The Cute Terrorist. 2000 Adult
I met her while stationed in Germany. At the time, I was drinking in a Turkish bar. I was in the US army, back in 1964, in an armored company stationed outside a town named Zirndorf. It was only a few miles from the larger city of Nuremberg.
As a company clerk and having a bum leg, a result of falling downstairs while drunk, I often stayed back when my unit took its tanks and went on maneuvers. Somebody had to stay to answer telephones and guard the buildings.
My company spent a lot of time on those maneuvers, up to three or four months a year. I knew I would probably be denied reenlistment because of my leg and attitude, so I didn’t really give a damn anymore. I would wait until they left, and then go wild, drinking and smoking dope all day and night. Nobody was ever around to catch me, and I could always explain away any missed calls. “I was out checking the buildings when you called, sir.” Or, “I was in the crapper.”
There were a lot of excuses when I was actually living it up in a bar somewhere or sleeping off a good drunk. What could they do, kick me out of the Army? I’d simply lock the gates and go on my way.
In any case, I was drinking in this Turkish bar, watching the belly-dancers and smoking some fine hashish, when a beautiful dark-haired girl tapped me on the shoulder.
I’m a dark Hispanic myself and she probably -- as often happened -- mistook me for Turkish, spewing out a string of the language at me. Being both high and an experienced bar patron, I caught the drift and signaled the bartender.
Not wanting to break the atmosphere of the moment, I smiled at her and kept my American mouth shut. She continued speaking a mile a minute as I listened to the sexy phonetic sounds, trying to catch even a little meaning.
When the bartender brought over two drinks, I raised mine to get it clinked by hers. She gave me a big smile, grabbed me around the neck and gave me a wet juicy kiss on the lips. I, of course, returned it, and sat for another few minutes, listening to her jabber on -- with an occasional nod from me.
Women like men who are good listeners. I guess it doesn’t make much difference if we're good understanders or not.
Finally -- the moment was bound to come -- she sat quietly, lovely dark eyes boring into mine, waiting for some sort of answer. I nodded ... and got a cute little fist in my face. Throwing the remains of her drink at me, she rose and stormed out of our booth. Well, I thought, at least I got a nice kiss out of it. I motioned and got my hookah refilled.
After a while, by then sporting a nice mellow high, the room drifting in strange colors, I looked down beside myself and saw she was back. That time, she smiled and had a drink for me, even paid for it herself.
Again, she began jabbering, and again I nodded, sometimes from the smoke and not on purpose. I don’t know how long it lasted, not having much concept of time by then. I did notice, graphically, when I was jerked from my seat.
I looked up at a large, and I do mean huge, Turkish dude. He drew back his arm for some nefarious purpose. I didn’t wait to find out, though. I jerked my knee up into his groin. He released me and I took the opportunity to jam my fingers into his eyes -- or at least gave it my best effort. It must have been sufficient, since he folded, grabbing his face, and fell to the floor.
The girl grabbed me around the waist, pulled me agsint her warm body, filling my nostrils with exotic perfume. Jabbering wildly, she hustled me out of the bar and to a small room around the corner. Still talking, she doctored me up and we began a process that could be understood in any language, mostly in generic cries and moans.
In the morning, I woke to the smell of coffee. She was in a robe, waiting for me. The coffee was very strong, causing me to cry out, “Damn, what’s this crap made of, horse shit?”
Realizing my mistake, actually speaking English, I looked over to see a surprised look on her face.
“You American,” she stated, in shock at realizing her own mistake. “I hate American.”
Suddenly, with no warning, I had a wildcat at my throat, actually trying to bite it, as her claws fumbled for my eyes.
“Sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me,” I implored, any incipient macho response forgotten -- intent on holding her off with bleeding arms.
Finally, she tired and folded. There must have been some humor in the occasion, since she surprised me by laughing, gently slapping my face. Later, I found Anide to have an odd crazy sense of humor. She let me go and laughed even harder, falling face-down to the table and pounding it with her fists, slopping battery acid across its surface.
Looking up with tears in her eyes, she pulled my head down to hers. I had been leaning close, trying to figure what was going on and smelling the scent of jasmine coming from her hair. She locked eyes with mine. I felt myself falling, like into a deep well, falling into the depths of those endless black orbs.
“Me stupid, you catch me good.” She chuckled, kissing me on the forehead, the only part of my head she could reach. “You kiss gooder too. Come, have coffee.”
We both hurriedly picked up cups and mopped up the spill before it could eat through the wooden table.
After that we became friends. She figured I had conned her into sleeping with me -- and maybe I had, or the hashish and alcohol had. She did hate Americans, with a violent passion.
Anide, Anide Tabrum, was originally from Iran. Her uncle and older brother were killed in an Israeli attack while visiting family in Gaza. The pre-teen blamed Israelis, and America, for everything from killing them to stopping up sinks. I was her first, and only, American friend.
She appreciated me kicking the ass of the other guy, a past lover she hadn’t been able to get rid of. As far as I know, she never saw him again after that night. Me, I was just lucky. I've never been much of a fighter, or lover either as far as that goes.
I was finally given a medical discharge, not only for my leg but also my general attitude toward the army -- though I did get a small pension for the rest of my life. Anide and I swapped addresses and, over the next few years, spoke once or twice on the telephone and wrote a few letters. The last I heard, she had moved back to her homeland.
I pretty much forgot about her. Under the GI bill, I started and finished college, with a bachelors degree in chemistry. With my experience in using chemicals, I figured it would be a snap. I was wrong in two respects; it was hard, damned hard, and I had to get off my own chemicals in order to study. Yes, even the alcohol. It might have seemed, at the time, that I thought clearer under drugs, but I found that was false thinking.
I acquired a position working as a research assistant at the United Airways Research Facilities. Not the best of pay, but better than in the army. I'd been far too busy studying, and now working, to think of marriage. Figuring I was, by then, a typical adult, I thought my wild days were behind me.
Until, one fateful day, I answered my doorbell to find Anide standing there, in all her beautiful and exotic splendor. It was in May of 2001.
“Hello, John. How are you?” She stated seriously, speaking much better English but with no sign of humor in her eyes, “I can come in for while?”
Of course I let her in, giving her a brief hug which she returned.
“What are you doing in the US, Anide?” I asked, showing her to the living room.
“You have drink?” she replied, sitting in an easy-chair and stretching long legs out straight.
“I don’t know. I quit awhile back.” I thought a minute. “I think I have a little wine somewhere around here. My friend, Mike, drinks it when he’s here.”
I found a partial bottle of cheap muscatel in a cupboard. Turning, I saw her standing in front of me. She grabbed me around the neck, it was like old times, and kissed me. About time she did that, I thought. I had been getting worried.
“I love you, John.” She smiled into my eyes.
“C -- Come on, lets sit down.” We went back to the living room. “What did you say about why you’re in the US?” I tried to nudge an answer.
“I -- I can’t say. Secret thing,” she told me.
Well, let her keep her secrets, I thought, thinking she'd keep no secrets in bed.
“I can stay here, just a little couple days?” she asked confidently, knowing me well.
“Sure, honey. You can stay as long as you want.”
“You no ... girlfriend? I think so.”
“No, no girlfriend. Only me here.” Damn I was already starting to talk like her. I could imagine talking like that at work. “Me do test you want, Boss. Good test it be too.” I laughed at myself.
“What funny, you laugh?”
“Nothing, Anide baby.” I forced myself not to start. “You have any bags?”
“On the porch, I get.” She put down her drink and started to rise.
“Sit down. I’ll get them for you.”
I had a spare bedroom but didn’t bother, taking her bags directly to mine. I knew her as well as she knew me.
We lived together for the next few months. She would leave in the mornings, sometimes for up to a week at a time. I respected her privacy and never asked where she was going. One time, something dropped out of her purse, though. It was a slim card-holder with several ID cards in it. I couldn’t help being curious.
The names on the cards were Abdulaziz Alomari, Marwan Alshehhi, and her’s -- Anide Tabrum. I, of course, didn’t think much of it. Again, that was her business. Later I thought that the first two could maybe have been involved in the 9/11 hijackings.
As the first few days of September came and went, I sensed a change in my lover. She became nervous and irritable. I simply chalked it up to that woman thingy stuff, and tried not to irritate her.
She did put a lot of effort into lovemaking, becoming a feelie-touchy person all of a sudden. She took any opportunity to get me into bed, as though an asteroid were going to end the world the next day. She had been on a diet and quit that. I realized I hadn’t known her for quite awhile, but she had seemed more stable in Germany.
On the morning of Sept 10th, she left and never came back, leaving her luggage behind but not even a note.
Then came the attack on Sept 11th.
***
Ever since then, I’ve been waiting to hear from her. When the names of the hijackers were released, I recognized the two on the IDs -- at least I think I did at the time. Now, I can’t be certain. They are hard for a Westerner to remember reliably.
I dream of Anide in the daylight -- and have nightmares at night. Could she do it? I think, unfortunately, that she could. She really did hate most Americans.
Someday I hope, so far in vain, to hear that doorbell ring again. Until then I dream, daydream, cry and wait, and cry, and hope, and cry.
The End.
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