Hot Pink in the City (17 page)

"Ladies, it's Wahib. Can you make it to our
store today? I'd like to make a deal regarding the tape."

"Is it cheaper?" Nasreen asks.

"Not exactly. But I'm ready to strike a
bargain, and I believe it's something you won't be able to
resist."

"We'll be there today," Nasreen says.

We go back inside, get our purses, tell
Auntie we're hitting museums, and then we head to the closest
subway station. The stench of urine and the darkness hit us as we
descend the stairs.

"Whether or not the tape really is in his
private collection, he probably had no takers," Nasreen says, her
voice echoing in the stairway. "Maybe he's back in reality and will
charge us a few bucks, which I have on me. And I still have the
money we borrowed from Mom."

"I think you're right," I say. "See, things
are already looking up."

"Hold your horses. Remember, don't be too
eager."

I can't help feeling a bit eager all the
time. So many strange, exciting things have happened to me here.
It's been quite a ride. I feel like my trip is winding down now
that we're getting closer to the tape, which I'm sure will be in
our possession soon.

Chapter Twenty

Three men carrying brown paper bags exit the
store. The bags are rectangular, as always, with videos. They
smile, one of them elbowing the other in the stomach. When I have
an afternoon to myself to purchase tapes and videos, I smile like
that too. But I have no time for enjoyment when I'm chasing this
tape.

"Obviously those videos aren't one hundred
dollars a pop, or else this place wouldn't be in business," I
say.

"I know," Nasreen says. "How dare these two
assholes try to charge us a hundred bucks just because they can
smell our desperation? Let's go inside to see what they're charging
today."

"Ladies!" Wahib brays when we come in, the
door tinkling as it opens. The curtains from the backroom swish
open as he walks into the main area of the store. "Come in, come
in."

The quiet brother, Tahir, sits on a stool by
the cash register as usual. He smiles at us, the space between his
front teeth pitch-black, or maybe that's nicotine or decay.

"So you'd like to sell us the tape?" Nasreen
asks.

"Not quite," Wahib says. "I'd like to give it
to you."

I smile, but then I turn grim. Nasreen
advised me to not look or sound desperate. "At no charge?" I
ask.

"No, there is a charge."

"What is it?"

"Yeah, what?" Nasreen says.

"Like I said before, we'd like your, Isma's,
companionship for my brother Tahir here. One meeting, one date to
see how the two of you would hit it off."

For a green card. For that sleazy, disgusting
brother of his. "I thought you had a new deal," I say. "Nothing has
changed, and you're asking for the same thing."

"Oh, but things have changed," Wahib says.
"We have something to show you."

"The tape?" Nasreen asks.

"No, something even more interesting." He
turns around and aims a remote at a TV. The television's light
bursts from the center until the whole screen glows. Then I see the
lady from last night, the one who's all purple, and then the
rattail. My jaw drops as I watch myself tripping down the stairs --
I hadn't seen that in Nasreen's closet, and I look like a clumsy
dork when my ankle fails me -- and there's my kiss with Abe. It's
surreal watching it again. My first hot, tempestuous, authentic
kiss was televised for the public to see. Such a private moment
ended up on tape. Knowing these two brothers, and how they seem to
enjoy torturing Nasreen and me, they probably had it on rewind.
Pervs. No one can see our lips actually touching. It's more like
the back of Abe's head eclipsing my face, but it's obvious what we
were doing.

"You have a tape of this?" I ask.

"We never miss an episode of
NYC Dance
Off
. It's become our favorite show."

Tahir nods. "We love that show," he says. I
don't see the both of them as dancing types, but appearances are
deceiving.

"It's better than
Solid Gold
and
Soul Train
," Wahib says.

"So you saw my friend on the show," Nasreen
says. "What of it?"

"What of it?" Wahib says. "I'll tell you
what. I never forget a customer. In the five years I've owned this
store I've had a fantastic memory for names and faces. You're
Farhad's daughter. You're not Shireen, but you're Nasreen. You came
to this store two years ago with your father. You even had the same
hair, same look, same everything. Your father comes here frequently
for music. In fact, he came here two months ago, and I sold him a
videotape of Turkish music. And I believe Isma is not your real
name. That's okay. We will come to a relationship of trust so that
you'll share your name with me soon. Oh, and you two look alike, so
I can guess this is your sister or cousin, and not a friend."

"Okay, so you know who we are," I say. "We
just want a tape, nothing else."

"But I want something, and you haven't
fulfilled my request. Farhad left his business card with me. I know
he's a translator living in Manhattan. I wonder what he would say
if I called to tell him about how the two of you are here
constantly, asking for this tape. Maybe I can even say that one of
you have taken a shine to my brother here. I also have proof you've
been here several times." He nods toward the ceiling. I look up to
see the eye of a security camera. Great.

"So you want one meeting?" I ask.

"Yes, and you don't have to agree to anything
after that."

Nasreen clears her throat. I'm feeling ill.
These men are no good. They tricked us into coming here today, and
they're tricking me into a date with the yucky guy at the register.
Who knows, maybe by the end of this trip I'll really be married.
But I can't be, since I'm only sixteen. I picture them kidnapping
me to a state where I'm legal. What am I getting myself into, and
all for a tape?

"Can we think things over and call you
tonight?" I ask. "I have to see when I'm free. My Uncle Farhad is
not a permissive man, you know."

"Sure," Wahib says. "We'll expect a call
tonight. We live upstairs and we share the same phone line as the
store."

"You'll hear from us tonight," Nasreen
says.

I say a shaky good-bye and leave. Across the
street is the school with summer sessions. Kids exit the building,
and they're quite cheerful considering they're spending their
summer hours at school. I would hate summer school. They're
carefree as they sprint across the schoolyard, throw balls, and
laugh with friends while I'm miserable thinking about how
everything has snowballed out of proportion. A destroyed tape has
led me to two perverted men who want me, and they have proof I was
on TV when I shouldn't have been.

"Maybe we should just tell your father the
truth," I say. "Yes, he'll never trust us again. Maybe he'll never
want me to visit again, and I know my parents will be ashamed of
me."

"Or we can press on," Nasreen says.

"How are we going to stall these guys?" I
ask.

"Hold on a minute." Nasreen stops in her
tracks. Waiting by a bus stop are the three guys we saw leaving the
store before we arrived. They're all young, two slender and one a
little pudgy. Two are brunet and one has light brown hair. They're
all laughing and talking in Arabic. I don't know much Arabic, but
Nasreen is still as she listens on.

"What are they saying?" I ask.

"I'm not sure, but I know Arabic dirty words
when I hear them."

One of the men takes his brown paper bag and
pulls the video half out. I see a woman with curly black hair, lips
red and shiny like the skin of an apple, and straps of a dress
lining her shoulders. No, it's lingerie.

The men laugh some more, and the one guy
showing off the video slips it back into the bag.

"Did you see what I just saw?" I ask.

"Yes, but I'm not sure," Nasreen says.

"Me neither."

"If it is what I think I saw, then we'll have
something on those two brothers."

"Which will cancel out what they have on
us..." This fills me with excitement and hope.

"There's just one way to find out."

"How?"

"We must take it," she says.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"We need to go over to them and take one of
their bags."

"We can't steal," I say.

"Sure we can," Nasreen says. "I'll do it if
you're such a wuss, but the thing is you're the athlete and the
runner."

"You're right. I don't want the men to chase
and overpower you. I'll take it."

"Don't worry about me," Nasreen says,
squeezing my arm. "If we lose sight of each other, just go home and
I'll meet you there."

I'm destroying tapes, hiding in closets,
kissing strange boys, and two yucky men are blackmailing me... I
might as well add mugging to the list. I'm turning into a
criminal.

A bus pulls up. I watch the men through the
glass and metal of the bus shelter. They stand up. One by one they
get on the bus. The last guy, the one with light brown hair, is
waiting to move forward, his foot up in the air to get on.

I run around the bus shelter in a
counterclockwise motion, reach the man, snatch the paper bag out of
his hand, and run as if I'm on the PE field.

"Hey!" he yells behind me.

He isn't as fast as I am. No one is. I'm a
soccer star, scoring the most goals on my team. No one can beat me.
I run one long block followed by a shorter one along quiet,
residential streets that don't have lights, but I do pause at a few
stop signs. I hear "bitch," "thief," and "stop that mugger," but no
one is stopping me. I'm too fast, with my vision and entire being
focused on winning. The words the man is saying would normally hurt
my feelings, but I'm too pumped with adrenaline, as well as
curiosity. I want to know what's on the tape. What are Wahib and
Tahir selling behind that curtain of theirs, where they didn't want
us roaming inside of when we were there last week? The police could
arrest me for this, which would mean more trouble for me, but I
don't think that's going to happen.

I see a police car to the right of me, with a
tall, thin officer in uniform stepping out, so I turn left at a
corner. No, no, nobody will catch me. I will not only find out
what's on this videotape, but I'll have that Umm Kulthum tape. I'm
doing too much, working too hard, to fail.

The man's voice dies down, and then I stop
hearing him. I've lost him. Maybe he stopped where the police car
was to report me to the officer. I need to get to a subway, fast.
I've run for so long that I don't know where I am. I see small
buildings, stores, and children playing. It looks similar to the
neighborhood of the store, but I know I'm farther away.

I look around, thinking Nasreen may spot me.
She doesn't appear, which is okay because she told me to go home if
she couldn't catch up with me. I step inside a grocery store and
ask the cashier where the closest subway station is. This'll be my
first time alone in the subway. If someone told me days ago to
travel alone on the subway, with no guidance from friends or
family, I would've said no. This is the new me. I listen to the
cashier tell me how many rights and lefts I need to make, and I'm
out.

I take the trip by myself. In the train, when
everyone looks absorbed in a magazine, newspaper, or window-gazing,
I look into the paper bag without pulling the video out. I have to
stifle a groan of shock... everything about the two brothers makes
sense.

Chapter Twenty-o
ne

I don't want to walk in on Auntie by myself,
so I walk around the block a few times. When I pass the playground
Omar isn't there, which is a blessing. I don't need him wondering
what I'm doing by myself, without Nasreen. We're like each other's
shadows this summer.

Every time I see someone with spiky, black
hair, I walk toward the person. After a few false alarms, it's
really her. "Hey!" she yells from across the street. She jaywalks
to catch up with me. "I was looking for you but figured you were so
far ahead of me you couldn't find me."

"Yes," I say. "I made it here alone. What an
experience. I can't believe I did that!"

"I know. You're a soccer star, or so you've
told me since I haven't watched you play. I know you can dance, and
now I know you can mug and run. You were amazing! Good for you, for
us. Let's go inside and look at the contents of that bag."

We've learned our lesson regarding Omar. He's
not at home, but we're not taking any chances of him walking in on
us. Nasreen sticks a chair under the doorknob, and we settle on the
floor. The paper bag is in my lap, and I upturn it onto the carpet.
The video tumbles out.

THESE WOMEN AREN'T WEARING YOUR JADDA'S
PANTIES

NASTY, NAUGHTY MIDDLE EASTERN BABES

A LUSTFUL VIRGIN BRIDE, TOUCHED FOR THE VERY
FIRST TIME

Along with thinking that whoever wrote the
smutty blurb for this video was ripping off Madonna, I'm disgusted.
Jadda
means "grandmother," and the woman on the tape
certainly isn't wearing big granny underwear but itty-bitty pieces
of fabric. I've never seen porn before. I look at the young lady on
the cover who's wearing a corset, panties, and garter belts. She
has thick eyebrows, dark eyes, and curly hair... she could be a
relative or family friend. It's incongruous that she's a porn star.
My parents always told me that Western girls did things like this.
No, they're wrong. All types of girls end up in porn.

"Whoa," Nasreen murmurs. "Arabian porn. Who
would have thought this existed?" She picks up the video and looks
at the lingerie-clad model and the blurb, which is in English and
Arabic.

"So those two icky brothers are selling porn
in the back of their store," I say.