Queens Noir (37 page)

He stuffed the folded packet inside his cheek and turned
toward the street to watch the bustle of rush-hour traffic
nudge by. The heady smells of curry leaves, cardamom, and
incense wafted from the many restaurants and swirled around
him. In his time at Richmond Hill High, he had not met one
child-well, there was one-who was grateful for the education his cover required him to provide. His teaching was scrupulously average, he knew. His biggest challenge: to remain
invisible.

He had a talent for teaching. He had been plucked from
the rubble of an earthquake, all his parents' properties ruined,
and had been educated by the charity of the Great Satan itself. But it had promised and not delivered. Before the earthquake his family had been among the wealthiest in the village;
afterwards they had nothing. When the American aid workers
left, he was no longer hungry and ignorant, he was hungry and
educated.

When the mujahideen entered his village in western Pakistan as they fled the Russians, he had seen fear in the village
elders' eyes. He had vowed to teach all who wished to learn,
so that no Pakistani would ever again know ignorance and
hunger, but he was still hungry himself, as were all his pupils.
He craved to be the cause of that fear he saw in his elders-he
saw the respect it inspired. From the day he joined the jihad,
he lost the knowledge of hunger. That was nearly twenty years
ago.

Saliva stimulated by the paan built in his mouth and he
spat a stream of red liquid onto the sidewalk. Behind him a
door opened and Hindi music spilled out to compete with
the sounds of traffic. Ramzi's nose twitched at the blasphemy.
Bloody Hindus with their Devil's music, idolatry, and fuzzy
logic. There is no God but Allah. Praise be to Allah. And yet lounging in the street, chewing paan, and feeling contemptuously superior to Hindus brought a deep comfort and satisfaction to Ramzi. Oddly, it was like going home-his real home,
not the squat little one-bedroom, eat-in-kitchen apartment
on 115th Street off Liberty Avenue. There were Hindus in
Richmond Hill, but not nearly so many. He lingered to drink
in the sights of brazen, sari-clad Hindu whores, their faces
fully exposed to him, and to the world.

Allah is merciful. He led Ramzi to Azis. Azis had helped him
find the righteous path. At the training camp he had learned
the art of destruction. The American education taught him
that he would always be less than they were. When the time
came he would play his part.

The earthquake had taken everything from his parents
and denied him his future as a landowner. But this loss left
him free for jihad. In due course, the Americans would lose
their livelihoods. Husbands would lose wives, though Ramzi
wondered if that would cause them pain. He doubted it. In
this godforsaken nation, whores were elevated and virtuous
women despised. A young girl in salwar-kameez skipped by
clutching her mother's hand. Something about her brought
back the image of his laughing sister the day before the kitchen
collapsed on her, and a sharp pain stabbed at his chest as if
someone had slammed a knife into his heart. Soon their sisters
would be taken away: a mass of bloody, twisted bodies and
tangled limbs all that remained.

The Great Satan was so naive-had helped him to immigrate when he had shown them his certificate from the Peace
Corps. And now, between his salary as a teacher and his payments from al-Qaeda, he would be able to take another wife,
maybe two-virtuous Muslim women to keep his current wife,
Fatima, company and produce more mujahideen for the cause.

A group of women wearing saris and salwar-kameez glided
by. How much more beautiful and elegant than the jeans and
T-shirts of Richmond Hill. He should not have come to this
neighborhood. The sight of these glorious hussies stirred longdormant yearnings in Ramzi and he silently cursed himself for
giving into temptation. Tears welled in his eyes, but he steeled
himself. He missed his wife and children, and understood he
might not live to see them again, let alone take another wife.
He had pledged his life to this holy war and would do whatever was asked.

He turned back toward the subway and headed for Azis,
exchanging the noise and crush of the street for the noise and
crush of Mexicans, blacks, and West Indians packed like sardines into the E. Perhaps there would be word. Perhaps today
his long wait would end.

He remembered the anticipation he felt when he first arrived in Queens. Back then, he thought his mission was imminent, and he would take the stairs down from the j train
two at a time in his rush to get to the mosque. Always his
heart pounded in his chest as he waited for Azis. Was today
the day? He would catch Azis's eye, his own face hot with anticipation, but Azis would shake his head discreetly and lower
his eyes. Ramzi waited. He undertook reconnaissance as instructed. He reported to Azis. Time passed. In his daily life he
was indistinguishable from every other Pakistani immigrant.
Familiar, reliable, recognizable, known by no one.

He knew that he should stop by the mosque on the way
home. There was no excuse. He'd be right there at Sutphin
Boulevard and Jamaica Avenue. But he felt no enthusiasm,
no anticipation. Jihad had become rather like his day job. He
went through the motions.

By the time he got to Liberty Avenue it was dark, and the roadway was treacherous to cross. In the shade of the elevated A line, the ice never melted, and if he slipped and
fell in his haste to be out of the cold, it wouldn't be the first
time. He turned onto 115th Street and climbed the steps to
his front door. In his mailbox he found the usual array of bills
and magazines. He clicked his tongue. What a country this
was, so many magazines, so much information. The day an issue of the Herald arrived in his isolated village, the men would
gather at the tea house and Ramzi would read it out loud. It
was never less than six months out of date, but they were
hungry for its wealth of knowledge.

The Smithsonian had arrived. He went inside and dropped
into his recliner. Such luxury, if only Fatima could see his
leather chair. He flipped through the magazine to examine the
pictures. Then he read the headlines and breakout paragraphs.
He always did this to decide the order in which he'd read the
articles. Then he'd put on a pot of coffee, slide back into his
recliner, and read every word. Today he broke his routine. Five
pages in he found a piece on the science of biological weaponry.
The infidel never tired of telling him all he needed to know. He
would not rise again until he'd read it at least twice.

Ramzi Saleh basked in the fortune of having the staff room at
Richmond Hill High all to himself. This was a first. The place
was always overcrowded and stuffy. Heat blasted from the radiator, and the musty odor of too many bodies lingered. Ramzi
headed for the coffee machine, found a clean cup-Praise be
to Allah, this is a great day-poured his coffee, heaped in four
spoons of sugar and extra cream, and made his way toward
his cramped cubbyhole at the back of the room. He raised his
mug in thanks for the twenty-five-percent absentee rate due to
Monday flu and dropped into his chair. Just as he finished ar ranging his desk exactly the way he liked it-coffee on the left,
pens on the right-he heard the door fly open. Too good to last.
The sound of women's voices reached him over the thump and
hiss of the radiator. He identified them instantly. Beryl Johnson
was a science teacher; Lucy Gruber a fellow math teacher.

They kept chatting. Perhaps they couldn't see him back
here.

"You're too ordinary?" Lucy said. "Hello. He's an assistant
manager at Home Depot."

"Manager. They promoted him just before he left."

Ah, thought Ramzi, they were talking about Beryl's husband. What a scoundrel. He'd run out on her two years ago
for a girl just six years older than their daughter. Why would
he do such a thing? Beryl was a nice enough woman, nothing
special, but for an infidel whore she had a good heart. It never
ceased to surprise Ramzi the way even the most humble citizens here tried to live like movie stars-to their ruin.

He should speak up, let his presence be known, but the
godless fornicators fascinated him, so he continued to eavesdrop. As they loitered by the coffee machine, Ramzi could see
their bobbing shadows on the linoleum.

"It makes me sick to admit I went to an online dating site,
but what could I do? I was so lonely," Beryl said, her voice
choked with emotion. "I wanted someone to hold me, to be
tender."

"I know," Lucy replied.

Ramzi detected a catty undertone. Beryl should hold her
tongue-this Lucy was no friend, and besides, why would anyone publicize their shame in this way? Living among the godless affected him, moderating his true beliefs. He knew Beryl
was contemptible, but he pitied her anyway. He had known
her from his first day at this school. He had been bewildered, not knowing where to go and what to do, and Beryl had found
him wandering in the corridor.

She took him to his classroom and introduced him to his
students. She had a way about her that put Ramzi at ease. He
felt he could talk to her about almost anything. An involuntary shudder moved through him as he thought back to that
day. He had told her more about himself than he ever meant
to. After that, she had adopted him, helping him become part
of the school community, helping him to follow his prime directive: Blend in, attract no notice.

"This isn't the place. We can't talk here, someone might
overhear," Beryl said.

Ramzi scrunched himself up as small as he could, even
gritting his teeth and grimacing like a kid trying to make himself invisible. He didn't dare look in their direction.

"Look. It's empty-not a soul here. Come on, you're going
to crack up if you don't tell someone."

"I'm so ashamed," Beryl said between sobs. "When I started
it wasn't so bad. I mean, I thought it was terrible, those boring
dates with fat guys. But this one, Mike, he didn't just rape me,
he beat the hell out of me, and then robbed me."

"You should have said something. When was this?"

Ramzi craned his neck in their direction to hear better.

"The beginning of summer. The marks faded just in time
for the start of school in September." Beryl's sobs drowned out
the wheezing radiator.

Lucy responded with those little clucking noises women
make when they comfort each other. The thought of someone raping Beryl brought heat to Ramzi's cheeks. Who would
do such a thing? Beryl's rape caused him a dilemma. Yes, he
knew the infidel whore deserved what she got-she was divorced, a matter of shame for any decent Muslim woman. She had brought shame to her whole family, in fact. Yet Beryl
was kind, and raised her children with no help from their
father. Though jihad had separated him from his Fatima, she
was provided for and had staff to help run the household. If
he died in jihad, she would be taken care of, and if, Allah
forbid, he fell out with Azis, he had paid a great uncle in
Karachi enough to ensure she would disappear and be safe.
But no one was there for Beryl. Ramzi struggled for control
of his mind. He must banish thoughts of Beryl's goodness.
Her loneliness presented him with an opportunity. Her fate
was in Allah's hands.

"But what was the alternative? I was lonely. Do you know
how many single women there are out there? I didn't stand a
chance. Who'd look at me?" Beryl said, a bitter edge to her
voice.

Ramzi had looked closely at Beryl when they first met,
and he liked what he saw. Though a bit older than he, she was
still a handsome woman. Rich, black hair (although he knew
it was probably dyed, as all of the women in this country colored their hair), complemented by deep blue eyes. A soft face,
lines around the eyes and mouth. To him the lines indicated
character.

Beryl had a lush figure, and this was so much more appealing than the skinny, barren women so highly prized here.
American women were either stick-thin or waddling giants.
The women of Islam were robust and fertile.

Beryl blew her nose loudly, bringing Ramzi back to the
present. He struggled to keep his breath even, to remain undetected. Before either spoke again, the school bell went off.
The room would be crowded within minutes.

"Come on," Lucy said. "Let's get out of here."

He heard the door flung open. Teachers flooded into the room, talking, laughing, heading for their desks. Ramzi, with
two free periods back-to-back, waited until the room filled up
to slip out.

Ramzi kneeled on the carpet in the corner of the large prayer
room at the mosque. Azis, his imam, kneeled next to him,
smiled indulgently, and took Ramzi's hand in his. The warmth
and strength of Azis's touch comforted Ramzi.

Ramzi guessed the imam was in his mid-forties, the wiry
black beard showing streaks of gray. Azis's leathery skin fit
tight over his facial bones, a result of early deprivation, a
testament to years of living in the harsh light of Pakistan's
mountains. He had a cruel mouth and Ramzi was pleased he
could not see Azis's eyes. The times when he had, he'd been
unnerved by the black void that stared back at him. Warm
hands, cold heart.

"I'm confused," Ramzi said, searching the room with his
eyes. It was empty but for the rich, blood-red carpet and three
low squat desks along the opposite wall. The faint odor of
working men emanated from the worn rug.

Azis stroked the back of Ramzi's hand with his index finger. Ramzi watched this, and for the first time in his life he felt
uncomfortable with the physicality of it. Among the people
of the Great Satan, when one man touched another it led
to the abomination of homosexuality. But in Pakistan, men
never hesitated to express their affection and concern for one
another in this way. Watching Azis's hand, Ramzi wondered if
this was how Adam felt once he had eaten from the forbidden
tree. The Great Satan corrupted all that was good, even to the
point of undermining the purity of his contact with Azis.