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She always wore a white bikini. She was tanned, had golden hair, worn loose, and was beautiful. She never held or carried anything, and always had an enigmatic smile on her face, regardless of the day. Whenever I saw her, the opening lines of “Girl from Ipanema” always ran through my head, the Stan Getz version that opens with humming.Over the weeks, we began to make eye contact, and then gradually, I started smiling at her. Her smile never changed, but she always met my eyes, and it seemed as if they twinkled when she looked at me…but it might have been my imagination.I felt in my bones that she was a free spirit. Maybe she was a spirit in truth, as I could never discover anything about her, no matter whom I asked. No one ever seemed to know her or see her – except me.Over time, I noticed that she walked closer and closer to where I was sitting, and farther from the sea, as if she were breaking free of its pull, and I wondered.Finally, one morning, I called out, “Good morning!”She. He checked himself in the mirror and discovered clotted scratch marks about his face. He found the alarm clock flung far across the room. Three p.m. glowed in digital sanity. He turned on the light. His heart jumped. The stained sheets of his bed had not only been tangled but also ripped. He called for his wife. He searched through every room but could find neither his wife nor the baby Imam. He had missed a day’s worth of work and checked his messages. Two messages from Rothenberg asked him to meet at the downtown office. These messages were not that important compared to the third faint message from someone with very broken English. It said:“Hello, I’m reaching Queresh and Maryam —-. I’m at the Hilton Hotel on Sixth Avenue. Please call to meet me and you.”Queresh thought he would call again. He wanted, however, a call from his wife who had rarely left the house. He wondered where she could have gone. She didn’t have friends in the area. She didn’t have a job. And suddenly a.
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