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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “a Finch in the Window” Down in the Dirt, v150 (the October 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book the Light in the Sky the Down in the Dirt Sept.-Dec. 2017 collection book		get the 418 page May-August 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Bludgeoning the Halvah in a Candy Store on Atlantic Avenue

Shashi Ishai

    The halvah in the Al Aksa candy store, on Atlantic Avenue, Brooklyn, reminded me of my recent life on the European compound, in Saudi Arabia. I opened the door, and the cloyingly sweet, heady aroma of honey and cinnamon; almond paste and sesame, grabbed me. Like the doomed fly heading toward the light, I immediately gravitated to the home-made wedges of halvah, and the knife that invited me to partake. I scarcely noticed the different pictures of the Holy Land and Righteous Imams which decorated the tiny space, as well as the water pipes, finjans and the smell of freshly-brewed Turkish coffee—the kind you drank, ate and peered into your destiny with.
    I distractedly held the cleaver in my right hand and hacked off a sliver, as sheer as peeled sunburn.
    I closed my eyes, as the sesame and sugar did their wonders. A joyous image appeared- my husband, Tom. He had been an ex-Green Beret Navy Seal, so loyal, so loving....except when it rained. The war had left him, well, “sensitive” to loud noises. When he had returned, he seemed jumpy, restless, always looking around, always grabbing at his pockets. When there was thunder and lightning, and if he was sleeping, he awoke in the jungle, and whoever was near him, was enemy prey. Fourth of July, I was barely alive, with multiple fractures, broken collarbones...and profuse apologies and promises we both knew would hold, until the next storm...
    He couldn’t hold a job in a social setting. If someone smashed a paper bag, before throwing it in a waste bin, Tom would have had him pinned to the floor. If there was nearby construction work, it was as if Tom was re-living some LSD-inspired flashback. No, he had to work in isolation. It was just the way it was.
    Then, the letter from the Saudi Consulate in New York came to Tom. He had posted his resume on an international website. He was multi-lingual, had a Mensa IQ...an honorable discharge with medals of distinction...he just needed to work alone. There was a position as an actuary, working for the Saudi King. They were to live on an enclosed, English-speaking compound, where other families of foreign workers lived. All their needs would be taken care of, and it was a high security site. They would have to commit for a year. Luckily, Tom knew a bit of Arabic, but everyone else was proficient in English. There were a list of rules to adhere to, but that was for our safety, so they said.
    My name is Kathy. I smiled, even my blue eyes sparkled. All the women smiled back. I really stood out in a crowd. I was almost 6 feet tall and broad shouldered. I had high, taut cheekbones, inherited from my Mom’s Cherokee Indian bloodline; and, sandy colored hair from my Dad’s Scottish side. I had full-bodied lips that were frequently scolded, for letting out a lot of bad ass words. And I was very fond of putting a few whiskeys back. And then, this mouth really got me into a whole bunch of trouble.
    There were many Arab Moslem women among us—wives of diplomats—wearing a copious amount of gold on their arms. Wherever there was a vacant space of flesh showing, they found something priceless and shiny to cover it up with. We all laughed. We were allowed to go to the Shuk* in a group; or, be driven by the compound overseer, a devout, elderly Moslem driver named Ismail, our “dorm Uncle.”
    The day came quickly that we all piled into the compound Mercedes. Uncle held the door open, with respect. After settling in, we nestled in the traffic and enjoyed the panorama of bobbing veils, vendors, and calls from the mosques. We got there soon-not a great distance. As we perused the stalls, I gawked at the amount of gold hanging so openly?—?everywhere! And women are buying the gold as nonchalantly, as if they were bananas. I turned to Uncle and asked him: “Why are all the women buying gold?” He smiled a toothless grin at me and leaned his head toward me, almost conspiratorially. “If a husband wants to divorce his wife, all he has to do is repeat an Arabic declaration three times, and the woman no longer has a husband, property, money, anything except the gold she is wearing. So, at all times, a woman must be prepared...”
    When we returned to the compound, I was still reeling from the shaky reality of modern Moslem marriage, and I fingered the wedding band Tom had given me, in our small, Christian church ceremony.
    Something terrible had happened! Women and men were upset, crying, asking for help, looking for Uncle. Apparently, a small 8 year old European girl was kidnapped from the compound in the morning. No one saw anybody or anything, but one young, Pakistani maid thought she saw a limo drive up to the house, on the top of the hill.
    I quickly thought, “That would be the French engineer’s house. They have three children: Chloe, 8; Bernard, 12; Audrey, around 13...Good Lord, let me see if I can do something to help.”
    For four days, the entire compound sat outside in a giant circle and comforted each other, fearing the worst, hugging and consoling, occasionally going into their homes and bringing out pots of food for everyone. I hated to say it, but I never felt so close to this group, united in hope, or hopelessness - not even my family in Connecticut. If something like this happened, a missing child, they could only express their grief by efficiently running back and forth to refresh the ice cubes in their visitors’ drinks. Here, the grief was tangible, physical, and it didn’t matter how long you had known each other; a hug around ones shoulders was yearned for by anyone, anybody.
    Suddenly, as if perfectly normal, a black, Mercedes Benz limbo stopped at the compound gates and asked to be let in. Uncle looked into the back seat. His jaw dropped, and he quickly let the car pass. It quickly rode up to the house of the missing child. A man in a Sheik’s headdress and robe came around to the passenger’s side and opened the back door. The frail-looking, missing girl looked dazed, but stepped out, on her own. From head to toe, she was adorned with gold and every jewel, imaginable. She held a note in her hand. The driver just pursed his hands together and bowed his head; then, drove away, without explanation. The girl was too numb to react; but, her parents and the whole compound quickly gathered around her. They peeled the pirate chest of gems off of her and viewed her naked, little form. She seemed alright, except for the little incision on the left side of her back, which she insisted did not hurt her.
    Her mother opened the note. It was written in Arabic: Uncle read it aloud.
    We are truly sorry to have caused you any pain or suffering, for the disappearance of your lovely daughter. You see, our own daughter is exactly her size and age, but neither of her kidneys work. It was only a matter of days. Everyone can live with one kidney, but not without any. We ask you to take these valuable gifts, and may Allah bless our children....
    I was jostled back to the interior of the store, as someone entered the shop. That little sliver of halvah had turned into a bludgeoned, indistinguishable pile, worthy of any terrorist group, including Lizzie Borden’s outburst of teenage angst. Shit. The owner of the store did not look like he was in the mood for a joke.
    (I thought to myself) “I have a hovel that I can’t afford to live in, and now I probably will have to pay for...”
    “Lady, why you do this, why? Waliya* (What’s going to happen next*?)”
    I rattled off a little Arabic, in the hopes we could find some common ground. Instead, I just burst into tears, as if I had just taken a test drive of a convertible and crashed it, before I parked it back in the driver’s lot.
    “Please don’t cry, please, have a piece of halvah that you kill. Pistachio is my favorite, too. You are a big woman. Arab men, they like women, with meat on their bones. I heard you speak Arabic. You have blue eyes and blonde hair. You Cherkiz?”*
    I looked at him and shook my head, choking. “I just can’t pay you now. I have no job, no money, I live alone because my husband is violent and crazy and still back in Saudi Arabia. He doesn’t mean to beat me; he can’t help it. I can’t stop the rain, either. I..............
    “I don’t understand? Are you married? Do you have a husband? Children? “
    “I have a husband, but we had to divorce because he is insane...it’s a long story. We were living in Saudi Arabia because he gets violent when he hears loud noises, like thunder and lightning. We agreed that it would be safer if we divorce because we love each other....”
    “Cousins? Do you have any cousins?”
    “You’re so kind, really. I don’t have any cousins, and it’s not my culture to marry my first cousin.” I started to laugh to myself, thinking of the image of cross-eyed children, hammering halvah, instead of play dough, through plastic holes.
    “That’s a shame...look it’s not much, but I can offer you a little job...Just come and watch the store. There is storage room in back and separate, private toilette and even small shower. You big girl, maybe problem...We will see. Just open it up at 7, speak a little Arabic, make Turkish coffee, and stay away from the halvah knife. Maybe you’ll meet someone, Allah is great.”
    “I suppose he is...”
    I felt a little more encouraged, a little less hopeless. My friend, Diane, had once spoken about her Russian immigrant Grandfather, who had liked to have a chunk of halvah, between a roll, and eat it with coffee. He had to cut that out because he died of too much sugar in his blood. I smiled, drew in a breath, and went to the back of the store to see my new digs. This might even warrant a call to Riyadh!

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