Queens Noir (38 page)

"If your feelings for this woman are strong, you should
take her," Azis counseled, "but remember that Americans pride themselves on turning their wives and daughters into
whores, and that any goodness you see in her is an illusion.
This woman, the Jew, Beryl, is a whore."

Ramzi glanced then at Azis. Being an imam had freed Azis
from the need to assimilate. The infidel seemed to expect him
to retain his ethnicity, and he hadn't disappointed. His perfectly white turban was arranged so skillfully it appeared to
be an extension of his brow. Azis wore a long beard which
extended to his ears. He shaved it almost to the edge of his
jaw line, leaving his face exposed and causing the beard to jut
out at an angle from his chin that gave Ramzi the impression
that Azis's face grew out of his facial hair instead of the other
way around. Azis shifted slightly and the glare left the bifocals
he habitually wore. Ramzi saw that Azis was contemplating
him fondly.

Ramzi turned his hand over, allowing him to wrap his fingers around Azis's. Why had he doubted? He let his breath out
and with it went his anxiety about Beryl. Allah is all-knowing.
Azis was wise indeed. Richmond Hill High bragged at its role
in producing fallen women. Mae West and Cyndi Lauper were
two of its proudest alumni. He need not fear becoming too
involved with the hussy, Beryl.

He smiled at Azis, who smiled back.

"You came to me with the idea to take this Jew woman. It
is a good idea. It will deepen your cover, and I see in your eyes
you know it is right. Now that you are sure, there are things I
must tell you, things you need to know about these fornicating She-Devils ..."

A week later, Ramzi waited by the staff room door. "Heading
out?" he asked, trying to sound casual when he saw Beryl. He
fell in with her as she left for the day. When he pushed the door open for her, his jaw was tight and his stomach fluttered.
It was ridiculous; he was forty years old, after all. Beryl wore
a tight skirt and a low-cut blouse, and as she sauntered along
beside him her coat flared open revealing cleavage. Ramzi
looked away discreetly. "How's it going?" he asked.

"Not bad. How are you doing with 9B? Have they settled
down?"

"Yes, thanks to you. You told me to get on top of Kasan
and you were right. Once he was under control the others fell
in line."

Beryl grinned. "He's a tough customer that one. Way too
big and strong for his years. His father is in the Russian mafia."

Ramzi raised his eyebrows and shook his head as if he were
shocked, although he knew all about Kasan's connections.

Beryl's heels clicked pleasantly to the end of the hallway
and then stopped as she paused inside the door to do up her
coat. Their eyes met and Ramzi smiled at her. He felt a pang
of guilt. But why? Beryl was an infidel hussy, and he had Azis's
dispensation. Ramzi opened the outside door and held it for
her. As Beryl passed him, he caught a whiff of perfume. It
brought to mind lilacs and spring.

The air was frigid, turning their breath into clouds of vapor. Azis's warning haunted him. He caught himself staring at
Beryl. He blushed and forced himself to focus on the ground
as they walked in silence to her car. The moody sky threatened snow, and it would be dark by 4:30 p.m. Beryl drew her
scarf tight around her neck. Her cheeks, ears, and the tip of
her nose had turned red; her beauty made him ache. If her
husband were a real man, if he'd stuck by his wife, then Ramzi
could never have contemplated using her in this way. The
thought that it was Jeff's fault, not his, comforted him.

Taking a woman would help deepen his cover. Handled correctly, it would make him even more invisible. Beside an
American woman, his surveillance wouldn't draw suspicion.
And there were other benefits. He could go to the beach and
to the Museum of Natural History and all the other places in
New York he wanted to see, but felt too conspicuous to go
alone.

Beryl pushed the key into her car door. It was now or never.
He cleared his throat.

"Beryl, would you do me the honor of accompanying me
to dinner and a movie this Saturday night?"

She looked confused, then slightly amused-he had been
too formal, he knew. He had met Fatima on their wedding
day; today was the first time in his life he had asked a woman
out. He was more nervous than he expected to be and cursed
himself for this.

She smiled. "Dinner and a movie. Why not?"

It was all Ramzi could do not to high-five her.

Ramzi swept inside the mosque amid a flurry of coats and
scarves and wet umbrellas. Azis stood against the wall surrounded by his followers. Ramzi tried to control his expression. He wanted to appear his usual calm self but his emotions
were in turmoil. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry when he
caught the imam's eye. Azis shook his head and lowered his
gaze.

Back on the street, Ramzi realized Beryl's acceptance had
left him cranky. A woman her age shouldn't be dating at all.
Azis had not only approved his plan to take a woman, he had
encouraged it. But now Ramzi no longer wanted to go through
with it.

The wind picked up, and icy needles attacked his exposed
cheeks. He moved quickly and almost went flying when his foot hit ice and shot out in front of him. By the time he got to
his apartment, he was moving at a steady trot. He paused on
his stoop, ripped open his mailbox, and flipped through the
contents. He sweated and his legs twitched from the run. What
must it feel like? His breathing didn't slow even though he'd
been still for several minutes. To his eternal shame, there was
movement in his trousers. He must complete his mission and
leave this country. But first, dinner and a movie with Beryl.

Ramzi squeezed Beryl's hand. To think he'd once dreaded dating her. She had become as familiar to him as his leather recliner. Today she wore her cobalt-blue jacket open, revealing
a long-sleeved T-shirt that looked perfect with her jeans and
sneakers.

He parked on Utopia Parkway near the off-ramp of the
Cross Island Parkway. Behind them was an entrance to Little
Bay Park that followed the water's edge to Fort Totten and
then on to the Bayside Marina. On his first visit he had discovered that if you keep walking south, the path leads beneath
the Long Island Rail Road and up onto Northern Boulevard.

He got out of the car, opened the trunk, and grabbed a
picnic basket and blanket. Beryl scanned for the entrance.
Along the road, just inside the park, was a dark wooded area
where the spring grass was unkempt, and several ragged trees
made it seem unwelcoming.

"Follow me," Ramzi said. He headed back up toward the
off-ramp and waited for her by two rectangular brick piles that
marked the entry to the park. "This is the back way, but you
get a nice view of the bridge and water."

"How do you know so many beautiful places? I've lived in
Queens all my life and I never knew this was here," Beryl said.

As they entered the park, Ramzi touched his finger to his lip to silence her. A crumbling concrete trail began at the
entrance, but petered out within fifty yards of the gate, leaving them to walk through grass. Ramzi breathed in the scent.
Fresh cut grass, blossoms, and manure, it all added up to
spring. It was barely April, but the forecast said seventy, and
already it was warm and sunny. The sky was the richest blue,
and the water, though grayish-green, was mirror-still, reflecting the bridge.

"I came from the mountains in what is almost desert,
not this lush green and expanse of water," he said by way of
explanation.

Had he made a mistake? Yes, it was a good idea to use this
woman for cover, but he should have chosen a more brazen,
less likeable one. It was a constant struggle to keep her at a
distance. It troubled him. He had to remind himself this was a
She-Devil, however kind, and that he was performing his duty
to Allah by deceiving her. But he couldn't banish the thought
that she was a good woman trapped in an evil culture. He
felt her round hip rub against his, and despite himself he was
aroused. The first time they'd slept together he'd been terrified. He had listened to Azis's warning, and read New York
magazine every week. The sexual habits of New Yorkers repelled, yet fascinated him.

He had been content with his wife. In truth, sex wasn't
something he'd given much thought to before coming to live
in Queens. Americans seemed obsessed with it, as if it were
the most important thing in the world. It was true that he enjoyed sex. When he and Fatima did it, he felt close and safe.
No one in Pakistan ever talked about love. That was something for the blasphemers of Bollywood to churn out in their
endless stream of movies. Seeing Fatima was often accompanied by a feeling of warmth and longing, and if he'd ever given it any thought, he'd have been happy to call that love.

Beryl turned to him and smiled. He knew she looked forward to these outings. She'd lost fifteen pounds from the exercise and claimed to be fitter than she'd been in years. Even
in winter, Ramzi had led her along the water's edge, although
one day in early March he'd had to abandon his plans because
the path was slick with ice. Instead, he'd taken her on a luxury
water cruise. He felt a twinge of guilt when he remembered
Beryl that night-giggling like a schoolgirl, posing for his pictures. She couldn't have guessed that the true subject of those
photos were the bridges and buildings and port facilities in
the background. He'd taken enough photos to fill a 256MB
memory card. Their expeditions became more frequent as the
weather warmed up. They'd explored the whole length of the
Long Island waterfront from the Brooklyn Bridge to today's
outing at the Throgs Neck Bridge.

"What's that?" Ramzi asked, pointing to a chicken-wire
enclosure about the size of a residential building block.

The park was crowded with people, some lone walkers,
some in groups, and some on bicycles. The slope down to the
water was dotted with sunbathers who had dragged fold-up
chairs to the park and sprawled in their swimsuits. Two women
in leotards power-walked, while another couple glided by on
rollerblades. Inside the enclosure he'd pointed at, the grass
had been worn to dirt. It was mobbed with people and dogs,
and the stench of animal excrement, fur, dog breath, and urine
wafted from it.

"It's a dog run."

"A what?"

"A dog run. In New York City you have to keep your dog
leashed most of the time. Inside that, you can let it run free."

"Really?" Ramzi was appalled: In his country, dogs were rabid curs. Here they were more pampered than children.

They made their way down the gentle, sloping lawn toward the path, and met up with it under the bridge's pylons.
The tide was low and the air had a decidedly fishy tinge to it.

"Look at this bridge," he said. "What a magnificent
achievement. Look at the pylons, they're solid. And the cables could hold it up on their own."

"I suppose I should be grateful we're not discussing piston
engines," Beryl said.

Ramzi turned his attention from the bridge to his companion. He glared at her. "You know how much I admire these
bridges, not just the engineering either, they are magnificent."
He slid his arm around her. They passed under the bridge and
beside some soccer fields where elementary and middle school
children battled it out. The shouts from the parents fought
with the noise of the traffic on the bridge overhead.

Ramzi's mission loomed before him, and the thought of it
filled him with dread. The longer he stayed here, the harder it
was to maintain his rage. Jihad had saved him from shiftlessness and had given him direction. Of course, he despised Beryl,
but until he started to date her he hadn't realized how much
he missed a woman's touch. Then, despite himself, Beryl had
begun to mean something to him. In time, he began to know
the infidel, and had developed a liking for many of them.

Beryl's hand crept around his waist and she kissed his
cheek as they strolled along. At the same time, he was fully
cognizant that a war was being fought and he had chosen a
side. Beryl was a weapon the Great Satan had abandoned in
the field. He had merely picked it up where it lay and was putting it to good use.

They rounded a bend. "Let's look for a place to eat," Beryl
said. There was a hilly section where man-made mounds of earth had long since become part of the landscape; grass and
trees grew on them.

"Let's eat up there on the plateau," he suggested. "That
way you can watch the view and I can watch the soccer."
Ramzi laid out the blanket and Beryl spread the food on it.
She'd made sandwiches, brought sodas, and packed grapes
into Ziploc bags. She'd gotten used to Ramzi not drinking alcohol, and had given it up herself. For dessert, she'd bought a
pie at The Stork in College Point.

After they ate, Ramzi lay his head on her lap and stared
at the sky. Several trees were just coming into blossom and
filled the air with a heady but pleasant scent. Immediately, an
image of Beryl on her knees before him, her mouth clamped
firmly around his penis, came to mind. He remembered the
fear he felt when she did it the first time. Ramzi had never
hit a woman, but looking down on Beryl's soft, shiny hair, her
head bobbing at his crotch, he wanted to knock her across the
room and scream, Have you no pride, woman? No fear of God?

Azis had given Ramzi absolution when he first warned
him this would happen. They had prayed together. In the end,
Ramzi grew too ashamed to face Azis. Perhaps God would forgive him. After all, he had submitted to serve Allah. But Beryl
would go to Hell.

He feared telling Azis the worst. This abomination had
given him the most intense pleasure of his life, while the shame
crushed him. How could he ever speak with a decent Muslim
woman again? Azis's dispensation meant nothing. He was
tainted, dirty, and the shame of it would never leave him.