The Other Half of My Soul (13 page)

* * *

That night, as Rayna slept, Rami lay awake wishing he had never brought her to this place, wishing he had hearkened to her initial protests about the trip. Visions of Yousef’s wanton eyes casing Rayna sent him into silent madness.
I must shelter Rayna from him. If I could kill the beast, I would
. Bringing Rayna into the contours of his body, he thought it impossible to love her more. “Rayna, rrawhee,” he whispered, “I never meant to pull you into this mess. As long as I am alive, you will be safe. I swear this to you.”

* * *

Rayna opened her sleepy eyes and turned to him. She felt his hands against her skin.
From the beginning, Rami has shared all of his life with me. No other man would trust me so completely or cherish me so intensely.
No longer could Rayna exist without Rami’s love. Nothing in the world would ever change that.

sixteen

What good to us is a long life if it is difficult and barren of joys, and if it is so full of misery that we can only welcome death as a deliverer?

—Sigmund Freud

On Monday morning, the second of June, the R-train from Brooklyn pulled into the station under the World Trade Center. Rayna fought her way through the crowd, emerging onto the platform. Following the masses up the escalator to ground level, she stepped out onto the grand concourse that connected the north and south towers and housed the largest shopping mall in Lower Manhattan. More than seventy-five stores and restaurants beckoned to Rayna. She looked at her watch. There was little time. She continued to the main corridor of the south building and made her way to the express elevators. With people pushing rudely, she found herself crammed into the next available lift. Its last stop was the upper sky lobby on the seventy-third floor. Scurrying to keep up with the group, she followed them to a second set of elevators. Squeezing into one, she rode it to the ninety-first floor. Finding her way to
InterContinental Weekly
, Rayna proceeded through a set of glass doors.

* * *

She approached the receptionist, and introduced herself.

“Mr. Newborn will be with you shortly. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No. Thank you.” Rayna took a seat and waited. On the brass-and-chrome coffee table lay the latest copy of
InterContinental Weekly
. She picked it up. “Turkey Adamantly Denies Armenian Genocide.” The headline caught her eye. She thumbed through the pages and found the article.

“Good morning. You must be Rayna. I’m Simon Newborn.” He extended his hand. Her fingers buckled under his strong handshake. The magazine fell from her lap. He bent and picked it up. “For you to keep,” he smiled. She scrambled to rise. “Come on in my office,” he gestured.

Rayna followed the tall, burly man into a handsomely appointed suite. She waited for him to settle into his black leather executive chair before sitting down opposite him. As he reviewed her file, she scanned the room. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase stretched across the wall behind his desk. A round conference table with six chairs occupied space by the span of windows. A large caricature hung on the left wall; it depicted Simon surrounded by various plaques, each with a different inscription:
President
,
Publisher
,
Chairman
,
CEO
.
Simon was portrayed in a dilemma as to which title to choose. The illusion of God’s voice beaming down, commanding him to take all, illustrated Simon’s powerful and influential position.

The phone rang. “Yes.” Simon put his hand over the mouth-piece. “I’ll be just a moment. It’s my wife.”

Rayna walked over to the windows.
He does have beautiful views
. It was thrilling to look out onto New York Harbor and see the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the Verrazano Bridge.
Rami would love it up here
.
I can’t wait to bring him into the city and show him the sights
. She missed Rami, yet believed in the importance of sacrificing for the future. It was at her insistence that he was at the University of Maryland taking summer classes so he could graduate early with her. Rayna intended to live at her parents’ house in Brooklyn during the summer months and commute into Manhattan for her internship. The weekends would be theirs—rotating between Washington and New York.

“Isn’t the view spectacular? You’re lucky to have caught it on such a clear day.” Simon’s booming voice projected like that of an actor on a Broadway stage.

“Oh, yes,” she acknowledged, jarred by the interference with her thoughts.

“We have a lot of ground to cover and not a whole lot of time.” Glancing at the clock on the wall, he said, “I’ve got a plane to catch. We’re opening a new office in Istanbul.”

“Turkey?” She quickly recalled the front cover headline: “Turkey Adamantly Denies Armenian Genocide.”

“That’s the country.” Leaning back in his chair, Simon’s commanding figure was intimidating. Rayna maintained her composure. A half hour passed. Their talk was going well. Again, Simon looked at the clock. “Rayna, I carefully hand-pick my staff members. Our people are the best in the business. Some were once interns like you.
InterContinental Weekly
is the most widely circulated magazine in the world. Every issue is translated into thirteen languages. We are constantly growing and fortunate to have advertisers clamoring for space.”

“Advertisers keep you in business . . .”

“You’re darn right! They pay our bills. But we don’t compromise for them. Our reporting is factual and ethical. I demand it. Now, your first six weeks on the job will be to study media law. That’s all you’ll do. Everything is set up. We don’t like lawsuits. Whatever we print must be accurate and verifiable. It’s our policy.”

“Can I write something for the magazine after . . .”

“Kamil and I chose you from among the hundreds of candidates because your writing samples were crisp and clear and your topics well researched and relevant.”

“Did you say Kamil? Kamil Adjmi?” The name sparked Rayna’s intellect. She and Eli had often watched his interviews on television and avidly read his weekly column.

“Kamil will be delighted that you know of him, especially since he’ll be your mentor this summer.” Simon stood. “We’re pleased to have you on board. Call me Simon, everyone else does. Now let me show you to your office and introduce you to Kamil before I get going.”

* * *

Rayna’s office was narrow. It had no windows. The white walls were bare. A television monitor, a VCR, and a printer filled the space on a metal table. A computer and telephone sat on the desk. Opening the drawers of the two file cabinets, Simon showed Rayna the many disks and videos. He pointed to books and magazines cramming the shelves of a tall bookcase. “I urge you to make use of every available resource. You have six weeks . . . and a lot of learning to do if you want to write for
InterContinental Weekly
.”

* * *

Kamil Adjmi was a respected and world-renowned journalist. He was of medium height and weight. His black hair was cropped and his hazel eyes sparkled when he smiled. Kamil coached Rayna on operating the equipment and walked her through the material at hand. “We can take lunch together and talk more. Come by my office at twelve-thirty.”

* * *

Just before noon, as Rayna was deep into a tutorial, her cell phone rang. “Hi, Mom.”

“Rayna, I’m at the hospital with your grandfather. New York Presbyterian. How soon can you get here? I’d like to go back to Deal and was hoping you could help out . . . spend the evening with him . . . someone from the family should . . .”

“I get off at five. I’ll take a cab and come straight from work. What’s the room number?” Rayna jotted down the information. “Tell Jidaw I love him and I’ll be there soon. Mom, is he going to be alright?”

“No, he isn’t. My father’s dying. His kidneys . . . it’s just a matter of time. The family . . . me and my sisters and brothers . . . we were hoping you would spend the evenings with him . . . a few hours after work every night. Maybe the weekend, also. We’ll take turns coming into the city from Deal to spend the days with him.”

“Of course I’ll be there for Jidaw. See you later. Bye.”

* * *

At twelve-thirty, Rayna appeared at Kamil’s door. She knocked, then peeked in. “Ready?”

Making their way down the elevators, Kamil led Rayna through the lunchtime congestion to Gemelli’s Italian Restaurant. They looked over the menu and ordered. While waiting for the food to arrive, Rayna pulled out a list of questions. Kamil laughed. “All these questions and it’s only your first day. Simon didn’t warn me about you.”

Regarding him intently, she said, “I never miss reading your columns. And my brother Eli and I have watched so many of your interviews. It’s an honor to work with you.”

“Ah! So you know of me?”

“Yes, I do. People say that you have a gift for shedding light on the darkness that wishes to remain hidden. How do you choose what to write about? Aren’t you concerned for your safety when you expose so much of the world’s injustices?” Energetically, Rayna rattled off one question after another before coming to a halt. “You’re grinning at me.”

“I am.” Kamil was amused at her inquisitiveness and taken with her unique beauty. “I could stay a while longer this evening and respond to all of your questions.”

“Thank you, Kamil, I would really like that, but I can’t tonight. My jidaw is in the hospital and I must go see him after work.”

“I understand . . . uhhh . . . did you say your jidaw?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. My grand . . .”

“I know. Your grandfather. I hope he will soon get well. Have you always referred to your grandfather as your jidaw?”

“Yes. Always.”

“And your grandmother?”

“
Sitaw
. But she died three years ago.”

“I’m sorry. Tell me, where are your grandparents from?”

“Syria. From Halab . . . Aleppo.”

Kamil was delighted to make the connection. “I, too, am from Syria. From Hamah. But now I’m American.”

“Are you Sunni or Shi’ite?”

“Sunni.”

“I’m Jewish.”

“I won’t hold it against you. Simon is also Jewish.”

“Hamah . . . didn’t a massacre occur there?”

Instinctively, Kamil tensed.

“Will you tell me about it?”

“Another time. Right now we both have work to do.”

* * *

Later, back in his office, Kamil was tapping at his keyboard when he caught sight of Rayna in his peripheral vision. She stood by his desk. Stopping, he looked up at her and spoke softly. “Rayna, what now? I have a column to write and a deadline to meet.”

“Please, Kamil.” She mumbled nervously and sat down. “I need a favor. There’s a terrorist from Syria . . .”

“Speak up, Rayna. I can’t understand you.”

“There’s a terrorist . . . a militant . . . from Syria,” she stated more boldly. “His first name is Yousef. I don’t know his last name. He’s high up the ladder in al-Shahid.”

“How do you know of this man?” Kamil gave her his full attention.

Rayna fidgeted. “I need Yousef’s last name and a profile on him. Please, can you help me?” She held her breath.

He looked at her intently and asked again, “How do you know of this man?”

“I’ve met him.”

“
You met him
?” Kamil did not suspect such an answer. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Please. Can you help me?” Rayna waited as Kamil clicked away at the computer.

“Is this the man?” He handed her a profile and picture of Yousef Mugniyeh. “Is this the Yousef you met?” Kamil studied her face.

Rayna examined the picture. She remembered him vividly, right down to the long jagged scar etched into his left cheek. “Yes.”

“You owe me something in return. I want to know what you know. Tell me about him. Where did you meet Yousef Mugniyeh?”

“I can’t . . .”

“You can’t or you won’t? What’s holding you back, Rayna?”

“Please . . . I can’t.”

Until that moment, Kamil said nothing of the gold band Rayna wore. “Are you married?”

She clutched at the profile, using it to obscure the ring on her left hand. “Is it customary to ask personal questions of your interns?”

“No, it isn’t, Rayna. But it is also not customary for an intern to ask for a profile of a prominent Muslim terrorist that she has met. You, a Jew . . .”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’m married.”

“Is your husband mixed up with Yousef?” Rayna did not answer. Instead, she stood to leave. Kamil jumped up and blocked the door. “Is he?”

“No,” she lied.

There’s a connection between Yousef Mugniyeh and her husband
. For years, Kamil had been chasing slippery clues. Now he would pursue Rayna until he got answers.

“Your husband? Jew or Muslim?”

Silence.

“Jew or Muslim?”

“Muslim.”

“Sunni or Shi’ite?”

Again, she kept silent.

“Sunni or Shi’ite?”

“Shi’ite.”

“Lunch tomorrow. Be at my door at twelve-thirty.”

* * *

On the phone, Rayna told Rami about Kamil and the profile on Yousef Mugniyeh. “Yousef is on the government’s ten-most-wanted list of terrorists. He can’t enter the United States. There’s a ten-million-dollar bounty on his head. We’ll talk more when you come.” She then told Rami about her grandfather. “After work, I’ll take a cab and go see him. I’ll call you later. I miss you. Bye.”

“I am starving for you. I do not think I can last until Friday.”

* * *

In a private room in the geriatric wing of New York Presbyterian, Rayna’s eighty-four-year-old grandfather lay dying. Sarah had been waiting for her daughter to arrive. She stiffened when Rayna approached to hug her. “I must get back to Deal, and I don’t look forward to the rush-hour traffic. Your grandfather is sleeping, so let him rest.” Sarah walked out to the elevator and pressed the button. Rayna followed behind.

“Mom . . .”

The elevator door opened and Sarah stepped in. “Eli will come by around nine to pick you up. You and your brother can grab a bite to eat on your way home.” The elevator door closed.

* * *

Alone now in the room with her jidaw, Rayna felt the strong connection flow between them.
He has aged so much since my sitaw died
. Rayna was fully aware of the intense love her grandparents had for each other. She witnessed Isaac’s suffering after he lost his wife. “Jidaw, I love you so very much,” she whispered to herself. Of Isaac’s thirty-three grandchildren, Rayna had always been his favorite. The two used to spend hours debating portions of the Tanakh. They played backgammon, sang Syrian songs, and took long walks together. Whenever there had been flareups with her mother, and Eli was not around to provide a cushion, Rayna would run down the street to her grandparents. Always, Isaac was there with open arms.

Approaching his bed, she thought he was sleeping. Tubes carrying medicines and nourishment into Isaac’s body delayed the inevitable. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. Affectionately, she took his hand. It was mottled with brown age-spots, and it was cold. “Jidaw, it’s me, Rayna. I’m here.” She felt him squeeze her hand. “I love you, Jidaw.”