The Other Half of My Soul (4 page)

five

There is no such thing as chance; and that which seems to us blind accident actually stems from the deepest source of all.

—Friedrich von Schiller

The imam leaned forward in his chair. “Abdallah wants a report. A reaction to the video.”

With much uneasiness, Omar mustered the courage to challenge him. “You are supposed to be a religious man. Is terrorizing the world the Muslim way?”

“Omar, we are not here for you to question me. Either I do the asking or Abdallah will. I thought it would be easier for you to talk with me.”

Omar glared at the man.

“Well, if you’re not going to tell me your reaction, then tell me about Rami.”

“Rami can speak for himself.”

“Very well. I’m a patient man. We’ll wait.” Sitting across the desk from each other, the two exchanged a long, uncomfortable silence.

Omar sensed a stifling heaviness in the air. He rubbed his eyes. Confrontation was always difficult for him. “Okay, I will tell you my reaction.”

“No, Omar. You will tell me Rami’s reaction.”

Omar hesitated. His right eye twitched nervously. “Ummm . . . uhhh . . . how did you think he would react?”

Carefully measuring his words, the imam replied. “Omar, listen to me. Allah will not let any Muslim rest until all the world turns to Islam. This is our mission. It is our
jihad
. Our struggle is dictated in the Quran.”

Omar’s voice quivered noticeably. “Ummm . . . will it be . . . will it be the Islam of Sunnis or the Islam of Shi’ites? After we kill all the infidels . . . then . . . then do you know what we will do? We will kill each other for dominance. Who will be the victors? Who will be the losers?” Circles of perspiration seeped from the underarms of his short-sleeve pullover.

The imam did not answer.

“For most of my life, Rami has been my friend. We have been closer than brothers. He is of good character. Hurting others is not his way. Rami lives his life like a true Muslim. We all would be wise to follow his example.” Under a cold sweat, Omar enjoyed his few courageous moments.

The cleric rose from his seat and motioned Omar to the door. “You have given me much to contemplate. Look after Rami. We know he loves his family. Remind him of that whenever you find it necessary to keep him from doing anything foolish. I will give Abdallah a favorable report, and I will protect you both to the extent that I can. But know that my hands are tied. I can only do so much. And Omar, your fears and insecurities . . . they show through. Work on yourself, or you will wind up pulverized by those with greater self-confidence. Goodbye.”

* * *

Coming out of the foreign language building after Spanish class, Rami unexpectedly spotted Rayna. His heart pounded wildly and he thought at any moment it would burst from his chest. He followed her to the philosophy lecture hall, the same place where he also had a class scheduled. Holding back, Rami waited until Rayna sat down before scurrying to take the seat next to her.

Students quickly filled the room. Rami’s eyes focused only on Rayna. She had an unusual beauty. Vividly, her image flashed before him. That same face had been pervading his dreams for years. Clumsily, Rami attempted conversation. “I saw you come out of the foreign language building. What language are you studying?”

“Spanish. Advanced conversation.” She appeared uninterested and turned away.

* * *

Standing on the dais, Professor Quintin Nolan welcomed the class and introduced himself. He boasted about holding two doctorate degrees, one in philosophy and one in chemistry. Over his slight frame, the professor wore a short-sleeve white cotton shirt tucked into baggy gray trousers. His thinning brown hair was combed over to the side to mask his baldness. Sallow skin, large ears, and a protruding Adam’s apple gave him a gaunt appearance. Pacing back and forth as he spoke, the educator alternated between pushing back his oversized black-rimmed spectacles and stroking his beardless chin. The teaching assistant handed out the class schedule while Nolan discussed the semester’s curriculum. Then the professor began his lecture.

“What if I told you an organism has been discovered that will clean up any oil spill in water or on land, and it will soon be introduced to the world?” He paused, giving the students a chance to absorb his question. “Any comments?”

Several hands went up. “I think a discovery like this would save the world a lot of money, time, and cleanup,” said one student.

“This would be an ecological breakthrough,” added a tall, lanky boy.

“You say this organism will devour oil? What else will it devour in its path?” Rayna asked.

Nolan continued to pace back and forth while nudging up his glasses and stroking his chin. “Hmmm, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What if it devours everything in sight? What if it consumes more than the oil in the water? More than the fuel spill on the road?”

“Good questions. Uhhhh . . . I didn’t catch your name.”

“Rayna.”

“Yes. Good questions, Rayna.”

Rami raised his hand. “What kind of an organism is it?”

“Let’s call it bacteria.”

“Who will have access to these bacteria? Who will own the rights and make the money?”

“Excellent reasoning. Your brains are working. Now, your assignment is to come up with questions and answers. Philosophize. Rationalize. Look at every angle. I want each of you to find a partner and work together on this project. It will be due three weeks from today. Typed, twelve-point Times New Roman, double-spaced, five to seven pages.” Professor Nolan looked at his watch. “You have half an hour to find a partner and get started before class ends. And this assignment will be one-third of your grade, so don’t take it lightly.”

* * *

Rami lifted his eyebrows and smiled. Dare he hope? Rayna returned the smile. Jonathan, who had graciously offered to give Rayna rides back to Brooklyn, tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around. “Want to partner?” he asked.

Rami’s faint glimmer of hope faded and he fidgeted in his seat. Rayna hesitated, glanced back at Rami, then looked away. “Thanks Jonathan, but I already have a partner.”

“Well, too bad for me. I won’t be at Hillel tonight. See you at two tomorrow.” He stomped off.

Breathing a sigh of exhilaration, Rami beamed, “I would be honored to work on this assignment with you.”

“It’s your smile.” Rayna’s comment was spontaneous.

“My smile?”

“Your smile. It’s radiant and sexy. I like it,” she blushed.

Rami’s face turned crimson.

She extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Rayna.”

Feeling the softness of her skin as he gently clasped her tiny hand in his, he knew right then that he would want no one else but her. Ever. “Hi. My name is Rami.”

They exchanged telephone numbers and agreed to meet for lunch at eleven the next day in the Student Union.

* * *

Not wanting to be late, Rami left class early. For him, this opportunity was a stroke of good fortune. Scanning the area for Rayna and not seeing her, Rami secured a table before they were all taken by the students streaming in for lunch. Sitting down, he patiently waited and watched. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes. Just when he thought she might not show up, Rami saw her glancing around. Excitedly, he stood and waved. Quickly, she made her way toward him.

“Hi.” His heart accelerated.

“So sorry I’m late. My journalism teacher was telling us about a summer internship with a very big international magazine. Thanks for getting a table and waiting.”

Overjoyed that she really had come, Rami helped Rayna with her books. “I will stay at the table while you get lunch.”

“Can I pick up something for you while I’m in line? It will save time.” Rayna browsed the room, “God, look at the mob of students already.”

Rami reached into his pocket and handed her a ten-dollar bill. “Will this be enough?”

“No, please. Let me get lunch. It’s the least I can do for keeping you waiting. What would you like?”

“I insist on paying . . . for both of us.” He took her hand and placed the bill in her palm.

Gently, she nudged it back to him. “Next time it will be your treat,” she smiled. “Now, tell me what you would like.”

He was glad there would be a next time. “Anything but meat. No meat. No pork.”

“That makes two of us. Not for me either. Shall I get you whatever I have?”

“I would like that.”

As Rayna moved through the line, Rami observed the graceful sway of her hips and the smooth roundness of her bottom. The lavender-colored tank top and snug blue jeans exposed the sensuous curves of her small frame. Rami felt himself stiffen.

When she returned with salads, veggie melts, and two bottles of spring water, Rami thanked her. “Is this your first semester?” he asked, hoping to learn more about her.

“Yes. And you?”

“My first semester, too . . . I did not catch your last name.”

“I didn’t give it.”

“Oh . . .”

“It’s Rayna. Rayna Mishan. And yours?”

“Rami Mahmoud. We have the same initials, R. M.”

“You’re an Arab . . . a Muslim, aren’t you?”

“You make it sound like a disease.”

“That wasn’t my intent. It was just a comment. Where are you from? Your accent . . .”

“Mishan is a Syrian name. Are you from Syria?”

“Well, sort of. Both sets of my grandparents are from Syria. From Halab. Aleppo. But I was born in Brooklyn . . . in New York.”

“I am from Halab.” Rami was elated to make the connection. “I just arrived last week.”

“First time in the United States?”

“Yes.” His voice lagged and his gaze upon her deepened.

Rayna forced herself to look away. She grappled for a pen inside her purple-and-pink tote. “We need to get to work. I must leave before two.” She opened her notebook. “I’ve written all of the comments made in class. It’s a start.”

“That is a nice bag you have. Unusual colors.”

“I’m attached to purple and pink,” Rayna laughed nervously. “Someday I will grow out of it, I am told.”

Rami tucked the information away. “Can I buy a bag like that for my mother?”

“What’s your mother’s name? You can get her initials like this.” She pointed to the
RM
on the outside pocket flap.

“My mother’s name is Salha.”

“My great grandmother’s name was Salha. My mother is named after her but everyone calls her Sarah.”

“And your father?”

“My father’s name is Abraham. Everyone calls him Abe, except when my Mom’s upset with him, then she calls him Abraham. And your father?”

“My father’s name is Ibrahim. That is Arabic for Abraham.”

Rayna nodded knowingly.

“How old are you? Your birth date?”

“You first.”

“August tenth, nineteen seventy-eight. I am now eighteen.”

Rayna said nothing.

“Well?” He waited for her to respond.

She stared directly at him. “August tenth, nineteen seventy-eight. I’m also eighteen.”

Rami’s intuition had been confirmed.
One day, she will be mine
. “Brothers? Sisters?”

“Four older brothers. I’m the youngest and the only girl . . . and you?

“Four younger sisters. I am the oldest and the only boy.” He glanced at the food on the table. “You know, neither one of us took meat for lunch. We have the same initials. Our family roots are in Halab. Our parents have almost identical names. We have the same number of siblings and we were born on the same day. This is not a coinci . . .”

“Stop! Please, stop. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I have to leave before two. We better get working on our assignment.”

For Rami, the assignment was a wonderful excuse to connect with Rayna. “From the moment I saw you on the registration line, I . . . I . . .”

“Let’s talk about the bacteria, or I’m leaving.” She stood.

Rami dared to touch her hand. “Please do not go. If I upset you, I apologize. We will work on the assignment.” What Rami really wanted was to tell her what he was feeling, to tell her how, over the years, she had filled his dreams. For as long as he could remember, her face had been imprinted in his mind. “If there really were such bacteria and the United States were to get possession, then American businesses would be fighting over the money to be made. Corporate America does not do things for the good of the people. Their actions are profit driven, to fill their own pockets. The more money American executives make, the more they want. It is never enough. I learned that in school in Syria.”

“Come on, Rami, I don’t want to get into what’s right or wrong in America. I could tell you about Syria . . . how the Alawaites enjoy all the privileges, all the jobs, all the money. All at the expense of the Shi’ites and other minorities . . . and some Sunnis, too. So explain to me how the Syrian government does things for the good of the people,” she inquired facetiously. “Let’s not get into mud-slinging. Stay focused on our assignment.”

“Mud-slinging? Is that the term you use here in America? I am not mud-slinging, and you cannot discount my part of this discussion. Now write this down. The oil-eating bacteria ought to be compared with nuclear power, providing a lot of good but disastrous effects if it gets into the wrong hands.”

Rayna took notes as Rami spoke. When he stopped, she looked up and gleamed. “Good stuff. I got every word.”

Rami liked that Rayna validated his contribution. He also liked her spunkiness and their spirited interaction.

“Hmmm.” She arched her brow.

“What?”

“Doctorates in chemistry and philosophy. Isn’t that an odd combination for Professor Nolan to have?” Then with a flip of her hand, she added, “Oh, never mind. I’m probably making too much of it. But what a scary thought. If Nolan were offered millions of dollars and he sold it into the wrong hands, God help the world.”

“Do you think Nolan may have the bacteria, or is he just giving us some philosophical assignment?”

“There’s something strange about him. I can’t quite put my finger on it. What do you think, Rami? Philosophical or reality?”

“Reality.”

“Me, too.” Goosebumps erupted on Rayna’s arms. Rami reached out to stroke them away. She drew back. “It’s almost two o’clock. I have to leave.” Collecting her books, she adjusted her tote over her shoulder.