Cryptocurrency is Deek’s last chance to succeed in life, and he will not stop, no matter what.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18

“If you’re not careful, the world will have you loving the things that will destroy you.” — Malcolm X

Start With Your Eye

Like fog lifting from the glittering surface of the San Joaquin River under the noon sun, Deek’s mind began to clear. He blinked at his two daughters, one – Sanaya – looking irritated, and the other – Amira – mostly worried.

As he began to sit up, Amira grabbed his hand and pulled, supposedly helping him up but nearly pulling his arm out of the socket. The crazy kid always did this, even though he’d asked her many times not to. It was like she thought he was invulnerable, and his body was a toy for her to knock around.

“Miri! Take it easy. You can see that I’m hurt.”

“Why are you hurt?” Sanaya demanded.

Deek put on his slippers, and picked up the bag of dirty clothes. “Where do I start?”

“With your eye.”

“I need a shower. There are groceries in the kitchen. Could you two make makhlama while I clean up?”

Sanaya grimaced. “I thought you were inviting us to lunch. Now we have to cook? And you didn’t answer the question.”

“Fine, order room service. I just missed Iraqi food, that’s all.” He picked up the dirty clothes and dumped them in the closet hamper.The maid would take them to be cleaned. “To answer your question, I got glass in it.”

“How?”

“The kid I bought the car from broke the car window and attacked me.”

He had always been very honest with the girls, even when they were little. He believed this was the reason for their trust in him, which had always been full to brimming.

“Why did he do that?” Sanaya asked.

“No idea. He said his dad was sending him back to Yemen, but what that has to do with me, I don’t know. I guess his dad didn’t like him selling me the car. Although I paid more than it was worth. Now – “ He pointed to the two girls – “order room service, or cook something.” In a German accent, he added, “I’ll be back.”

“Okay, Terminator,” Amira said. “Or should I say Babanator.”

“Baba,” Amira called out to him as he went into the bathroom. “There’s a fountain in your living room.”

“I know, Miri.”

Makhlama

Ten minutes later he exited the bathroom in a cloud of steam, hair neatly combed, just a dab of French cologne on his neck, and wearing the jeans and Hawaiian shirt he’d had on when he first left the house. He was sure the girls were freaking out about everything going on, and didn’t want to add to it by wearing one of his expensive new suits.

Makhlama

To his extreme pleasure, he found the girls in the kitchen making makhlama. Sanaya had diced a large onion and caramelized it in olive oil, then added two chopped tomatoes, turmeric, salt and black pepper, and some chili flakes.

In a second pan Amira had scrambled several eggs. As Deek watched, the girls combined the contents of the two pans, and the makhlama was complete. The scent took him home and made him close his eyes in sweet memory. He was back in that hot little apartment on Millbrook Avenue, when he and Rania were first married. The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder in the tiny kitchen, cooking together, and completely happy in spite of their poverty.

“Lunch is served,” Sanaya said with a sweep of her arm.

They sat in the small but elegant dining room, pouring glasses of orange juice. Deek said the dua’ he’d taught the girls when they were little, and that he still said before mealtimes:

Bismillahi, wa barakat-illah.
In Allah’s Name, with blessings near,
We thank Him for this family dear.
We thank Him for the food we chew,
and thank Him ‘cause we’re Muslim too.

The food was delicious, and as he took the first bites he found tears welling up in his eyes. Yes, the Namer’s potion had definitely dissipated. But that was fine. The potion had taught him that he could open his heart, he could speak words of love, and the experience would not destroy him. The words were there. He only had to plug them into the microphone.

Not A Gunfight

“What about this one?” Amira reached out and roughly tapped the scar on his forehead, which made Deek flinch in surprise, as he could not see on that side. “How did you get it?”
“Some gangster shot me. Fortunately he was a bad shot.”

Both girls stopped eating, staring at him in horror.

“You’re kidding,” Sanaya said finally.

“No. After the Yemeni kid beat me, I managed to throw him to the ground. Then these gangsters wanted to steal the car. I pulled a knife, and one of them shot me. It was just a graze. Then Marco – my friend Marco, remember? – stepped out of nowhere and brained the guy with a trumpet. A trumpet!” Deek laughed, then saw that no one was laughing with him. In fact, the girls were looking at him as if he had completely lost his mind.

Sanaya cleared her throat. “Dad… I have no idea what to say.” Her voice increased in volume as she threw her arms out wide. “What is going on? You left mom, you’re living like a cross between a stumblebum and a deposed king, and getting in gunfights? What are we supposed to think?”

“For real though,” Amira seconded. “This is totes cray.”

“It wasn’t a gunfight,” Deek muttered. “I only had a knife.” He scooped a big bite of makhlama into his mouth. “Gunfight,” he said while chewing, “implies that two people were shooting at each other.”

“Dad!” Sanaya slapped the table, making the dishes bounce.

Straight Up

Deek put his fork down. “Alright. Here it is, straight up. I struck it rich in crypto. Really rich, alhamdulillah. Around the same time, I got fed up with your mom’s attitude. Partly because she’s been frequently unkind with me the last few years, and partly because she refused to believe me when I told her about the crypto. I’m still not even sure that she believes me. And she confessed something, which she can tell you or not herself -”

“We know about the doctor at work,” Sanaya said. “I was there when she said it, remember? She changed departments and shifts, by the way. She doesn’t work with him anymore.”

“Okay, well, that’s good. So there was that too. It was all too much. I needed some space to think. So I left. Not because of the money, that has nothing to do with it. Secondly, I bought the Porsche from a Yemeni youth named Shujaa. I didn’t know that the boy is unstable, and his family are basically gangsters. The car was a gift from his father, and his father became angry. And Shujaa claimed I ripped him off. So his dad came after me, which I managed to get out of that situation alhamdulillah, then the kid came after me. End of story.”

Sanaya held up a hand. “Shujaa Tzan’ani? That Shujaa?”

Deek lifted his chin in disapproval, not happy that his daughter knew the young tough. “How do you know him?”

“I don’t. I have Yemeni friends, and people talk. That family is bad news, Dad.”

“I know that now.”

“So…” Amira ventured. “Are you coming home?”

Deek shrugged. “I need to talk to your mom, find out where her head is. I love her very much, and I miss her so much it hurts. But I want to be treated with respect. I won’t go back to being doubted, talked down to, and humiliated. I just can’t.

“Mom loves you,” Sanaya said. “Whatever mistakes she’s made.”

“And I love her.”

“Okay, so?” Amira demanded.

Deek sighed. “I don’t know.”

What About Us

“And what about us? Are you leaving us?” Amira’s voice was hesitant and sad.

Deek smiled and reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “I love you both so much. I’m very proud of you. You will always be my daughters, and we will always be close, no matter what. I walk in your shoes, you walk in mine.”

“Okay.” Amira rubbed her eyes. “But I don’t want you to divorce Mom.”

“Hey! No one said anything about divorce.”

“How much money did you actually make?” Sanaya inquired.

“A lot. Millions. Oh, I’ve been meaning to tell you Sanaya, I know you’re doing well at City College mashaAllah, but if you ever want to transfer, I will pay for it. Even an Ivy League school. Also, you don’t have to work anymore if you don’t want to. You’re both going to be receiving large monthly allowances directly into your bank accounts. And your mom too. I’ll discuss that with her first, then tell you the details.”

Sanaya looked dubious. “This… allowance… will it be more than I make at work?”

“Way more. Now can I get back to eating the makhlama? It’s the best thing I’ve tasted in a week.”

“I think he’s legit telling the truth about everything,” Amira said matter-of-factly.

Sanaya studied her father thoughtfully. “Dad always tells the truth. It’s one of his redeeming qualities.”

“I didn’t know I needed to be redeemed.”

“You do,” Sanaya said seriously.

Questions

“So we’re rich now?” Amira asked.

“Yes,” Deek mumbled with his mouth full.

“That’s boss. We can go on vacations?”

“Yes.”

“I can get a car of my own?”

“Yes, when you get a license.”

“Has it occurred to you,” said his elder, college educated daughter, “that if you were to gain the world and lose your family, you would in reality lose everything?”

Deek gave her a serious look. “Yes.”

Amira flicked his ear. “I feel like you just want us to shut up so you can inhale the makhlama.”

Deek grinned. “Yes.”

“One more thing, Dad,” Sanaya said. “You say the money has nothing to do with you leaving. But have you considered that if you didn’t have the money, you wouldn’t have left, because you’d have nowhere to go? Without Mom supporting you, you were broke.”

Respect, Love Or Mercy?

Deek put down the fork and sat up straight. “That’s unkind. Our marriage is a partnership, or it’s supposed to be. And yes, I still would have left, even if it meant sleeping on Marco’s sofa, or in a cheap motel. I’ll tell you a truth about men, and you’d better remember it when you are married, inshaAllah.”

He held up a hand to forestall the impending objections. “Whenever that happens.”

“Alright.” Sanaya made a beckoning gesture. “Lay it on us.”

“A man’s dignity is as important to him as food or air. A man can stand poverty and pain. He can stand working until he’s about to fall down. He can stand being looked down on by others, if that’s the price he must pay to support his family. But when he comes home, he wants to be treated with respect. Not obedience! It’s not the same thing. A good man won’t care if you can cook, or if you’re a little overweight. He won’t expect you to automatically agree with him. But he will expect to be spoken to respectfully. That’s the secret to men.”

“Are you sure you’re talking about men, Baba?” Amira raised an eyebrow. “‘Cause it sounds like you’re talking about a bear. Just treat the bear with respect and he’ll leave you alone!”

Deek laughed. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“What about love?” Amira asked.

Deek sat back in his chair. “It’s women who want communication, security and love. Men want respect and even admiration. That’s what love looks like to us.”

“That’s actually interesting,” Sanaya said. “But it sounds archaic.”

“Archaic doesn’t mean obsolete. It just means old. Books are archaic. Beating a drum, growing your own food.” He held up a piece of Arabic bread, with which he was about to mop some sauce from the plate. “Bread! This is one of the most ancient foods.”

“Makhlama,” Amira inserted.

Deek snapped his fingers. “The recipe for makhlama probably goes back a thousand years. Islam itself is old, going back to Adam, alayhis-salam. Old things endure for a reason. Maybe saying that good men should be treated with respect sounds retrograde to Western ears. But be careful about letting your worldview be shaped by so-called progressive ideals that contradict not only Islam, but human nature. Not every new idea is an improvement.”

Sanaya tapped the table. “I took a marriage class at Masjid Madinah, did you know that?”

Deek squinted. “Vaguely.”

“Wa min ayatihi,” Sanaya began to recite, “an khalaqa lakum min-anfusikum…” She continued to the end of the ayah.

“And one of His signs,” she translated, “is that He created for you spouses from among yourselves so that you may find comfort in them. And He has placed between you compassion and mercy. Surely in this are signs for people who reflect. Surat Ar-Rum.”

Deek smiled. “MashaAllah! You never fail to impress me. Yes, mercy, but mercy takes different forms. To men it looks like respect. That’s what I’m telling you.”

“And what about your mercy toward mom?”

She had him there. He froze for the space of three breaths, then said, “You’re right. I’m working on that.”

What Do You Want?

“Baba.” Amira’s voice was unusually solemn, and Deek turned to her, meeting her two eyes with his one good one.

“What do you want more? All of this?” She waved an arm to encompass the luxury of the suite. “Or your family?”

Deek found himself speechless. He swallowed. When he spoke his voice was hoarse. “I’d give up all of my kingdom before I’d give up my family.”

Amira nodded, and let it drop.

Later, as the girls were leaving, Deek handed Sanaya the remaining backpack. “Give this to your mom. Be careful, there’s a lot of money in it.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred K, I think. Maybe two fifty, I forget.”

“What!” Samaya exclaimed.

“This new life,” Amira said, “is wild, for real.”

“Mom should be home right now,” Sanaya commented, “if you want to see her. Her new shift is three to three. I hate it, we hardly see her anymore.”

Deek shook his head. “I have to work a little. I’ll visit her later at the hospital, inshaAllah.”

“You promise?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

[Read Part 20 here]

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Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

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Pieces of a Dream | Part 1: The Cabbie and the Muslim Woman

Gravedigger: A Short Story