The Submission - Amy Waldman [113]
“Betsy Stanton.” The frail, white-haired author of a book on Islamic gardens who happened to also be the widow of a late United States senator. “Since when did we become so afraid of learning from other cultures?” she began. “Islam and the West have always influenced each other—in gardens, in architecture. Those buildings so mourned by us all: some say they had Islamic elements. Their architect—not a Muslim, I might add—spent time in the Islamic world, designed buildings there.” She held up photographs, small for the in-house audience, but perfect for television, and said, “The arches at the bases of the buildings are clearly influenced by Islam, and so is the geometric filigree that covered them”—the same filigree, Alyssa realized, perking up, with which Khan had patterned the names in the Garden. “Some scholars believe the entire façade amounted to a mashrabiya, the latticed screens and windows used in mosques and other urban structures.”
The word “mosques” set off a round of booing. Rubin leaned into his microphone, but Stanton got to hers first. Her controlled tone managed to penetrate, then deflate, the raucousness. “You’re not listening. My point is that the buildings we all mourn so deeply contained these possibly Islamicate elements. Are the towers less missed because of it? If you rebuilt them, as so many people want to do, would you purge these aspects? You might as well pull the crescent moon from the night sky while you’re at it.”
Alyssa surveyed the room. Some people were nodding; others looked confused. Even Alyssa wasn’t sure what to make of Stanton’s comments: she was saying that this element of Khan’s design was Islamic—but only if the buildings were Islamic, too. Way too complicated for Chaz.
Another hour gone. Alyssa tucked her leg beneath her to relieve her aching butt. Her foot went numb.
“Jody Iacocca.” Lost her husband. “I’m not an intellectual. My husband wasn’t in the Senate—he was just an entry-level accountant, an ordinary Joe. I don’t have an Ivy League degree; I didn’t teach at Yale. But I can read—thank a good, solid American public education for that—and I’ve gone through all of Mr. Khan’s public statements, including what he said here today, and nowhere has he denounced the attack, denounced terrorism.” Was this true? Alyssa made a note to check, and jabbed her thigh with her pen, less to stave off fatigue than to punish herself. To be scooped by an ordinary (if intrepid) Jody! It pained her.
“Jim and Erica Marbury.” Lost their daughter. Jim spoke. “We represent the organization Families for Reconciliation. We find the design poetic, healing. It’s become almost real to us. That gardens need care and maintenance is exactly the point. The Garden represents a covenant between us and future generations. It’s a beautiful metaphor for tending the memory of this tragedy. But the design is not getting a fair hearing here, and so we want to say that any reference to Mohammad Khan’s religious background or heritage is a disgrace, an insult to what this country is. Our daughter would have wanted better from us. And if this garden contains Islamic elements—well, we should be looking for ways to unite our cultures.”
“James Pogue III, but everyone calls me the Master-Servant.” He declined the chair the other speakers had used. With his daddy-longlegs frame and worn black suit, he looked like a gaunt usher to the afterlife. Alyssa could see Paul Rubin consulting his list in puzzlement. “My brother perished that day, and I fear for his soul.” There were horrified gasps and a few boos. He made obeisance but didn’t look sorry. “I am here to bring the word of my Lord so your souls will be safe on Judgment Day,” he said, and