The Blasphemer

by Nigel Farndale

  ‘I am not offended …You keep looking at me. It is my beard, I think.’

  ‘Suits you.’

  ‘I figured if they are going to treat all Muslims as terrorists, I might as well start looking like one.’ He tugged at his clothes. ‘And dressing like one.’

  ‘Have they approached you?’

  ‘The terrorists or the counter-terrorists?’

  Daniel took a sip of coffee. ‘It’s not only Muslims who are intolerant, of course,’ he said. ‘Catholics are as bad. And born-again Christians. And Mormons. Complete intolerance. And for what? For a random flight of fancy. I reckon adults want to believe in God in the same way that children want to believe in Father Christmas. They cling to it, even after they suspect it cannot be true, because it makes them happy. They are capable of believing and not believing at the same time.’

  ‘Does Martha believe in Father Christmas?’

  Daniel shook his head emphatically and took another bite from his bagel. Its dense, doughy interior prevented him from answering for a moment. ‘No.’ He swallowed. ‘Though she did briefly, before we talked about it. I asked her how probable it was that one man could get around the world in one night and visit all the world’s children. We worked out that he would have to be travelling at the speed of light.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘Five or six.’

  ‘And in that brief time she believed in Father Christmas, did it make her happy?’

  ‘Possibly, but that’s not the point.’

  ‘And did her belief in him make him true, in her mind at least? He existed in her mind for a while, didn’t he? He was real to her?’

  ‘Yes, but that is mere subjective truth. The only useful and relevant truth is objective.’

  Hamdi thought about this for a moment, folding his hands neatly in his lap. ‘Have you ever been to Greenland?’

  Daniel shook his head again.

  ‘But you believe it is there?’

  ‘Won’t be for much longer, not covered in ice and snow … but yes.’

  ‘Why do you believe it is there?’

  ‘I know people who’ve been there.’

  ‘So you take it on trust.’

  ‘And I’ve flown over it dozens of times on my way to America.’

  A line wrinkled the skin of Hamdi’s brow. ‘Perhaps Greenland wasn’t a good example. The point is, just because a truth happens to be subjective, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t objective also.’

  Daniel checked his watch again and dabbed with a licked fingertip at the sesame seeds that had fallen from his bagel. ‘There is no god. There’s nothing subjective about it.’

  ‘That is blasphemy, professor! You will have to be punished!’ Hamdi grinned to show he was joking and added unnecessarily, ‘I am joking, mm.’

  Daniel smiled. ‘Didn’t know you were allowed to joke about such things.’

  ‘Allahu akbar!’ Hamdi said, raising his arms in the air and waving his hands. Two hair-chewing female students at the next table stared at them.

  Daniel tapped his watch again. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘You have a stressful job, I think.’

  ‘There’s a lot more red tape these days.’

  ‘You should convert to Islam. We have no red tape.’

  ‘Maybe I should. “There is no God but Allah.” If I say that twice in the presence of two witnesses I’m a Muslim, that right?’

  ‘Depending on the state of your heart.’

  ‘Then you have to surrender your life to Islam? And it governs everything from dress to forms of greeting and even the way in which a glass of water is to be drunk?’

  Somewhere in the refectory a pile of plates was dropped and this was met with an ironic cheer. Hamdi looked across in the direction of the noise before directing his dark, bulging eyes at Daniel. ‘Yes, my life belongs to Islam, to Muhammad, to Allah … but it is not blind submission. We pray and fast to show that we are with Him in our daily life. When you drink you take it with your right hand to remember Him. It’s a question of remembrance.’

  Daniel noticed Hamdi hadn’t touched his bagel, nor was he drinking his coffee, with either hand. ‘That OK? Did you want it black?’ He pushed the plate with the uneaten bagel towards him. ‘Try it.’

  Hamdi placed his hand on top of Daniel’s. It was cold. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re fasting?’

  Hamdi smiled ambiguously. ‘You know, a lot of Westerners think they understand Islam but … Did you know that death by stoning is not mentioned anywhere in the Koran?’

  ‘Can’t say I did.’

  ‘Its scriptural sanction comes from the Old Testament, from your tradition, mm.’

  ‘Not mine, I’m afraid. My only testament is On the Origin of Species.’ Daniel held up his hands and, at that moment, saw Wetherby gliding towards him, staying, as always, one pace ahead of a coarse, uncaring world.

  ‘Wetherby,’ Daniel called out. ‘Meet my friend …’ He blinked.

  ‘I’m sorry, my mind has …’

  ‘Hamdi.’ The young Muslim stood up and held out his hand.

  ‘I am the head of music here,’ Wetherby said. ‘Are you an undergraduate?’

  Daniel rubbed the back of his neck. The name had gone again, as if it were written in water. ‘My friend has a doctorate in music.’

  Wetherby raised a laconic eyebrow. ‘From?’

  ‘Birmingham.’

  ‘They have a good department there.’

  ‘He’s a teacher at Martha’s school, but I think he’s looking for a university post. That right?’

  Hamdi looked embarrassed.

  ‘Do come and see me,’ Wetherby said. ‘Arrange a time with my secretary.’

  ‘He seemed nice,’ Hamdi said as he watched Wetherby glide away.

  ‘He is nice.’ Daniel took a sip of coffee and checked his watch again. ‘Once you tune in to his sense of humour. He’s deeply religious, you know. He was telling me the other day that the three Abrahamic religions believe in the same angels.’

  ‘The belief in angels is central to Islam. The Koran was dictated to Muhammad by the chief of all angels, Gabriel.’

  ‘And you, I mean Muslims, believe they take human form?’

  ‘Angels are created out of light. They can assume human form, but only in appearance. Angels do not eat, procreate or commit sin as humans do.’

  ‘And what do they do, these angels? What are they for?’

  Hamdi knitted his fingers together. ‘They are the agents of revelation. According to the Koran, they do not possess free will. They record every human being’s actions. They place a soul in a newborn child. They maintain the climate, nurturing vegetation and distributing the rain. They take the soul at the time of death.’

  ‘You believe they watch over us … protect us, I mean?’

  ‘Oh yes. Protection is what they do best.’

  ‘But if they are out there protecting everyone, why is there so much suffering in the world? Is that Allah’s will? I don’t want to sound facetious, but does he sometimes call off his angels, when he thinks people deserve to suffer?’

  ‘Allah is all-merciful, professor.’

  ‘Please, call me Daniel. And strictly speaking, I’m not a professor yet.’

  ‘The attitude to suffering is, I think, the main difference between the Jewish, the Christian and the Muslim traditions. We are all born innocent but we lose our innocence when we become adults. That is when we have to take responsibility for our own lives.’

  ‘So it’s OK by Allah if a child suffers … If Martha were to suffer, say.’

  ‘You know, all the kids, all the children in the world, they are going to paradise, according to the Islamic tradition, because they are innocent.’

  ‘So it’s all right if they suffer on earth because afterwards they will go to paradise?’

  ‘This is life. To live is to suffer. Life is suffering. Even Martha must suffer one day, but you can take comfort in the thought that she will be in paradise.
If she dies in childhood, I mean.’

  The conversation was making Daniel feel uncomfortable, for all its being hypothetical. He became aware of the two hair-chewing students at the nearby table nudging each other. They were talking about him, he could sense it. In recent days he had sensed other students talking about him, too, making jokes about the way he went around smiling all the time. ‘I’m afraid that’s not much of a comfort for me. I don’t believe in paradise.’

  ‘Does Martha?’

  ‘Well, I guess it doesn’t matter whether she believes it or not because, as a child, she’s got a guaranteed, gold-embossed, one-way ticket there? Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And what about me? Can I as an adult non-believer go to your paradise?’

  ‘Allah knows best. I don’t know.’

  ‘And what about suicide bombers and Muslims who fly planes into buildings, will they go to paradise?’

  ‘Allah knows best. I don’t know.’

  Daniel set down his half-eaten bagel.

  Hamdi still had not touched his. He looked at Daniel with concern in his glaucous, bulging eyes and asked, ‘You OK?’

  Daniel was staring at Hamdi with what looked like an expression of puzzlement. He gave a weak cough and, after a laboured breath, emitted a high-pitched noise. His face was turning blue and both his hands had risen up to his throat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  WHEN NANCY HAD SUGGESTED TO TOM THAT SHE SHOULD START having sessions with him more than once a week, she had the strange feeling that he had steered her into making the suggestion. She did not mind, if that was the case. She appreciated the chance to think out loud about Daniel, about how her peace overtures to him always ended in an argument. Tom was an attentive listener, a natural empath. When she told him how her relationship was struggling, he nodded sympathetically. Their meetings always ran over the allotted time and, one evening, at the end of a long session, he asked almost as an aside: ‘When was the last time you and Daniel laughed together?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ Nancy said. ‘It’s like living with a stalker. He follows me from room to room. Sometimes he sits there staring at me. Do you know what I mean? There’s that fine line that separates eye contact and the piercing stare of a psychopath. He often crosses it.’

  ‘Are you sleeping together?’

  At first the question floated between them as lightly as a dandelion seed. It was innocent and appropriate. Now its implications began to weigh on Nancy. ‘You can’t ask me that,’ she said with a shake of her head that set her dark locks tumbling around her strong-boned face. ‘Not you.’

  ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘I can’t at the moment.’

  The ambiguity hung between them.

  ‘Can’t what?’

  ‘He wants to.’

  ‘But you don’t.’

  ‘Don’t know what I want. Sex between us was always great.’

  ‘Freud once said the sexual life of adult women is a “dark continent” for psychology.’

  ‘And what do you say?’

  ‘I reckon men and women aren’t so different sexually.’

  ‘We haven’t had sex since the crash. Dan wants to but … The trouble with being together for so long is that you become wholly known. Nothing I could ever do could surprise him in the bedroom, or he me. We’ve become too familiar. Too used to each other. Too tender. Too predictable. I suppose that’s the reason a kiss from a stranger feels a thousand times dirtier and sexier and more exciting than the dirtiest sex imaginable with someone you know.’

  Tom shifted in his seat. ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s funny, we used to try and make each other jealous by talking about the lovers we had before we met. It would always end in an argument and it made the reconciliation sex afterwards so much better. So much rougher. So much sluttier. It made me feel as if I was the mistress and he was being unfaithful with me.’ Without losing her train of thought, Nancy leaped up to whack a wasp with a rolled-up magazine. ‘That’s the trouble with Englishmen. Never jealous enough. I’ve been out with Spaniards and Italians and they are too jealous. But Englishmen aren’t jealous enough.’

  ‘Don’t look at me, I’m Scottish.’

  Though Nancy smiled at this, tears appeared in her eyes. Tom comforted her with a pat on the back and, when she leaned into him, with a hug long enough to constitute an embrace. He cancelled his next appointment and offered to walk her back to her car. As he linked her arm with his, he asked her gently whether she thought she might benefit from some time away from Daniel. She did not answer, but when they parted she gave him a kiss on the cheek and he returned it with one on her mouth. It happened so fleetingly she felt uncertain about whether it had happened at all. If she felt shocked, it was mostly with herself because the kiss did not make her feel guilty.

  The two men at the door were not in uniform. The younger one had a shaven head and was wearing a T-shirt and stone-washed jeans. The older was wearing a suit but no tie. He had closecropped hair, military style. ‘Geoff Turner,’ he said, holding up an ID card. ‘I’m with the Security Services.’

  ‘Haven’t we met?’ Daniel asked, with a tilt of his head.

  ‘I know your father.’

  ‘Oh, OK … So what’s up?’ Daniel still had a knife in his hand from chopping garlic and mushrooms for a soup he was making. The sound of Charlie Parker’s alto saxophone carried through from the kitchen.

  ‘Is that Bird I can hear?’ the younger man said with an American accent.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘With his quintet?’

  ‘Sextet. Dizzy Gillespie. Teddy Wilson. Specs Powell … I’m sorry, did you say the Security Services?’

  ‘We wanted to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Come in … Coffee?’

  The two men sat at the kitchen table while Daniel put the kettle on.

  ‘How is Philip?’ Turner said.

  ‘Fine, fine. Remind me, how do you know him?’

  ‘He saved my life. Kuwait.’

  ‘Really? That’s where he won his MC.’

  ‘I know.’Turner rolled up his shirt sleeve to reveal an area of dark scar tissue that looked like a map of Australia. ‘I would have burned to death.’

  Daniel turned the music down using a remote. ‘You were one of the ones he saved?’

  ‘One of them, yes.’

  ‘He’s never talked about it to me. What happened?’

  ‘He risked his life to save ours.’

  ‘Yes but how? What actually happened?’

  ‘He’s never told you?’

  ‘Not really, no. Said something about the Official Secrets Act.’ Daniel poured steaming water into two mugs. ‘Instant OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ Turner said. ‘Milk, no sugar.’

  ‘Same,’ the American said.

  ‘If Philip has never told you then I probably shouldn’t,’ Turner said.

  ‘Oh,’ Daniel said. ‘No worries … What was it you wanted?’

  The American fanned out photographs of Hamdi on the table. ‘You know this man?’

  ‘Yes. He’s my daughter’s teacher.’

  ‘You sent him some CDs.’

  ‘Is that a crime?’

  ‘He was asked to go to Karbala. Has he said anything to you about that?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘Well then, you’ll know why I sent him the CDs as well, and why he came to see me. It had nothing to do with …’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘When you say Security Services do you mean … ?’

  ‘Counter-terrorism,’ Turner said.

  ‘You suspect my daughter’s teacher is a terrorist?’

  ‘We didn’t say that. But he was seen at …’

  ‘He was at the protest. I know. I was there too. Does that make me a suspect? He was passing by, like me. Curious. He told me. I’ve never met a less likely terrorist in my life.’

  The shaven-headed American gave Daniel a pati
ent look. ‘He’s what is known as a “person of interest”. It’s routine.’

  Daniel shook his head. ‘No, what’s that term you guys use? Clean skin? He’s a clean skin, isn’t he? You’ve tried but you can’t get any dirt on him.’

  Turner gave a flicker of a smile. ‘Clean skin means there is no trace of him on police records. But yes, he’s a clean skin. And my advice to you is keep away from him. I tell you this as a friend.’

  ‘This really is routine,’ the American said. ‘Can you let us know if you see or hear anything suspicious? That is my direct line.’ He handed over a card.

  ‘You know I’m going to tell him, right?’

  Turner looked at the American and gave his tight smile again.

  Daniel rang Hamdi as soon as he closed the front door behind the two men. ‘I need to tell you something – and if anyone is listening in on this conversation, my name is Daniel Kennedy and I don’t care if you know – you are on a watch list. I’ve been questioned about you. You’re what’s known as a clean skin.’

  ‘Cleanliness is something to which Muslim men aspire.’

  ‘Did you know you were under surveillance?’

  ‘Every young Muslim I know is under surveillance,’ Hamdi said carefully. ‘But thank you for telling me. I reported a fault on my phone the other day and an engineer came round to fix it almost immediately. Normally it takes weeks. I’ve heard they can create the fault … Thank you for warning me.’

  ‘The least I could do. And thank you again for saving me in the refectory. I was really choking there. I must have exhaled just before swallowing because I didn’t seem to have any air left in my lungs. Then I had black spots appearing before my eyes. Never a good sign.’

  ‘Anyone would have done the same.’

  ‘But not everyone knows the Heimlich manoeuvre.’

  ‘All teachers have to learn it. It is part of our first aid training.’

  ‘You were very calm in the way you did it, even if you did nearly break one of my ribs! No fuss. No panic.’

  ‘It was Allah’s will that you be saved.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘Well, Allah be praised.’

  *

  His bike safely parked and padlocked,Wetherby checked his watch. Twenty minutes early. He looked across the car park to the polished chrome and pale wooden entrance of DR NANCY PALMER’S DENTAL STUDIO. With its mood lighting and its discreet neon bulbs advertising ‘cosmetic consultancy’, ‘facial aesthetics’ and ‘teeth whitening, veneers and implants’, it looked more like a wine bar than a dental surgery. It also looked expensive. Scowling to himself, Wetherby walked around the corner and entered the east gate of Battersea Park. He was wondering whether Nancy would recognize his name in her appointments book. They had met a couple of times and on both occasions he had thought her intelligent, beautiful and a little frightening. When he had told her about how he hated the gaps between his teeth, she had suggested he come and visit her. But that had been three years earlier.