“I am and I’m proud. People don’t realize that Muhammad was one of the first great religious leaders to give women significant rights and freedoms.”
His face clouded. “Yes … I see what you mean.”
“Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, absolutely,” he added quickly.
“Thirteen hundred years ago, he gave women the right to inherit money and keep it. As their own. As a lawyer, I know how important that kind of a right is for anyone. Because the ability to own property and money gives that person power.”
“Uh, of course.”
“The fanatics in Islam do so much damage to the progressive Muslims like us in America. People here assume we’re all alike and we all agree that there should be a jihad against the U.S. or something crazy like that. It makes me furious. I guess that’s one of the reasons I went to law school. To be able to help empower Muslim women and Muslims in general.” A damp breeze blew up from the river a few blocks below them carrying the cooking smells from the restaurants along the river.
Mustafa remained silent for a while. Then, he asked her, “Have you been on your hajj?”
“Not yet. When work slows down, if ever, I’d love to go. But, I’d also like to go with someone who’s important to me. A husband, for instance.”
“Ah, yes. I have been twice and it is a meaningful, moving experience. By all means, participate with someone you love.”
She sipped the last of her latte. “What do you do for fun, Mustafa?”
“Not enough. I work hard, travel too much, and am very disciplined. But I love to bike. How about you?”
“Biking’s great. I’m a gardener. That’s why the Rumi verse means so much to me. He wrote often of gardens. My garden’s my sanctuary, my refuge. I live to watch the plants come up in the spring. After a Minnesota winter, that renews my hope.”
“Then, I should buy you a gift.”
“Huh?”
“Around the corner, there is a garden store. You know of it?”
“Never noticed it before.”
“Come on, I will buy you something.”
They stood. As she passed in front of him, he rested his hand on the bare skin of her forearm. She couldn’t miss it. On the sidewalk, they turned left and walked a little too closely side by side around the corner.
Nestled into a restored brick building stood a narrow garden store. The front door was propped open with a copper watering can. The scent of new flowers and damp earth drew them inside. Zehra loved the cute tools and unusual collection of plants they offered. All of it very expensive.
“Do you like orchids?” Mustafa asked her.
“Sure. I’ve even wintered over a few at home.”
“Come here.” He moved her as if he’d been in the store before.
Near the back of the shop was a partially enclosed area devoted entirely to orchids. When they stepped into the cramped area, Zehra felt moist warmth. A mister wheezed clouds in the corner, behind the various pots. Other than that noise, it was quiet.
They stood before a display of the most unique orchids she’d ever seen. But then, there were probably hundreds she’d never seen. For a long time, they studied each plant, looked at it from different angles, and leaned back to get perspective. Finally, Mustafa pointed. “This one. I want you to have this one.”
Zehra moved closer to study it better. She gasped.
From a clay pot, a long narrow green stalk rose as if it were a cobra swaying to the piping rhythm of a trainer. At the top, it tipped over to explode into several leaves, open and vulnerable. The outer leaves, dull yellow and striped in purple, bent back to reveal a second set of tiny, perfectly formed openings like little mouths. On the bottom, hung little blood-red “slippers.” She could almost imagine the plant breathing.
Zehra loved orchids but, at the same time, they were so creepy. She didn’t even know this man and already he offered her a beautiful flower. Zehra felt dizzy, and the longer she stared at the plant, the more it seemed to sway to the sound of silent piping.
She pushed out of the room. Took a deep breath of cool air in the shop. Smelled the familiar roses next to the check-out counter.
Mustafa followed behind her. “I noticed you seemed to favor this one.” He set it on the counter and paid quickly.
Zehra mumbled thanks and carried the thing outside. She didn’t know what to think. It was weird, for sure. But other than a few $3.99 clumps of dandelions from Costco that other men had given her as an afterthought, this was the most exquisite plant anyone ever gave her. After all, there were roses and then there were orchids-a whole different level, if you knew anything about flowers.
She decided to accept it.
“I would like to see your garden some time,” he said.
“Sure … sure.” This was moving way out of control, too fast. Her cell phone buzzed. She answered it. BJ. The other world jarred her awake.
“Zehra, I’ve been trying to call you for an hour!”
“Huh? I … I’ve been busy. What’s up, Denzel?”
“My friend, the scientist with the testing company. He just called me and said the DNA tests run by the BCA are faked.”
“What?” She clung to the orchid for fear she’d drop it.
“Yeah. Someone doctored the sample, so the BCA got a false reading.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“El-Amin, they got the wrong guy.”
Twenty
The Yemeni left Turkmenbashi with the briefcase, by ship. It didn’t rain, but heavy winds heaved the ship up and down as it plowed westward into the storm. He hated traveling by ship, but in this case, the route across the Caspian Sea was the quickest. He’d secured the case under a bunk below deck. Whenever he moved, it came with him.
All he had to do now, was get to Cairo. He’d get his money when he handed over the package. He grinned when he thought of how he’d squeeze for a little more.
He thought briefly of the stupid Russian. All these Christian kafirs were so willing to endanger their people for the gain of a little money. He thought of them as being lower than dogs.
Once on the western shore of the Caspian Sea, the Yemeni would transfer to a train and continue his journey. The train system, some if left from the European construction in the late nineteenth century, was patchwork and worn out. Riding it required patience for the constant break downs and transfers. Flying would be easier of course, but the security on the train system was lax, and he could move without many questions. By early morning, they approached the rich city of Baku on the western shore.
Before the American crusaders invaded Iraq, the Yemeni would have turned south, in his journey, to Tehran, then crossed into Baghdad for the final leg to Cairo. Now, he had to take the northern, longer route through Baku and across Syria.
He’d travel in Muslim countries to make it easier.
The sun rose behind the Yemeni while he stood on deck and watched the city come closer. Before World War II, the Baku oilfield had been one of the largest in the world. The city boasted many rich, cultural adornments. He could see the minarets of mosques built in the old Walled City by the harbor. The dawning sun lit them up in coral and orange.
He felt the hot wind off the shore.
The ship passed next to the yacht club, then turned to the north for its own berth. Baku huddled under the
