I’d expected Abu to just pick a name out for me, like he’d done when I was born, but he turned to me instead and asked, “And you, my daughter, what name will you take for yourself?”
I’d been taught that names have power. The Prophet said that. There is destiny in a name. It isn’t a small thing to pick one. I would have liked some time before deciding, but I’d been asked as if I’d have one at the ready, as if what I wanted to be called, instead of what I was called, was something I would just know.
I’d been thinking about trust a lot then, and what the man who had driven me to Basra, who’d been expecting a daughter, had said. Trust is always a bad idea.
He’d also told me what he was going to name his daughter. He was going to call her a gazelle, because he wanted her to be like one. Free. A little wild. Alert, always, and fast enough to escape when the predators of the world come chasing after her.
“Azza,” I said. “You can call me Azza.”
* * *
—
We came to San Francisco, because that was where Abu wanted to go. I never asked him why he picked it, but I wanted to think it was in memory of Mama. If she could’ve come to any city in America, she would’ve come here. It was where she would’ve built her own little full house.
One of the first things we heard when we got here was that there was an election for president, and one of the people running wanted to build a wall to keep Mexicans out. Qais said we’d made it just in time.
Anyway, though it was nice to pretend that Abu had chosen San Francisco for our home because of Mama, the fact was that he knew someone here. There was a man who had fought with him against the Soviets, a Yemeni man, who Abu thought would be helpful.
We went to this friend’s, and I sat with his wife and two of her sisters while the men planned what we would do next. I overheard them speaking of where to get cash jobs, of a doughnut place that sold social security numbers, and a landlord in the city who might be able to give us a place we could afford to live.
I couldn’t tell the women apart. They seemed to be one person at three different stages of her life, that’s how much they resembled one another. The middle one was very pregnant and all of them were knitting away furiously, using gender-neutral-colored yarn—yellow, green and orange—to make hats, sweaters and socks for the expected child.
They didn’t seem to mind having me there. In fact, it felt like they’d forgotten I was there at all after a few minutes. Once I was offered food and drink, they seemed to pick up their conversation exactly where it had been before I’d come.
“So, as I was just telling them,” the eldest of the three, and also the wife of Abu’s friend, said, “I got a call from Bariah Faris yesterday. The woman wants all the Bay Area mosques to get together and organize a program—”
“What kind of program?”
The youngest sister got an irritated look for speaking up. “A lecture or something. Something about mosque crawlers. Who cares?”
“Mosque what?” I asked.
“It’s nothing, dear. Just informants inside mosques, you know. It’s started after 9/11. I don’t know why it gets to Bariah. Anyway”—she turned back to her sisters—“the real question is why Queen Faris thinks she should be involved with teaching anyone anything about Islam at our mosque. She didn’t teach her son much—”
“I think Anvar is brilliant,” the youngest said.
“He’s smart. But is he Muslim? Roshni Badree told me she overheard him order a ham sandwich in a restaurant.”
“Roshni Badree will say anything about anyone.”
“Please,” the eldest said with a roll of her eyes. “There is too much smoke around that boy for there to be no fire. I know all you young people like him—”
“I heard he still checks in on Taleb Mansoor’s family every once in a while,” the middle one broke in, resting her knitting on her lap. “How many lawyers do you think do that? It’s been a while now.”
“He took that case all the way to the Supreme Court,” the youngest one said. “He even went to the White House to talk to Obama, but he spoke the truth with such fury—not that the Drone King didn’t deserve it—that he’s not allowed to practice law anymore.”
“I didn’t know that is how things work in America,” I said.
The women all smiled at my innocence the way I’d seen married women smile at a bride they thought was a virgin before her wedding night. “When you’ve been here long enough, dear girl, you will see that everywhere in the world, men are the same.”
“A woman will be president soon though and things will change,” the youngest one said, and the middle one disagreed with that, saying that there was a primacy or something to get through first, and they started in on a discussion about politics that I could not follow.
“My point was,” the eldest said, “that all the noise around Anvar Faris about drinking and dating girls paints a picture of a bad mother. So I don’t know where Bariah Faris gets off trying to educate the rest of the world, when she couldn’t educate her own sons. She’s always getting involved, that woman. What an involved woman she is. I think she should remain confined to her mosque and leave us alone.”
“Maybe she isn’t a bad mother. The one who is a doctor turned out fine,” the middle one said. “Though it is a little strange he isn’t married yet. You don’t think he’s…different, do you?”
“I think he’s not married because of who his mother is. No one is going to give their daughter into that household. Can you imagine having Bariah Faris as your mother-in-law?”
All three women simultaneously shuddered.
“Well,” the youngest said, “I heard that there is something in the works for the doctor. I don’t think he’ll be single much longer.”
“Really? You’re such a gossip. Such a horrible gossip. It’s a sin, gossiping. Very much a sin.” The eldest stopped to consider her sweater, and then pulled at the yarn, undoing the work she’d done over the last few minutes. “Dropped one,” she muttered, then looked back up. “Anyway, do tell. Who is the poor girl?”
“Some other Fremont family,” the youngest said with an air of disdain that made it clear Fremont families were not as good as San Francisco families.
“Barely matters then, does it? It isn’t like we’d get invited. Anyway, I told Imam Sama that I’m not dealing with Queen Faris. If he wants to go along with her nonsense, he’ll have to find someone else to help him.”
By this time, I felt I wasn’t really part of the conversation, so I was surprised when the middle one turned to me. “You might even see her soon.”
“Who?”
“Bariah Faris, of course,” the lady of the house broke in. “That is who we were talking about, you know. Anyway, I’m sure my husband will send you to Trinity Gardens. That is where Anvar—the lawyer—lives, so Bariah probably visits him. That’s where all the discounted people live.”
“What?”
“The landlord, Hafeez Bhatti, he rents apartments out for cheap, but only to broken people. People who are damaged or dented or bruised. People no one would pay full price for, I mean…though I guess that’s not a nice way to put it.”
“It really isn’t,” one of the sisters confirmed.
“I am sorry, my dear. I’m sure you would go for full price if you were for sale.”
“Thank you?”
“Anyway, if you want Hafeez Bhatti’s help,” she went on, “tell him a sad story. He likes sad stories, that one.”
“Also wouldn’t hurt to take some food,” the youngest one said, snickering.
“Now there’s no reason to be rude, my dear, though he has gotten bigger somehow. I saw him at the mosque the other day and…Anyway, no, I don’t think food is good. Too obvious. One mustn’t be obvious, you know, when trying to get people to do things.” She took a moment to consider me, then
said, “It might help if you could cry though. Can you cry when you need to, Azza?”
I shook my head. I’d never had reason to try such a thing. I’d decided, alone and in the dark, that I’d never shed tears in front of Qais. As for Abu, it didn’t seem like my weeping had any effect on him at all.
“But why not? It’s very useful. My husband says that I’m the YouTube of tears. Always streaming, you know.” She stopped to chuckle at the joke. “You just have to think of something really sad, maybe something from the past that still hurts a bit. Given where you’re from, something like that has happened to you I’m sure?”
They looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak. When I said nothing, they looked disappointed, and moved on to other topics of conversation I cared nothing about.
* * *
—
While Abu was saying his goodbyes, Qais stepped up behind me. Low enough so that only I could hear, he said, “This guy is getting your father a job as a security guard. Abu Fahd will be out all night, and I’ll be right next door. We’ll have a lot of time to ourselves, Safwa.”
I tried to ignore him. He knew that there was nothing that I could do except say mean, powerless things to him. Trying to get me angry, calling me by my old name when I’d asked him not to anymore, all of it was just a show of his strength.
The thought of having him next door, having to spend entire nights with him…I took a deep breath and felt like I got no air. Was this how Fahd had felt when he’d gotten sick? I hoped not.
Abu, who had come out to join us, gave me a worried look. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” I did not look at Qais.
Trinity Gardens was not a very nice complex. It was in an area of the city with garbage on the streets and with painted writing on the walls, and it smelled more human than I would’ve liked. Our neighborhood in Baghdad had once been nicer than this place.
“Just like Hollywood,” Qais said to the driver, who laughed and said that it depended on the kinds of movies you watched.
It was definitely not the kind of pretty place the home from Full House had been. There were no happy, shining, smiling faces here.
Well, except for Hafeez Bhatti, the landlord, who smiled enough for everyone in the world as he led us to his office. Abu walked in front of us, and Qais kept trying to walk near me. I stayed as far away from him as possible, but we were all going to the same place, and I could drift only so far from the group without making it seem strange.
As Bhatti explained the various lease terms to Abu, Qais leaned close to me and whispered, “I think we’ll start using your father’s bed. Just to make it interesting for you.”
I wrapped my arms around myself and studied a crack in the wall. It had probably started as a small thing and had gotten larger and larger until it now dominated that part of the room.
When Qais finally moved away, I glanced toward the paperwork my father was filling out and saw that Mr. Bhatti was looking at me, a curious expression on his face. I nodded my head, because it was something to do, but the old man did not look away, his mouth working as he chewed on something and considered my existence, as if from a great distance.
Once my father was done, Qais took his seat and reached for a pen. Bhatti leaned over and plucked it from his fingers. “Not you.”
“What?”
“I am very sorry to say, young man, that your living here is not a possibility. There are no more apartments available.”
Qais frowned. “But you said you had room when we got here.”
“Did I? So sorry, I spoke without checking, you see. No, there is no place for you here. I wish it were not so, but you’ll have to make other arrangements.”
“You should have said something before Abu Fahd agreed to rent here.”
Mr. Bhatti nodded. “Most correct you are. Once more, I say sorry to you.”
“I guess I’ll have to stay with you,” Qais said, looking up at Abu, “until—”
“Not possible. No, no. That won’t do at all,” Mr. Bhatti said. “First of all, it would negate all the price breaks I’ve given Abu Fahd, wouldn’t it? The obviously good Muslim discount. The long beard discount. The niqabi daughter discount. None of these could be given if two unwed young peoples were cohabitating in a place. Astaghfirullah. I’m sure that Abu Fahd, being a pious man, would never allow it.”
Abu, who I’m sure was prepared to accept Qais into our house—after all, we’d been with him constantly for our long journey, and I was sure having Qais around was becoming a habit for him—nodded uncertainly. It is hard to disagree with someone who praises you for being religious.
“Second of all, that unit is to be occupied by two people only.” Mr. Bhatti jabbed his right index and middle fingers into the air emphatically. “It is a government rule, and in this country, they care about these things very much. So, young man, you’ll have to go elsewhere. Not to worry. No problem. Let me make some phone calls. I will put you in your place.”
* * *
—
It was a tiny apartment with dim lighting and little sunlight and a bathroom that smelled faintly of mildew, and it was wonderful because I was farther from Qais than I had been in years. I was still in his grip. I knew that. However, to be rid of him, even temporarily, was a blessing. I did a little twirl around the empty living area, and when I stopped Abu was looking at me.
“It’s a little horrible,” he said. “But we’ve lived in worse places.”
“Much worse.” I went to the biggest window to see what the view was like and found myself staring at the wall of the building next door. I laughed.
“You’re not angry with Hafeez Bhatti?” Abu asked.
“Angry? Why would I— Oh, because of Qais? He just made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.”
“I’d feel better about leaving you alone all night,” Abu said, “if I knew your intended was nearby to protect you.” He walked over to the window where I was standing, shook his head and turned to face me. “Has Qais talked to you about when he wants to marry? He keeps changing the topic whenever I mention his cousin—”
“Can we please just…” I waved my arms to take in everything—the lack of everything actually—around me. “It’s a good day, Abu.”
“It is.”
“Then let’s not think. Thinking makes it impossible to be happy. We’re here. After everything. It’s a miracle.”
He smiled, but it was a flickering, fading thing that was gone quickly. “It is good that you are happy, Saf— Azza.”
“You’re not happy though?”
He turned back to look at the wall that blocked our view of the city and the world. “I’m tired. The lands Allah has made are vast, and I’ve traveled far and seen too much of them. Once I have delivered you safely to the home of your husband, I hope that Allah will not leave me too long on the earth anymore.”
“You’re so much fun, Abu. It is easy to see why Mama agreed to marry you.”
This time his smile caught and lit up his face. “It is different when you are young. The world seems like a simple place, and you can go from desire to desire without worrying yourself about consequences. I fear I’ve gotten old before my time.”
“Fifty isn’t old here,” I said. “And you still have today.”
“Yes,” Abu agreed, patting my hair with his heavy hand. “We still have today. Come then. We should talk about how we are going to make this place home.”
* * *
—
That awful knock on the door came every night after Abu went to work guarding strangers. Every night, I ignored it.
Mama used to read me a book of English stories when I was a child, and one of the stories was about this wolf trying to get into the houses of three pigs. That was my life. There was a wolf at my door.
He hadn’t bothered me for the first few nights, bu
t I hadn’t dared to hope. I’d been right. He’d come for me soon enough. He always went away cursing, swearing revenge for my broken oath. Always, he came back, pleading at first, then threatening.
I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in.
The days were better, especially after I went back to school.
One day, I’d asked Mr. Bhatti where to get started, and he had me call the local library, which gave me information about adult education programs. I’d have classes again for the first time in a decade.
I worried that Abu would object. He was so used to me staying at home that he might not like my leaving the house. That was how he’d kept his wife. If I’d been more charitable, I would’ve remembered how upset he’d been when the violence around us had forced him to pull me out of school.
“If the mother is educated,” he now told me, “then her children also end up educated. For my grandchildren’s sake it is most important for you to do this thing.”
What about for my own sake, Abu?
What if I want no children?
And what if I want no husband?
I didn’t ask him.
The number of things that went unsaid between us had been growing since before Mama died. They made room for themselves by pushing us further away from each other, until sometimes it seemed like a miracle that he could see me and I could see him.
* * *
—
For the first time in forever, my world began to get bigger again. How amazing a thing a book is. How wonderful a piece of paper and a pen. A lot of things about religion do not make sense to me, it is true, but I understand why, in that desert mountain cave, when the history of man was about to change, God’s first command to His last prophet was one simple word.
Read.
The Bad Muslim Discount Page 16