Deek reconnects with Lubna, hires a young accountant, and shares a lunch with Marco that results in a stunning surprise.

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 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25

* * *

“All praise is due to Allah, Lord of the Worlds.” – Surat Al-Fatihah

An Invitation

He was on his way to the hotel when Lubna called to report that she’d filed the non-profit paperwork for the school and was scouting candidates for the board and teaching staff.

“Beautiful,” Deek said. “MashaAllah. We are going to build something amazing, inshaAllah.”

He heard the smile in Lubna’s voice. “I think you’re right. Have you found a location for the school?”

“No, but I met an exceptional real estate agent. I think she’ll be able to find what we need. Listen, you’re in charge of hiring teachers, and I wouldn’t infringe on that. I just want to ask if you’d consider Marco as the science teacher.”

“Your friend Marco? The one who can never keep a job?”

“Marco Feliciano Colón Tirado, yes.”

Lubna giggled.

“What?”

“Nothing. It sounds funny when you say it fast like that. Deek, we’re trying to run a real school here, not some scheme to do favors for our friends.”

“Hey. Marco has multiple science degrees, including in biology, physics, chemistry and I don’t know what else. He’s a genius. Could you at least review his resume and interview him? Then make whatever decision you feel is right. You have the final word.”

She sighed. “Fine. Tell your vagabond genius to contact me. And hey, big brother.”

Deek turned into the hotel driveway and parked the car. “Yeah?”

“You could come by and visit sometime. Anytime, really.”

Deek shut off the car, suddenly conscious of his breathing. He felt strangely moved. Lubna had never invited him to her home, except occasionally in Ramadan or on Eid, and those invitations had become fewer and fewer in between, because they never ended well.

Yet now it seemed she had forgiven him for a lifetime of meanness and verbal abuse. Or at least she was on the path to forgiving him. And she’d done it faster than he had any right to expect. There was no doubt which of them was the better person. It was Lubna, hands down.

“I could?”

“Yes… Hammo misses you.”

He restrained himself from laughing. “Did he say that?”

“You could come for dinner tonight. And bring Rania and the girls.”

“That’s problematic. But definitely soon, inshaAllah.”

A Terrible Miracle

After he hung up the call, he saw that Rania had finally sent a one-word reply to Deek’s question – of yesterday, for goodness sakes – about whether she had been at Jum’ah. Her reply consisted of one word: “No.”

So she’d read his mind again, mirroring what he’d heard from the Imam: Allah will take care of me. He put his head in his hand, thinking. He and Rania were connected in ways he did not understand. It was more than a marriage.

What had Imam Saleh said? This world is not sustained by wealth, but by Allah’s mercy. Whoever clings to Him, Allah provides in ways they never imagined.

Deek believed this. He’d seen it many times. He’d told the man at the gym how he and his family had fled Iraq in the middle of the night, and now he found himself thinking of the event that forced their flight. It was a terrible yet wondrous miracle that had happened to his father. This event, more than anything, had shaped his father’s personality and steered the course of his life. Lubna had been very small when it happened, and the truth had been kept from her. Deek wondered if she deserved to know.

He rubbed his cheeks vigorously with both hands. He didn’t want to think about these things. He had a lot to do.

Upstairs in his hotel room he made wudu’, changed into jeans and the old t-shirt he’d left home with, and prayed. Then he called Zakariyya Abdul-Ghani, the young accountant Imam Saleh had told him about. Zakariyya, who sounded young, said he could see Deek next week.

“I don’t usually work on weekends,” the accountant pointed out.

Deek explained that his business was urgent, and insisted on a meeting that very day, and the young man agreed, though he didn’t sound excited about it.

Deek made himself a sandwich with sourdough bread, albacore tuna, mustard and provolone cheese. He ate it quickly while surveying the financial markets on his computer, then opened the backpack with the cash, stuffed a few packets into his pockets, and headed out to meet Zakariyya.

Beneath the Flight Path

The accountant’s office was on the second floor of a low-rise building near the airport, its stucco walls sun-faded and the sign out front half missing. Inside, the narrow waiting area smelled faintly of printer toner and cardamom tea.

The young man himself rose from behind a desk when Deek entered. He was thin to the point of fragility, mahogany-skinned, a neatly trimmed beard, and large brown eyes that reminded Deek of a deer taking its first hesitant steps through the woods. His suit fit him awkwardly, as if it had been bought with ambition rather than cash.

“Mr. Saghir?” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Zakariyya. Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?”

Deek sat. “No, but thank you. Are you Pakistani?”

“My family are Indian Muslims from Bihar state. But I was born in Los Angeles.” The boy’s voice was so soft Deek had to lean forward in his chair to hear. He couldn’t help noticing the accountant’s youth—he looked barely out of college—but when Zakariyya began talking about finances, the uncertainty fell away. His voice became steady, deliberate, precise.

“You said by email that you need help handling medical disbursements,” Zakariyya said. “That’s simple enough. We can open a dedicated account in your name, with me as an authorized manager but not a signer. You’ll transfer funds into it as needed, and I’ll process payments directly to hospitals or doctors once you approve the invoices. Everything will be logged and reconciled monthly. You’ll have full visibility online.”

Deek nodded, impressed despite himself. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

A faint smile touched the young man’s lips. “Masjid Madinah is one of my clients. I handle their payroll and donations. I also do work for a few small medical practices, so I’m familiar with billing systems. I can have you set up by the middle of next week.”

“I need it set up by Monday morning.”

Zakariyya sat back in his chair and smiled uncertainly. “I have other clients. I have to be fair to them.”

At that moment a roaring sound began overhead. It increased in volume until the windows rattled in their frames. It was the loudest sound Deek had heard in a long time, and it flashed him back to his youth in Baghdad, and the occasional explosions that had rocked the city. When the sound passed, he realized to his shame that he had come off the chair and dropped to one knee. He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his knees.

Zakariyya cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry. We’re beneath the airport flight path. How about if I bring you that tea now?”

Deek nodded. “Yes, thanks.”

A Pop Quiz

While Zakariyya was gone, Deek steadied himself. He was deeply embarrassed. He looked around the small office. A tall bookshelf was crammed with books on financial management and accounting, but there were also books on history and philosophy. On the top shelf there were two different translations of the Quran, and one in Arabic only. Zakariyya’s diplomas and certifications hung on the wall behind him and Deek saw to his surprise that the young man had a B.A. in Economics, a B.S. in Computer Science and an M.S. in Accounting.

Zakariyya returned with the tea. The fragrance of cardamom filled the small office.

The teacup was hot in Deek’s hand. “You have a master’s degree? How old are you?”

Zakariyya smiled. “I’m twenty seven. I look younger.”

“Out of curiosity, do you know anything about cryptocurrency?”

The accountant nodded. “I did a minor in blockchain technology. The course had just been introduced. I’ve tried to stay up to date on the development of decentralized finance, layer 1s and 2s, NFTs, stablecoins, tokenized assets and so on. But I’m not an expert.”

Again Deek was impressed. Not many people outside the crypto world could have named those technologies. “Have you heard of a family office?”

Zakariyya blinked. “I feel like I’m back in school getting a pop quiz. Yes, of course. It’s the structure high-net-worth families use to manage everything in-house. Why do you ask?”

Deek sipped his tea. “Just wondering. It’s something I heard about. Listen, I’m going to give it to you straight.”

“Okay.”

Setting the teacup down, Deek pulled a banded wad of cash out of his pocket and set it on the desk in front of Zakariyya. “If you and I are going to work together, I need you to prioritize my business. Hire someone to help with the other clients if you need to, but I want you personally handling my business. That – “ he pointed to the stack of cash – “is ten thousand dollars. That’s not an advance. It’s an incentive for taking me on as a client. This – “ He pulled another stack of $10,000 out of his pocket and set it beside the first – “is an advance. I’m telling you what my needs are. If you do well with this medical disbursement, I could have more work for you. But I must be first priority, and I will pay for that privilege. If you don’t feel comfortable with this, that’s fine. I can find someone else.”

Zakariyya’s eyes had widened slightly. He nodded slowly. “I understand. Yes, okay. I’ll have it set up for you by Monday morning.”

“MashaAllah,” Deek said. “Excellent.”

They discussed a few details—security protocols, recordkeeping, how large transfers should be handled—then another plane thundered overhead. The window rattled again, and this time Deek resisted the urge to duck.

Child to Adult

Over the next few days, Deek stayed busy, partly to distract himself from his own thoughts. His mind kept wandering inexplicably to the tragedies that had befallen his family, and other families they had known, in Iraq. As well, he found himself haunted by the dream he’d had of the planet Rust. Was this a side effect of the Namer’s potion, that his dreams took on increased clarity and weight, and persisted like the bitter aftertaste of black coffee? It was as if he’d left some part of himself stranded among those giants, forever separated from his family by the vast, black gulf of space.

He made a number of calls and held a few meetings to arrange the surprise he had in mind for brother Faraz.

* * *

Zakariyya did indeed have the medical payments operation up and running by Monday morning, and Deek – not wanting to hear more of Dr. Rana’s effusive praise – emailed Dr. Rana to inform him.

* * *

Dr. Zuhair, the rich and handsome Egyptian engineer who was the board president at Masjid Umar, called him.

“I mentioned your offer to the board,” he said. “They feel I was hasty in rejecting it. They wish to accept your offer of a one million dollar donation. You will be granted a seat on the board, and Dr. Ajeeb will be fired, as you stipulated.”

Deek was shocked. “You told me that was impossible, that it was a violation of your integrity.”

“I still feel that way. But I was outvoted.”

“Well… I don’t want that anymore. I will donate a quarter million for now, but I don’t want a seat on the board, as I have enough on my plate already. And I don’t want you to fire Dr. Ajeeb. In fact I insist that you do not. That was a petty and vindictive demand on my part.”

“SubhanAllah. I am speechless. It’s as if you have grown from child to adult in two weeks.”

The condescending remark irritated Deek, but he let it pass. “My accountant, Zakariyya Abdul-Ghani, will arrange a cashier’s check or wire transfer, and will need a receipt for tax purposes. I’ll have him contact you.”

* * *

Public Enemy

He managed to convince Amira to have lunch with him. She was reserved, not her usual quirky, affectionate self. She wore a t-shirt that said, “FIGHT THE POWER.” Beneath it was a logo featuring a black and red flag, and a red rose.

Pointing to it, Deek said, “I didn’t know any young people still listened to Public Enemy.”

“Public who? This is a Rose City Antifa shirt.”

“A what?”

Amira laughed – the first time she’d done so during their meeting that day – and Deek smiled.

“Miri, honey,” he said. “Could you ask your mom to please call me?”

The laughter disappeared. Amira lapsed into silence, and on that somber note Deek drove her home and dropped her off. As he stopped in front of the house, he saw that the side gate and fence had been removed, and a variety of construction equipment was parked in the driveway. From the rear of the house, he thought he could hear the sounds of hammering, and the buzz of a wood saw.

“What’s going on? What is all this?”

Amira opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then shrugged and said, “Mom’s doing some work.” With that she exited the car and strolled into the house.

The Park Lunch

Marco called him out of the blue on Wednesday. “Lunch is on me,” he said, in that tone that dared Deek to argue.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, man. I got a spot.”

Deek drove to the rough end of town where Marco lived, parking a few doors down from a corner store with a faded sign that read Al-Quds Market. The owner, an elderly Palestinian in a gray kufi, waved from behind the counter. The place didn’t sell liquor—unique in this part of Fresno—and for that reason, it was a minor miracle of survival. Its shelves were stacked with pastries, candy bars, canned beans, and a glass deli case full of foil-wrapped meals that looked like they’d been made that morning in someone’s kitchen.

“Pick what you want,” Marco said, opening the deli case. “It’s all good.”

Deek glanced over the options: lasagna, chicken and rice, something that looked like grape leaves, and several containers of what appeared to be macaroni with tuna and mayonnaise.

“Two of those,” Marco told the old man, slapping a few crumpled bills on the counter. A few minutes later they left with the food and a couple of bottled teas.

They walked two blocks to a small park wedged between a laundromat and an auto repair yard. The grass was patchy, the benches scarred with initials and half-burned by cigarettes. A pair of homeless men slept under the shade of a fig tree, and a thin woman paced near the trash cans, mumbling to herself.

They sat on a bench with peeling paint. The park smelled of marijuana smoke and urine. Oblivious, Marco popped open his container and started eating. “Best five dollar meal in Fresno,” he said through a mouthful.

Deek smiled. The mac n’ tuna was actually quite good, with chopped black olives and a flavor of spicy mustard. Every now and then he glanced around the park, watching a shirtless man argue with a trash can, and his hand drifted absently to the knife sheath at his hip.

No Walking Away

“I’ve been doing a lot of gigs,” Marco said finally. “The new trumpet sounds like joy with butter on top.”

“That’s great, man.” The news made Deek genuinely happy. “I’ve been busy too. I’m founding an Islamic school.”

Marco looked up, eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”

“Yes. I think you’d be a good candidate for science teacher. Lubna’s the hiring manager. You want to put together a resume and call her?”

Marco stopped chewing. “Deek, don’t do that. I don’t need charity.”

Deek exhaled noisily, exasperated. “How is it charity? If anything you’re overqualified. And I have a feeling you’d be good with the kids.”

“It might be fun to be a teacher,” Marco mused. “When would it start?”

“Next school year. But if you take the job, you’d have to commit. No half measures. No walking away.”

Marco stared at the ground for a moment, fork idle in his hand. “Let me think about it.”

Deek nodded, watching a plane drift high above, glinting in the sunlight. “That’s all I ask.”

They finished the meal in companionable silence, the noise of the street rising around them — traffic, a distant siren, the crackle of a wrapper caught in the wind.

A Surprise

When the meal was finished, Marco said, “I have a surprise for you.”

“Okay. Is it my birthday and someone didn’t tell me?”

Marco sat up straight, cleared his throat, then began to recite in nearly perfect Arabic:

Aoothoo billahi min ash-shaytan ir-rajeem,
Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Raheem,
Alhamdulillahi rabbil-aalameen…

He went on to recite all of Surat Al-Fatihah, the opening chapter of the Quran. His voice was strong and melodic, hypnotizing in fact, and although his accent wasn’t perfect – he couldn’t quite get the “dha” in “dhaalleen” – it was very good.

When he was done, Deek shot his fists into the air and said, “Allahu Akbar! That was amazing.”

“You’ve been saying you wanted to hear me recite the Quran.”

“It was fantastic. But… why now?”

In response, Marco recited the shahadah, the Islamic testimony of faith. Again, his Arabic was nearly perfect. As he did so, Deek felt goosebumps break out on his arms.

“So… you’re Muslim now?”

Marco smiled. “Obviously.”

Deek leaped up, grabbed Marco around the waist and lifted him off the bench and into the air. Marco laughed and demanded to be put down.

Deek set his friend on his feet. “Why now?” he repeated. “I’ve known you all your life. You’ve always been someone who knows everything but believes in nothing.”

“You’re wrong. I believe in you. I saw what you were like when you were poor, and I’ve seen what you’re like now that you’re rich, and I’ve realized that whatever life throws at you, you just get better. Part of that is because you’re an extraordinary human being, but I think part of it is the guidance of your faith. And I want that. I need it. Badly.”

Tears came to Deek’s eyes. Damn Namer’s potion. He sat heavily on the bench and covered his face with his hands. From the auto repair shop, he heard the sharp, stuttering “rat-tat-tat-tat… whirrrrr—clack” of an impact wrench removing the lug nuts from someone’s tires. A breeze gusted, and the leaves of the fig tree beside him rustled. A homeless man asked for change, and Deek looked up to see Marco give the man a dollar. The sun was bright overhead, but not hot. It was all beautiful.

***

Come back next week for Part 27 inshaAllah

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

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.

Related:

Day Of The Dogs, Part 1 – Tiny Ripples Of Hope

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story