The Apostate (15 page)

Spoken like a true academic, Ray thought. He debated whether to disclose he was close to converting to be a Muslim himself, but decided it was premature and could create the wrong impression. It would also be odd to tell Radon when he hadn't at yet informed Benson, his boss.

“The fairy tales we've tentatively selected all seem to have strong Islamic connections, but we'd welcome your input if we agree to go ahead.”

“Fine,” Radon said. “I haven't previously read every single one of the fairy tales you've selected, but they all seem to be a good choice. The book sounds quite interesting. I'm sure you've done market research. Let me add that I think there's a sizeable market for such a book.”

“Let's hope so,” Ray said. “We want to limit the geographic area to just the Mahgreb region.”

“Makes sense.”

Radon nodded like he was in complete agreement. He had a serious look, and Ray wondered if that was just his game face for this meeting or how he was all the time. This was probably the same look he projected when he was teaching.

Ray nodded. A tougher hurdle, and one to be treated tactfully, loomed. “There's another subject that I'm compelled to bring up. Mindful of the Israeli-Palestinian imbroglio and the whole terrorism issue, we want to avoid any reference that can be interpreted or construed to have any latent political meaning.”

“Understood,” Radon said without hesitation. “And not a problem. I'd do my best, but you do understand that anyone can make outlandish claims about supposed meanings of the most innocuous lines.”

“Yes,” Ray nodded. “That's true. We just want to be as careful as we can be on that score.

Outwardly, Radon seemed amenable enough. He wasn't married, Ray knew, also according to his bio, but he probably had an extended family, including a married sister in San Francisco, with any number of nieces and nephews. Possibly, Radon was gay, which Ray doubted; anyway, it wasn't important. His writing credentials were fine. Unless he was encumbered by other writing and academic commitments he shouldn't have any problem with deadlines. The money element had to be settled. Kindred wasn't a major publisher. And the book called for illustrations, which would be done by a local illustrator who also had to be paid. Kindred did offer modest advances and a standard royalty policy. But before they got to finances, Ray wanted to probe Radon's mind further. His questions ostensibly were to gain a general background of Radon in relation to the book, but his answers could be useful for his other mission.

“As an American-born Muslim do you think the Muslim community is becoming more and more integrated?”

Radon considered a moment. “On a general basis, yes, of course. That's inevitable. America is still a melting pot, though that expression is passé. However, Muslims still cluster together to some extent, but that's true of many ethnic and religious groups. Here, though, they don't live in slums or rundown areas as they do in some European cities.”

“Is there much inter-marriage between faiths?”

This was such a personal question that Ray felt guilty, but here was a good opportunity to probe the mind of an American Muslim who knew nothing about him and he couldn't resist asking.

“I know of no statistics on the subject, but I'd say that's growing too. Muslims can marry who they choose in this country.”

“No inhibitions?”

“To the contrary, many,” Radon said with a thin smile. “But that doesn't stop youths here who fight for independence from their usually more conservative parents. On a personal basis, I dated a non-Muslim girl and my parents were very upset.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, it was a long time ago, at college. We drifted apart eventually. But how does this relate to fairy tales?”

“I don't mean to be intrusive,” Ray said. “I'm just trying to get an idea of your overall opinion of current Muslim life in the U.S.”

“Well, it's going well,” Radon said, choosing his words carefully. “I suspect, since you bring up the overall picture that there is some concern with youths being recruited to be terrorists and
jihadists
. But I can assure you that there are no hidden values in any of the fairy tales you've chosen. Nor would I introduce any. I'm a writer, totally non-political.”

Radon stared steadfastly at him and Ray was impressed by his demeanor and acuity of perception. He got right to the heart of matters and gave direct non-evasive answers. Radon might have a slight build, but he seemed to have a strong personality. He might not be easy to work with, but he was obviously intelligent and well suited for the book. Not another Rafe, hopefully.

“Sounds good to me,” Ray said, smiling. “Well, the last thing we need to discuss is the financial terms. We're not a big publisher, so the advance isn't that great. But royalties are paid twice a year, and we think the book will do well. It will also stay alive for a long time.”

“Fairy tales last forever,” Radon agreed. “Your terms are acceptable. But I need to know fairly soon.”

“I'll let you know with two week's time, perhaps sooner. Will that be okay?”

Radon nodded.

Unless Benson disagreed, Ray was ready to skip the other authors he could interview. Finally, he had a win-win-win situation. Perkins would be moderately pleased. Abra and the imam would be contented and perhaps Tariq, too, and Kindred should be satisfied that the book project was advancing smoothly. The only person who wasn't entirely content was himself, and he knew why. He was building an edifice of lies, which could crumble upon him at any time.

Only Abra, the imam's wife, Sanah, and Tariq were present at the ceremony when it was still light but well after evening prayers. At least two witnesses were required for the
shahada
or his formal declaration of conversion.

No special clothing was needed, but Ray wore a white shirt for purity and a simple blue plaid tie. Abra was more dressed up than he was. She looked resplendent in a dark purple dress that fit loosely over her body. Abra obviously tended to wear loose-fitting garments when at the center and with her family. When she was out with him she wore jeans sometimes that hued to her luscious figure.

The imam and Tariq both wore white skull caps and white tunics. Sanah was wearing a bright green kaftan.

“This is a solemn moment, Ray,” the imam said. “Are you prepared, my son?”

Ray tried not to swallow. He had finished his lessons with the imam, and showed considerable knowledge about every facet of Islam. Even the Sunni, and the cancerous split with the Shias or Shiite faction in Islam, had not eluded their discussions. No doubt, some of his questions perplexed the imam, but he never showed displeasure. He was always courteous, even if his answers weren't always satisfactory. And now the life changing moment was before him.

“Yes, imam.”

“Then repeat after me,
La ilah illaAllah, Muhammad rasoolu Allah.

Ray repeated the words in a clear voice, only looking at the imam, though he knew all eyes were trained on him. The solemnity and meaning of his declaration—“I bear witness that there is no deity but Allah and that Muhammad is His Messenger”— bore on him as if his mind was an anvil with these words being stamped on him forever.

In an instant his life had changed.

Everyone congratulated him. Even Tariq looked satisfied. Abra permitted herself a tender kiss on his lips. Perkins, if he were there, would be pleased. So far, he had carried it off. Expectations that he would now take a Muslim name had been lessened when he explained it would be awkward at work and actually reduce his effectiveness as an American-born spokesman. The imam had said a name change was preferred but not necessary. Nor did he have to be circumcised since that little procedure had been done soon after birth for health reasons. It was understood that he would attempt to pray five times a day, but that he might not be able to do this at a mosque during the business week.

Tawdry as the topic was, he was also enriching himself, doubling his payments from the PAS.

Now the wedding, tentatively set at a month after his conversion, was the next pinnacle. He had already prepared Kindred to some extent when Abra came to the office and he introduced her to everyone. Fortunately, no questions were raised about her religion—which was now his religion. He didn't want Benson to think the idea for the book was a tool in his wooing of Abra or anything of the sort, though of course it was.

He was deceiving Abra, but now he was being forced to deceive himself even more for he was truly in love with her.

Ray didn't tell anyone at work that he had converted to Islam, though he expected to have to or want to later. He did proudly parade Abra around the office again, this time as his fiancée, and received quite a few compliments. Abra was radiant, as usual, and comported herself in a lady-like fashion.

Benson was the most curious, casually inquiring where he had met Abra and what sort of work she did. It was better, Ray thought, to answer the question directly instead of dodging it. It would come out sooner or later, and it was better that he be the source. Arrangements for the fairy tale book were quite consummated, with Radon signed and already deep at work. “She's handling public relations at the Los Angeles Islamic Complex.”

Benson's eyes widened. “Is she a Muslim?”

“Yes,” Ray said. He could no longer cite their relationship as a mixed marriage to be, since he had already become a Muslim. But he didn't volunteer this information, though he was ready to admit it.

“Really?” Benson mused, his mind on a different tangent. “Did she inspire the book idea?”

Ray knew this question was coming, and he was ready for it. “Not at all, but she did give me the list of possible Muslim authors, one of whom we picked. The idea for the book was mine, not hers.”

Said simply, said sincerely. And he looked at Benson without flinching. He wasn't, of course, being completely above board by not revealing his conversion. That would have to come later. It was too awkward to belatedly bring it up now.

“Okay,” Benson said amicably enough. Ray couldn't tell if he was believed or not. Most likely, Benson didn't want to come across as too intrusive into his personal life. At this point, Ray figured, it didn't make that much difference. But he liked his job, and he liked Benson, and he wanted to keep both on an even keel.

“I think Radon's first draft was quite good,” Ray ventured, eager to shift the discussion away from Abra.

“I agree,” Benson said. “Your editing was fine, too.”

“Thanks.”

A momentary pause caught them both by surprise. Finally Benson spoke.

“Well, congratulations again. When's the wedding?”

“June fourth, with her immediate family. It will just be a small wedding and reception.”

Ray really didn't want anyone from the office to come to his wedding, and this was his way of explaining the lack of invitations. He was sure, though, that everyone would chip in for a gift.

“And the honeymoon?”

“Hawaii,” Ray said, smiling. “Kauai. I think it's the least touristy of the islands.”

“Enjoy,” Benson said with a broad smile.

Three Muslim men, sitting in the row before them in the tourist class section of the jet, had their heads bowed and were whispering prayers. Ray and Abra, on their return flight from their honeymoon in Hawaii, could see that other passengers were staring at the trio. Each of the bearded men wore Arabic dress with skull caps. What were these passengers afraid of, Ray wondered? The men were just praying, just as he and Abra in western clothes might be doing.

Suddenly, another passenger—a tough-looking man in his mid-thirties who was sitting in the last row—came forward. “He must be a federal marshal,” Ray whispered to Abra.

“What're you guys doing?” the man demanded to know from the praying men.

The Muslims looked up in astonishment. None of them, despite their beards, appeared to be over forty.

“We're just praying,” said the man in the aisle seat. He looked up with a mild expression as the man in the aisle flashed his badge.

“Praying?” the federal marshal said with disbelief like this was a poor excuse for errant behavior on a jet. His eyes ran up and down the trio, fixing on the placement of their hands, and then their eyes. “What are you, Moslems?”

“Excuse me,” Ray said leaning forward, despite the nudge from Abra to not get involved, “they were praying.”

The marshal turned his attention to Ray. “Are you with them?”

“No.”

“Then, sir, I have to ask you to mind your own business,” the marshal said in a curt but professional tone.

“They haven't done anything wrong,” Ray insisted, irked by the marshal's dismissive manner.

“But you are,” the marshal barked, less polite. “You're creating a disturbance.”

“What disturbance?” Ray asked, realizing he was indeed helping to create an incident. “My wife and I just happened to be sitting behind these three men, so we're witnesses.”

“How do you know what they're saying?” the marshal asked suspiciously.

“I recognize the words,” Ray admitted.

The marshal's expression broadened with his eyes widening. “Oh, you're a Moslem, too. Where's your beard?”

“Where's your common sense?” Ray shot back. “And the right word is Muslim, not Moslem.”

“Please,” Abra said, entering the conversation. “We don't want any trouble.”

“Then tell your husband not to butt in!” The marshal paused an instant. “Are you a Moslem…Muslim, too?”

“Yes, I am,” Abra said proudly with a spirit poorly received by the marshal. He glared at them, and then back at the trio, none of whom turned to look back at either Ray or Abra.

“Got your own section here, I see,” the marshal said with a frown. For an instant he seemed to be deliberating what to do.