Kapitoil (21 page)

JOURNAL DATE RECORDED: DECEMBER 12

Rebecca and I didn’t see each other at all the next few days, as I was busy with Kapitoil and the Y2K project was ramping up. My test results were enhanced, and I believed that with some additional work and more specific knowledge of epidemiology, which I lack, it might truly have value.

However, to apply it to other fields would require opening up the code and the idea to others who have more specialized knowledge, e.g., via an academic paper. And this would mean the termination of Kapitoil, because Schrub would no longer have a monopoly on it, and if everyone had access to the same predictive patterns, then they would cancel out on the market.

I considered that
(1)
I was performing very well with Schrub now and was getting to know Mr. Schrub more;
(2)
possibly it would be foolish to interrupt my progress with an idea that might hurt the company’s prospects; and
(3)
Kapitoil, for oil futures, was the best program I had ever created, and even if it worked well in another area, I would destroy its perfect value for oil futures, and it is rare for something so ideal to exist in the world.

So I decided to be quiet about my program for now, and if I was 100% certain it functioned and I felt I was close enough to Mr. Schrub later, then I would bring it up.

Shortly after 5:00 p.m. on December 7 there was a small bombing in Jordan at a U.S.-owned hotel. Ramadan had just started there. Kapitoil would benefit again from the volatility in the market.

The next night I went to the mosque after work to pray. December 8 was also the day John Lennon was killed. At home I played some of his Beatles and non-Beatles songs, including “Imagine,” which my mother adored. I enjoyed it, as I always did, but when I heard the line “Nothing to kill or die for, and no religion too,” I replayed it several times. Lennon was correct in that religion has caused some wars, but it has also created alliances where there might have been
other
wars, in the same way that countries fight with each other, but they also restrict potential fighting within their borders.

Zahira called at 4:00 a.m. in Doha. “Why are you calling so early?” I asked.

“Because he is still asleep,” she whispered.

“Oh,” I said.

“We had an argument last night,” she said. “About my studies.”

He and I had agreed always to conference about her academics before talking to her about them. I tried to lower my volume. “What about them?”

“He thinks I should not consider a career as a scientist.”

“What does he want you to do? Work in the store with him?”

“No. He wants me to change my classes next semester and apply to the Nursing Technical Secondary School for next year.”

“That is foolish. Nursing is valuable work, but your skill set should be applied to science.”

“That’s what I said, but he won’t listen to me!” Her voice divided and she started crying.

“Stop crying,” I said. “You are stronger than that.”

It took her almost a minute to stabilize. It was difficult for me to listen to over the telephone.

Finally she stopped and inhaled and asked, “Will you talk to him for me?”

She didn’t know he and I had had a fight. But I said, “Of course I will,” and told her I would call him tomorrow while he was at work, and that she should call me again tomorrow night at the same time to discuss it.

I tried to relax, but I couldn’t. Zahira and I had both worked too hard for her not to become something like a scientist. He may have contributed equally to her tuition, but it was not his decision to make.

The next morning I called my father after I arrived at the office. “What is it?” he asked after I greeted him.

“It’s pleasant to hear from you as well,” I said. “Zahira says you want her to think about a different profession.”

“I told her there was a nursing shortage in Qatar,” he said.

“She said you asked her to change her classes and apply to the nursing school.”

“If she is going to pursue it, she needs to begin now,” he said. “Nursing is a growth profession, the Women’s Hospital is an excellent facility, it does not require additional schooling, and she can stay in Doha very easily to find work.”

“Stay in Doha?” I asked. “Why is that important?”

“It’s not safe for a young female to work in a foreign country the way you are doing. You underestimate how many problems she could encounter.”

“I thought we agreed to discuss her academics together before making any major decisions,” I said.

He said, “Well, you’re not here now.”

“That is unrelated. You can easily call me or email me.”

“I don’t have email,” he said. “You’re the one who loves computers so much.”

I forced my voice to remain calm. “We’re both contributing to her tuition. If you prefer, you can pay all of it and then you will not have to consult with me at all. Or I can pay all of it, and then you will not have to be involved.”

He laughed. “You think money is the solution to everything? I can pay for her tuition next semester. I’m her father. She grew up in my home. You are her brother. Just because you earn more money now doesn’t mean you are in charge of her.”

“I know I’m not in charge of her,” I said. “I am letting
her
be in charge. I am only trying to keep her options open for her future.”

“She has no significant options that I am closing off,” he said. My upper and lower teeth compressed.

“She possibly has more options than I do, and she certainly has more options than you,” I said. “You have no right to restrict her. And I hope you do not let your own backward position destroy her life.” I disconnected. My hand holding the telephone was vibrating.

I did very little work the rest of the day. Zahira called me at night, and I asked if she had talked to our father.

“I studied in the library all night to avoid him,” she said. “What happened?”

“He said…”

“Tell me,” she said.

I was about to tell her that our father was illogical and had obsolete values, but increasing her anger with him wouldn’t result in any net gain. It’s an issue I often have to resolve, because although she did grow up in his home, I truly partnered with him in raising her, and I sometimes oppose his ideas, but I have always tried not to reveal our conflicts to Zahira and to make it as peaceful an environment as possible.

“Some of what he says is logical,” I said. “Being a scientist is a difficult profession and requires graduate school and does not pay well. There is always a need for nurses, especially in Doha now.”

“Are you serious?” she said.

“It is necessary to have a backup plan. You should take preparatory classes next semester, and maybe you will discover you prefer nursing. It is an integral job.” My voice sounded deeper and quieter and slower than normal. I had to say something else, so I added, “If you disagree with him, you must talk to him. I cannot do it for you. You are an adult now.”

“He doesn’t treat me as an adult!” she said. “That is exactly the problem!”

“I am sorry, Zahira,” I said.

She made an angry sound by exhaling loudly through her teeth and said, “I thought I had a good brother,” which was the worst thing she could have said to me, because while I am not boastful about much, I am proud of my skills as a brother. Then she did to me what I did to my father: She disconnected.

She didn’t call back. I felt doubly bad, for
(1)
not defending her against our father and
(2)
lying to her. When I returned home, I could talk to him again and try to convince him. I could resolve to pay for her entire tuition, but she would remain in his home, and he might still reject the idea, and in fact it would probably make him even more certain. It’s even more difficult to change someone’s mind on a subject they have strong beliefs about than it is to make someone interested in a subject they are careless of.

I was about to call her to tell her this, but I hypothesized that she was still upset and my predicted outcomes weren’t very optimistic, so I decided to wait for her to stabilize and let her initiate contact with me when she was ready.

In bed that night I kept replaying what my father said about me not being in charge. I always thought earning a high salary would delete the lion’s share of problems for our family. But some problems are problematic independent of finances, and he was in fact correct: Money was not the solution to everything.

I didn’t see Rebecca again until late on Friday night. We had dinner to break my fast, and I was even more inferior at conversation than normal because I was focused on Zahira and also on Kapitoil and whether it meant Schrub leveraged other people’s problems even if we weren’t the source of the problems.

In her room she asked if I knew the musician Bob Dylan.

“I do not know most musicians, except for the Beatles,” I said.

“Why’s that?” She started playing a CD. “Are they big in Qatar?”

“No,” I said. “I merely know them well.”

It was enjoyable even though his voice was not as luxurious as John Lennon’s, and we kissed while we listened. He played a song called “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.” The melody was beautiful, but some of the words didn’t make sense, especially the line in the chorus “My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums.”

I paid attention the first time I heard it because of the word “Arabian,” but “warehouse eyes” frustrated me for two reasons:
(1)
A noun (“warehouse”) modifies another noun (“eyes”), which is grammatically poor, and
(2)
what does “warehouse eyes” mean? It does not present a logical visual analog for the listener.

So I asked Rebecca what “warehouse eyes” meant, and she said, “It’s a metaphor. But sometimes it’s just about the sound.”

I listened to the rest of the song, although it frustrated me that a musician could write something that he wants to be indecipherable, but then I remembered that Pollock’s paintings frustrated me initially before I adopted new strategies for viewing them. So I listened without analyzing the meaning in my conventional mode. And the fifth time he sang it, I suddenly had a mental tableau of a warehouse with two lighted windows, and even if my analysis was not parallel to Dylan’s original plan, his method now seemed like a slightly more valid way to write a song.

By the time the song was over, all our clothing was on the floor. I told myself it was incorrect behavior for Ramadan, but my body defeated my brain.

The CD changer switched and soon the song “With God on Our Side” played, and I continued listening. Like Lennon, Dylan was arguing that religion had caused many wars and made people act foolishly, e.g., “And you never ask questions, when God’s on your side.” Lennon and Dylan assumed that all religious people don’t evaluate what their religion tells them to do, when in fact some of the most thoughtful people I know are the most religious, because religion focuses not exclusively on spirituality but also on morality, which many people forget to consider.

And then I considered where I was: in bed with an American female, with both of us naked. I didn’t feel the way I did with Melissa, when it was as if I had committed a major crime, but possibly that was not a positive development. I remembered what Mr. Schrub said about how every day there are shifts that are so small you do not identify them, and finally you become a different person without even recognizing it.

I was truly not doing Ramadan this year.

“I should go home,” I said. She didn’t respond, so I exited the bed and replaced the white sheets partially over her body. “I am planning to be at the mosque all day tomorrow and will need to retire for a full night of sleep.”

She was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “Usually guys want to leave
after
.”

I didn’t want to explain why I wanted to leave, but I also didn’t want to make her feel bad, and I heard her incorrectly and thought she said “
Usual
guys,” so I said, “Well, I am an unusual guy.” It didn’t make her laugh, although I was uncertain if it was because
(1)
the logic of the joke was flawed from the launch;
(2)
she was not in the proper mood to laugh; or
(3)
it was merely humorless.

I told her I would call her soon, and left before I further damaged our relationship. It was a long subway ride home, and whenever the doors opened, the cold air entered the train like a strong punch to my body. The whole time I was thinking how I could instead be warm in bed with her, but I couldn’t go back. It was like wanting to return the suits after I purchased them. Once you make a significant decision, it is difficult or sometimes impossible to reverse it.

I was afraid that if I called her she’d still be upset with me and I would say other foolish things, and she would wonder why she had consented to be with me originally, and then reject me. I also wondered why she was with me. I didn’t possess the very handsome face of someone like Jefferson (although I knew Rebecca wouldn’t want to be with someone like Jefferson), or the knowledge base of music and movies and original clothing like her male friends, and I made many foolish errors in conversation, and now I was causing problems in other ways.

But some of it was possibly her fault, e.g., she didn’t truly consider how I might feel about seeing her during Ramadan. And in fact most Americans I had met only thought about my religion in relation to food or alcohol, not about the spiritual areas. I walked around my living room in a rectangular pattern, and the more I thought about this, the more upset I grew, and I decided to write an email. It wasn’t to Rebecca, however:

big in = popular in