by John Wray
She swallowed the last of the flatbread and found the word in Arabic that she’d been seeking. It rang strangely in her ears, deeper and angrier than she’d intended. She wondered whether all boys’ voices sounded harsh to them.
—Na’ama, the mullah repeated. —Na’ama is Grace.
—Yes, mu’allim.
—This is a common name in California?
—It was, mu’allim. In more religious times.
He nodded again. —And your father?
—What about him?
He tipped one hand upward. —His name. His vocation.
—Martin Isaiah Sawyer. She took in a breath. —He’s a professor.
—Of what?
—Of Islam. Of Islamic studies.
The mullah sat forward. —Ah! He leads a madrasa?
—No, mu’allim. The students he instructs are not believers.
—Not believers?
—They are not, mu’allim.
—Then why do they study the Book?
—My father would say— She hesitated.
—Yes?
—My father would say, because they find it interesting.
—Interesting, said the mullah.
—Yes, mu’allim. Like visiting a foreign country.
He pursed his lips as though he’d eaten something sour. —And your father himself? Has he been rewarded with faith?
The voices in the next room had risen. The sura was one she knew well. Should you slip after clear signs have been revealed to you, be assured that God is Almighty, All-Wise.
—I don’t know the answer to that question, mu’allim.
His expression clouded further. —How do you not know?
Are they truly waiting for God to come to them in the shadowy folds of clouds, with His angels, when judgment is pronounced and all revert to God?
—Because he never told me.
—Does he not pray in your home?
For those who disbelieve, the present life has been made to appear attractive.
—My father and mother live in two different houses, mu’allim. I don’t see him much.
—Tell me about your mother.
—I’d rather not, mu’allim.
—Ah, he said. —And why not?
—Because she’s a drunk.
The mullah cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his beard. He seemed to be observing something just beneath her cot. He seemed to be considering its merits.
—I see now why you came to us.
—Yes, mu’allim.
—Let me ask you something more. Have you elder brothers?
She shook her head.
—You are the oldest in your house?
—I am, mu’allim.
—Then why do you not bear your father’s name?
—I don’t— She stopped herself. —I can’t say, mu’allim. I’ve never asked.
The mullah nodded thoughtfully. She kept straight-backed and solemn and watched him considering her answers. It was a sign of disrespect to stare but the mullah seemed indifferent to her rudeness. She tried to look away but could not do it.
—I see, he said a second time, taking the cup back from her and getting to his feet. —Perhaps it is well, given what you have told me, for Martin Isaiah Sawyer’s name to go no further.
—Yes, mu’allim.
—In this house you will be called by a new name. One of your own choosing. You will find this is best. He took her by the hand.
—I beg your pardon, mu’allim. I—
—Yes, child?
—I don’t like to be touched.
He seemed not to hear her. —You are a young man of gumption, to travel so far. Is this what you say? Of gumption?
—Some people might say that. It’s an old word, mu’allim. Like grace.
—I see. He bobbed his head. —Do you have need yet of a razor?
She opened her mouth and closed it.
—Feel no embarrassment, child. We have boys in our care of less than seven years. He straightened and turned toward the door. —I’ll see that a copy of the Book is brought to you, that you may choose your name.
—I don’t need the Book, mu’allim.
—No need of the Book? Why is this?
—I chose my name the day I left my mother’s house.
* * *
He gave her a Qur’an regardless and led her down an unlit corridor with his hand at the small of her back. He was temperate and mild and did not rush her. It was she who was rushing. The Recitation grew brighter as the daylight receded. God guides whomsoever He wills to a path that is straight. Though the voices were high-pitched and lilting they were the voices of men and men only and this thought forced the air out of her lungs and made her head go hot and empty. She could no longer make out the walls or the floor. She was listening her way forward.
At the corridor’s turning the mullah stopped her and opened an unpainted door. The hall they passed into was narrow but deep and though it was filled with skullcapped figures not a man among them raised his head to look. Fluorescents bathed the kneeling men in quavering yellow light. The Recitation was of the two hundred and fourteenth verse of the second sura of the word as revealed to the Prophet by the Angel Gabriel. Or do you imagine that you will enter the Garden without undergoing that which befell those who came before you? Violence and injury did touch them and they quaked, until the Messenger and the believers with him said: When will God’s victory come?
—Children, said the mullah in Arabic when the sura had ended, letting his hand come to rest on the declaimer’s shoulder. —Join with me in greeting Brother Suleyman. He comes to us from California.
Now their heads lifted. She had dreamed of this instant and feared what might follow but she saw no malice in that field of upturned faces. A welcome was murmured in Arabic and a language she guessed to be Pashto. The youngest sat elbow to elbow in the foremost row and she noted to her amusement that their expressions were the most dignified of all. She tried and failed to find Decker among them. She had never felt so closely watched or so unseen.
—Find a place for Brother Suleyman. We receive him this day as our honored guest.
A shoulder’s-width interval opened before her and she took her place among the youngest children. They were ten years of age at the oldest, some much younger, and she tried to make herself as small as possible. Tattered brown prayer books lay before them on bookrests and their shoulders pressed against her through the linen of her shirt. Sweat was gathering in her armpits and at the small of her back and she imagined the men behind her watching first with curiosity and then with outrage as the body her clothing hid from them came gradually into view. But of course the men were doing no such thing. They stared down at their prayer books and she did the same. When she raised her head again the mullah was gone.
The declaimer coughed into his fist and turned the page.
—The Messenger believes in what was revealed to him.
—The Messenger believes in what was revealed to him by his Lord, came the answer. —As do the believers.
All believe in God, his angels, his Books, and his messengers. We make no distinction between any of his messengers. They say: we hear and obey.
We await your forgiveness, O Lord. To you is the journey’s end.
God charges not any soul except with what it can bear. To its credit belongs what it has earned: upon it falls the burden of what it has deserved.
—Our Lord, said the declaimer.
—Our Lord, Aden answered. —Do not lay upon us a heavy burden, as You laid upon those who came before us. Our Lord, do not lay upon us that which we have no strength to bear.
* * *
They recited without pause until the noon call to prayer and when their prayers were done they gathered in the courtyard. She relieved herself in the latrine on the far side of the building, taking care no one saw her, then went looking for Decker. She found him crouched in the shade of a mulberry tree with two beardless men she hadn’t seen before
. As she approached them the men got grudgingly to their feet, mumbled a few words in greeting, then drifted away. Decker sat back on his heels and watched them go.
—Your friends don’t seem to like me much, she said.
—They can’t figure you out.
The blood rushed to her head. —Figure me out how?
He yawned and shrugged his shoulders.
—Did I do something wrong at recitation?
—I wasn’t at recitation.
—Why not?
—I slept in.
—Do you want to let me know what’s going on? Are you trying to impress your new friends? Is that it?
—Don’t wig out on me, Sawyer. I’m sure you can guess.
Her back was to the yard now but she felt herself observed. —Tell me what you’re trying to tell me, Decker. Just say it in words.
—These kids grew up poor as shit. They’ve never seen— He stifled a yawn. —I don’t even know where to start. A Corvette. A laptop. An American up close. You might as well have a pointy tail and horns.
She nearly laughed with relief. —Is that all it is? That I come from the States?
—It’s enough.
—Don’t scare me like that again. Okay?
—Just quit worrying so much. That won’t help anyone.
She put a hand on his shoulder and felt him pull back. —Are you going to tell me why you’re treating me like this?
—Like what?
—Like you wish I was dead.
He squinted into the sun. —I’m trying to figure out why I should lie for you, I guess.
—Coming here was your idea, remember? Lying was always going to be a part of it. Nothing’s changed.
—You’ve changed, Sawyer. You cut off your hair and you talk in a fake voice and you won’t even say fuck. Won’t say it and won’t do it. So don’t go trying to act like I’m the one that’s different. Don’t you dare.
She gripped her knees and listened to the ordinary sounds around her. The clatter of teacups. The call of a magpie. The whining of a generator on the far side of the wall. —I’ll make this right, she said at last. —I’ll make this up to you.
—Sure thing, Sawyer. Whatever you say.
—What are you going to do, Decker?
He shook his head tiredly.
—It won’t just be me that gets in trouble if someone finds out. We came here together.
—I could leave anytime.
—That doesn’t make what I just said less true.
The look he gave her brought her precious little comfort. It was less a look of cunning or resentment than one of calm indifference. It made no sense to her.
—Don’t turn on me, Decker. Don’t do it.
He looked away from her. —You’ve got things switched around again. You turned on me.
* * *
They chanted through the afternoon until the third call to prayer and when their prayers were done they chanted on till dusk. The declaimer’s reedy singsong never wavered. The Arabic of the others was colored by Pashto or by Urdu or by languages of which she had no knowledge. She sat in the midst of them and recited in a halting, breathless voice, so softly that not even she could hear. The talibs rocked in rapture to the verses. In the very best moments her own sight seemed to dim and she could feel the verses buzzing as they passed between her teeth and that was all she wanted or could ever want.
After the fourth call to prayer Decker appeared in the doorway and found a place for himself at the back of the hall. They had reached the two hundred and sixtieth verse of the sura and each voice seemed distinct and known to her. His California twang cut through sharpest of all: the voice of privilege and vanity and everything else she’d hoped to put behind her. Her own voice was just as grotesque, just as incongruous, subdued though it was. She did her best to ignore it. She pictured herself reciting as if from on high, a small still form in all that sway and tumult. She imagined herself and the others, bowing and rising and bowing again, rippling like a field of windswept grass.
When Saul set out with his soldiers he said: God is about to test you at a river. Whoever drinks from it is not my follower. Whoever drinks not is my follower, save one who scoops a scoop into his hand.
They drank from it, all but a few.
When he passed across the river, he and those who believed with him, they said: We have no might today against Goliath and his troops.
Those who believed they would meet God said: How often a small force has overcome a numerous force, by God’s leave. God is with those who stand fast.
* * *
After the fifth prayer they took their evening meal of flatbread and dhal in the courtyard and when she’d finished she was sent for by Hayat. She found him in a sunlit room at the school’s southwest corner, humming unmusically to himself, sitting on a leopard-spotted cushion in the middle of the floor. Apart from a tea set and a padlocked metal cabinet the little room was bare of ornament. A matching cushion faced him and he gestured toward it grandly.
When she was seated the mullah arranged the pot and cups between them. A small boy with a harelip came to serve the tea but Hayat waved him off. —I’m not too decrepit to pour my own tea, praise God, he told her in English. She nodded and gave him a tentative smile.
—I take buffalo’s milk with my tea, Hayat said as he poured. —The English prefer cow’s milk, I understand.
—Yes, mu’allim, she said. —But I’m not English.
—Of course! He let his head tilt forward in what might have been a bow. —And yet you do take cow’s milk with your tea.
—I don’t take anything.
The amusement that was never entirely gone from his countenance was conspicuous now as he sat and observed her. She found herself smiling to mask her discomfort. She was tired and unsure of herself and her throat was raw from chanting. She raised her teacup to her lips and drank.
—To your fine health, the mullah said, raising his cup.
She stopped in mid-sip and returned his good wishes. —Pardon my rudeness, mu’allim, she said in Arabic. —I have many things to learn.
—You know a great amount already, Suleyman. An astonishing amount. Are many American boys like you?
She took another sip. —I don’t think so, mu’allim.
—Your Arabic is better than that of most of these country blockheads God has given me to teach. Much better. It pleases my poor half-deaf ears to hear it.
—Thank you, mu’allim.
—It is formal, of course. Not the everyday way of speaking. And there are traces of the English, especially in the qaf and the ha. He smiled. —Which only reminds us of how far you’ve come.
She bobbed her head and said nothing.
—Never have we had a visitor from such a distance. California. He pronounced the word carefully. —You do us a great honor. You and Brother Ali.
—Yes, mu’allim. Who is that?
—Your companion, of course.
—My companion? I don’t—
—Ali is the name he selected.
She looked at him blankly. He took the cup from her and refilled it.
—I’m sorry, mu’allim. I guess I’d have expected him to tell me.
—You are bosom friends with Ali. Is this so? He beamed at her. —Friends of long standing?
—I’m not sure how to answer, mu’allim.
—You may answer directly. By saying the truth.
She hesitated. —Decker Yousafzai is the best friend I have in the world. Without him I wouldn’t be sitting here now.
—That is well, said Hayat. —It is well to have such a friend. But in this house his name is Ali Al-Faridi.
She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. —Yes, mu’allim. Of course.
—I’ve had Brother Ali with me here, in this room. While you were reciting. I asked him the question I’ve just asked of you.
She sat back on the cushion. —And what did he say?
—Why are you here, Suleyman?
Her scalp bega
n to prickle. —To learn the Holy Qur’an, mu’allim. To memorize it. To learn it by heart.
—To learn it by heart, he repeated. He took in a breath. —Yes, that is what we practice in this house. You have not been misled.
—Excuse me, mu’allim?
—No one has misled you.
She was unsure what if anything he wanted her to answer. He seemed to want nothing. She drank from her teacup.
—Of course, this school of mine is not exceptional. We are believers but we can in no way—what is the word in English? He frowned. —We can in no way contend with the great madrasas. Ashraf-ul-Madaris in Karachi, for example, or Jamia Ashrafia in Lahore. Their fame is glorious and well deserved. You have heard of these schools?
—I have, mu’allim.
—Yet you chose to come here. To my village madrasa of fewer than forty heads. Truly, we feel ourselves blessed.
She found herself nodding.
—Does it not say in scripture: Whoso emigrates in the cause of God shall find on earth many places of emigration and abundance? And elsewhere: You will surely find that the nearest in amity toward the believers are those who say: ‘We are Christians,’ and that is because they do not grow proud? He raised both arms toward her. —How true are those words, Suleyman, in this case!
—Thank you, mu’allim.
—Is it perhaps also true that you came to my school because it is close to the border?
—Excuse me, mu’allim? I don’t—
—Perhaps you are not aware that we are situated a day’s march from the border here, well within the tribal regions. Many young men pass through this district, and in fact through this village, on their way to the camps of the mujahideen. Was this fact known to you?
She shook her head stiffly.
—But you have seen their advertisements in Peshawar, I am sure. Their slogans of recruitment.
—I’ve seen them.
—I would advise you kindly, Suleyman, against this course of action.
As in every other room of that thin-walled house the sound of muffled voices carried to her. Behind or below them she heard other sounds: a motor backfiring, the laughter of children. It occurred to her for the first time, as she sat straight-backed before the mullah and struggled to reply, that there might be children in the village with no interest in the school.