Rescued by a Muslim

In the private office of an Italian export company, across the executive-size desk I faced a distinguished-looking man, dark-haired and young (mid-thirties?) but very self-assured. He could be mistaken for an Italian. But Mohammed Terkawi was a Muslim who learned English in high school in Damascus.

After I told him my problem with my BMW's air-conditioner, he said, “Why did you buy a German car? I like American cars.”

I followed his white Cadillac across the city of Mantua to the BMW dealer, where he negotiated in Italian with the shop foreman. He told me I was to leave the car over night and to return the next day at noon.

“Do you have a hotel?” Mohammed asked.

“Yes”

“I will take you there. I will come back tomorrow and bring you to get your car.”

As I climbed into the back seat of the Cadillac, Mohammed introduced me to his father, a portly gray-haired man with a congenial smile, who was visiting from Syria. Mohammed put a tape into the stereo. I found myself in a surreal atmosphere, riding around Mantua, Italy, in a Cadillac with Arab music blaring from the stereo.

The next morning I walked a couple of blocks from my hotel to the castle of the Gonzaga family, for many centuries Marquises of Mantua Right in the center of the city, this Medieval fortress is a forbidding stone structure, many stories high without a single window facing the street. The iron gates were open, and I entered through an arched stone passage and bought my ticket.

The living quarters of the nobility were on the upper floors. On the fourth floor the great hall, redecorated in the 18th Century in the “Pompeiian” style, walls painted with delicate floral ribbons, opened onto a courtyard garden with real flowers growing in pots, a secret paradise. But I couldn’t help thinking that secure within their stone walls, the noble Gonzaga family was in a luxurious personal prison, shut off from the outside world.

Did Isabella D’Este feel like a prisoner in this place when she married the Marquis? I tried to evoke her presence. I couldn’t. I returned to my hotel, and shortly before noon, as promised, my Muslim rescuer returned and – without father or Arab music – took me to the BMW dealer. The shop foreman said the car was not ready. Would I please come back at 3 p.m.?

Mohammed invited me to join him for lunch with his marble dealer from Florence. After eating a first course of pasta, my host apologized to me for talking business during lunch. Then, while he and the Florentine bargained in Italian over marble Mr. Terkawi was buying to ship to the Arab Emirates, I ate a huge plateful of baked chicken. I could not identify the seasoning, but it was fantastic. The three of us lingered over wine until time to return to the BMW dealer.

My car was ready, but the dealer wanted $54 for repairing the air-conditioner.

Mohammed said to me, “This car is under warranty. You do not pay.”

He and the shop foreman got into a big argument, shouting at each other in Italian. I did not understand the words, but I could see the little shop foreman begin to collapse.

I did not pay. Thanks to this Muslim, I was able to get my air-conditioner repaired, was treated to a splendid Italian lunch, and saved $54.