by Mark Gilleo
“Panic does strange things to people. Did you know that ninety percent of the people who drown in car accidents involving water drown because they forget to unbuckle their seatbelts? Panic.”
“Well I panicked.”
There was another pause. “Until I determine the cause of the fire I’m putting you in my report as someone who was watching the house, who was present during the explosion, and who called 911.”
“That’s fine.” Clark paused. “I was watching their house.”
The Fire Chief looked over at the house through the window of the vehicle and tried to break the tension. “And technically the plants have been watered.”
“I guess,” Clark smirked.
“Do you know how to reach your neighbors?”
“I don’t, but I’ll see if I can find someone who does.”
“Give me a call at the station if you find anything.”
“I will.”
“And don’t be too hard on yourself. We get a lot of fires this time of year. It was probably Christmas decorations that caught fire and hit a gas can or something else people shouldn’t store in their house.”
“Probably not.” Clark answered. “They didn’t celebrate Christmas.”
“In that case, I can scratch it off the list of probable causes.”
Clark got out of the Fire Chief’s car and made his way across the wet street, weaving between the spectators and fire equipment. No one noticed Ariana’s re-painted Camry parked four houses up with its lights off. Dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, Ariana frowned. Lucky bastard.
Chapter 30
Scott Caldwell was tired. In the seat of his pickup sat his brownbag lunch and his crumpled work overalls. He yawned as he took the ramp for exit seven to Central Avenue. For seventeen years he had worked in the most inhospitable urban sprawl the D.C. area had to offer. His mechanic shop was located on a stretch of Central Avenue that was anything but central when it came to a business location. Next door was an empty lot, just beyond that a Chinese restaurant with bars on the windows that did a brisk business selling forty ounce beers with an orange chicken special for $4.99. Next door, on the other side, a used car lot offered its wares guaranteeing credit to anyone with a job. Across the street was the financial district, a run-down stretch of roadside shops with signs in the windows offering check-cashing services.
Scott pulled his truck into the manager’s spot, an unmarked parking space near the side door of his shop. He stepped from his red pickup and grabbed his lunch and work clothes from the seat next to him. It was 8:57 in the morning when his key went into the first lock. He turned on the lights and looked around the office to confirm that none of his neighbors had managed their way through the three deadbolts or barred windows. He opened the front office door and made sure the Help Wanted sign was still visible to the outside world from the other side of the Venetian blinds.
In the double bay of his shop sat two cars. The first was a 91 Toyota Corolla with over 300,000 miles on the odometer. He was working on installing a new starter, new o-rings, and a new gasket to a car that otherwise had one tire in the junkyard. The owner of the car was a man in his seventies, and Scott Caldwell didn’t have the heart to tell him it would be cheaper to buy another car. So he was doing the work at cost.
In the other bay was Scott’s personal obsession, a 76 Camaro he had bought from a man outside of Gaithersburg. It was a work-in-progress and at his current rate of reconditioning it would be road-ready by the following spring. Fall at the latest.
Standing in the first bay, next to the Camry, Scott slid out of his jeans and into his work overalls. He turned on the radio on the workbench near the back of the shop and switched the coffeemaker on with enough water for six cups. Just enough caffeine to get him through lunch.
The phone in the office rang and he picked up the extra handset, which had long since stopped ringing, off the charger on the workbench.
“Caldwell’s Garage and Body Shop. Scott speaking.”
“Good morning,” the voice said before stalling momentarily.
“Good morning,” Scott answered, waiting to hear the symptoms, and often the associated saga, of a car in need of service.
“Good morning,” Clark said again. “My name is Clark Hayden and I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Shoot,” Scott said, expecting to sharpen his pencil and give an estimate on repairs for a car problem as seen through a non-mechanical mind.
“I live in Arlington, Virginia, and I am trying to locate a neighbor of mine. His name is Nazim Shinwari. I got a call from his wife last week and she said they had returned to Pakistan to attend to family matters. She asked me to look after her house, which I did. Unfortunately, there was a fire at their residence last night and I don’t have a contact number for them.”
“Are you some kind of bill collector?” Scott asked.
Clark ducked the unexpected accusation. “No, not at all. You can look me up in the phone book. The Hayden residence is right across the street from Nazim’s. Or you could call the fire department. Check the news this morning.”
“When did you say his wife called you?”
“Week before last.”
“Did she mention Nazim?”
“She said they had returned to Pakistan. Why?”
“Well, Clark. It was Clark, correct?”
“Clark Hayden.”
“Well, Clark. I also got a call from Ariana about the same time. She also told me that they had returned to Pakistan to attend family business.”
Clark became hopeful. Finally, someone with the same story. Someone who knew how to contact Ariana and get the simple explanation that had thus far been elusive. “Did you get a number for Nazim?”
“Nazim is dead. His wife informed me he died in a car accident on a road an hour outside of Karachi. Apparently it was a bad accident. Hit head-on by a passing truck. There wasn’t much left.”
Clark felt a nauseating pain in his gut. “And when did you say she called?”
Scott looked up at the calendar over the workbench. He checked the schedule for Nazim, and noted where he had crossed out Nazim’s name and replaced it with his only other employee. “Exactly twelve days ago. Monday morning.”
Clark thought for a minute and put the days into order. “Son of a bitch,” he said aloud.
“Pretty much how I felt.”
Chapter 31
The cars poured from the mosque parking lot, blocking traffic on the thirty-five mph main thoroughfare. The police officer on traffic duty stood on the yellow lines, his reflective vest shining in the afternoon sun. His face was covered with a partial ski mask, his nose exposed and frozen, clouds of warm breath engulfing his face with each exhalation. His left hand was extended as he stopped traffic with his palm and a stern look he had practiced to perfection at the academy. The officer’s hand waved the religious faithful onto the main road, giving right of way to the spiritually righteous over the average rush-for-a-latte driver.
Five cars back from the traffic cop, Clark sat in his Honda, the rear-end of a large SUV blocking both his view and the sun. It took another ten minutes before Clark pulled into a spot near the front of the mosque. He removed the blue and white magnet from his pocket and matched the name from the magnet to that on the front of the mosque. He was in the right place.
Clark approached the front stairs nervously. He gingerly stepped into the foyer of the mosque and silently took off his shoes. A young man, dressed in a traditional salwar kameez, a Pakistani pants and shirt combination, appeared from behind a wooden door to the left of the large foyer. The pajama-like pants with tapered legs ruffled slightly as the young man approached.
“May I help you?”
Clark put the age of the young man between late teens and early twenties. The overgrown peach fuzz near his wispy sideburns was only one indicator. “Yes. I’m here to visit Imam Alamoudi.”
“May I have your name?”
“Clark Hayden. I called yesterday
.”
“Let me see if the imam is available.”
Before Clark could extend his hand in greeting, the young man turned and walked across the open floor of the mosque. Clark stood in his gray wool socks with orange toes and watched as the young man disappeared through another door on the far end of the prayer hall.
The foyer was decorated with mosaic tiles. There were several plaques with Arabic carved into the rich wood display. The building was quiet, an amazing accomplishment given that fifteen minutes ago there were two hundred religious faithful praying in unison.
Clark could feel Imam Alamoudi’s presence when he entered the prayer hall. It was not a mystic spiritual force or an overdeveloped Middle Eastern chi that he felt. It was the vibration in the floor from three hundred pounds of flesh wrapped tightly in another salwar kameez.
Imam Alamoudi had an unkempt beard and hair that dropped midway between his ear and shoulder. There was a hint of a receding hairline, though given the Imam’s height it was hard to determine the degree of follicle retreat.
The imam approached, gave Clark a once-over from head-to-toe, and extended his hand.
“Welcome to Al-Noor Masjid.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I’m a neighbor of Nazim Shinwari and his wife Ariana.”
“Of course, of course. They are wonderful people.”
“Yes they are. My mother has been ill and Ariana has been helping out a great deal.”
“That is what neighbors do. More importantly, that is what Muslims do. It is one of our tenets.”
“In the interest of bettering neighborly relations, I wanted to learn a little more about Islam and, if possible, take a tour of your mosque.”
The imam gave Clark a judgmental pat-down with his eyes. The imam started to speak, paused briefly, and then nodded. “Please come in.”
Imam Alamoudi began his tour near the entrance to the prayer hall. “The English word ‘mosque’ derives from its Arabic equivalent, masjid, which literally means ‘place of prostration.’ Hence the name Al-Noor Masjid meaning the ‘Al-Noor Mosque.’”
“What does Al-Noor mean?”
“The light,” the imam answered, his gaze heavy. “Before we start, are there any rules governing what I should or shouldn’t do?” Clark asked. “I don’t want to offend anyone.”
“The rules for the mosque are simple. In general, men and women should dress conservatively, usually covering both the arms and the legs.”
“Easy when the weather is like this,” Clark said.
The imam looked at Clark humorlessly, indicating that the only visitor in the building was not being as serious as he should have been.
“Sorry,” Clark said. “Anything else?”
“Shoes are left at the entrance to the prayer area. This is done so that the rugs are not soiled. Women may be asked to cover their hair when visiting a mosque and some mosques will loan scarves to visitors, or those who otherwise need them.”
The imam motioned towards an open doorway to the right of the foyer. “There is also a washroom for the followers to perform wadu, also known as ablution. Washrooms for wadu can range from sinks to elaborate rooms with built-in floor drains and faucets. In some form or another, they are found in every mosque. Cleanliness is vital to prayer.”
“In Christianity the expression is ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness.’”
“Yes. It’s the same principle, but Muslims actually practice it. Muslims wash their hands, faces, and feet before prayer as a way to purify and prepare themselves to stand before God. Five times a day.”
Clark took the insult for his religion and moved forward. “It’s quite beautiful inside.”
“Thank you. The main function of the mosque is to provide a place where Muslims can perform their obligatory five daily prayers. It also serves as the vestibule to hold prayers on Fridays, the Muslim day of communal prayer. There are also two main Muslim holidays called Eids, which loosely translate as ‘festivals.’ The first festival is Eid ul-Fitr, which is the festival to celebrate the end of the holy month Ramadan. The second one is Eid ul-Adha, which celebrates Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son.”
“We have Abraham in Christianity too.”
“I am aware,” the imam said, irritated. He stroked his beard as if to consider whether to continue the tour.
“Is a mosque considered holy?” Clark asked.
“It is a dedicated place of prayer, but there is nothing sacred about the building. There is no altar, or its equivalent, in a mosque. A Muslim may pray on any clean surface. I’m quite sure you have seen Muslims on TV praying outside, in public.”
“Yes, I have. On television,” Clark confirmed.
The imam continued. “There are several distinct features of a mosque. The first is the musalla, or prayer hall. Every mosque is designed with the orientation of Mecca in mind. As you know, Muslims pray facing the direction of Mecca. In North America, this means that most Muslims face northeast. Prayer halls are open spaces which help to accommodate as many worshippers as possible. As you can see, there are no seats and no pews. During prayer, worshippers sit on the floor in lines. They may also stand and bow in unison.”
“Do the men and women pray together?”
“A good question. Men and women form separate lines when they stand in prayers. Some mosques will have a separate area entirely for women. Our mosque has a single musalla, so women and men pray together, but separately.”
A door closed in the distance and the imam looked across the prayer hall in the direction of the noise. “All mosques also have some sort of mihrab, or niche marker, on the wall that indicates the precise direction of Mecca. The mihrab is usually decorative and is often adorned with Arabic calligraphy. It is usually curved to echo the voice of the prayer leader back to the worshippers, as even the imam must face Mecca when praying, thus leaving his backside facing the congregation. Many mosques also have a minbar, or pulpit, to the right of the mihrab. During the Friday prayer service, the imam delivers a sermon from the minbar.”
“Perhaps I could attend a Friday prayer service.”
“You would be welcome. If you do, there are some expressions you may hear, traditional Islamic greetings. Perhaps you have heard ‘assalamu alaikum?’”
“Yes. It means ‘peace be with you.’ And the response is ‘wa alaikum assalam…’ ‘and with you be peace.’”
Clark heard the imam’s stomach growl, and the large man in the robe-like attire rubbed his belly gently. “I haven’t had lunch.”
“Me either. Once in a while it’s good to remind ourselves what it is like to be hungry,” Clark added, feeling more religious.
“Fasting is an important part of Islam. One of the five pillars of our religion,” Imam Alamoudi said proudly, though there was no indication of a recent adherence to reduced food consumption.
“Most mosques also have a minaret, a tower used to issue the call to prayer, or adhan. In North America, the minaret is largely decorative. But in Muslim countries it is a vital part of the mosque. In Muslim countries, the mosque is usually centrally located in the middle of town, and most people walk to their daily prayers. Here in America, most people drive from a farther distance. As such, the minaret and adhan are largely symbolic here in the U.S.”
Clark looked at the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the wall and the imam answered the quizzical look on his guest’s face. “Most mosques have a collection of books; sometimes they have a library. These books usually include works on theology, Islamic philosophy, law, and the followings of the Prophet Muhammad. There are always copies of the Koran available as well. Would you like a complimentary copy?”
“Yes, that would be great,” Clark answered honestly. So far, he was impressed with what he saw. He had to admit that Islam and the Al-Noor Masjid were running circles around the modern Catholic Church when it came to religious depth. Pray fives times a day, everyday? Not unless you were a nun, or a
priest, or just knocked up your girlfriend, Clark thought.
“Other common features found in the mosque are schedules displaying the times of the five daily prayers and large rugs or carpets covering the musalla floor.”
“I see that there’s a school here, as well.”
“Yes. While a mosque’s primary function is that of a place of worship, it can also serve as school, a day care center, and a community center. Some mosques offer Koranic instruction, as well as Arabic classes. It’s not that different from a Catholic Church with a school.”
“Or a Jewish community center associated with a synagogue,” Clark added.
The imam grunted his response, “Perhaps.”
The tour continued for another five minutes, concluding back near the foyer where it started. The same young man who had met Clark at the door had returned and was now standing next to the imam.
“This is Farooq, he is one of my understudies. His name means ‘he who distinguishes truth from falsehood.’”
“Great name,” Clark said.
Clark and Farooq shook hands, something that the understudy wasn’t interested in at their first meeting in the foyer.
Farooq then turned his back towards Clark and whispered upwards into the imam’s ear.
“Is there anything else I can answer for you today?” Imam Alamoudi asked as Clark removed his shoes from their place on a large shelf used as a shoe rack.
It was time for Clark to get to the real question. “I was wondering if you would know how to reach Nazim or Ariana? I understand that they have gone home to attend family business, and they asked me to watch over their house. I don’t have a contact name or number to reach them and, unfortunately, there was a fire at their residence the day before yesterday.”
Imam Alamoudi felt the ambush but remained stoic. Without another word to Clark he looked at Farooq. “See if you can help this young man in his request.”
“Yes, Imam,” Farooq answered as Clark slipped on his shoes and zipped up his jacket.