Radius Islamicus

by Julian Samuel

  Let’s see now, where’s that place, you know, where we see traces of all different religions all mixed up together? It was a Canaanite religious place, then it was a Greek temple, followed by a Roman one, a Byzantium church, and lastly a mosque with a white table and a cup of Earl Grey tea beside it. Iqbal has a few questions.

  Who in hell’s name would have thought we’d have ended up in the same old folks home? How could this happen? Oh, my Director of Operations, what were the chances? I hated you. But I now love you. Were you born in Sialkot? Tell me the truth. Are you intentionally confusing me with another Iqbal? But then why are you here if I’m much older than you? You sometimes confuse me with an older man who lives here. He’s from Bombay. Oriental confusion?

  “The mosque you are describing — aren’t you wilfully mistaking our country for another one? I don’t get your sense of humour.”

  “You’ve always laughed at what I said.”

  “We have a special guest for you at lunch.”

  “I don’t like surprises in foreign lands.”

  “What foreign lands are you talking about? You know our language, culture, everything about us et cetera . . . ”

  “. . . et cetera, et cetera.” We laugh.

  At the café, overlooking a small mosque, I observe the architectural details: “Look at how well all the different architectural phases are combined into one nearly tolerable whole — now what do you make of it? Can you arrange a trip for us to see this mosque?”

  Lunch and inanities. A few guests, all one-time acquaintances of my old influential Me now bid their farewells to Me before the summer heat encourages indolence. I sit in the car, hands on my knees: I am whisked back to the fresh villa. I fall asleep. Usha’s son comes tomorrow. He’s very tall. Blonde hair. Nordic, not Irish. Wonder if he’ll bring me a bottle of boggy scotch or a monochromatic vodka.

  The noises of possessive ravens overlap the sweet rising and falling high mass of migratory Bulbuls. The caw-caw of the black priests becomes, a few hours later, a soft persistent knocking at the edge of my sleep. They are taking me back to the airport; along a smooth road, a checkpoint with casual, smoking soldiers loitering in front of a red setting sun. This time, I look at Abdul-or-equivalent behind the steering wheel and firmly assert in a Turkic or equivalent language my right to not have air conditioning. The mullahs with their powerful voices blow all the A380s off the runways up into the thin air, the airport becoming a black spot somewhere in the past.

  In the humming cabin, I read the music review section of The Financial Times, a light discussion of Aidaon-the-Nile written by Thomas Silver-or-Gold but not Uraniumberg. Hours later, the plane banks over Suez, Port Said, then a stretch of blue water; Cyprus, then more blue water. Below are the Italians — the prime inventors of bonds, banks, formalized money and fraud; the Swiss; and the Gauls with their wonderful, easily adaptable political models for all of Africa. Untraceable electronic deposits have been made into untraceable accounts. Particles function dually as waves and money: money and its electronic friends are not predictable. Well, Iqbal, what did you think of our adventure to get the funding? Iqbal, you came with me. Do you remember? Iqbal hasn’t really been paying attention. He’s not breathing; in fact he’s stopped breathing completely. Can’t be. My second dead person in a month. Nurse. Nurse. Pulse. Neck. Wrist. Gone: 14:59, a sunny Tuesday in the month of September. Saddest thing is I’ll never know where in my story he died. Iqbal. Mad as a March Hare. He did Russell Square. He did Triangle Below Canal Street and he did Chicago Circle. Two hundred in each geometry. One hundred and fifty-five injured on average: quick, honey, call the ambulances: people need to be saved.

  29

  El Kairaya-El-Ma’ha’russa

  A phone rings. Moronically, I turn to look at it ringing on top of a pile of books. I notice my character change as soon as I hear a “Hello” on the other end.

  “Well thanks for all the interest. There is indeed a revival of all this taking place. You’re the second person who has contacted me regarding this matter.”

  He blathers about how nice it is to speak with me, about my publications blah blah.

  “That would be possible.” Yes, buffoon, a meeting would be possible.

  A few days later, we meet at a small restaurant in Montreal. The noisy bastard has, like me, aged. Yes, I pretend that I recognize him.

  Despite the steam on the inside of the window panes, sunlight falls through onto our table.

  “I’m flattered with all the attention. Thank you, et cetera.”

  Is Anver doing theatre again with me? I think his Mild Cognitive Impairment is playing games with him or is it late-onset schizophrenia? Pretending he doesn’t know me, he says: “Glad to meet you.”

  I return the compliment: “Pleasure’s all mine.” I get ready for more banalities. At least I’m not at home among the old ones.

  “Have you lived in Montreal for long?” Anver, the refined actor, asks.

  I muster a sense of subtlety. “I’ve been living here for a long time, one could say; from the States and England originally.” And without waiting for more inanities, I take the initiative. “I just severely criticized him when it wasn’t supposed to be done. Tell me what’s wrong with that?”

  An original thought enters his head. “People think you organized his abduction.” Original, that’s what I said.

  “There wasn’t an abduction — we weren’t into authors — we were into Bang Bang and not cultural studies, and we were into burning major art collections. Many think I had a role in it: I’m proud to say that I had a role in exposing this writer. But was there any proof that I had participated other than publishing a negative review that looked at the central issues — is that a crime?”

  Then, for charming surprise, I throw a statement — an inductive one, I suppose. “If it isn’t, then, you’ll have to leave, fuck off. However, I must say that this cloakand-dagger stuff keeps my brain alive, like learning new computer programmes. Thank you.” Remembering that this fuck has come to hear me talk, I, again, take my old man’s pause and blurt out in old man’s cracked voice: “What’s your interest in me?”

  “Thought I’d look at things from all sides,” Anver says.

  “Ah ha. Novel idea.” He tries to get a word in but I cut him off. “All sides? you wanted to meet someone who just may be wrongly accused of having maybe planned the murder of a writer?”

  “He did disappear. Face this fact.”

  I continue Anver’s theatre. “Thankfully, you admit this.” I make another staged pause. “Years ago, I knew someone who looked sort of like you. Different accent. So what if it can be proven that I had planned a murder or kidnapping? A few years in prison before I die. What if I hadn’t planned it, but I knew how it was going to be carried out and said nothing to prevent it from happening? What if I had been or am still now an ideological accomplice? Yes, I knew what was going on, because I know this field. There was a plot. I may have known about it. Would I then be guilty for not having warned the police and would I become a prime accomplice? You can’t throw a literary critic in jail for doing his job, can you? Malice is mine. I could even make a bit of money if he had been killed, stories to the newspapers and all that — others have done worse, you know — I’d just be a simple opportunist. However nasty it may all seem to the untrained eye.”

  Linda comes into my room. Anver’s words have become small black cows floating in the bright green hills of my mind. Linda leaves. Anver continues.

  “Anything about me in the paper? Plans were indeed discovered. And some called from the mosque run by Mohammad M. Mohammad have admitted — admitted? Admitted what? Admitted off the record, don’t you mean? But, of course, you know that nothing can be proven, or at least nothing has been proven yet. There was no murder. But that’s not the point at all, is it?”

  “I just wanted to hear what you’d say about your past,” Linda says.

  “What if I had been an ideological accomplice only? And that it can be p
roven without the shadow of a doubt that I knew of what was going on because of my learning in the field. I knew a case where almost the same thing happened. You’re too young to remember; back then I predicted its occurrence with pre-rational clairvoyant accuracy. Nobody died. But there was a plot. But there are plots everywhere.”

  Anver stops me. “The untrained eye. I hadn’t thought of the last one. The newspaper thing for a man of your stature and learning?”

  For some strange reason, I see myself as a younger man in an aircraft descending over a city with sand all around it. Clearly, I am landing in the most loveless city in the Middle East: Cairo. El Kairaya-El-Ma’ha’russa — the well-guarded city. Someone from the flight crew announces the descent in Arabic, English, and German. So I must have boarded the flight in Frankfurt.

  “Are you writing a book, or are you a cop? Be straight with me, please. Who are you? Or are you Anver playing old-age drama class with me?”

  The world expert on banalities can’t compete with an old man. “I am not a cop. I am writing a book. It is not a documentary. Fiction or nearly fiction.” Linda has heard bits and pieces, I’m sure. Doesn’t scare me.

  I’m in the common room with red leather chairs and those windows that place the little river-lake dead centre. I focus my attention on three branches. There’s a wind. No leaves. Three branches. I think I hear the sound of rain throughout the conversation that is transpiring beside me, not really beside me but a few red leather chairs down. The floors are shiny, as usual. A cleaner is using that electric floor shiner down the hall. I can hear it — sandpaper on marble. What a pleasure it is.

  What day is it? Vernal something or another? Ash Wednesday? All Saints Day? Or Saint Patrick’s? Palm Sunday? Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Tatjana marks time like this. Religion equals time for her. But for me, time is marked off by this: last week our population shrank by five: Mr. Overall, room 401— didn’t know him very well — had a very final heart attack; he had endured several, Linda told me. I am not allowed to mention names; room 444 contained a total kidney failure, and something else that leads to death. Ms. Fishnet Stockings in 220 west-wing: heart attack terribly final. The tranquil saint in room 200 west-wing experienced a firecracker aneurysm, and the wheelchair art historian finally ran out of battery power. I think he stopped on the word, “Cézannnn.” The tall dark stranger from room 411 had a fall down only two steps. Skull fractures to infinity. Hardly any legal complications for the residence, because his son had taken him off residence property, on a visit, on the town. Bustling downtown Pierrefonds, Québec. The son looked very guilty, but wasn’t. I saw him when he was here to pick up his father’s things. “Sorry about your dad,” I say. Cellular death in key organs. I felt like asking him if he had pushed to get the money. But that would not have been nice.

  He thanks me for my sympathy. His father had not been in good shape. The son had turned around for a minute and his father had fallen. The cops took the son’s side. The exact amount of money transferred to his account is a matter that Linda will tell me about. We have a deal.

  30

  Silver platter

  For image reasons, nurses don’t wear white coats anymore. I saw them giving Mrs. Mulroney a bath when I was walking past room 312 in the eastern side of the home. Why was the door ajar? Her flesh hung in thin translucent gills below her armpits. She groaned at each passing of the shower head. The water was steaming. Dead grey look. Why does the body still keep breathing and eating? Why not just a firm goodbye? These mean thoughts come not only to me — others admit to having had them. Mrs. Gills has another two weeks, not a nanosecond more. So bathe her in fragrant oils, and rub musk on her skin and bury her by the silent stones where the night winds whisper. She saw me. I looked right back. Sympathetic, my look? Not at all. Dead neutral, pardon the pun.

  Was a genetically predetermined programme going to turn her into a dolphin? Chromosome aberrations? Who was going to receive her e-mails? Does she even get any? Will Linda let me see her mail? What would I read? Letters from a blonde daughter in Sarnia? Twin sons in Markham? Speaking of e-mails, I should look at mine, one of these days.

  Life becomes a stream of questions. But then why flirt at seventy years of age or whatever age I am? Why not? What am I supposed to do? Why does the dead banker’s wife’s daughter have the movements and the sounds of old age?

  “Is she going to visit me this afternoon?” Tatjana asks out loud.

  “I think so; our nurse was mentioning it.”

  Linda is about to leave after giving me my four o’clock: “ Oh yeah, that detective called again. Notice how I’m not sticking my nose in your affairs?” She laughs as she moves out of the door frame; I guess she knows that Anver is playing theatre with me.

  “Okay, I’ll call him now. Like my efficiency? Pass me the phone please.” Anver up to his old drama.

  I sip brandy, clear my throat and look out at the river. Which season have we gone through? One of the four. Which direction are we moving in? Spring or fall? I can’t tell. She was just giving me my five o’clock. And now its summer on a silver platter, and a few newspaper hounds are calling me. Fame, flattery after all these years of degenerative changes.

  31

  Your humble servant

  Six months have passed. Linda tells me six years. Perhaps two years. Tatjana knows what a toothbrush is. Due to the pills. Next she’ll know what a butterfly is. Blueberry pills for memory improvement; usually four to six to bring back memory. Latest thing. She regains her memory, and I am not sure what is happening. The pills and I have helped her. I remind her of things and what they do. Linda congratulates me for being so helpful: we’ve become deep, committed friends. Tatjana can now, because of me, remember about forty objects of every one hundred previously forgotten. She is forgetting less and less. I can see the walls making compartments in her mind.

  No. I’m not in love with anyone in this old folks home. Now, I must take a look at my mail. Letters, a few letters. Now, let’s see again, one e-mail to the wrong Dr. Joseph Macleod. Coincidence that this old fogies’ home has two John Macleods and both are doctors.

  People will do anything to stop from going crazy in here. Toothbrushes, dolls, dog skulls? Pierrefonds will do that to the best among us. I play postman. I handdeliver the printed e-mail to him in room 360. View of a small road outside his window. Linda and I had a laugh over it all. I speak loudly and slowly: “Hello Doctor Macleod, how are you? More misdirected e-mails. I have a letter for you. What can we do with this problem: our addresses keep getting crossed.”

  He looks attentively at me then slowly: “Good you came. I’ve a postcard for you; it’s the old kind with a stamp, from somewhere in the States. I didn’t read it, of course.”

  He’s confident that I, too, have respected his privacy. I gently hand over the printed letter. I bid the old man a nice day and return to my room, postcard in hand.

  An unsent e-mail oozes up. To: my lost lover. I’ll send it one day, in the very near future — or perhaps I’ll never send it. But I will. It is in my nature somehow. I like unambiguous starts like this. And I can’t tell Linda anything about this, because that would be going too far. In my room, I look at my computer screen.

  From: Joseph M to

  My Dearest,

  I love you. We left each other. Various versions, but yours is the most truthful. One can never expect to be pardoned for having lost some of the initial desire for you. I still love you. There is a reason. It will be easier to see where things lie if I say it all directly. I want very much to continue to see you. There are only a few years left, if that. Can you please call me?

  I think that with all our past intimacy, we can bring a different friendship into some kind of fruition that will not hurt you in any way. This is presumptuous, I know; but do you want me to live without hope? I know it will take emotional skill for you to see me. I need you as a friend. I need you deeply. Those years with you meant very much to me. How much our mornings meant for me. Day-to-d
ay things.

  Sorry, I don’t know how to avoid the maudlin tone. I’ve broken into a desperate desire to write to you, to try to see you again, as a close friend. Who is he kidding? you might be saying. How are our sons Ian and Michael? They must be tall beautiful men by now. Can you send me a photograph? I didn’t think so. I knew our separation was forever. I am sorry. The day before the angels take me, I’ll push “send,” and you’ll get this e-mail, and then the world will know. Know what? My contribution to history was not much. I was the only one in the game who didn’t kill any donkeys.

  Joseph, your humble servant.

  32

  No brothers. No sisters. No children

  Someone from the home has lent me a car. I am visiting Linda in Montreal. Did I rent the car, or is it true that someone from the home lent it to me? Linda lives in a middle-class neighbourhood near a park. I take an elevator up some floors. I pull my hand out of my pocket, take off my glove, put the glove back into my pocket, and then a few thoughts flash through my head: Have I been to this part of Montreal before? I think I used to live in this neighbourhood. The elevator stops; I walk out and face a hallway as long as an underground train in Hong Kong. But there aren’t any high-rise apartment buildings near here. Where am I? I knock. She opens the door.

  “Never seen you with your hair down before. No. You had you hair down at the home; last Monday, if I remember correctly — remember you — you remember you’re going to say.”

  “Any difficulty finding the place?”

  “Came right here. I parked the car a few blocks away because I wanted to walk. I think I lived in this area. Has the concept of Monday become one of those faded days?”