Moonshot [Part 21] – Swings Of An Axe

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 | Part 19 | Part 20

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“Property, wealth, gold… are imparted according to the capacity of the individual. Who could support an endless supply without being driven mad?”
– Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi

Current Of Dreams

The meeting with Rania would be stressful. Already, he was looking for excuses to avoid it: he was worn thin emotionally, he hadn’t been sleeping well, Rania wasn’t communicating with him lately… the list was long.

In the old days, he might have relieved his stress by going to the store for a pint of ice cream and a box of Petit Ecolier cookies. But he wasn’t doing that anymore. Instead, he changed into jeans and a t-shirt, then drove to Palm and Nees, where he parked at the shopping center. From there, he stepped through a gap in a fence, into the grasslands that bordered the San Joaquin River. Watching his step, he hiked across a meadow thick with wild grasses, then followed a trail steeply downhill.

Soon, he stood at the southern bank of the San Joaquin River. He hadn’t been here in several years, but the place was stamped in his memory. It was Marco who had shown him this spot, the very day they graduated high school.

Marco had borrowed his uncle’s battered pickup, and the two of them sat on the tailgate with burritos and Cokes, still wearing their graduation caps and gowns, trading jokes about teachers, and sketching out futures like architects of destiny.

“We’re kings now, bro,” Marco declared between mouthfuls. “World’s wide open. You and me, we’re gonna do big things.”

Deek had believed him. The river stretched wide and gleaming, a current that seemed to carry their dreams downstream toward every horizon. Since that day, he had returned many times.

Rivers of Paradise

San Joaquin River

Now, two and a half decades later, Deek took off his shoes, rolled up his pants, and sat on a boulder beneath a California sycamore, dangling his feet in the cold, swirling water of the undeveloped, natural river.

The water bit at his skin, for it was Sierra Nevada snowmelt. The river was wide, sky blue, and meandering. Its bottom was covered in round stones, gravel, and mud. The edges were shallow, but there were points where the bottom dropped out, reaching a depth of thirty feet. Deek knew this from personal experience. You had to be very careful when wading in the river. The current was strong and ruthless, and if you fell into the deeps, you could easily drown. Many people did.

The grassy banks were shaded by sycamores, white alders, California buckeyes, cottonwoods, and willows. Raccoons and hares foraged, and coyotes prowled.

Fish such as salmon and steelhead powered their way through the depths, while catfish and striped bass lingered in the shadows. Beavers and river otters could sometimes be seen. Up above, hawks dotted the sky.

Deek watched a great blue heron picking its way through the shallows on the other side of the river, hunting for fish, frogs, and crabs. It dipped its beak into the water, came up with something, and tipped its head back to swallow.

Rivers were thoroughfares of life. Where water flowed, plants and animals joyfully sprang forth. Watching the river, Deek remembered one of his favorite Quranic verses, ayah 15 of Surat Muhammad:

“The description of the Paradise promised to the righteous is that in it are rivers of fresh water, rivers of milk that never changes in taste, rivers of wine delicious to drink, and rivers of pure honey.”

To junk-fed, obese Western ears, a river of milk or honey might sound weird, but to a destitute orphan on the streets of Kolkata, surviving on bits of rice and rotted vegetables? A river of milk would be the greatest fantasy one’s mind could conjure. Or to a desert tribesman, subsisting on camel’s milk and meat, to whom the taste of something sweet was rare? A river of honey would be the essence of heaven.

As for Deek, he would take the heavenly river of water, if Allah willed. If the San Joaquin River was this beautiful, then what must a river of Jannah be like? Such a river would burst with a cornucopia of life, trees that stretched to the sky, grasses as soft as goosedown, fish that glittered with the colors of the rainbow, and water so pure that it made you weep to taste it.

Being here at the river reminded Deek of all that was beautiful, and of the greater beauty to come.

The Evil In Men

Unfortunately, it also reminded him of what had passed. This river had once provided food to the Miwok and Yokut peoples, the indigenous tribes who had populated this valley for 8,000 years. They were peaceful people, living in homes made of brush and mud. Deek had given lessons on these things when he was a teacher.

What was the evil in men that made them think it was okay to invade someone else’s land, slaughter them, and destroy or steal all they owned? Was it racism? Greed? Or simple cruelty? Was this devaluing of human life one of Shaytan’s great triumphs? Deek’s mind went to Palestine, where the displacement and murder of an entire nation were happening before the world’s eyes.

He thought of what had happened in his own homeland under Saddam Hussein. The disappearances and massacres of hundreds of thousands of Kurds, Shia, and political opponents. The mass graves, such as the al-Mahawil grave, which was discovered in 2003 with 2,000 bodies in it, most of them with hands tied behind their backs, shot in the backs of their heads. There had been children in that grave. And then the Americans came and dumped even worse death and misery upon the nation.

His mind went to Ammu Ibn Masud, his father’s younger brother, snatched up by the mukhabarat in the middle of the night, then shot and dumped into yet another river, and how Deek’s own father had been sucked into the tragedy and barely survived. But Deek didn’t want to think about that.

His feet had gone numb. A chill ran through his body. It was time to go. The river had failed to relax him, but it wasn’t the river’s fault. No matter where a man went, he couldn’t escape the thoughts inside his own skull.

A Lingering Grudge

He made a quick stop at the hotel to clean up and put on his blue suit, then drove to the hospital. Deek knew that pediatrics was in the south wing – a completely different building from where Rania had previously worked. He felt good that she had changed departments and no longer worked with that cursed Dr. Townsend. He still hadn’t completely given up on the idea of drowning the man in the river. Kidding / not kidding.

His stride was smooth and confident, though he occasionally rubbed his cheek nervously. He had brought no cache of money this time. No briefcase, no backpack. He’d learned his lesson from Zaid, Lubna, and Marco. You couldn’t throw money at people. It caught them off guard and made them defensive.

Instead of money, he carried other things that he shouldn’t have. A lingering grudge in his gut. An old anger, down to a dull red coal, but still smoldering. Holding on to such things was not his best quality. He knew this.

He’d been married to Rania a long time, and was accustomed to sharing everything with her. He wanted to get comfortable with her on the sofa at home and narrate all that had transpired since they’d parted. Not to confess, but simply to share. He thought she would be proud of his decision to found an Islamic school.

But now there was this gulf between them, and the days of cuddling on the sofa seemed far behind.

Pediatrics

The pediatrics department was on the third floor and was secured behind a large set of metal double doors. To enter, you had to swipe a badge or be buzzed in. Deek pressed the button on the intercom. When a voice said, “Pediatrics,” he said, “This is Deek Saghir, here to see my wife Rania.”

The doors swung open and Deek strolled in, tasting the hospital’s familiar antiseptic tang in the back of his throat. Fluorescent lights shone silently overhead, their white glow reflecting off pale green walls featuring realistic paintings of bears, deer, and foxes cavorting in Yosemite Valley.

At the nurse’s station, an Asian woman in scrubs, her long black hair tied in a ponytail, typed on a computer. Her name tag said Chea. Her dark brown skin, almond-shaped eyes, and wide nose marked her as Cambodian or Laotian, of which there were many in Fresno. Beside her, a half-empty mug of coffee sat beside a stack of clipped-together charts.

Nurses sidled smoothly between patient rooms, their footsteps muffled by soft-soled shoes, but their clipped conversations still audible. From down the hall came the rhythmic beeping of an IV pump. A pale lavender diffuser by the telephone lent a faint touch of sweetness to the air.

Deek identified himself to Nurse Chea and told her he was Rania’s husband.

The nurse smiled widely, her white teeth gleaming. “She has your photo beside her computer station. I’ll page her.”

Deek hadn’t known that Rania had his photo at her work station. In the past, this would have made him happy, but now it only made his chest feel heavy.

Remembering A Difficult Time

Somewhere, a child coughed long and hard. In that instant, Deek was transported to a night seventeen years ago, when he sat by little Sanaya’s side in a hospital room, watching a nurse chart her oxygen levels and administer another dose of antibiotics. The child was terribly sick, her tiny frame shaking with torrents of coughs, her face pale and sweaty.

Sometimes, late at night, Deek would hold her, his heart pounding, as he said one dua’ after another, pleading with Allah to save his only child. Other times, it was Rania holding her.

It was the longest week of his life, sitting in that room nearly around the clock, holding Sanaya’s little hand as nurses changed her IV needle or took blood samples. Telling her Juha stories, telling her his old childhood tales of life in Iraq. It didn’t matter if she understood. It was just about being there, letting her hear his voice. And always praying, praying.

And Allah had indeed saved Sanaya, Deek thought. Allah had always been good to them, had always blessed them. Alhamdulillah, always.

Burnt Out

Rania was having a bad day. A nine-year-old girl had passed away from leukemia. Rania had been checking on her all day long, even reading her stories and bringing her treats when she had an appetite. The child’s passing felt like a kick in the chest. This was something she hadn’t thought about when she’d switched to pediatrics. Watching children die was taking a lash to the heart from a whip.

Her back ached. The constant pain, like someone pushing a small knife into the very base of her lower back, tightened the skin on her face and made her sweat. Over-the-counter meds couldn’t get her through a long shift, so she’d taken a hydrocodone tablet, and it mostly worked, covering up the pain the way plastic wrap covers the smell of rotten meat. But the tablet itself was a problem, because it was an opiate, and she was not supposed to take such things, as it could affect her mental acuity. She could lose her job if anyone found out.

She needed a month off to recuperate physically and emotionally. Deek’s leaving home had hit hard. She’d been impatient with him the last few years, but now that he was gone, she realized how much she relied on him. He was the Babylonian pillar she leaned on, and the hearth fire that warmed her at night. And oh! She would give almost anything for one of his back massages.

Maybe she was burnt out on nursing. On her breaks she often sat in the hospital courtyard and fantasized about quitting. Maybe she could make quilts instead, and sell them online. What a peaceful existence that would be.

But she couldn’t afford to take a month off, and certainly not to quit. Deek might be a millionaire, but Rania wasn’t. Yes, he’d given her another hundred thousand dollars – it had simply shown up in her bank account, like a magic trick – but she’d already pledged a portion of it for the high-end upgrades that she originally wanted for Deek’s new office. The radiant flooring, walnut shelving, and so on.

Besides, she didn’t know what the future would bring. What if Deek cut off the flow of funds? Who would care for her and the girls? She didn’t think Deek would actually do that – he was an honorable man – but she could not risk leaving her job.

Furthermore, it was still hard to believe that these supposed millions Deek had earned were actually real. Yes, he’d bought a sports car, deposited a huge chunk of money in their account, and according to the girls, he was staying in a palatial hotel suite. But still… cryptocurrency hardly seemed real. It was play money. Was it really possible to make such a fortune?

She needed simply to accept it, because one thing she knew about her husband was that the primary ingredient in his body – aside from Petit Ecolier cookies – was honesty, from his curly hair to his sturdy feet. If he made a mistake, he admitted it. If a friend asked for a favor and Deek didn’t want to do it, he wouldn’t make an excuse; he’d simply say, “I don’t want to.” If Rania asked how she looked in a particular dress, he might say, “It’s too tight across your butt,” or he might say, “You look spectacular,” and either statement would be true in his mind.

Swings of an Axe

Rania froze in dismay, for there was the man himself.

She had just come out of a patient room and was on her way to the nurse’s station to update the logs, and there was Deek, standing there looking fantastic in a gorgeous dark blue suit and brown leather shoes. His hair was a bit longer, and a light beard had taken form, and he’d lost a surprising amount of weight. His expression was serious, and his eyes were focused on something far away. He didn’t seem aware of his surroundings at all. In all the years she’d known him, he’d never looked so handsome.

But why did he insist on coming to her work unannounced? And why today? Last night she’d been calling him urgently, sensing that something was wrong. And yes, they needed to talk.

Not now, though. Not today, when she was a date palm tree of her native Iraq, and the events of the day were swings of an axe, chopping her down. Her back pain – CHOP. The child’s passing – CHOP. Her weariness, sweaty face, and red eyes, making her look altogether ugly – CHOP. And now Deek showing up without warning, looking like an Arab cinema star – CHOP.

She did not want to see him at this moment.

Nevertheless, she forced a smile onto her face and moved forward.

***

[Part 22 will be published next week inshaAllah]

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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:

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

Gravedigger: A Short Story