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on 25-01-2004 05:04
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by Zeba Khan
The hands on the clock said 1:45. She would come at 1:58, though her appointment was at two, and she would walk in and give a polite smile and say, quite simply, Hello. And he would smile, genuinely happy, and stand and return the greeting, courteously ask how she was doing, and then offer her a chair on the other side of his desk. Then he would sit in tense silence as she opened her bag and took out the grammar books and the lessons for the day. He would look only at her hands as she did, because looking at her face would be too obvious.
She would produce all of the relevant papers, and he would read through his homework in a nervous voice. Me, nervous! he thought. Im a grown man. And she would nod when the work was right, or gently explain when the work was wrong, or if he had written something particularly complex or clever, she would simply say, "Good." It was 1:52 now, and there were still six minutes to go.
She came on his lunch break. He had two hours for lunch, that being one of the perks of his job. He was the second-in command in a large corporate firm, and saw a steady stream of rich and important international clients for whom English was the common language. Thats why he was taking English classes, to fine-tune his accent, to turn his beesness into business and his moanie into money.
("Eye-yam so sorry meester Stein, but I cannot see you jast today. Bleese talk to my seketary and we will work out de abointmint for you. Yes yes, off course. Gudbye.")
"A P is not a B," she explained somberly one day. "Though they are both made with the lips, there is a tremendous difference between the words pit and bit. Can you hear it?"
He would smile apologetically and stare at his fingernails. There was no letter P in the Arabic alphabet. He had a tremendously hard time trying to say the words pathos, pink, and portfolio, especially while looking at his teachers lips.
"And your letter T," she explained one day, kindly so as not to insult him, "does not belong on the tip of your teeth. It belongs on the roof of your mouth just behind the teeth."
Over a course of three months, he had worked hard and succeeded in changing his accent from the harsh, guttural rendition of English that is common to Arabs, into the soft and almost pleasant accent of a highly educated foreigner. A good friend of his, a British lawyer, saw him one day after many months, and said with begrudging admiration, "My God Salim, you sound like a villain from a bloody James Bond film!"
At this he smiled and gave Robert and gentle punch in the pin-stripes. "It is my English teacher, I have been taking her classes for three months, she is good."
"She must be British then," Robert said, more as a statement than a question.
"Oh no," Salim shook his head, "She is American."
"But not incurably, Id bet," Robert laughed. "Just give me three months and Id put a bit of British in her." Here Robert winked wickedly, and for some reason, Salim found himself inwardly seething. Robert noticed the sudden darkening, the slight narrowing of the eyes, and said, "Are you feeling quite well? You look ill a bit suddenly."
Salim held both of his palms out and bowed his head slightly to excuse himself. "It is this traveling. I have flown to London three times this month, and it tires me."
"Very well then." Robert clapped Salim on the shoulder, a little hesitantly, and took leave. As soon as Robert was safely beyond the door and closed inside of the private elevator, Salim had sat down on his leather chair and felt around for the bottle of Scotch inside his desk. He had poured himself a double and thrown the drink down in one go.
He had long since stopped feeling guilty for drinking alcohol. Even though he was a Muslim, and his religion forbade all intoxicants, the cult of success demanded that he make a champagne toast on certain official occasions, and politely accept the fine wines that his happier clients bestowed upon him, for refusal would be seen as unprofessional, uncivilized, even. And now, he had made the inevitable transition from a slightly guilty Muslim who sipped champagne at company dinners to wholly guiltless Muslim who drank Scotch in the privacy of his office.
After another drink he had felt as though he might not kill Robert after all.
The American teacher was Muslim too, strangely enough. Salim perfectly remembered how shocked he was the first time he saw her: skin as white as bone, ice-blue eyes, and a delicate cream scarf wound about her head like some sort of holy aura. It hung from her head where she had pinned it, and the light shone through the layers. She looked more like an apparition than an English teacher. She was wearing something underneath of the scarf, a lacy head-band. The edge of it showed on her forehead just above her eyebrows, just above those blue eyes. He hadnt met a woman in a scarf since...since he had made his pilgrimage to Mekkah four years ago, and on the way back, stopped in the duty-free shop in the airport and bought some vodka for his colleagues.
He had been late that first time, and his secretary had led her into Salims office and sat her down on the over-stuffed sofa in front of the bay window. She had been reading a book when he walked in, and when she looked up to greet him, he saw that the light from the window shone through her eyes like they were made of glass. It had unnerved him, they were very nice eyes, but they were a tad unnatural. He never got his calm back, he was never able to collect himself in her presence, not since then.
Salim thought about pouring himself a drink now, but reconsidered. She would be here in one minute, and she would smell the alcohol on his breath. He would be better off checking his homework again. He picked up his pen and tried to twirl it in his fingers, it fell from his hand and clattered noisily onto the desk. Salim looked at it without picking it up, and sighed.
(I, Salim Al-Umari, I who makes deals in the millions of dollars, I can have any woman I want, and yet I have dropped my pen more times in her presence than I have in my entire life...)
Salim placed both of his hands on his desk and stared at them, lost in his own thoughts. He was surprised when he heard his clock softly chime two oclock. She was two minutes late. What if she wasnt coming? Last class, she had looked up at him just as he was stealing a glance at her, and there had been a few second of awkward silence. She had flushed a beautiful shade of carnation pink and then turned quickly back to the book in front of her. What if she was angry? What if she refused to come anymore?
Salim rubbed his hands together, cleared his throat, quietly practiced his homework, and readjusted his tie all in the course of the next two minutes. His phone rang, and he nearly jumped out of his seat.
"Sir?" the secretary said on the other end, "Your teacher called. She apologizes for the delay and says she will arrive shortly."
"Thank you, thank you," he muttered into the phone, and then hung it up without listening for his secretarys reply.
She was coming. He opened his desk drawer and poured himself a drink before he had time to reconsider. He drank it quickly, and then followed it with another. He closed the bottle and stowed it away hastily, then he went to his private bathroom and brushed his teeth vigorously. He splashed water on his face and then dried up with a monogrammed towel. He returned to his desk and quickly called his secretary, and ordered that two cups of strong coffee should be brought in when the teacher arrived. He had just hung up the phone when he heard the hiss of the elevator doors opening, and the staccato click of her heels on the marble floor. He fixed his eyes upon his desk, and did his best to appear thoughtful, or nonchalant, or calm, or anything but anxious and increasingly warm on the inside from Scotch.
She opened the heavy wooden door without knocking and stepped inside the room. She smiled politely and said, "Hello."
And he smiled, genuinely happy, and stood and returned the greeting, and then offered her a chair on the other side of his desk. She opened her bag and began pulling out the books and lessons, and he stared politely at his own hands. The secretary came in a second later, bearing a tray with two cups of coffee, and set them down on the large desk. "Cream and sugar?" she asked the teacher.
"Both please." The teacher looked up said thank you, and gave the secretary a smile, one very much unlike the one she gave to Salim every week. This one was softer. (Ah, thought Salim sadly. That must be a real smile, and the one she gives me must be just formality).
When the secretary had left, the teacher sipped her cup of coffee tentatively and then said in her strange American way, "Sorry Im late. I had some problems with my car on the way here. Thanks for the coffee. Its pretty good."
"Youre welcome," Salim said, and he was very careful to from his lips into a circle when pronouncing the w in welcome. Salim sipped his coffee, and then, before he could think, blurted out, "I thought you were not coming."
He mentally braced for the bolt of lightening he expected to strike him for his impropriety.
"Pardon me?" she said with her coffee cup halfway to her mouth.
Encouraged by the teachers subdued reaction, and by the Scotch, he cleared his throat and said, "I said I thought you were not coming."
"Oh no," she said, "I would call if I had to cancel."
The coffee was finished in silence and the lesson began. Salim did his best to pay attention and to covertly study his teachers face at the same time. It was a fairly difficult task, since all of the conversation revolved around the lesson, and the entire lesson was in the books on the desk. There was no legitimate reason to look up during the lesson at all.
When the lesson was finished, the teacher gave her wrist a small shake and her watch slid out of her sleeve. "Ive stayed ten minutes to make up for me being late," she said looking at it, "I hope I havent made you late for something."
"Not at all," Salim said, leaning back in his chair and looking up at her. He liked this chair a lot, it was quite expensive, made of soft Italian leather and expertly engineered. It had a comfortable feel, and an aura of money and power about it. "You were having problems with your car?"
"Yes," the teacher nodded. "Ive already spoken to your secretary about it, shes a very sweet lady. Shes going to call me a cab."
"A cab?" Salim said uncertainly, trying to remember something.
"Yes, a cab is a taxi. A taxi cab."
"I should have remembered that," Salim said, "I knew that word. A taxi, one minute please." Salim dialed his secretary. "Hello? Yes, cancel the uh...cab. Send the driver up please. Yes. Thank you."
Salim looked up and saw bewilderment on the teachers face. He registered the look with private and pleasant surprise. "I would not dream," Salim said, choosing his words carefully, "Of sending you in a taxi cab. Please accept the services of my driver instead."
"Oh no no," the teacher said quickly, straightening and holding both of her hands out, palms forward. "A cab will be fine, please dont trouble yourself."
"Trouble myself?" Salim smiled, feeling the soft leather on the arms of his chair, "It is no trouble to myself, only to the driver, and he is paid enough to be troubled in such a way. I am sorry I will not be accompanying you, only my driver."
The teacher was visibly relieved. "Thank you," she said a bit more calmly, "Thats very nice of you, and of your driver."
There was a self-conscious pause in the conversation as Salim tried to say something that was fitting, grammatically correct, and possibly friendly. Before he could think of something that fit all three requirements, there was a knock at the door and a uniformed driver stepped in. He gave a deferential bow and said, "Madame?"
The teacher smiled at him and stood up, and then turned slowly back to Salim. "Thanks again," she said haltingly, "I appreciate the ride. The day after tomorrow at the same time then?"
"Yes," Salim nodded, standing up, "The same time."
The teacher followed the driver out of the door. Salim stood until he heard the hiss of the elevator doors, and even for a few minutes afterwards. Then he allowed a guilty smile to spread over his face as he sat down and locked his fingers together, propping them under his chin. He was thinking of her reaction, how when she refused his ride, she said no, not once, but twice very quickly. And her eyes had widened. Had she suddenly straightened in her chair?
Salims eyes darted from left to right over the space on his desk as he processed these signs. He knew what people looked like when they were afraid. Dozens of men came into his office weekly and cowered in the same chair that she sat in, quietly terrified of the power he wielded and the favor he could bestow or withhold at his leisure. They all sat erect in their chairs, blinking more often than what is natural. Some openly cringed, some of them feigned cheerfulness, some of them wore fake nonchalance, and the bravest of them put on an air of humble dignity to cover their inferiority before him.
It was too good to be true. Salim must not believe that this teacher, this confident and professional teacher he had meekly submitted to for the last three months, was actually afraid of him! But still, he savored the outlandish thought, and decided it would taste better with another glass of Scotch.
Later that evening, after a full days work and a gourmet meal, he sat pensively in the back seat of his car. Salim considered himself an expert in the analysis of behavior and body language, and he had been thinking all day of how the teacher had accidentally given him the upper hand this afternoon, how she had accidentally shown that she was nervous, maybe even afraid. Salim felt he could relax now, that he would no longer need to be nervous around her, for he had enough proof that it was she who was nervous around him. He pushed a button on his armrest and the glass dividing the back seat from the front slid open.
"Yes sir?" the driver asked.
"My teachers car, where is it now?"
"I dont know the name of the shop sir, but I know where it is located."
"Take me there now."
"Now, sir?"
The driver was a quiet man, and though Salim never forbade him to speak frankly, he almost never spoke unless he was spoken to and usually never questioned Salims requests.
"Yes. Now."
The driver nodded and the glass went back up. The car was turned away from the part of town that Salim was familiar with, the glass towers, the opulent restaurants, the quietly luxurious private clubs, and headed for a neighborhood of small neat houses with struggling lawns.
The street lights glinted off the curves of the long, black car as it slid noiselessly from the street into the driveway of a mechanics garage. The sign was turned off, but there was a light shining from a room towards the back of the garage, and there was perceptible movement within. There were several cars parked outside the garage, presumably in various states of repair. Salim wondered which one his teacher drove.
The glass slid down again. "Shall I note the phone number sir?"
Salim stared intently at the light in the back room, and felt a trembling of suspense, of good things to come in the future.
"See who is in that room," Salim said slowly, "And if he is the owner, bring him to me."
The back of the drivers head dipped slightly and he opened his door and stepped out. Salim watched, invisible behind his tinted window, as the driver strode purposefully to the window. He knocked on the window, twice, and stepped back. Salim saw another bulb come on in the garage, and the front door opened a crack, sending a slice of warm electric light over the cars parked outside. Salim watched the pantomimed exchange between his driver and the man behind the crack in the door, unable to hear and unable to look away.
Finally a small, stout man emerged from the door with one hand suspiciously in the pocket of his overalls, stepping carefully towards Salims driver. The driver took a step back and gestured towards the car where Salim was sitting. The man took two steps, and then stopped, and then started again. When he had mincingly come as far as the tinted window, the driver opened the passenger door for him, and waited for the man to step in. Salim sat quietly in his corner of the back seat, simmering with anticipation. The man grunted and sat himself down, and the door was closed behind him, then he squinted into the darkness.
"Wh-whos there? What do you want?"
"Sir," Salim said, using sir with a smug sense of irony, "Please dont be alarmed. I need a small favor from you only, and I will pay you handsomely for it."
"The garage is closed," the man said with an admirable show of bravery, "and besides, I dont work on imports."
"You towed a car belonging to one of my friends today," Salim said in the low, smooth voice he used for intimidating lesser men, "I want you to replace anything that is even slightly old with new parts. I want you to clean it, inside and out. I want you to make it run like it is new again, and I want your work to take no less than one week."
"Youd be lucky if I finished all that in just a week!" the man said, forgetting his fear to talk shop, "If you and me are talking about the same car, the one the little Moslem lady with the scarf drives, it can take two weeks to set everything right!"
"No," Salim said, his voice so low he was almost purring, "Finish it in one week and you will not be sorry."
The little man shivered, but still said, "And wh-whos gonna pay for all this?"
"My driver will call you, he will come to check what you have done. Give him the bill for the extra work, and give the lady the bill only for what was broken when you towed it. I trust you will not mention my surprise to her."
The mechanic shook his head quickly and began pushing ineffectually on the handle of the door. Salim unlocked it from the button on his side and the mechanic opened it and tumbled out. He shuffled quickly back to his garage and slammed the door shut behind him. Salim chuckled and ordered the driver home again.
The driver drove, and as Salim watched the neighborhood change and the streets widen, excitement twisted and writhed and throbbed in the bottom of his stomach. (One week. I have one week. Today was Monday, we have class on Wednesday and Friday. He should have the car ready by next Tuesday. That way I can have next Monday, too. Three classes...I have three days..).
Salim spent the next day doing his work with only half of his mind, and even let his attention drift in the middle of a phone call with an overseas client. He was so busy hoping, planning, and scheming that he awoke suddenly to a voice saying of, "Hello? Hello? Umari are you there? Damn this phone line...Ive been talking to myself for the last five minutes. Stella! Call back the son of a...click."
Salim tactfully called the other party back first, and apologized, saying he had gotten disconnected five minutes ago, and had been trying to call back since. He forced himself to concentrate on the call, and made up for his previous neglect with some understated but well-placed flattery. When the call was over, Salim dropped into his chair and leaned back, placing his feet on the desk. He was careful not to put his legs on the pages of English language exercises that were spread out there. They were only half-way done, and poorly at that. Part of his homework was to write sentences with the twenty new vocabulary words that the teacher gave him on a weekly basis, but today, he could not think at all.
On Wednesday morning he stood in his closet and felt at loss. He would wear a suit, that was a given, but which one? If he wore a silver tie, would that seem like too obvious of a cry for attention? His navy suit with the hand-painted silk tie was sedate but well-cut, but then, he had already worn that on Monday.
(Now who is acting like a woman?)
He settled on a gray suit with a patterned silver and maroon tie. It was a color combination that his tailor never failed to mention as "...very sophisticated, sir." He selected a platinum tie clip, one without extra ornamentation, and placed a hundred-dollar pen in his breast pocket. Then he went to his dressing table and frowned at the designer cologne labels. They were all too flashy, the scents were all piney, or floral in a manly way, or clean-smelling. He needed something sedate but masculine, he needed...(Aha! A little bit of musk).
Salim arrived at his office half an hour early to finish his homework, and when his secretary arrived, he ordered her to hold all calls until ten minutes into the workday. That way he would have 40 minutes to finish his work undisturbed. He wanted it to be exceptional, he wanted his teacher to read it and smile and say, "Good."
At 1:30, his lunch was delivered. He ate it quickly and went to his bathroom and brushed his teeth, his hair, his shoes. He straightened his tie and unbuttoned his jacket and went back to his office. She would be coming soon. The secretary had called her at noon to confirm her class, and to ask if she wouldnt need a ride today as well?
Salim glanced over to the clock. It was 1:50. He took his homework out arranged it neatly on the desk. At 1:57, the elevator hissed and the teachers heels came clicking towards his door. The teacher came in and said hello.
He stood up and returned the greeting, and offered her the chair on the other side of his desk. She nodded and sat down, and instead of opening her bag, she looked up and said, "Your secretary asked me if I needed a ride. I thought she was going to send a cab, but your driver picked me up instead."
"Ah, that is Taylor, he insisted that he pick you up."
"Did he?" the teacher said, tilting her head to one side slightly, "Hes such a quiet man."
Salim smiled cheerfully at the teacher, and thought he saw her eyebrows raise just slightly. Still smiling, he said, "Shall we begin the lesson?"
His homework had been done flawlessly, and Salim counted the times he heard his teacher say "Good." Five. He had never gotten five before. And by the end of the lesson, he had only dropped his pen once. It was the teacher who dropped her book instead, and when she moved to pick it up, Salim stood up and said, "Please, let me."
He walked around the tremendous mahogany desk and picked the book up from where it had fallen on the floor. As he crouched at her feet to pick it up, he felt sure that she must be able to smell his cologne. Why else had she shifted in her chair? He picked the book up and placed it gently on the desk, and then returned to his own chair. When the lesson finished, she assigned Fridays homework and began putting her books back in her bag. Salim leaned back in his chair and gazed contentedly at her face as she did this. When she looked up, suddenly, he said right away, "What is the status of your car?"
"The mechanic said that there was some problem with the battery," she said, averting her eyes and putting one last book away, "It wont be ready until Tuesday, I think maybe its because hes busy."
"Taylor asked that he should escort you from here to your home until your own car was ready. He distrusts men who drive taxis. I do as well."
"Oh," she said quietly. "ok." And that was all. The driver knocked on the door and stepped inside. She stood up and followed him out.
Salim sat motionlessly at his desk, trying hard to suppress an elated smile. He was nearly bursting with excitement, he wanted to stand up and dance, he wanted to pump his fist in the air, he wanted to sing. He had expected her to primly refuse, to give some irreproachable excuse for not availing herself of his offer, or maybe even to have another car. Salim himself had three, a black one for work, a silver one for parties, and a red luxury sport utility vehicle for vacations. But she had agreed, and now there was nothing left to do before Friday but wait, and do his homework.
Salim worked especially well on Thursday, he felt alive and well-oiled, he skillfully flattered the appropriate parties and pleasantly threatened others. It was a good day. At the end of it he went home and did his homework enthusiastically.
(Make a sentence for the following vocabulary words:
Persistent: adj. refusing to relent, continuing firmly or steadily. A persistent man always gets what he wants.)
On Friday morning, Salim woke up early and showered. Though he hadnt attended a Friday prayer for years, he still made a small ceremony of bathing thoroughly on the morning of the Sabbath. He emerged from the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist and walked into his closet again. He had woken early enough today to dress himself at a leisurely pace, and so his took his time selecting a suit.
(Pinstripes? Too formal. Black? Too intimidating, or too much like a waiter. Blue? Wore that on Monday. Olive? Ah, olive. Perfect.)
Salim hummed as he stood and dressed before the mirror, a nameless but happy tune of his own improvisation. He selected the same musk he had worn on Wednesday and took care not to put on too little or too much. He gave himself one final appraisal in the mirror before walking out of the door, seeing how his tailored suit fit perfectly over his wide shoulders, buttoned neatly at his trim waist and set his own olive skin off exotically. In a dark blue or black suit that contrasted his skin, Salim could pass as an Italian, maybe even a Slav. But in olive, he had the unmistakable warm glow that only an Arab of medium skin has.
The mornings work went well, and by 12:30, Salim had quite an appetite. He phoned his secretary and cancelled his order-in lunch. He called Taylor shortly afterwards and headed out for a quick lunch to his favorite roof-top cafe. At 1:30, he looked at his watch, wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and left the cafe. As he emerged from the building, Taylor held the door open to the backseat of the car, and Salim climbed in. Taylor got in the front seat and drove, turning the car once again away from the center of town.
Salim inhaled deeply and savored the atmosphere of the back seat. It was cool, and smelled of the leather on the seats and the musk on his suit. He placed his hand on the seat next to him, the palm down and the fingers spread and pressed into the leather. He wondered where she had sat the last time she rode in this car. He wondered what the look on her face would be when she sat down and saw Salim there. Salim tried to picture his teachers smile, not the formal one she gave him every day, but the real one he saw her give to the secretary once. The friendly one, the soft one, the one where her lips actually parted instead of staying pressed politely over her teeth.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, thinking of nothing in particular, content to breathe and feel and anticipate. With his eyes still closed, Salim felt the car slow as it pulled into the teachers driveway. He listened as Taylor opened his door and stepped out, and then listened to the sound of his footsteps go fading into the distance. There were a few minutes of silence, and then the sounds of footsteps crunching back towards the car. Salim turned expectantly towards the door and watched from behind the tinted glass as the driver reached for the handle. The door opened and Salim looked away as his teacher sat down, with her head still turned towards the driver. She was saying thank you. Salim cleared his throat.
The teacher turned suddenly and saw him, and Salim thought he saw the tiniest glimpse of something unpleasant. Alarm, was it? Or was it fear? Salim smiled graciously and said hello. She returned the greeting nervously, simultaneously moving farther away in her seat and smoothing the skirt over her knees. Salim straightened in his seat and pulled his knees closer together.
"I apologize for surprising you." Salim said smoothly, "I had an appointment before this and there was not enough time to drop me at the office and then pick you up."
"Oh?" she said in a strangely flat voice, "I called earlier and your secretary said you were out to lunch."
Salim, an experienced liar, laughed and waved his hand as if shooing away the misunderstanding. "Even lunch is an appointment for me, I had to schedule it three days in advance." He chuckled at his own joke, and the teacher smiled, but with her lips still pressed over her teeth.
"It is a cozy house that you have," Salim said after they had driven a few minutes in heavy silence, "the perfect size for just two or three people."
The teacher nodded, still looking out of the window. Salim turned slightly in his seat towards the teacher and said, "Do you live alone?"
He watched the teachers profile as she blinked slowly, and then turned her body away from the window and towards him. "Yes, I live alone."
"I hope I am not rude for asking, but what brings you to this city so far from your home?"
"Many things," the teacher said without elaborating. Then she quickly looked up and turned the question back onto Salim. "And you?"
"I am here for my work," Salim said proudly, "Sometimes here, sometimes Berlin, often London, Madrid, Tokyo, I am more there than here these days."
"How often do you travel?" she said, repeating a question from last weeks grammar lesson.
"You know as well as I do how many classes I missing these days. It is rare that I should have four lessons in a row. For that I apologize."
"Do you enjoy it?" she asked. It was yet another grammar-book question.
"It is tiring sometimes, one wishes that he could settle quietly someplace, but he wishes this only sometimes. At other times, it is very enjoyable."
The teacher launched a barrage of polite but impersonal questions at Salim all the way until the moment the car stopped before the glass tower that his office was located in. Taylor opened the door for her, and then for Salim, and they walked together to the elevator. Salims mobile phone went off just as he was stepping into the elevator after his teacher, and he decided to take the call in the lobby and allow the teacher to go up before him.
He finished the phone call and went up in the elevator. This public elevator took him only as far as the 31st floor, where his company headquarters were located. Once there, he took another elevator, a private one that led up four floors and opened only to his office. When he arrived, his teacher was already seated primly in the chair on the other side of his desk, with books and papers laid out for the lesson. Salim said hello, and his teacher said, "Shall we begin?"
Salim got one good and a nod at the end of his homework. The rest of the lesson was complex, and it was difficult for him to keep up. By the end, Salim had given himself a headache trying to digest all of the new grammar rules and long vocabulary words that his teacher had presented.
At 3:02, the driver knocked on the office door. The teacher shook her watch out of her sleeve, glanced at it and then closed her book. She assigned Salim homework, said good-bye and then left before Salim could respond.
As Salim numbly closed his book and gathered the notes in front of him, he realized what his teacher had done. In the car, instead of giving him a chance to direct the conversation, she had questioned him continually, about unimportant and impersonal things and robbed him of his chance to ask her anything personal or unrelated to English grammar. During the lesson, she had overwhelmed him with complicated lessons and rapid-fire questions about various grammar rules he was supposed to have memorized. She was in control again, and there was no mistaking that she had asserted her authority on purpose. Salim had lost the upper hand. He had also dropped his pen four times, splattering ink on one of his books.
On Sunday evening, Salim met Robert at a dinner hosted by a common business connection. "You look lovely this evening, my dear," Robert said, mocking him good-naturedly, "With your fair brows pushed together into a most charming state of distress. Your velvet eyes glazed with a far-away kind of look. It must be a matter of the heart then," Robert sighed dramatically, placing his hand over his chest.
Salim put his fork down and swallowed hard on his steak. "I beg your pardon!"
"Come dear, you can tell Uncle Robert, whos the foolish fellow whos broken your heart?"
Salim wiped his mouth with his napkin and stared at Robert with narrowed eyes. Robert noted the lack of real fire beneath the harsh gaze, and pushed forward.
"So you can tell me about Hannah and Eva, but not this one? And who was that German woman last time, the one with big teeth?"
Here Salim snorted and laughed into his napkin, losing all pretense of anger. "That was Gertrude," he said, recovering, "and her teeth were not so big."
"Gertrude..." Robert mused, "Thats right. I shouldve remembered her name since it does rhyme protrude."
Salim covered his eyes with his hand as Robert laughed openly at his own joke. When he was finished, he wiped imaginary tears from his eyes and then leaned forward, speaking to Salim in a low and earnest voice. "Out with it then. Have you finally loved and lost your secretary?"
Salim shook his head.
"Good, I may have her then?"
"What does it matter to you Robert, you have a dozen stories of romance on a weekly basis. Tell me one of yours."
Here Robert straightened suddenly in his chair and held his head high, his chin out challengingly. "A true gentleman never speaks of such things."
"But I should speak of them?"
"You heathen Arab, youre no gentleman!"
"Nor you, English infidel."
The conversation deteriorated into an exchange of racial slurs, and the night ended with a few off-key songs in the back seat of Salims car. The next morning Salims alarm clock went off at seven, and as the electronic siren reverberated painfully in his sore head, he toyed with the idea of going in to work late. Ms. Alice Farr was an excellent secretary, she could come up with a hundred ways of placating neglected clients.
(Mr. Umari is in a private meeting, but he told me you might call, sir, and asked me to inform you that he would get in touch with you as soon as possible, as he is very eager to talk to you. He will call you as soon as he is able. Of course sir. Yes, yes.)
Salim slapped the alarm clock and pushed his face deeper into his pillow. He was still in bed when his mobile phone went off at 9:05, trilling Beethovens Ode to Joy in progressively louder tones. He fumbled for the right button, he finally pushed it and said, "Hello?" It was his secretary.
"Good Morning Mr.Umari, Mr. De La Rosa has called for you twice since 8:30 and Mr. Robert Spenser left a message for you at 8:40. Shall I read it to you?"
Salim mumbled the affirmative.
"The message reads: Sincerest condolences on the loss of the aforementioned broken body part. Take two strong doses of Gertrude and call me in the morning- Doctor Robert."
Last nights memory was fuzzy, what was Robert talking about? A broken body part? Salim rubbed his eyelids with the forefinger and thumb of his left hand as he tried to recall the evening. His secretary waited patiently on the line.
It was coming back now, what was it that Robert had said? Someone had broken his heart? Salim suddenly remembered the conversation and the evening he spent fretting about his teacher…his teacher! She would be coming today! This was Monday afternoon, and his homework had not been done and now he had slept in and wasted what little time he had to do it. He gasped aloud.
"Sir? Is everything all right?"
"Alice, Send Taylor immediately to me. Postpone my calls, tell them I am in a conference until 10:30."
"Yes sir." Salim disconnected the phone and threw off his covers. He washed his face hastily but did not shave. He ran into his closet and grabbed a simple but pricey black suit. He put it on quickly, pocketed his mobile phone and ran out to the elevator.
Salim arrived at his office and accepted a handful of messages from his secretary on his way to the elevator. As he waited impatiently for the doors to open on his floor, he read through them. There were five, and they were sorted in chronological order; 8:45, message from Robert. 8:52, slightly angry message from La Rosa, 9:10, message from potential client, 9:15, message from a mechanic. And the last one, 9:18, was a message from his teacher. Salim looked at his watch. It was 9:35. She mustve called when he was en route to the office. He read the message hastily.
"My apologies," it said, "I have to cancel class for today. I will call you when I can come." Alice always took messages verbatim, and as Salim read the note, he tried to hear the words as his teacher spoke them. In his head they sounded toneless, ambiguous, possibly benign or possibly angry.
The elevator doors opened and Salim walked slowly to his office and sat down at his desk. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone, cycling through the directory and looking for her number. He found it and hesitated before pushing the button. What if she was angry with him? What if he had been too forward in the car? He placed this thumb over the button that would cause the number to be input and the signal to be sent. He knitted his eyebrows together and pressed it.
The phone rang, once, twice, thrice.
"Hello?" It was she who had picked up.
"Hello, this is Salim," he said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I just received your message. I am hoping everything is well?"
There was a pause at the other end of the line. "Hello?" Salim said again cautiously.
"Yes, everything is fine, thanks," she answered. "I just cant make it today, sorry."
"May I help with anything? A taxi perhaps?"
"No, thank you. A taxi will not be necessary."
"Pardon my asking," Salim ventured, "I hope you will not mind, but may I ask if there is any problem?"
Salim thought he heard the scratch of breath blown across the receiver. It could have been static, he was not sure.
"There is no problem at all, thank you."
Salim twirled his pen in his free hand and then said, "Then why can you not come?"
Over ten seconds of silence followed. Salim cleared his throat. Then he heard the sound again, it could not have been static. It was definitely a breath of some sort.
"Im sorry," the teacher said slowly, "I just dont feel up to teaching classes anymore. Im tired these days. If you dont mind, Id like a vacation."
"Of course, of course," Salim said right away, "A week? Two weeks? When will you return?"
"Im sorry for not making myself clear the first time," the teacher said. "But I would like to postpone classes with you until further notice."
Salim put his hand quietly on his forehead and said, "One moment please." He put the phone down on the desk and exhaled loudly. Then, as he was staring at his desk in perplexity, his eye caught the fourth phone message, the one from the mechanic. It read: "Tell him that I tried to keep it a secret but shes very persistent and Im sorry. Tell him Im sorry, ok? There was nothing I could do about it." After the last line Alice had penned a few dots and a question mark in parenthesis, which was her way of signaling her confusion.
Salim picked up the phone quickly. "I..."
"Yes?" his teacher said tonelessly. Now Salim realized that her voice was calm but angry. How could he have missed the exasperated sigh earlier?
"Listen," he said, dropping all pretense of formality, "Can you please come to my office? I think we must talk in person."
"I would rather not," the teacher said.
"Please," Salim said, "You must, please, I shall send the driver for you in ten minutes, ok?"
After a tense silence she said, "Fine," and hung up. Salim rang his secretary and had Taylor sent to the teachers house. She would be arriving soon, it would take less than twenty-five minutes altogether. He had much to do in that time, and had to hurry to accomplish it.
He quickly called La Rosa and made the proper apologies, and set a time for a longer, uninterrupted phone call later in the afternoon. He phoned the potential client and convened a council of their secretaries to arrange a meeting some time next week. He stuffed the other three messages in his desk and in doing so, spied his bottle of Scotch. He lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long draught to settle his nerves. Then he rushed to his bathroom to brush his teeth, and to shave, which he had not done yet.
He emerged from of the bathroom with his jacket in his arms and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and stopped in his tracks. His teacher was already sitting in the chair on the opposite side of his desk. Taylor must have done some very fast driving. Either that or time had passed much faster than Salim expected it to.
She did not turn around when he stepped into the room, but stayed in the chair, erect and motionless. Salim felt his stomach quiver suddenly. He drew in a breath, called upon all his mental resources, and walked past her to his desk and into his chair, still with his sleeves rolled up and his jacket still over his arm. He sat down without looking up at her right away, contemplating his lap. After a few moments, the teacher said, "Well?"
Salim looked up guiltily, embarrassedly, and said, "This is about your car. Please allow me to apologize."
The teacher looked unflinchingly at Salim, the only sign of her emotions being a slight flaring of her nostrils, a rise in color to her cheeks. "What-"
"Please," he interrupted, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the desk. "I know that it was not right of me to do such a thing secretly, but I wanted to make a surprise for you."
"Thats not the impression the mechanic gave," she said hotly.
"Oh," Salim said, wilting under the heat. "I am sorry. Please forgive me. I am very sorry."
The teacher put a hand on the back of her neck and shook her head. "I just-" she began, exasperatedly, "I mean, what right- What are you trying, to, to- achieve?"
Salim looked up at her, and he stared sadly into her eyes. She shook her head slightly as he did this and raised her eyebrows, as if asking a question. Salim opened and closed his mouth several times as if to answer, but when nothing came out, his teacher shook her head once more and stood up.
"Wait!" he said, suddenly recovering his powers of speech.
"Good bye Mr. Umari," she said through tight lips. "Good luck with your English studies, and with finding a new teacher."
She turned and walked out of the door. Salim sat in shock, and then bolted up and rushed out into the hall behind her. The elevator doors had already opened and she was just stepping inside of them when he caught up with her, and ran in behind her. She turned around angrily as the doors closed behind him.
"Now what?" she said irritably.
"Please," Salim said, trying to stand at a respectful distance in the limited space of the elevator. "Please, you misunderstand me. I meant you no harm, I did not mean to violate your privacy."
"Then what did you mean?" the teacher challenged, placing one hand on her hip. Salim was momentarily distracted by its curve. Then he blinked and looked up, staring into his teachers angry blue eyes again, searching them for a sign. That fierce sparkle, was it the hard sparkle of a diamond? Or was it the faceted sparkle of ice? Could the ice melt? Could he make the eyes melt?
As he stood staring, the ice did melt, and a trickle of water leaked out onto the teachers cheek. "Oh I am so sorry!" Salim said, frantically producing a silk handkerchief from his pocket, "Please dont cry, please, I am so sorry!"
The teacher snatched the handkerchief and turned away, and at that moment, the lights flickered in the elevator and it came to a screeching, grinding halt. Salim stood uneasily with his hand on the brass rail in the compartment.
The teacher looked up to the ceiling, and then to Salim. She pushed the button for the 31st floor several times, and then the button for opening the door, and when at length, nothing happened, she threw the handkerchief back at him scornfully and said "Dammit Umari! Did you arrange this too?"
Salim shook his head innocently and pushed the emergency button. It gave off a wicked spark and a puff of smoke and he leapt back. The teacher also jumped. Salim reached into his pocket for his mobile phone, and remembered that it was still on the desk.
He closed his eyes and turned and rested his head against the cool wall of the elevator. The teacher was standing with her back to him, both hands on the brass railing. They stood in silence for a interminable amount of time, waiting, and finally, the teacher sighed, set down her purse, and sat down on the floor with her legs crossed beneath her skirt and her arms crossed on her stomach. Salim sat down also, and stared meekly at his fingernails.
He cleared this throat and spoke, quietly, because the stillness in the elevator made his voice seem very loud, saying, "I am not a bad man. I am not what you think I am."
The teacher was staring at the elevator door. She said, "So what."
"So you do not have to leave teaching me. I will not harm you."
The teacher raised an eyebrow and turned and glared at Salim "Harm me?"
Salim felt a hot rush of color to his neck and he lowered his gaze. After a while he glanced down at his watch. Ten minutes had passed in the elevator. Salim looked at the ceiling, then at the floor, at the elevator buttons, and then at the door, and when he turned his head slightly to steal a glance at his teacher, who looked like she was resting her head against the elevator wall with her eyes closed, she turned to him and gave him an accusing stare.
"I did not do this!" Salim pleaded, "Please believe me. I would never do anything like this."
"Like you would never do anything with my car?" she was still staring at him.
Salim met the teachers angry stare with a look of both regret and longing. He began awkwardly, "If you knew why I did it you-"
"Dont bother," the teacher said, interrupting him. "I dont care why you did it. When this elevator opens I am going home and you and going to find a new teacher."
"I dont want a new teacher."
"I dont care what you want." The teacher turned away and sniffed. A tear rolled down her cheek.
"Why are you crying?" Salim asked in a way he hoped was gentle and inoffensive.
"Im tired and upset and Im stuck in an elevator," the teacher said wearily, "Why shouldnt I cry."
Salim drew a breath and held out his hand, as if making an offering, "But you dont have to be upset, and its not so bad being stuck here. Someone will come and open the doors, until then, please dont cry."
Another tear rolled down the teachers cheek regardless of Salims advice. Salim put his hand back in his lap, and after contemplating it for a minute, he shifted on the elevator floor so that he was facing his teacher. "Please, why are you crying? Is it because you are angry with me? Please tell me."
The teacher wiped her tears away with a corner of her scarf and Salim quickly handed her the silk handkerchief he had initially offered her. She took it without looking at him and dried her eyes, and dabbed at her nose with it.
"I am crying," she said slowly, "Because I am mad at myself. I am mad at you, and I am mad at this stupid elevator."
"There is no reason why you should me mad at yourself," Salim said with a touch of admonishment in his voice. "And you shouldnt even be mad at me, I had a good reason for what I did, and I caused you no harm. Now the elevator," Salim said, trying to dispel some of the stress in the air, " Even I am mad at the elevator."
The teacher said nothing. He scooted a little closer to her and said quietly, searching her face, "You know why I did it, dont you?" The teacher flushed and looked away from him.
"You know then." he said, licking his lips anxiously, "Will you still be angry with me?"
"Leave me alone," the teacher said weakly, "Go back to your corner and stay there until the doors open."
A mechanical clicking noise came from somewhere beneath the floor of the elevator.
"No," Salim said, scooting a little closer, his eyes glittering with excitement. "Listen. I know why you are crying. You do not have to be upset. I am not a bad man. I have an excellent career and I-"
"You have nothing I need," the teacher interrupted sternly. "Now go back to your corner."
Salim drew himself up indignantly, "Nothing you need! Do you not need a house? A life? A man who will-"
"Nothing!" she said, raising her voice suddenly. "That is enough Mr. Umari, go back to your corner and stay there!"
"Youre not teaching me any more, correct?"
"Correct," the teacher said through clenched teeth, struggling to control her anger.
"So if you are not my teacher then I do not have to obey you." The teachers eyebrows shot up in surprise and Salim smiled. "You are not the teacher anymore and I am not Mr.Umari. You are Angela and I am Salim."
"I didnt give you permission to use that name," the teacher said, her lips pressing together tightly when she ended her sentence.
"I do not need permission.," Salim said, matching her tone. "There is no student and no teacher, only man and woman. Now Angela, you must tell me. Am I not a suitable man?"
"Fine," the teacher said, turning suddenly to face Salim. "You want to know? Ill tell you." She held up her hand and began counting off her complaints on her fingers. "Youre a professional liar, you drink, you smoke, you dont pray, you dont give a damn about your own religion. Youre still in the dark ages Mr. Umari, as far as human spirituality goes, youre still a damn cave man. There, I said it, are you happy now?"
Salim blinked and shook his head as if trying to shake off the teachers outburst. "But, but," he stammered, "Surely you must be joking. You are American, you know what life is about, and I can give you a good one!"
"To hell with your life," she said, and then laughed wryly at the irony, "Yes, to hell with it. I dont know if you even believe in accountability, so Im not going to make a fool of myself by talking about heaven and hell, but I know what my lifes goals are, and none of them involve any of yours, or you, or any men like you. Ok? Is that clear?"
Salim sat dumbly, staring at the floor. The elevator shivered and the lights flickered again. Suddenly, alarmingly, it dropped for a few terrifying moments and then came to a jarring halt. The doors had still not opened. Salim looked up to the ceiling in alarm and swallowed against the lump of nausea in his throat. The teacher had her eyes closed and hands grasping the brass rail above her. Salim opened his mouth and drew a shaky breath. There was a harsh grating noise and the elevator jerked suddenly up and then down again.
"Oh God..." Salim said shakily.
The teacher opened her eyes and took her hands off the brass rail. "Look," she said, her anger replaced with urgency, "Look, I need to apologize for insulting you. Dont hold it against me, please."
Salim had wrapped his arms around his middle and was rocking back and forth with his eyes closed, trembling. His breathing had become irregular.
"Oh no, dont panic!" the teacher said, standing up and taking Salim by the arm. "Stand up," she said, and she made Salim stand and bend over with his head between his knees. "Breathe gently, there. Good."
Salim closed his eyes and forced himself to inhale. The elevator doors hissed and opened half of an inch, and when Salim looked up eagerly, he could see a vertical section of gears and wires lining a wall of cement between floors. He stood up immediately and forced his fingers into the crack, and began pushing against the doors. As he grunted and strained, the teacher sat down again and held her cupped hands out in front of her face, praying.
Salim groaned through his clenched teeth and pushed the door harder. It came open another two inches, and then the entire elevator shuddered and Salim pulled his fingers out just as it began moving again. The wires showing between the open doors scrolled upwards and out of sight at a progressively faster speed, and Salim was lifted onto his toes by the force of the rapid descent. Faster and faster the elevator fell, and the lights went out. When the elevator struck the ground with a deafening crash and a shattering of glass panels and a crackling of electric wires, Salim lost consciousness.
Salim dreamt he was swimming in a tremendous pleasure garden, and in the immense blue pool, hundreds of other people were laughing and frolicking. Some of them were sitting by the pool and feeding each other fruit. One woman was laughing gently as she leaned onto another mans neck. Salim turned and reached out with his arm, and began swimming. He had taken only a few strokes when he realized that something was wrong, he could not feel his fingers in the cool water.
Salim lifted his arm from the water and stared at it in horror. His right hand was missing, not cut off, but decayed off, rotted off, and greenish-brown veins and arteries dangled lifelessly from the stump of his wrist. Salim turned to the other swimmers for help, and saw that the man swimming next to him was trailing a sightless eye through the water from a gaping socket. A woman floating beside him was missing her jaw, and her teeth and blue tongue hung straight out from the bottom of her face. Everywhere Salim turned, he saw people laughing joyfully and rotting alive. Salim put his remaining hand to his face and found that he had no nose, only a moist, oozing cavity between his eyes where it had once been. He screamed. And screamed, and screamed.
He was still screaming when he awoke on the elevator floor, and he coughed and gagged on his own blood, and then screamed again. Salim rolled over onto his side and was immediately struck with overwhelming pain. In the thin shaft of light that was shining through the crack in the elevator door, Salim watched blood drip onto the floor from the tip of his nose. He held out his hands in front of him and nearly screamed at the sight: his right hand was crushed, the skin and muscle and bone all mangled together in an oozing, shockingly painful mess. Salim shuddered as a wave of pain washed over him again. When the wave subsided, Salim turned over onto his elbows and knees and crawled forward.
He found her, still sitting cross-legged, her scarf still wrapped neatly around her head, though shards of glass and debris were scattered all over it and nestled in the folds that lie over her chest. In his confused state, Salim thought she might be sleeping with her chin resting on her chest. He tried to say her name, but he couldnt hear himself mouth the words. He couldnt reach out and shake her, so he crouched before her, bleeding and shuddering, until the shaft of light in the elevator widened and several silhouettes entered through it.
In the days and nights that followed, Salim was seldom conscious, and his sleep was disturbed with the same frightening dreams of the pleasure garden. Between dreams he had vague ideas of doctors and nurses and needles, and of a relentless cycle of pain, and then numbness, and then pain again, followed by numbness.
Two and a half weeks after the elevator had come crashing down from Salims private office to the company headquarters on the 31st floor, Salim regained consciousness, and Robert arrived not half an hour later.
He laid his hand uneasily on the rail of Salims bed. "How do you feel old chap?" Robert asked softly.
"I dont know," Salim said, his throat raw from the tube that had been pulled out only a few minutes ago. "My hand, it hurts..."
Robert averted his eyes and self-consciously pulled his own hand back into his lap. "You havent got it anymore Salim, they had to take it off..."
Salim raised his arm unsteadily and stared desperately at the bandaged stump. Thats right, his hand had hurt so much. He remembered seeing the bloody pulp above his wrist, and then getting onto his elbows and knees and crawling towards...
"My teacher!" Salim croaked, starting from his pillow, his voice grating harshly in his throat as he groaned and tried to lift himself with his remaining hand.
Robert leapt to his feet and pushed the button that called the nurse and tried to subdue Salim at the same time. "Calm down, calm down! You must rest Salim, the doctors say youre barely alive as it is now. Stop thrashing about or youll undo everything!"
Salim dropped back onto his pillow, exhausted from his brief struggle. "You must..." he said breathlessly, "...you must tell me...please, how is she..."
A nurse came in holding a wrapped syringe and a small glass vial. She opened the syringe and then stabbed its tip through the top of the vial, drawing out its contents.
"You must promise not to get all worked up when I tell you Salim, or I wont tell you at all."
Salim did his best to nod earnestly, though it sent bursts of pain through his skull.
"Alright then," Robert said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He drew a breath and held it for a second. Then he released it, saying, "Im sorry I had to be the one to tell you. She didnt survive."
Robert turned his head and continued talking as he stared into the space above the window. "I cant remember the technical word for it, something about the brain being struck from the impact, the doctors said she never felt a thing. Im so sorry Salim."
Hot tears welled up in Salims eyes and escaped, burning paths from the corners of his eyes to the pillow beneath his head. The nurse slipped in next to all the tubes and wires connected to him, and then emptied the injection into the canula of his IV.
Salims mouth lay opened in abject misery. Tears flowed freely from his blood-shot eyes, even as the sedative spread through his body and his eyelids grew heavier. Robert stayed watching him until the fingers on his remaining hand stopped twitching and his breathing grew less harried. When he thought he was finally asleep, Robert leaned carefully over Salim, and then watched in surprise as a large tear welled up in the corner of his closed eye and ran down his face.
"Poor chap," Robert murmured as he walked out the door, "Crying in his sleep."
Last update : 25-01-2004 05:04
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