Nineteen
Nervous about her meeting with Michael, Zehra treated herself to a latte. Normally, the calorie count deterred her, but tonight, Friday, Zehra waited at the Caribou Coffee shop in Northeast Minneapolis for him. She had to admit he’d impressed her at the party, but she was still cautious.
But the caution came from the left side of her brain, calculated from past experience. The right side, instead, longed for a relationship. For someone to have fun with, talk about her work, hold her, and ease the loneliness.
Northeast, one of the earliest areas to be settled in the city, rose up from the banks of the Mississippi River. At the highest point above the river stood the old church of Our Lady of Lourdes, topped by a steeple visible from the entire neighborhood. Jackie attended mass there. She said the church still had a hint of its old French heritage, which reminded her of services in Vietnam.
Zehra glanced at her watch. She thought of the mountains of work waiting for her. They had less than two weeks to pull together the defense. If this new guy, the Egyptian dude, didn’t show in five minutes, she’d bail.
She took a deep, calming breath. At least, she had a small table outside on the sidewalk. To Zehra’s left, stretched a garden of peonies, red, yellow, almost purple, and shades of colors she couldn’t even name. And hanging beside her, almost touching her hair was a pot of begonias, one of her favorite plants because they were easy to grow and produced big flowers of such lush intensity.
When she looked back, he walked up to the door of the shop.
Zehra remembered dark skin, the tall, thin, athletic body that moved with an unusual grace compared to most Americans. He looked European. She noticed the long nose, like hers, that moved back and forth as he searched the shop for her. Zehra ran both hands through her hair to make it bigger, then stood and waved.
He smiled immediately and came over.
She shook his outstretched hand. It felt strong and warm.
“Zehra.” He started to sit.
“Michael? Nice to see you again.” Dark, quick eyes were framed with the longest, most beautiful eyelashes she’d seen. Zehra felt jealous.
“Call me Mustafa. Your father always tells me how attractive you are-he’s right.”
Phony obviously, but it still sounded nice to hear. “Thanks. You work directly with him?”
“No. I’m in genetic engineering.” He wore a black cotton t-shirt made with expensive material. When he twisted to see the counter, she noticed the muscles in his chest. “I’ll be right back. Want anything?”
After he left, Zehra thought of her “checklist” for these dates her mother set up. Let’s see … no bad breath, good looking, not grossly overweight, not too short, seems intelligent … so far, so good.
He returned in five minutes. “Busy tonight. Guess it’s the nice weather.” He leaned back. “It smells good.” His head turned toward her and looked into her face. “You said you’re a lawyer. Tell me more about your work.”
“I’m a pubic defender. I used to work as a prosecutor but switched sides a few years ago.”
“What do you like about it?”
“Uh well, I like the courtroom. I don’t have to sit at a desk all day and read boring contracts. I work on real- life problems that affect people, like their freedom. It’s meaningful, and I feel like I can do some good.” She caught herself and stopped. Why was she blabbering like this?
“I don’t know much about those things. Do you have any interesting cases?” He sipped his tea.
“Right now, I’m working on the murder case I told you about. The Somali boy who had his throat cut open.” Zehra purposely emphasized the details because people seemed most interested in that part. “Maybe you saw it on the news? I’m defending the man accused of the murder. Trial starts in less than two weeks. The FBI is also involved.” She looked to either side and said, “I’m trying to pump them for anything they know about the murder but won’t reveal.”
Mustafa frowned. “Yes. My Somali friends talk about the case. It sounds like hard work. How can you do it?”
Her cheeks bulged, and Zehra blew out a puff of air. “It’s really tough.”
“I’m curious, you said you think you can do some good, but how can you do that for a murderer?”
“Good question. Sometimes, the only thing I can do is make sure the people I represent get a fair trial and vigorous defense.”
“I’ve done some work with the Somalis in the mosques. They’re so poor. I try to help them.
“You have? I wouldn’t think they’d accept you … I mean, educated and Egyptian.”
He smiled. “I know. It took a long time to gain their trust. But I feel sorry for many of them and try to help when I can. I know some of the leaders in various communities. And it helps that I raise money for them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Zehra said. She stopped again. Unlike any of the other men she’d met, this one sounded genuinely interested in something other than himself. “But, let’s talk about your work.”
“Not much to talk about in comparison to yours. I work in genetic engineering research. For you, it would be boring by comparison.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Oh, we’re working with viruses now. Trying to see if we can find a cure for the common cold.” He laughed a little and showed pretty teeth. “It is, how do you say, ‘a long shot,’ but can you imagine the profits if we could actually figure it out? We try a variety of things like, manipulating the genes, enhancing them. Then, we expose them to various antibiotics to ‘heat them up,’ to see how they react.” He paused. “That is what I’m trying to do for the good of the world.” He pronounced “s” like “sh.” It sounded lush to Zehra.
She shook her head. “Wow.”
“I travel a lot … too much. It seems I’m always gone.”
Zehra stole a glance at him sideways as he leaned back. He curved into the metal chair and, although relaxed, she could sense coiled energy resting in his body. She shook out her hair again. This “date” wasn’t going as planned. She looked down at her watch and knew she should get back to the office. But she couldn’t move.
Mustafa turned back to face her. “May I ask you a personal question?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Do you find it hard to maintain your faith here in the U.S?”
“Well, I was born here, so I’m an American who happens to be a Muslim. I assume you weren’t?”
“Egypt. My parents came to Dearborn, Michigan, At first, it was hard. Now,
unfortunately, they’re fully assimilated. They’ve lost much of their Muslim faith.”
“Sometimes it’s tough being Muslim in a Christian society, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It is more than religion for me-it is the culture. The constant striving for money and luxuries here bothers me.”
“Oh, I agree. For me, it’s probably the feeling of separateness I have at times. Sometimes, I really feel lonely. I date Christians, but when it comes to long-range things, it’s hard to fit together. I’m trying to be a good American and, at the same time, a good Muslim.”
“You are faithful?”
“Kind of. I mean, I don’t always pray five times a day. And during Ramadan, I’m so busy that I start to feel dizzy if I don’t eat a snack during the day. I try to read the Qur’an, but I find I get more comfort from the old poets, like Rumi.”
Mustafa’s face brightened. “Ah … you like Rumi?” When Zehra nodded, he said,
“You rave about the holy place
and say you’ve visited God’s garden
but where is your bunch of flowers?
… There is some merit
in the suffering you have endured
but what a pity you have not discovered
the Mecca that’s inside.”
She tried to stop it, but her breath caught in the back of her mouth. She couldn’t believe this guy. Was he for real? She said to him, “I love that verse. He combines gardens with God and Mecca and how they can all be inside of us … even here in Minnesota in the winter!” They both laughed.
“Are you glad you are Muslim?” he asked.
