The Apostate (6 page)

“Is this your first time here?” Abra asked. She had well-formed white teeth and she seemed to look directly at him most of the time, though she occasionally let her glance roam around the small grouping of tables, which were all occupied now. Overhead, the sky was glistening with stars, and the air was filled with the sweet fragrance of frangipani trees that bordered the courtyard, which also had freshly-cut green shrubbery.

“Yes,” Ray said. “Do you come here often?”

“I have to,” she said, smiling. “I work here.”

What a bonanza, Ray thought, concealing his pleasure and surprise. So that was why she was so ready to field his overtures. So much for his thoughts of coming across as an appealing and debonair man. “Oh, what do you do, besides chatting with confused people like me?”

“You're not confused,” Abra said like his motives were imprinted on his forehead. “I'm the social director among other duties. It's my job to, as you say, chat.” She regarded him with a closer look. “You're not a Muslim, are you?”

“La.” He hadn't said no in Arabic for a long time, but he had to demonstrate his affinity to Islam.

Abra seemed mildly surprised. “You speak Arabic?”

“Just a little. I studied Arabic in college and took a lot of courses about Arabic and Middle Eastern culture.”

“Really?” she said, impressed. “That's wonderful. And what do you do now?”

“I work as an editor for a small publisher of children's books. Nothing to do with Arabic or Islamic Studies.”

Yet, Ray thought. Since his signing on with the PAS he had thought of other things he could do beyond the roster of activities Perkins had outlined as a way to set him up as a growing proponent of Muslim causes and values. One was a proposal to Kindred for a series of children's books on fairy tales from the Middle East beyond Sinbad the Sailor, Aladdin, and Scheherazade.

“Sounds very interesting,” Abra said. It was hard to know if she was being sincere or just polite, which went with her duties. But she was still sitting with him.

“I'm toying with suggesting a series of children's books about Arabic and Muslim children's stories,” he said. Do you have any literature on the subject?”

“Hmm,” she said. “I'll have to check. We have a large library, but I'm not sure we have anything like that. Give me your business card and I'll let you know.”

Ray reached into his wallet and extracted a business card. She glanced at it for a moment and then put it in her small silver-shaded purse.

“Shukran,” he said. He waited a beat after his polite thank you in Arabic. His accent, no doubt, was atrocious. He couldn't tell by Abra's sealed expression, but he had the feeling she was moderately beguiled in having a non-Muslim say things to her in Arabic, even such simple words. He wondered about her background and decided to be a bit forward. “Unless I'm worse at this than I think, I'd say that you were born in the U.S., probably right here in California.”

“Right on both,” Abra said smiling. Her face seemed perfectly chiseled, with a petite nose and soft lips delicately set on the smoothest skin he had ever seen. Her dark eyes glistened like a pair of twin rubies. Small pearl-like earrings adorned her ears, and a bright red bracelet framed her right wrist. “My parents were born in Morocco.”

Ray nodded. “So you learned Arabic as a child?”

Abra shrugged. “We spoke Arabic and English at home. I'm not as fluent as I should be. You probably speak more than I do.”

“I doubt that,” he said, laughing.

Abra smiled. “I don't know what version of Arabic you studied. The language is spoken quite differently in Morocco than, say, Saudi Arabia.”

“But you'd understand each other?”

“Not too well. We also speak a lot of French in Morocco. Have you been there?”

“I've never been out of the U.S., and not that often out of California. I was also born and bred here.”

Abra was a good listener. She managed to be both professional and pleasant, which wasn't a skill he had shown much adeptness in mastering. While he couldn't be sure, Ray had the feeling that he had elicited more than just professional courtesy from her. She didn't have to spend so much time with him. As if she surmised his thought, Abra signaled that she had to go.

“Well, Ray, it's been a pleasure to meet you, and I'll get back to you on the fairy tales, but I have to do some more meeting and greeting.”

“I understand,” he said, a bit deflated as Abra stood. He had to take a chance before she got away. “Abra, would you like to have dinner with me?”

Abra gave him a long look, studying his eyes. “Sure.”

“What's up?” Benson asked as Ray ducked in to see him before the day really got underway. Benson was usually at his desk before 9:00 a.m. Ray made it a point to be punctual generally, but today he came in early

“I wanted to broach an idea I've been playing around with,” Ray said. He knew the idea was of recent vintage, but it served two purposes. It was another stepping stone on his path to Islam and he could cite it to impress Abra Malouse when they had dinner. But Benson knew nothing of this background. His secret life as a Muslim-to-be had to remain a secret or Benson, no fool, would think the idea stemmed solely from selfish and probably sinister sounding reasons. He had begun his journal or diary, something he had never done before. Jotting down his odd new experience spurred his creative juices, and he found no shortage of words. Perkins would blow a gasket if he ever read his musings. At some point, Ray realized, he would have to make and hide a hard copy of his journal and delete the original copy from his computer. He might not ever get enough material for a book, but it was certainly worth recording his impressions and making the effort. In a sense, his journal was also sort of a receipt about his relationship with PAS, and to his relief, he had noted clear mention of the federal government—specifically Homeland Security—in the documents he signed.

Ray Dancer, secret federal agent! No business card, though.

“Given the growing Muslim population in the U.S., and general interest in Islamic affairs, a book on Muslim fairy tales could do well.”

Benson didn't seem impressed at all. “Interesting,” he said at last, almost as a courtesy. “But who would be the market for such a book? Muslims who already know the fairy tales?”

“Not at all,” Ray argued. “I think there's a pretty good audience of non-Muslims. Fairy tales are very popular and parents would buy a book regardless of any religious bias or such.”

“Would that it were so,” Benson said, still dubious. “If we could afford it, I wouldn't mind conducting a focus group on just that aspect.”

“The results would be illuminating,” Ray agreed. He was eager to bring something positive on the book subject to his first date with Abra. Even a focus group would be meaningful.

“Have you done any preliminary research?” Benson asked. “I believe there's around five million or so Muslims in America, which has to be the core market for such a book.”

Ray was forced to shrug. “No. I just had the idea.” He should have done this research before broaching the concept to Benson, he realized. He was giving in to impulses, which was dangerous, even when spurred by a very attractive, black-haired girl whose eyes still glimmered in his mind.

“What prompted the idea?” Benson asked with mild interest as if reading his mind.

“There's an ongoing spate of articles on the Muslim community in the papers,” Ray said, ready for this question. “One reported how they were Americanizing, integrating into the social fabric. The idea of such a book just seemed really timely. I don't mean fairy tales like the ones that everyone knows such as Aladdin and Sinbad the Sailor,”

Ray paused a beat and went on when Benson didn't speak. “There have to be others, with lots of opportunities for illustrations.”

“When you say Muslim, that covers a lot of territory,” Benson said. “I don't think one book can cover so many countries. Muslims go from Morocco to Indonesia.”

“Well, I thought of limiting it, maybe, to just North Africa. Basically, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and Libya. Not Egypt. But all Arabic speaking.”

“That's possible,” Benson acknowledged. “And you speak a good deal of Arabic, which you've shown in some of your work.”

Ray nodded. “Not fluently.”

“But not everyone in these countries is a Muslim,” Benson pointed out.

Ray felt abashed at not having really thought out this aspect either, but he thought quickly. “The title doesn't have to say Muslim. And presumably the stories would have broad nondenominational appeal but still be on a geographical basis.”

Benson still seemed underwhelmed. “Why would American children, and their parents, be interested in North African fairy tales?”

“For the same reason that kids read Grimm's fairy tales, and Hans Christian Anderson's fairy tales. They're from Europe, Germany, and Denmark to be specific, but their stories are popular everywhere. It's time we were less Eurocentric in this matter.”

Ray smiled to show he wasn't completely serious with his latter comment. This was probably his best point and he waited anxiously for Benson to react.

“I'm glad to see you're such a universalist,” Benson said with an appreciative glance. “Well, the idea has some merit. We could expand our list of fairy tale books, which consists of one now. We'd need a North African Muslim writer to write a strong introduction and perhaps some annotation, too. I agree that illustrations would be a big factor.”

Ray felt exhilarated and proud. Perkins, not appearing to be much of a literary type, might not see the full value of this particular seed. But it gave him a good talking point with Abra.

“I'm sure we can find one,” Ray said. This search would be another aid to establishing a relationship with Abra. He knew he was getting his hopes up too much, but why would she have accepted a dinner invitation—and with a non-Muslim—if she wasn't interested in him?

“Tell you what, Ray. Draw up a business plan for the book. You'll need to do some research to come up with potential fairy tales. No rush. Just give me something I can present to the board.”

“Great!” Ray said, looking forward now ever more to his date with Abra. Perhaps he could also see her if he did any research at the Islamic Complex? He wondered if she worked there on nights when there wasn't a lecture or some event. He'd find her one way or another. He would also, of course, have to do research at the public library including its data base. And then there were all the search engines on the Internet. His work was cut out for him.

But things were picking up. Maybe it was for the wrong reasons, but he was getting reconciled to his
new life
. What was going to come next?

Abra looked lovely in a white skirt and dark blue blouse that showed her supple figure. She dressed like any other young American girl. There was no veil,
hijab
, or
burka
or anything covering her open, tan, and quite beautiful face. It would be an enormous mistake, he realized, to make any comment on that subject. Not at least until he knew her better.

Abra's black hair glistened as she sat across the table at the restaurant, and Ray wondered what she treated her hair with to give it such lustre. A different bright red bracelet with delicate indentations encircled her left wrist. He chose a popular Mexican restaurant near her home, which was close to the Islamic Complex. As it turned out they didn't live that far apart. They both enjoyed dishes of steaming arroz con pollo. Abra declined a cocktail so he did, too. She had iced tea while he ordered ice coffee.

To his surprise she brought up the subject of Islamic fairy tales before he did.

“I have a gift for you, Ray,” she said. He liked the way she said his name. Somehow it seemed like a verbal caress. She reached into her purse and extracted two pages stapled together and folded in three parts. “Here's a list of famous fairy tales, mostly from the Middle East. None, I fear, from other Islamic countries, but I'm still looking.”

“Thanks, but I didn't mean for you to do all this research.”

“My pleasure, and really part of my job. The list also has some books on the subject you might find of interest.”

Ray took possession of the papers. “I did discuss the idea with my boss. He found it of interest and he wants me to put together a proposal. We decided to limit it to North Africa, what's often called the Mahgreb or the countries west of Egypt.

“That seems wise,” she said. “I can certainly help with Morocco.”

“Great! I have another favor to ask. Could you recommend an American-Muslim writer who could provide an introduction and perhaps other commentary on a select group of fairy tales? We might want annotation, too.”

Abra's eyes lit up at the chance to make such a recommendation. “I'll be very happy to do so.”

“No rush,” Ray said. “Just a couple of names.”

Abra nodded. Even when she looked business-like her delicate face had a subtle beauty. It was outlined in the restaurant's subdued light like a shimmering portrait without frames.

“And Abra, thanks again very much.”

Their eyes met for a moment and she looked down for a moment as if alarmed by the sudden intimacy. “I can't think of anyone at the tip of my tongue,” she said, looking up again, “but I'm sure I'll come up with some very good writers.”

“I really appreciate it,” Ray said, feeling drawn to her more and more. He couldn't recall the last time a girl had this affect on him, and the attraction had to be more than just the impetus of his current mission. He hesitated a moment, and then said, “Abra's such a pretty name. It rolls off your tongue in such a smooth, graceful way. By the way, what does it mean?”