MEDINA, SAUDI ARABIA
AT HER MODEST mud brick home in the holy city of Medina, Rida bin Mafti sat looking at her only son, Ishmar. Her expression betrayed a melding of both joy and sorrow, the way a wel -painted seascape might portray both beauty and foreboding at the same time. Her sorrow demonstrated a clear and thorough understanding that she would never see him again in this world. The source of her joy was the fervent and unmistakable hope that he would soon be in Paradise.
She reached out and gently stroked his face.
“I am so happy you have made the video of your last wil , my son,” she said of the practice now widely used by the misled youth of the Wahhabi schools, “For as long as I live, I wil be able to view your precious face and hear the sound of your voice.”
“I rejoice in your comfort, my mother,” Ishmar said, sounding far more mature than his seventeen years. He kissed her cheek reassuringly. “I will be seeing your face and your smile at the very moment of my martyrdom.”
“I pray you wil remember me in Paradise, my son,” she said, “and I pray I will join you soon, if that is the wish of Al ah.”
“That wil be a glorious day, my mother.”
“Have you packed al you wil need for your trip to Baghdad?” she asked maternal y.
“Yes. Everything is in order. I must leave now if I’m going to reach the bus station in time.”
They embraced for the last time, and Rida bin Mafti watched her son until he was just a shadow among al shadows in a world she dared not question. LAGUARDIA AIRPORT, NEW YORK
ALAN CALLED ALY’S office even as his plane taxied along the tarmac.
“Hel o, Professor. It’s your most ardent admirer,” he said.
“And how was my most ardent admirer’s trip?” Aly replied, her voice a perfect blend of sensuality and reserve.
“Lonely. And I’d like nothing better than to take the most gorgeous academic the world of higher education has even known out to dinner this evening. Can I talk you into that?” asked Alan.
“I’d love it,” she admitted, “I’l meet you at the condo. I imagine we could both use a shower and a change of clothes.”
“See you in twenty minutes.”
NEW YORK, N. Y.
IT WAS A few minutes after eight when the pair departed their East Side condominium, she in a cotton print dress that was both provocative and stylish and he in a light blue Polo shirt and Khaki slacks. He held open the door of their 450-SL, and Aly slid into the passenger seat.
“We’re improvising,” Alan said. “Any suggestions?”
“I’d love to go to Chez Pierre.”
“Your wish is my pleasure, m’lady. A fine choice,” Alan said in his best old English as he eased the Mercedes up the basement-garage driveway. It was wel beyond just a fine choice, of course, and they both knew it. Chez Pierre was more than a favorite restaurant, with one of the best chefs in America and an even better dessert chef; it was the place Alan had chosen to propose marriage that wonderful spring night.
The owner, Maurice Grojean, knew them wel , and he greeted them as if an interminable amount of time had passed since last they had graced his restaurant.
“Your special table?” he asked, glancing knowingly at Aly.
“If it’s available, Maurice. Thank you,” she said.
“And even if it were not available, I would rearrange the entire restaurant to make it so,” he said, leading them to a particular corner table far from any traffic. It was like their own personal island; and Alan couldn’t deny the tremors of sweet nostalgia traveling along his spine.
“My beautiful and romantic Aly,” he said, grinning broadly. “I do so love you.”
“You love the fact that this table in this restaurant has a particularly amorous effect on me.