Ayesha At Last(5)

“Sheila, this is our e-commerce project manager, Khalid Mirza,” she said, and both women turned to him.

A hard glance from Sheila took in Khalid’s white robe and skullcap. Her eyes lingered on his long beard.

Her gaze was the opposite of appraising, Khalid thought. She looked annoyed.

Then everything went from bad to worse. Sheila leaned forward and stuck out her hand for him to shake.

They stared at each other.

“I’m sorry, I don’t shake hands with women. It’s against my religion,” he blurted.

Sheila left her hand outstretched for another moment, cold eyes locked on his face. Then she slowly pulled back and raised an eyebrow. “I should have assumed as much from your clothing. Tell me, Khalid: Where are you from?”

“Toronto,” Khalid answered. His face flamed beneath his thick beard; he didn’t know where to look.

“No,” Sheila laughed lightly. “I mean where are you from originally?”

“Toronto,” Khalid responded again, and this time his voice was resigned.

Clara shifted, looking tense and uncomfortable. “I’m originally from Newfoundland,” she said brightly.

“I lived in the Middle East for a while,” Sheila said to Khalid, her voice low and pleasant. “Saudi Arabia. I found it so interesting that the women wore black while the men wore white. There’s something symbolic about that, isn’t there? Half the population in shadow while the rest live in light. You must be so grateful to live in a country that welcomes everybody.” Sheila’s laughter sounded high and artificial. “Of course, when I was in Saudi Arabia, I wasn’t afforded the same courtesy.”

Khalid’s eyes were lowered to the ground, his head bowed. “I apologize, Ms. Watts. I meant no disrespect,” he said finally. “Please forgive me.” He turned around and walked back the way he had come, hands trembling.

He took the long way around the floor and caught the service elevator down to his small office in the basement. It was sparsely furnished with two grey metal desks squeezed together, a black bookcase wedged behind the door and a sagging blue couch against the back wall. Rumour had it this office used to be a maintenance closet, but he was grateful for the privacy, especially when he prayed in the afternoon.

It was nine thirty in the morning, earlier than usual for Amir to already be at his desk. Though judging by the rumpled suit, his co-worker had spent last night at the office. Again.

“Assalamu Alaikum, Amir. I thought we talked about this.” Khalid hid his shaking hands by folding his arms.

“My date wasn’t exactly interested in a sleepover, if you know what I mean. Bitches, am I right?” Amir reached for a water bottle on his desk, opened it and began chugging rapidly.

Khalid winced at his description. “I can’t keep covering for you.”

Amir had been hired the previous year as part of Livetech’s “Welcome Wagon” program for immigrants. Technically, Khalid was his manager. Most days he felt like a babysitter.

“Last time, I swear. This would never happen if you came out with me and stopped me from committing my many sins. I promise I’ll introduce you to some pretty girls.”

Khalid was tempted to confess Ammi’s plans to find him a wife, but instead he stuck to his usual line. “Out of respect for my future wife, I don’t believe in sleeping around before marriage.”

Amir only laughed. “Classic Khalid. I tell my friends about you all the time. They don’t believe half my stories. All the other Muslim guys I know scrub up for Friday prayers just like you, but they know how to have fun.”

Khalid ignored him and settled down to check emails; the most recent was from Sheila, sent only moments ago.

Khalid, I’m glad we met today. I’d like to begin our working relationship with a performance review. I look forward to a frank discussion of your strengths and many areas of improvement. The meeting is scheduled for Monday at 3 p.m. I trust this appointment will not interfere with any religious obligations.

Amir, noticing Khalid’s concerned expression, got up to read over his shoulder. He whistled. “What did you do?”

Khalid shrugged. “I declined to shake her hand.”

“K-Man, you need to edit. Figure out what works for you, throw out what doesn’t. It’s not like we’re still riding around on camels, right?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Amir punched Khalid lightly on his arm. “You’re too old to be this naive. Watch your back, brother.”

Khalid kept silent. He knew how Amir saw him—as an anachronistic throwback, a walking target for ridicule.

Sometimes he wished he were different. But even if Khalid “edited” everything about himself—his clothes, his beard, his words—it wouldn’t erase the loneliness he felt every day. The loneliness he had felt ever since his sister left home almost twelve years ago.

His white robes and beard were a comfortable security blanket, his way of communicating without saying a word. Even though he knew there were other, easier ways to be, Khalid had chosen the one that felt the most authentic to him, and he had no plans to waver.

Besides, the robes provided great air circulation.

And everything happened by the will of Allah.





Chapter Four

Sheila had an entire wall of windows in her office, Clara noted. Her new boss sat at a large black desk so shiny it reflected her perfectly poised image. She was typing an email, and she looked angry, her red nails stabbing the keyboard. Clara was seated on a lethal-looking chair; the curlicued metal embellishments on the back felt like they had been filed to a knife’s edge.