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"I'm going to unwrap the sandwiches, OK?" Ijaz Hamdhi looks up hopefully at Akaso Siko, but receives no response. He glances longingly at the small party tray on the end table just next to the arm of the sofa where he had strategically positioned himself when he arrived nearly an hour ago. The sandwiches, small triangles of crustless white bread filled with various kinds of luncheon meats, don't look especially fresh to him through the Saran Wrap that covers the tray. Ijaz has been trying to convince himself that the dingy appearance of the sandwiches is an illusion, a trick played on his eyes by the dim light. After all, the sunlight not only has to force its way into the apartment through one dirty window, it has to suffer the further indignity of being refracted and diffused by the cellophane. And judging from the stains of various colors that dot this particular piece of Saran Wrap, Ijaz suspects that this is not the first time it's been pressed into service to cover plates of foodstuffs. At least, Ijaz hopes that the items formerly covered by the Saran Wrap were foodstuffs. He decides that it's probably best not to think about it too much. At any rate, the sandwiches would be a welcome change from the dried-out carrots and celery stalks he's been dipping in ranch dressing and devouring for the last couple of hours. He could, of course, just reach over and unwrap the sandwiches himself, without seeking permission. But that would be rude, especially in light of the fact that, last time he asked about the sandwiches, he had specifically been told not to unwrap them. Not until more people have arrived, Akaso had said. Persistence, on the other hand, was not necessarily rude, at least not as rude as unwrapping the sandwiches. So he would just have to keep asking until his host relented. "Akaso? The sandwiches?" And then, because he feels that perhaps a little rudeness might speed things up, Ijaz adds, "I don't think anybody else is going to show up, you know? We can't just let all this food go to waste. People are starving in India, and all that..." Akaso knows that Ijaz is Indian, of course – and since he tops the scales at well over two hundred fifty pounds, Ijaz is clearly in no danger of starving. But Akaso fails to recognize the attempt at levity, or perhaps he decides to ignore it. "What about Marika?" he asks. It sounds to Ijaz like some kind of accusation. "I saw you speaking with her yesterday. Did she say that she was coming?" "Yeah, I spoke with Marika yesterday," Ijaz admits. "But we didn't talk about the party. It just didn't come up." Lying, he decides, is preferable to relating what Marika had actually said, which was that she'd rather have all of her teeth extracted without the benefit of anaesthetic than set foot in Akaso Siko's apartment, party or no party. "And Farahnaz? She was interested when I announced the party at the FSA meeting. I cannot understand why she is not here." To Ijaz, it sounds as though Akaso is more angry than puzzled; perhaps he regards the absence of Farahnaz as some kind of betrayal. "It's a mystery, alright," Ijaz says, although he knows that Farahnaz had expressed interest in the party just to be polite. He also knows that the only reason that Akaso's presence is tolerated by the Foreign Students Association is that he is, in a word, foreign – and as such, according to the organization's charter, he cannot be excluded from FSA meetings. But nothing in the charter says that the other members have to tolerate the company of Akaso Siko in any setting other than FSA meetings, so few of them choose to do so. For a few seconds, Akaso appears to be deep in thought, and Ijaz steels himself to be grilled about the rest of the FSA membership – or at least the female membership, which is the emerging pattern in Akaso's questions. But then Akaso sighs and, to the delight of Ijaz, peels the Saran Wrap from the sandwich tray. Ijaz feels that Akaso's action implies that he's resigned himself to the reality that no other guests are going to arrive, and he fleetingly considers making a joke about that, but decides that it might be more prudent to eat a sandwich or two first. He's relieved to discover that the sandwiches don't taste quite as bad as they look, although they're certainly not fresh – and, in fact, even after eating three or four sandwich triangles, he finds that he's unable to identify the sandwich fillings. He starts to ask, but then decides that perhaps he's better off not knowing. Akaso seats himself next to his guest on the sofa and presses a button on the TV remote control. Across the room, a grainy picture begins to emerge on a small portable television. It appears to be some kind of war movie, soldiers storming a beach, dodging bullets. Men in uniform are running everywhere, screaming at each other over the roar of exploding munitions. Akaso mutes the sound and begins to flip channels. A basketball game. Then a car commercial, something red and fast, Ijaz isn't able to make out the brand before Akaso moves on to the next channel. Then a courtroom scene, two lawyers in a heated exchange, gesticulating angrily, the judge sternly pounding his gavel on his big wooden bench. Then an athletic event of some kind, an aerial view of a few dozen runners racing down a curving ribbon of asphalt, a bird's-eye shot apparently taken from a helicopter, or perhaps a blimp. "Ijaz, you are a friend," Akaso says. "So I know that you will give me an honest answer." Uh-oh, Ijaz thinks. Here it comes. "Sometimes, I sense a certain... tension, shall we say, between myself and some of the other foreign students. Have you noticed this as well? Or is it just my imagination?" Ijaz hesitates. "You want me to tell you the truth?" "Why else would I have asked you?" "Well, let's see..." Ijaz swallows a last bite of sandwich. "You dress like you're some kind of refugee. You never smile. All you ever talk about is politics. And you don't really talk, all you ever want to do is argue." He counts each point off on his fingers, as if he were making some kind of list. "You're always trying to get everybody to do things they don't really want to do. And you snap at anybody who has the nerve to disagree with you..." "Ridiculous," Akaso snaps. "I am sorry if I burden you and the others with my stories of the abominable injustices that are daily facts of life in Qen Phon," he adds, his voice thick with sarcasm. "But The Butcher of Qen Phon murdered my father, who was a great fighter for the freedom of my people. I cannot pretend that it did not happen just so as not to discomfort my friends." Ijaz shrugs. "Hey, you asked me to tell you the truth, so I did. And I am your friend, Akaso. If I weren't your friend, I wouldn't be here." Of course, Ijaz knows that the only reason he's there is because the attraction of free food overcame his aversion to Akaso, and he suspects that Akaso knows it too. "I know what happened to your father," Ijaz continues. We all know what happened to your father, he thinks. That's all you ever talk about. "But most of the foreign students are just trying to fit in here. It's tough enough just to be an outsider, especially at a rich-kid school like SMU. The American students look down their noses at anyone who's different than they are. They're not even interested in American politics, Akaso. And they're certainly not interested in the politics of some little country halfway around the world." "Exactly!" Akaso jumps off the sofa and begins to pace as well as he can in the small apartment. "It is our responsibility to educate the Americans, not to... not to emulate them." He stops pacing and nods. "Yes, that is good," he says, as if to himself. "Educate, not emulate. Education, not emulation. I must remember that." "Akaso..." But Akaso will not be interrupted. "The American students are soft and lazy. They do not want to work. They do not want to study. They do not even want to think if they can possibly avoid it. But it is our responsibility to enlighten them, Ijaz. We know what the world is really like. We know how cruel and evil it can be. We know that there are bigger problems in the world than figuring out how to get your parents to increase your allowance." "Look, I know what you're saying, but..." "And the women, they are the worst!" Akaso starts pacing again, waving his arms as he walks back and forth in front of the sofa. "They are not even women, I should not dignify them with such a title. They are little girls. They do not even speak of their mother and father, they speak of their 'Momma' and their 'Daddy,' just like babies. Have you heard them?" "Before we continue this lively discussion..." Ijaz holds out a blue plastic cup hopefully. "I think there's more Coke in the refrigerator, yes? As long as you're up..." "Are you certain that you want another Coke?" Akaso asks, suddenly the concerned host. "I have Dr. Pepper as well." "Yeah, thanks, a DP would be cool," Ijaz says. "Don't fill it, half a cup's fine," he adds, as Akaso takes the cup and heads off into the kitchen. The dry sandwiches have made him incredibly thirsty, but drinking half a cup will be faster than drinking a full one, and he'll be able to make his excuses and leave that much sooner. Returning from the kitchen with two drinks, Akaso gives one to Ijaz and settles down at the other end of the sofa. Ijaz is not entirely surprised to notice that the cups are full; Akaso must have realized that his guest hopes to depart as soon as his cup is empty, and Akaso obviously has more to say. "You know," Akaso says, leaning back into the corner of the sofa, "I see these women, these girls here at school, I hear the way they speak rudely to their men, I see the way they try to act as if they are so... so tough." He shakes his head at the deplorable situation. "They think they know what they want. But I know what they really want." Ijaz takes a sip of his Dr. Pepper. "OK, I'll bite," he says, against his better judgment. "What do they really want?" Akaso leans forward, as if wanting to ensure that Ijaz doesn't miss this important point. "American women," he explains, "want a man to protect them. They want a man to tell them what to do. They want a man who is not afraid of them. They want a man who is strong." Ijaz grins. "A man like you?" "Yes," Akaso replies. "Exactly. A man like me." Ijaz examines Akaso's face for any hint that Akaso is joking back at him, but Akaso appears to be quite serious. "Then why is it," Ijaz asks, "that I've never even seen you with an American woman? If you're the man they're looking for, why haven't they found you yet? I'm not trying to dis you or anything," he adds, as Akaso begins to glower at him, "but there's got to be at least one woman here at school who you'd like to... to educate, if you know what I mean..." "The women here are not worthy of me," Akaso says, his voice steely. "The fact is that I could have any of these women, any time I want. If I didn't have to attend to my studies. If I didn't have to educate these ignorant Americans about the atrocities that occur in my country day after day. If I had nothing better to do than to waste my time with one of these brainless children, I could have any one of these women. Any one of them." "What about her?" Ijaz points to the TV screen where a tall, slender woman with shoulder-length blond hair and a winning smile runs through a yellow tape, her arms outstretched in victory. "Could you have her?" "What do you mean, the girl on the television?" Akaso is confused. "I speak of real life," he says, indignantly, "not a TV show." "That's Jill Kendal," Ijaz says – and as if in confirmation, the name JILLIAN KENDAL suddenly appears in block letters at the bottom of the TV screen. "Don't you recognize her?" "The girl on the TV?" Akaso is still confused. "She is someone you know?" Ijaz rolls his eyes. "Gimme a break, Akaso, everybody knows who Jill Kendal is. She set a record in the marathon in the Olympics four years ago, back when she was still in high school. There was a big article about her in the Daily Campus last week, didn't you see it?" "She is a student here? At SMU?" "Yes, Akaso, she's a student here at SMU. You must have seen her on campus. Doesn't she even look familiar?" Akaso stares at the television screen. The camera follows the tall blonde as she walks through a crowd, occasionally stopping to bend and stretch her legs. A dark-haired woman in a colorful outfit points a microphone at her; the blonde, apparently still trying to catch her breath, holds up a hand and keeps walking. "So, what do you think?" Ijaz goads. "You going to ask her out?" But Akaso doesn't respond, he just continues to stare at the screen. "Her Daddy's rich, owns an oil company, something like that," Ijaz says helpfully. "I bet her weekly allowance is bigger than most people in Qen Phon make in a year. If you went out with her, maybe you could get her to buy you some decent clothes." Akaso glances at Ijaz, but Ijaz gets the feeling that Akaso hasn't really heard him, which perhaps is just as well – he enjoys poking fun at Akaso, but he has the feeling that it might be a good idea not to carry it too far. Akaso turns back to stare at the television. He stands and walks a couple of steps closer to the screen, as if to get a better look at Jillian Kendal as the camera follows her through the crowd. To Ijaz, Akaso appears to be hypnotized. Suddenly, he feels a chill, and he immediately recognizes that it has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. Akaso is spooking him. Ijaz laughs to try to relieve the tension, but it doesn't help. "Now, don't go and do anything stupid, Akaso," he says, trying to affect a lightheartedness that he does not feel. It's a remark that Ijaz will remember, later, and always with the same kind of chill that he feels right now.
Next: Chapter 10 (Copley Square) [ Transition Home Page | Transition Blog ] Transition: The OnLine Triathlon Adventure Novel
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