31 Hours

by Masha Hamilton

  She was completely wound up. He wanted to tell her to go work on her pottery wheel, let the clay turn beneath her hands. In the old days, this was when they would have had sex for two hours, when he would have taken that tight spiral of energy and uncoiled it to both their benefits.

  “How about if I put in a call to his cell,” he said, “and maybe I’ll reach him, but if not, we wait one more day?”

  “Sunday would be when he would be home, if he’s going to be home at all,” she said. “He has classes Monday. I think you should go over today. Now. The more I think about it, the more I realize this is the right thing to do, Jake. If you take a cab, it will only take forty-five minutes.”

  “The gallery’s open today,” he said.

  “Can’t one of your girlfriends staff it for an hour?”

  Another comment he chose to ignore.

  “Jake, please,” she said after a minute. “Hang a ‘back-in-a-sec’ sign. Or I’ll catch a cab and come watch the gallery, if you want.”

  He did think Carol was overreacting. No, he was sure of it. But he wasn’t getting any business, anyway. Plus, Jonas was their son even though Carol had done the bulk of the raising. And she didn’t ask him for much.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay, okay, okay. But Carol, if he is with some young woman, then the next time he doesn’t call for nine days, you are just going to have to find a way to be more mellow about it. Agreed?”

  “A deal,” she said. “Oh, God, let him be with a girl.”

  Let us all, Jake thought. Let us all be with a girl.

  NEW YORK: 4:17 P.M.

  MECCA: 12:17 A.M.

  Al Zaqr Carpet Shop appeared deserted when Masoud glanced through the picture window from the sidewalk, but as soon as he pushed open the door, Adnan emerged from the tiny back office as he always did, dressed in a light blue thobe, stepping gingerly around the thick carpets and carrying a cup the size of a child’s fist from which he sipped sweet Turkish coffee. Its aroma mixed with the scent of rug dust in a way that had begun to strike Masoud as cozy. Settled for the past twenty years in his adopted country, Adnan had become as predictable as the call to prayer. His world had narrowed to his shop with its layer upon layer of rugs in shades of deep red and dusty tan, to what he could see from its windows, and to what went on in its two back rooms. He rarely ventured even upstairs to the apartments he rented to fellow Muslims like Masoud. The melancholy that one might expect to result from such an enclosed existence never troubled Adnan—in fact, this lifestyle suited him perfectly. His wife and three daughters bought and prepared his food, friends and neighbors stopped in to share gossip and partake of his generous hospitality, and his six brothers periodically arrived from Lebanon or Saudi Arabia or Iran lugging more carpets for him to sell. Adnan carried a calculator in his pocket and pulled it out as soon as customers entered, promising them a deal. Whether they took him up on it didn’t seem to matter much to him, though; he nearly always wore a sweet, contented smile, and he sported the round belly of the satisfied.

  “As-salaam aleikum.” The two men greeted one another.

  “Business is difficult when temperatures dip, isn’t that so, brother?” Masoud asked.

  “Ah, well.” Adnan lifted his chin in a gesture that signaled resignation and contentment at once. “There’s business and there is business. It will be better next week, inshallah. And if not, then next month.”

  “So true,” Masoud said. “It’s in the hands of Allah, glory be upon Him.”

  “Are you coming to tonight’s meeting?” Adnan held monthly father-son meetings in the larger of the back rooms. It gave the Muslim men a sense of community in this foreign land and offered an opportunity for youths to discuss with their elders anything that bothered them. Adnan also had created an informal mentoring system. The meetings were well attended, and Masoud, as a hajji, had often been invited to comment on various matters; it had been from the start a useful way for him to make Brooklyn contacts. Sometimes the conversations were basic, centering on matters such as understanding Islam’s five pillars, but those Masoud enjoyed most went deeper to encircle topics of profound knowledge pertaining to the comprehension of sacred mysteries and the ways of Allah, glory be upon Him, and the glorious Qur’an.

  “Is the meeting tonight?” Masoud asked now. “I must have confused the date. I’m unavailable tonight.”

  “Are your plans unbreakable, brother?” Adnan asked. “I hoped to discuss efforts to step up our outreach campaign.”

  “Ah, yes, your campaign,” Masoud said noncommittally. Adnan wanted to organize representatives to go into the schools and talk to classes about Islam, how the word itself meant peace, how most of its adherents embraced tolerance.

  “It’s important work,” Adnan countered. “Much is at stake. Those of us who wish to live here—and want our children to share in the opportunities—know it is essential to demonstrate that the extremists among us are few.”

  “Though we also know shari’a permits the use of force under divine guidance to establish justice and equilibrium,” Masoud said.

  “To understand the Qur’an, Masoud, we must use our hearts, not just our intellects.”

  “Heart or mind, we must not revoke the foundations of our religion,” Masoud pressed.

  Adnan cleared his throat. “I understand how difficult it was for your family to suffer a son’s loss,” he said.

  “Ah. Thank you, brother,” Masoud said, but he didn’t really mean it. He didn’t want to discuss his brother, and he doubted Adnan understood. When Masoud’s father had called to say Ifraan had been killed in Afghanistan after a rocket attack against the tiny clinic where he had been volunteering, Masoud hadn’t believed. He grew furious, called his father a liar. Over the next few days, the United Nations confirmed the rocket attack, but the United States denied it, so Masoud grew convinced that the reports must be wrong. Ifraan was alive, he decided, and hard at work healing patients, completely unaware that his wailing mother mourned his fictional passing. His father tried to dissuade him, but Masoud booked a flight to Kabul, hired a car, and traveled through the dusty, chaotic capital into the rugged, desperate mountains. Even when he saw the hospital rubble with his own eyes, even then, he knelt and began to sift through it, as if he still might find his brother there alive. Some Afghans who lived nearby finally pulled him to his feet, led him away.

  “But it is my shared sorrow, brother,” Adnan said, grabbing the younger man by his shoulders.

  Masoud worked to keep himself from pulling away. He thought about mentioning the case of Abdel Moti Abdel Rahman Mohammad, who’d recently had his left eye surgically removed at King Fahd Hospital in Medina, Saudi Arabia, in a court-ordered punishment after he had been convicted of throwing acid at a man’s face, causing disfigurement and damage to his left eye. Amnesty International had protested the ruling, but devout Muslims understood it. He thought about mentioning to Adnan that he’d never known the color of his own skin until he’d arrived in this country, and that men like him—and Adnan—would never fit in, no matter how many schools they visited with their messages.

  But he said nothing. There was no point.

  “At any rate,” Adnan added after a moment, “I remember now that it is you who are right, and I who am confused. The meeting is tomorrow night. I hope your prior commitments will allow you to attend then?”

  His tone sounded sincere, but his eyes held the sly look Masoud had grown to recognize. Adnan suspected something, and if he could verify his suspicions, he would likely not hesitate to betray Masoud—to his family, at least, and perhaps to American authorities.

  “If it’s tomorrow night, then I will be there,” Masoud said, although he wouldn’t. “Tonight I meet with some of our brothers in their homes.”

  “Yes, of course,” Adnan said, his tone mildly skeptical.

  For once, the ringing of his cell phone was a relief. Masoud looked at the number; it was Bakr. “Excuse me, brother,” he said to Adnan. In the stairwell, he picke
d up the phone. “Salaam aleikum,” he said.

  “Salaam. Abu Asfar al-Amriki left.”

  Abu Asfar the American: the code name for Jonas. Masoud halted on the stairwell. “What? What do you mean?”

  “He’s back now.”

  “In his room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long was he gone? Who did he see?”

  “No one, I think. I followed him.”

  “Did he see you? No, wait. Just tell me from the start. What happened?”

  “He left the room. He walked down the street and into a shop. He got something to eat. Then he left and walked into another store and bought some things. Then he returned to the apartment.”

  “He spoke to no one?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “What did he buy?”

  “Hard to tell. Paper, I think. Some tweezers. A few more items.”

  Masoud took a deep breath. Of the seven who would act tomorrow for Ifraan’s revenge, Jonas was the one who worried Masoud most. Jonas was the prize, the blond-haired, Western-raised Wahhabi. Let’s see, Masoud thought, if the media will call him a terrorist. Masoud had grown attached to Jonas, drawn to his openness and questioning mind, his egoless approach to understanding his country. And technically, Jonas had proven himself very able; he’d learned everything they needed during his three weeks of training in Pakistan. Still, he was the least predictable, and thus the most dangerous. If he turned, everything could be ruined. His motivations were complex and personal, in Masoud’s view, and a lack of time had prevented the madrassa period that Masoud would have preferred.

  Besides, Jonas was born an American. He had family and friends here. Even though he’d rejected his country’s ways, these last hours were always tricky. Masoud had spent twelve hours a day with Jonas over this final week, altering his diet and sleep patterns and monitoring his moods, and he was certain Jonas’s resolve was strong. Still, when the moment arrived, would Jonas go through with it? Who really knew? His job was to get Jonas to the final step. Allah alone held the eventual outcome in His hands.

  Masoud opened the door of his apartment and locked it behind him before speaking. “Okay, Bakr,” he said. “Call right away if he leaves again. Right away. And make sure he doesn’t make any phone calls.”

  “That’s already been handled,” Bakr said.

  “Good. I will see you in a few hours.”

  Masoud sat on his bed to remove his shoes. On the other side of the room stood a stove, an oven, and a refrigerator. The space was far smaller and more severe than anyplace he’d lived in Riyadh, but he welcomed its asceticism. His prayer rug lay in one corner. His books were piled neatly nearby. Against a wall were seven sets of clean clothes, each stacked individually and topped with seven Qur’ans, ready for delivery tonight.

  Masoud went into the bathroom, spread shaving cream on his face, and began to make his cheeks smooth. This would be his second shave of the day, but it was a matter of respect. He wanted to honor the men he would soon be visiting. He wanted the martyrs to know that he both envied them for being chosen and felt humbled before them. The first drop of blood shed by a shaheed washes away his sins entirely. And this was the most special of missions for a shaheed.

  Seven, the holiest of numbers, the most complete. Allah, glory be to Him, ordained seven days in a week and grants seven gifts to his martyrs. Pilgrims on hajj circle seven times around the Ka’ba in Mecca. And so, seven central arteries to the subway. At 9:07 A.M. in New York, on the ninth day of the eleventh month, seven sacred explosions, seven martyrs on their way to the seven heavens. Port Authority. Union Square. Penn Station. Columbus Circle. Times Square. Rockefeller Center. Grand Central. These men were headed for purity. Masoud would remain here, so humanly flawed, but determined to rewrite the significance of his family name and give meaning to his brother’s death so that it would not drift into irrelevance. Ifraan deserved that.

  Masoud took three swipes with the razor, and then the cell phone, which he’d set on the toilet seat, rang again. He flipped it open to see that the call came from overseas. His father’s cell phone. He glanced at his watch, which he kept set to the time in Mecca. His father was calling when his father should be sleeping. He hesitated, then quickly wiped the cream off his left cheek. He held the phone to his ear.

  “As-salaam, Father.”

  “Masoud, where are you?” His father’s voice sounded sharp across the many miles. This was a man who played in three chords: flirtatious when speaking to attractive Western women, obsequious when talking to his social betters in Riyadh, and dictatorial when addressing the family.

  “You know where I am. I am in New York.”

  “Masoud.” The line crackled, possibly a sign that they were being overheard but maybe simply due to the distance between the two phones. “Masoud, I have been hearing things that do not please me.”

  Masoud glanced at his reflection in the mirror, wiping away a little of the cream near the inside of his left eyebrow. “What things, Father?”

  “I am not going into detail over these cursed phones,” his father said. “Twenty-two men in suits may be listening as we speak. But if there’s any truth to it, you should know that I’m hearing it here. And if I’m hearing it here, it is being heard across all the world’s deserts and in all the cities and in Mecca itself. So if you were counting on secrecy for unforgivable, anti-Islamic acts—”

  That rumors were circulating was very unwelcome news, but he didn’t want his father to hear any concern in his voice. His father would read it, rightly, as confirmation. “I’m surprised you got through, Father,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. “My phone has been failing me lately. I don’t know how long the connection will last.”

  “Islam is a religion of moderation and morality. You are interpreting shari’a to fit your private purposes, and that is a sin. Your understanding of duty to family and religion is, at best, erroneous.”

  It is you, Father, who have misunderstood your duty and left it to me to rescue our name. Aloud, Masoud said only, “I wish it were easier, Father, to make out your words.”

  His father sighed. “We lost Ifraan. You think I don’t feel it as his father? But there are other ways, more restrained ways—”

  Masoud interrupted. “How is my mother?”

  “Yes,” said Masoud’s father. “Think of your mother. She barely survived your brother. Do not, Masoud, do not—”

  “Father,” Masoud interrupted, “forgive me. Your voice is so fragmented I cannot make out the meaning.”

  “I want this conversation in person. I insist that you return home now, with your hands unsullied, Masoud.”

  “Inshallah, Father.” Easy enough for Masoud to agree. After all, the private jet with its private pilot and its access to a private tarmac—it had all already been arranged, though his father didn’t yet know that.

  “You do not have the right to make choices for us all,” his father was continuing. “Make no mistake, what you do affects your sisters, your mother and me, my relations with the king and—”

  “The line, Father. It is so poor.”

  “I said my relations with—”

  Masoud pressed the end button, hanging up the phone. “My relations with my yachts,” he muttered to himself.

  He’d maintained a respectful attitude toward his father, but that was the extent of what he could take for today. He needed quiet to think about these intercontinental rumors. He didn’t want to change his plans, nor did he want to see them disrupted through premature revelations. He had to focus now, stay attentive to every detail if he were to make the right choices. He had taken on a historic assignment, and he needed to reflect with courage and calm. Allah, glory be upon Him, had set Masoud on a path to give meaning to his brother’s death, and Allah, glory be upon Him, would guide him now. Masoud inhaled deeply, calming himself, and continued to slide the razor’s blade over his face.

  NEW YOR
K: 5:40 P.M.

  MECCA: 1:40 A.M.

  Sonny felt like dancing. He’d been raking it in. He hadn’t counted yet, and wouldn’t until he was alone, but he expected this would add up to the best day of the season so far, and for sure he’d done better than most any business aboveground. It was purely glacial on the street, without even snow to make it glistening and beautiful. No reason to linger upstairs. So everyone was diving into the subway, and when they saw Sonny moving their way with the slow, purposeful shuffle he’d perfected over the years, they started feeling guilty. His eyes were clear and his voice gentle and he knew he reminded folk—even white folk—of their own grandfathers. Who, on a cold day like this, could stand to see his grandfather without enough change to buy a hot bowl of soup? It didn’t hurt, either, that it was a Sunday. People mostly weren’t headed into the office, so they weren’t knotted up inside about how hard they had to work and how tired they were of their jobs and how they hated their bosses and how, on top of that, Sonny—luxuriating in the ranks of the unemployed—was wanting a piece of their salaries just for the asking.

  He expected tomorrow to be a rippin’ day, too. After all, it would be just as cold. Now, though, it was starting to get dark, and he was bone-tired. He decided to head toward his sister’s, even though he might get another good hour out of the subway. The beauty of being selfemployed: he could clock out when he wanted. He needed to leave his day’s take with Ruby, and he needed to be clean and fresh for Monday morning. He would shower and then visit a bit, since it wasn’t polite to just wash and run, as he liked to joke with Ruby.