to go to and no time to be there.”
Love happens in the present tense. The cynics among you will scoff at this. But it doesn’t matter what cynics think. All that matters is what Wes and Hayaam now began to feel in one another’s company.
They left campus – and everything changed. The tragedy of the recent past and the stressful uncertainty of the future were forgotten. Suddenly only the present moment mattered. Wes and Hayaam became totally focused on one another, totally in sync, attentive and caring, bonded by mutual interest and curiosity and for the moment devoted exclusively to getting to know one another. It was as if the universe had been compressed into the small space occupied by their adjacent bodies as they strolled slowly along, going nowhere in particular, needing only to be together.
Oh, give them a break, for God’s sake! Suspend your disbelief long enough for them to explore this moment. Magic is at work. Just because you failed at love doesn’t mean that they must.
Wes tells Hayaam about the pressure he felt in high school to follow in the footsteps of his grandfather, his father, and his older brother to become a lawyer. In high school, he had considered his future undergraduate studies as predestined, a sequence of courses (it hardly mattered what they were) leading to law school. Yet he’d already felt his calling, identified the passion of his life, and this was to become a writer. Of course, it was unlikely he could make a living at it. Growing up among so many lawyers had given him a solid foundation in the economic realities of life, and so he prepared, first in his heart of hearts and finally in the selection of his college courses, to become a writing teacher. When he finally found the courage to share this decision with his parents, his father congratulated him and his mother wept.
Hayaam tells Wes about growing up in Jakarta. She had an easier life than most children in her country, her father a successful businessman, and until she entered her teens she could have been called spoiled, or at least sheltered, with all the poverty and political uncertainties in her country filtered from her day-to-day experience. Then her mother died. Hayaam was sixteen, and the beautiful bubble of her daily existence burst before her eyes.
She became a rebellious teenager, she tells Wes, laughing when she sees how strange the notion strikes him. Yes, teenagers in other cultures rebel! For the first time she looked carefully at her city and her country, and what she saw was poverty and unhappiness and political turmoil. She tells Wes that she then became a political activist, working for more freedom and opportunity for Indonesians, particularly women. When her father sent her to the United States to go to college, she believes it was first to get rid of her, only second to provide her with a good education.
They share their stories in snippets, trading vignettes of biography as they walk across campus or sit on the grass or linger at sidewalk cafes in nearby neighborhoods.
They are at a table at what has become their favorite café when Hayaam says, “I take my exam next week.”
“You have midterms already?”
“Not at the university. For my citizenship.”
Wes waits for more.
“I didn’t tell you before.”
“Let me make sure I understand. You’ve been studying to become an American citizen?”
She smiles and nods.
“Hayaam, I think that’s great. So you plan to stay in America?”
“I have not decided. I will be a citizen of both countries. First, I have to tell my father. He is visiting us next month.”
“Will he approve?”
“He would not want me to live here, I think.”
Wes starts to say something but stops himself. He looks away.
“What is that look?” Hayaam asks.
“What look?”
“Like you don’t believe I’m strong willed.”
“I’ve seen you strong willed.”
“You think I must do everything my father says. Even though I am an adult. You think this because I am a woman. Especially because I am a Muslim woman.”
“No, I was just reacting to what you said.”
“What do you think I said?”
“You had to get permission from your father—“
“No, I did not say this. I said I haven’t told him yet that I will become an American citizen. But this is my choice. He has nothing to say about it.”
Wes is silent because he fears that whatever he says will escalate the conversation even deeper into what is beginning to feel like an argument.
“There is that look again,” Hayaam says.
“I have no idea what look you mean.”
“That I am a Muslim woman.”
“Well, you are!”
“And what does this mean to you?”
“I don’t know. I thought …”
“What?”
“You know, Muslim women are different.”
“How is that?”
“They’re more submissive than in the west.”
Hayaam manages to smile and glare at him simultaneously.
Wes says, “Like how you dress, for instance.”
“What about it?”
“It’s very modest. I’m not criticizing it, I’m just pointing something out. Muslim women are different than American women.”
“Of course we are! We are more liberated.”
Wes can’t help but laugh, which he immediately understands is the worst thing he could’ve done. Hayaam shifts her energy into a higher gear.
“Why does this amuse you? I dress like this because I refuse to be looked at as a sex object. I refuse to be a part of the sexism that is the basis of gender relations in the west. If a man wants a relationship with me, he must start by engaging my mind. There are no physical distractions. This is why I wear hijab, and this is why it is liberating.”
She stops. Wes realizes that she is going to stare at him until he responds.
Finally he says, “I never thought about it that way.”
“Maybe it’s time you do.”
10
Wes couldn’t get Hayaam’s words out of his mind. The more he thought about them, the more he flirted with the possibility that her point of view made sense. Twisting his mind around gender relations in this way, he found an explanation for something that always had bothered him.
There often was a great distance between what young American women he knew espoused in theory and how they behaved in practice, and in no area was this discrepancy more visible than in fashion. The ardent feminist who insisted she was not a sex object could enter a party wearing the most skimpy tease of attire, strutting flirtatiously through the night as if politics were in no way personal, a radical feminist by day, a vamp by night. Of course, this same young woman would say, if cornered on the contradiction, that there was no contradiction at all, the sex in this equation was unilateral, coming from the dirty mind of the patriarchal observer, the culturally brainwashed eyes of the male held hostage by sex, and she, the passionate feminist, was merely expressing herself by her dress, or lack of dress, and not meaning to be sexual at all.
How different was the Muslim approach to fashion! That men were sexually tempted by women was assumed to be true, which meant that women should dress in a way that held off this natural biological energy. Men were animals by nature, and therefore both sexes should behave accordingly. At least this was the sense Wes began to make of Hayaam’s haunting words.
“That is the biggest crock I’ve ever heard in my life,” Roger said when Wes shared the notion one afternoon. They again were shooting baskets in the gym.
“If you think about it, there’s a logic to it. Put yourself in the shoes of a woman.”
“Listen to you. You’re thinking with your cock, white man.”
That’s the point, isn’t it? Wes thought. But he realized there was no point in pursuing the matter with Roger. They shot the rest of their baskets in silence.