He tried to brush it off as if the chicken hadn’t been specially ordered for me. “Women are to be taken care of. The Quran tells me that.”
“Oh, so you were only doing what your religion tells you to do?” I challenged.
He nodded.
“Okay, but here’s something I don’t understand about your religion: Why are women expected to be second-class citizens? You know, walking three feet behind the man, covered up completely . . . that kind of stuff. I mean, do you believe in all of that?” Oddly enough, I found myself hoping he would say no, that he believed a woman could be his equal. I was surprised by how much I cared.
“I would not call them second-class citizens, but I do think a respectable woman should be covered up.”
I looked down at the baggy sweat pants and oversized T-shirt he’d given me after X had torn my other clothes. “So you’d rather see a woman in something like this than the outfit I was wearing when you brought me here?”
“Yes,” he answered. “If you were my woman, I would never want another man to see the outline of your body. That would be for my eyes only.” He stopped, turning away from me. I was stuck on the way he’d phrased his answer: My woman.
“You mean I couldn’t even wear a bathing suit to the beach? Are you serious?”
“Yes. If you are my woman, then you are mine, and not to be gawked at by any man on the street.”
My woman. There it was again. It sent a strange jolt through me to hear him say it, but I still didn’t agree with his philosophy on the clothing issue.
“What I wear should be my choice,” I argued, “and if you loved me, then you should want me to have those choices.” I held his gaze waiting for his response, while knowing it wouldn’t be what I wanted to hear.
When he spoke, his voice was soft and not as confident as it had been. “Do you think you could worship the Quran?” His question took my breath away, because I realized what he was asking.
“I read it, and yes, there are parts of it that speak to me, but I just don’t know. . . .” Just saying it was painful, realizing we were on two separate paths that would likely never meet.
I think my answer bothered him, too, because he abruptly changed the subject. “Let me go and get the chessboard for that game.”
As soon as the door closed, I let all the air out of my body. What the hell was going on? Whatever this feeling was, I knew it wasn’t something that was supposed to happen. I shook my head, as if I could release all my confused thoughts that way. What if I was experiencing Stockholm syndrome, where you identify with your captors after a while? Oh, Lord, I thought, Paris would never let me live that shit down.
“You ready?” he asked when he returned with the chess set.
“You play?”
He pulled up a small table and set the board in front of me.
“So, how’s this going to work?” I asked, staring down at the handcuffs.
“Guess I will be the one making all the moves,” he informed me as he set up the pieces.
“I also assume that I will be the white pieces?” I said with a laugh. “I mean, with you being a Black Muslim and all, you probably don’t want to have anything to do with white.”
“It’s not that deep.” He smiled, showing the most beautiful straight teeth as he placed the black pieces in front of me.
“Check mate!” I said proudly about an hour later. We were evenly matched and the game had been close, but I wasn’t about to lose, even to him.
“Wow. I’m impressed. But promise you won’t tell my men. None of them can come close to beating me, and—”
“It would be so embarrassing if you were shown up by a female?” I said, flirting openly now. “I get it. Your secret is safe with me.”
He looked like he was ready to play along, but then one of his men opened the door and he straightened up, all serious again.
“Brother X wants to see you,” the man said. “Should I wait in here with her while you are gone?”
“No. She will be fine. In fact, unless she has to go to the restroom, I would like her undisturbed.”