Reprisal

wiggled.

Zehra turned to Carlson. He looked sick to his stomach. She wasn’t sure if it was the verdict or the bizarre proceedings. “Get used to it,” she whispered. “We always appeal this guy. Don’t worry, I’ll file it tomorrow.”

“But … but …”

“I said, don’t worry. We’ll get it straightened out.” She sighed at the extra work this judge created for her.

Carlson staggered to his feet. Suddenly, he started flapping his arms. He jumped up and down like a chicken. He gurgled something unintelligible. The deputies had to assist him away because he couldn’t walk very well. In a way, maybe this was true justice for him.

As she and Jackie left the courtroom, Zehra’s phone vibrated. She glanced at it and sighed-her mother. “Yes, Mom.”

“Have you got time for lunch today?”

“To meet another wonderful Muslim? I don’t know, Mom, I’m really busy. The trial’s coming up.”

“Just lunch, Zehra. You’ve got to learn to let go and relax. ‘Go with the flow,’ they say. Now, this man is handsome and so nice. I know you’ll love him.”

“Is he another doorknob, like the last one-functional but pretty boring?”

“You want a Greek salad at Christo’s?”

“Can I say no?”

“No.”

“When?”

“Twelve-thirty. And, Zehra, comb your hair. It’s your best asset.”

At twelve-thirty, Zehra sat alone at Christo’s Greek restaurant on Nicollet Avenue salivating for a very large glass of red wine and waiting for her mother. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the busy street, a half-dozen ancient begonias in big green pots crowded out the sun.

Zehra loved the deep colors and thick leaves. White walls surrounded the window with sky-blue trim. She felt like escaping to Greece. It looked so relaxed and sunny and far away from her mother. And the best part-their growing season lasted all year long.

“There you are!” shouted her mother.

Zehra turned from the serenity of the window to see her mother steaming toward her with a small man following behind. Here we go, she thought.

At the table, her mother sat quickly and slipped her head covering off, to rest on her shoulders. Martha could be selective as to when she wore it. “I want you to meet Mr. Jamison Raza.” She held out her hand as if she were delivering the original text of the Qur’an. “He’s a doctor at Fairview. Thoracic surgery, I understand. A very lucrative practice.” Martha smiled, her work almost done.

Zehra nodded and reached across the small table to shake Raza’s limp hand. Can’t imagine those could crack open a chest, she thought. He looked very Semitic. Long nose, dark skin, and black curly hair. The only attractive thing about him was the hair-any woman would kill for it. He looked down at the table all the time except to glance up at her when he spoke.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” He folded his hands, prayer-like, before him on the table.

Zehra felt a rumbling low in her stomach. Hunger? Fear? “Uh … yeah. Me, too.”

“Your mother tells me your whole family is very observant.”

“Huh?”

“You pray five times a day, attend mosque, and are faithful during Ramadan.”

The rumbling in her stomach became shaking. “Uh … well, I don’t know.”

“I’ve taken my hajj twice, now. It is a profoundly moving experience. Have you made yours?”

“It’s coming up next year … after I go to Greece.” She looked hard at her mother. “Can I talk to you?”

Martha giggled. “I’ve got to run and freshen-up. You two get acquainted.” Her mother left in a puff of old- fashioned cologne.

“I’m Pakistani. My parents are related to the Bhutto family, the former Prime Minister? Benazir Bhutto?” he said. “We own much land near Lahore.”

“Bhutto was just killed, right?”

“The liberals did it.”

“Who?” Zehra felt afloat without a life raft.

“She tried to change the laws of the Prophet. There’s a reason order has prevailed for hundreds of years it’s because people were faithful to the Prophet.”

“What kind of surgery do you do, Jamison?”

“Thank Allah, I have an education and could provide for any woman. She would not have to work but could be faithful and bear children.”

What an exciting thought. “Maybe you forget we’re in America?”

“That’s the problem here. Too many Muslim women have forgotten the True Way. Your mother told me that you’re faithful.”

“I am,” Zehra asserted. “But in a more progressive way…”

“Let me remind you of what the Qur’an says …”

“I can read the Qur’an. And I don’t need you to interpret it for me.”

Jamison sat back and blinked. “But … but I thought you understood that Muhammad had clearly told us what Allah expects of a faithful woman?”

“And the Prophet gave many equal rights to women, also. That was about fifteen hundred years ago.” She longed for a bite of a chocolate cupcake. Zerha’s phone buzzed. Thank Allah! She looked. Jackie. Zehra clicked it on.

Jackie spoke fast, “Zehra, Mr. Peterson’s called five times already. I didn’t think the deputies allowed them that many phone calls. What should I do?”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” She snapped the phone off. Looked back at the doctor. Zehra counted to ten. He represented many of the things she fought against-the intolerant attitude toward women and the ultra- conservative interpretation of Islam.

When she felt calmer, she said, “I’ve got an emergency. I’m sure you know how it is.” She stood and hurried out so quickly, she forgot to look at the begonias. Besides her frustration, these dead-end men her mother brought all reminded Zehra of her loneliness.

In her car, driving back downtown to meet Jackie, Zehra’s mother called.

“All right, make this quick,” Zehra demanded, still mad.

“I’m sorry. He seemed like such a nice man.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I guess. Look, I’m busy, gotta run.”

“Oh, there’s something that’s bothering me. I don’t know if I should bother you with it.”

“What’s wrong, Mom.”

“Well, I’ve noticed a car parked outside our house a lot lately. A gold one. You know how quiet our street is. Even your father commented on it. I can’t imagine who it could be. But it, well, it makes me feel creepy.”

Zehra gripped the leather covered wheel harder. “How often is it there?”

“Almost every day.”

Zehra took a deep breath to calm her racing thoughts. A gold car had followed her on several occasions also. It couldn’t be a coincidence. She didn’t want her mother upset. “I’m sure it’s just an admirer looking at your gardens. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll have my friend BJ Washington check things out. Or maybe you should call the police.”

“Good idea. I’ll call the police.”

Zehra’s fear rose up through her arms. She had to concentrate on driving. “Gotta run, Mom.”

“I know you won’t like this now, but this time your father has a man for you to meet.”

“No!”

“Now, just calm down. He’s an engineer or some scientist who works with your father. Originally from Egypt. We’ll talk about it later.”