Black Book of Arabia (16 page)

And yet, as the weeks passed, the novelty had started to wear off, and Maryam was left feeling empty and dissatisfied. She was unable to find in her neighborhood any woman with similar circumstances as hers who was available to meet at convenient times. Khalifa was preoccupied with his studies at NYU and his diplomat job at the embassy, spending most of the day with important guests and diplomats. By the time he came home in the evenings, he was spent.

Maryam decided she would try to make friends, so she signed up to take some English courses at a nearby community college. This did not turn out as well as she had hoped. Most of the people in the class were busy—business people who had been transferred to New York and needed to learn the language fast, foreign students trying to improve their English-language skills in time to take exams and write papers, and immigrants in service positions trying to advance their careers. There was no one like her, a homemaker just trying to get along in this strange country and to make a new friend by joining an English class. Her classmates were all racing to be somewhere, build an empire, discover something, or conquer a mountain, and she just wanted a teatime playmate. Her ambitions were too simple to be voiced, so she simply worked on her language skills and went home.

Khalifa noticed Maryam was tired and asked how he could help. She told him about her unsuccessful attempts at making friends and how she had just given up.

“I'm tired of staring out the window day in and day out. I don't mean to sound bothersome, but you're always at work or running errands, and I'm tired of shopping alone, watching TV alone, and eating alone.”

She stopped talking when she noticed his helpless look, expecting his response to be guilt-ridden with no solution. She lost the purpose of finishing her sentence somewhere between complaining and knowing his doomed response. Her voice choked as tears welled up in her big brown eyes.

Khalifa held her for a few minutes quietly. He did not know what his lonely wife wanted. He came home every evening longing for rest, but besides the never-ending troubles at work, there now was a calamity at home. His safe haven was falling to pieces. Maryam mumbled something he could neither hear nor understand.

“Please don't cry,” he said. His forehead and eyebrows knotted as he searched her face for answers. “Let's go out now. Er, wait, it's too late. I was going to take you shopping.” That always made her happy, but New York was not Arabia, where shops and bazaars were open from morning till late night.

“Honey, I have a married friend. I'm sure you'd like to meet his wife—she could be your friend.”

To cheer Maryam up, Khalifa introduced her to his friend's wife, Maha, who was also Arab. Same customs, culture, habits, language and accent—this was all Khalifa knew about her, and that she was from a rich family and married to one of Khalifa's colleagues at work. In short, Maha belonged to the same social circle as Maryam, only came from a different Arab state.

A petite bronze but a stone overweight, Maha was attractive for her age, with a pretty face and round features; tiny, fat hands with long, painted nails with crystals glued onto them; and thick, dark hair. She was very energetic and just a few years older than Maryam. She spoke Maryam's dialect, and it was exciting to trade stories about life where Maryam had grown up. But Maha
also was somewhat materialistic and liberal in her actions. Usually, she was quiet and well-mannered, but then she would suddenly complain bitterly about her husband's friends, whom she referred to as “parasites.” Maha felt her husband spent too much time and money on his opportunistic friends, to his disadvantage and hers. He received his job because of his status and was listed as a student, but he attended neither work nor school, except when absolutely necessary.

Other things about her new friend also bothered Maryam—small, trivial things, but they all added up to an unpleasant picture that left her feeling disconcerted. Maha had an exaggerated number of servants in her Manhattan penthouse, yet somehow the home was always messy. Perhaps it was crowded with too many useless servants loitering around. Other things just seemed out of sync. She had strung up glittery foil decorations at the entrance of the penthouse; wine and coffee stains appeared on her expensive sofas; and an electronic snowman with lights was placed in front of the fireplace in the middle of May. The house was dirty, and Maryam felt uncomfortable sitting on the chairs without dusting cigarette ashes off of them and removing random rubbish like school papers or official documents that were scattered about. The fridge contained nothing but fast-food leftovers and bottles of alcohol. Maha had a cinema room with a 120-inch screen, but inside the room the stench of cigarettes and alcohol was suffocating. The light-colored carpets were flecked
with cigarette ashes, as if no one had ever vacuumed. Whenever Maryam visited, she could not wait to leave.

Maryam invited her friend to go grocery shopping, to take a stroll in the park, or to go to the movies, but Maha had no interest in entertainment, shopping, or even visiting salons.

Maryam took great pride in the appearance of her home. She decorated it herself, showing a flair for design by mixing exquisite Persian carpets with Greek pedestals and statues that she bought on eBay. She created an interior with a positive vibe, making it as nurturing as possible to a husband who had to concentrate on his studies when he came home. She had spent her first days studying colors, interior design magazines, and feng shui, piecing together her broken English to better understand what the text along with the pictures meant. She was content with the result and rested comfortably in her humble nest high in the tower.

Obtaining a doctorate was Khalifa's priority. He made it clear he wanted to finish his studies before having children, and he had no desire for an active social life. Maryam supported his decision, and was happy about it and proud of her husband's ambition. She liked to think of their time together in New York as a sort of extended honeymoon. It was a prolonged time to allow them to grow on each other and cement their relationship, independent of the opinions of others.

Maha, on the other hand, was trying hard to get pregnant in the hopes that if she did her husband, who loved
children, would pay more attention to her. Maha was very secretive about her husband and spoke very little about him, other than the occasional negative remarks. Still, she craved his attention.

When Maha visited Maryam's apartment, she would always compare their houses, their husbands, their clothing, and other things. Maha gave the impression that she was entitled to a better home, husband, education, and status in life than Maryam. Maryam felt she was made to feel inferior, and green envy oozed whenever Maha spoke. Narcissistic and arrogantly rude, even bordering on slightly offensive, Maha was not in the slightest bit worried about how Maryam would react to her brash comments. Maryam dismissed it, thinking that Maha was probably going through a rough patch with her husband or that the pregnancy-inducing hormones she was taking were making her moody and snappy. Such are the things that dire circumstances force you into accepting so as not to suffer alone.

Some of Maha's bragging might have been true, but Maryam believed that her friend had a drinking problem. Maryam was so lonesome that she never mentioned her suspicions to Khalifa, who would surely disapprove. She feared he would cut off her connection to her only Gulf Arab friend. Sometimes when they met in the morning, Maha's eyes would be so rimmed with red that even her lids looked sensitive and pink, with the blue, hair-like capillaries evident under her delicate, fair skin. Her breath would be a poisonous stench that even chewing on a few
sticks of gum would not clear. Her midnight texts and calls sometimes made no sense at all, leaving Maryam slightly confused and raising the distinct possibility that her friend was a typical drunk.

Khalifa confirmed Maryam's suspicions when he witnessed Maha in a drunken brawl at the mezzanine bar balcony in the Plaza Hotel where he was meeting with some students. He witnessed the scene and told his wife not to associate with Maha anymore.

“They had to drag her out; it was embarrassing to witness,” said Khalifa. “Her husband was with us earlier. He would never show his face again if he had seen his wife escorted out by force.”

Khalifa knitted his eyebrows, recalling the experience. “Arabs can't drink. And when they do, they make a spectacle of themselves. Men and women, both. You know, they say Native Americans are the same; their blood can't handle the alcohol. One drink and they're on fire.”

*   *   *

Khalifa was working on one of his three-dimensional architectural renderings. As he was cutting one of his thin pressed cardboard planks for the stairs of his architectural creation, the knife slipped, and he cut himself. Maryam passed him a tissue with which he dabbed the tip of his finger. The bleeding stopped and he went back to work. He enjoyed it, and Maryam enjoyed watching him construct buildings, the dancing cardboard walls encapsulating chambers that looked like minimalist theatrical
sets from outer space. She admired his long lashes and arched eyebrows as he focused on bringing the walls together.

Khalifa was tall, fit, and somewhat bookish looking, perhaps because of his black-rimmed glasses. He was shy but hardworking; focused, but on occasion socially autistic. His hair was overgrown, so he just began tying it back, not to affect a hippie style, but because he did not notice or care enough to visit the barber. He dressed in plain blue jeans and tartans every day, on school days and off days alike—never fancy, but practical and ready to help. Good old Kali, always dependable. He would spend all night slicing and organizing the geometric parts of his paper buildings. Maryam even learned to cut and shave the cardboard planks so she could work with him on his creations. They spent numerous hours dissecting paper, creating one masterpiece after another.

With the changing of the seasons and times, Maryam's English improved. She began to understand the language on the street, read posters and understand them, and enjoy her conversations with total strangers in stores, on the street, or when feeding the ducks at the park. Times were warming as the season was cooling and the leaves began to turn color. During the most colorful period of the year, people were whimsically dressed and walked with an extra jump in their step, almost like they were dancing. Being an Arab, Maryam attributed the lively behavior to the unfamiliar cold, but she enjoyed how it made her want to laugh more readily. Her lost friend Maha was
quietly replaced by the world of New York and Maryam's eventual integration into American society, which she learned was not difficult once you absorbed the norms, food, and eccentricities, and knew when to avoid and when to entertain them.

As disappointed as Maryam was to lose a friend who shared her common background, no one misses a negative sloth for long. This was especially true because soon after breaking off contact with Maha, Maryam found out that she was pregnant with an unplanned baby. It was uncalculated in the equation of their current life, apartment, and travel plans, and Khalifa, who was so intent on finishing his studies uninterrupted, was reserved about the news. He made a list of how the small bundle of diapers was going to wreak havoc on their home: the need for his own room, his sleeping timings, emergency contacts, baby sitters, and a midwife, versus travel plans and exam schedules. Maryam smiled and quietly agreed that disaster was about to strike, but what to do? Inwardly, she began to get nervous at the prospect of increased responsibilities just as she was beginning to settle into her new home.

Once Khalifa had the opportunity to digest the news and reorganize his life plans, he was delighted and told his family. Who could say no to a bundle of joy? Soon afterwards, everything began to fall into place. Maryam enjoyed fussing over the baby's room and acquiring books, toys, and clothes. She took up yoga and would rise at dawn and
perform sun salutations for an hour daily. Even Maryam's facility with the English language and accent improved after joining a pregnant moms group. Her balcony garden on her fifty-second-floor apartment bloomed. She spent hours with her greenery and roses, considering it her personal oasis in the concrete jungle.

However, even in paradise, the proverbial evil snake lurked.

This was about the time that Maryam received the first phone call from the man overseas. All he would say was: “I need to speak to you.” She did not know how he got her number, but it could have been just a random dial. What was strange was that she also began to receive emails from him.
Please answer my phone calls
, the stranger wrote.
I need to speak with you. It's an urgent matter.
Perhaps it was not all that strange that he had obtained her email address. In today's world, people can gather all kinds of information about you from electronic records. Perhaps he had hacked into her Facebook account or another online account that had her personal information. Regardless, the man was harassing her. With her pregnancy nearing its third term, Maryam grew restless and angry at the man's persistence.

As usual, Maryam did not reply to the email. Instead, when Khalifa came home from the embassy, Maryam told him about it and the strange phone calls. He read the emails and made a few calls to friends. A technology expert from the embassy came over that evening and examined
Maryam's computer and phone records. The stalker, whoever he was, had not done much to conceal his identity. A few clicks and keystrokes later, Khalifa's friend had pinpointed the source. The calls and emails were coming from Kuwait. A little more sleuthing, and they had a name to go with the email address. The next morning, Khalifa made a call to the Kuwaiti police from the embassy. It was not official business, but the police did not need to know that. He was a diplomat from the embassy in the United States, and that was enough said.

The police picked up the mysterious caller and brought him in for questioning. The man denied having any financial or indecent motives. He told a tale so fantastic that the police had no choice but to believe him.