by John Wray
—May I ask a question, mu’allim?
—You may.
—Why are you telling me this? About the mujahideen?
—I have been engaged in the instruction of young men for nigh on thirty years, Suleyman, and my eyes have been made keen, all thanks to God, to certain signs. He cupped his palm and tipped it upward, as she’d seen him do before. —You have a restlessness, child, although you take pains to keep yourself still. Your feeling for scripture is— He paused. —Your feeling for scripture is a desperate one, he said finally. —And such feeling can tip easily toward violence. I have seen this often. I have grown attentive to it.
—I came to you to learn, she said. —That’s all. To get nearer to God.
—I can have no objection to jihad, he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. —The Prophet himself tells us: Fighting has been prescribed for you, although it is a matter hateful to you.
He sat forward and lifted his teacup and drank.
—But the jihad of the Kalashnikov may be the least useful, Suleyman, both to us and to God. Many young men have departed this house for the camps. No small number of them left in the dead of night, leaving everything behind—even the Book they had come here to study. As though it had outlived its usefulness. Few of them have graced this house again.
He took her cup and refilled it. She had been threatened before in the guise of advice—her father had done so many times, especially since her conversion—but she had no sense of what the mullah’s threat entailed. The threat had not been expressed in words or even by his voice but it hung in the air between them like a wisp of colored smoke.
—You may sleep here, Suleyman Al-Na’ama. You will do me that honor.
—Here, mu’allim? But this is your—
—We are not so fine as the schools in Lahore but you will find that you are treated with respect. You have perhaps seen the rooms—the dormitories, yes? Is this the term?—where the men have their beds. You have passed by these rooms?
—I have, mu’allim.
—Then you’ve seen that they differ from what you are used to. This room is more suitable. The cushions can be joined to make a bed.
—May I speak, mu’allim?
—You may.
—I’d like to sleep in the dorms if that’s all right. With the others. I don’t want anything the rest don’t have. I don’t want anyone to think of me as strange.
Hayat was watching her closely. —And yet you are strange, Suleyman. Even to me.
—But not forever, mu’allim. Not if God wills it. I can get to be as normal to you as this pot of tea.
The mullah ran his fingers through his beard. He smiled at her and nodded. —You will sleep in this room, Suleyman, he said.
* * *
She slept fully dressed and when the call to prayer sounded she awoke to find a bowl of water and a washcloth on the floor beside her feet. She listened for a moment, holding her breath, then got up quietly and barred the door. She opened her pack and found its inner pocket and brought out a handkerchief neatly folded to the size and thickness of a deck of cards. The cloth lay cool and dry against her palm. She unfolded it and drew out a silver wheel of pills in its envelope of foil and tore it open. The brittle sound it made was somehow pleasing. She laid the first of the pills on her tongue and packed the handkerchief away and knelt down to perform her dawn ablutions. She performed them with care because her presence in that house was a pollution and an outrage. She was a liar and dissembler and she’d never been so happy in her life. The pill had no taste at all. She ran down the corridor to join the others in the freezing unlit courtyard, placing her mat in the last row so no one would see her. But the mullah nodded to her all the same.
At midday she found Decker where he’d been the day before. He sat slouched in the mulberry’s dappled shade and watched her blankly as she crossed the yard. Again she tried and failed to grasp the change in him. The same two men sat beside him and this time they remained. She greeted them both and they smiled in return. She had no memory of seeing them in recitation or at prayer.
—These here are my cousins, said Decker. —Altaf and Yaqub. Altaf used to be a talib at this school.
She shifted from one foot to the other, unsure what to do next. —I’m honored to know you, she murmured in Arabic. They nodded and touched their right palms to their chests.
—My brother has no Arabic, the one called Altaf said.
—That’s all right. She smiled at him. —I have no Urdu.
—Urdu is a dirty language. You are better for not having it. It is the language of the ignorant. Of vagrants.
Decker gave a laugh she hadn’t heard before. He’s laughing in Urdu, she thought. Or in Pashto. The man called Yaqub nodded again and laughed uncomprehendingly, looking at each of them in turn. His features were the gentlest of the three.
—I’m sure that’s not the case, she said. —Please tell your brother that.
—Your Arabic is beautiful, the man said, ignoring her comment. —You speak it very sweetly. As if reading from a poem.
As he said this a question or a doubt crossed her mind and she glanced at Decker, hoping for some sign, but Decker’s face and eyes were closed to her. She understood now what had changed him. The arrival of these men. The one called Altaf watched her slyly and his brother bobbed his heavy head behind him. They might have been grinning at the way she wore her clothes or at her pronunciation of Arabic or simply at the paleness of her skin. They might have been grinning at nothing. She looked from Altaf back to Decker and saw no resemblance there.
—You are a favored student here, the one called Altaf said. —Uniquely favored. I’m told you have a whole room to yourself. His grin shifted subtly. —Perhaps this is why your Arabic is still so pure.
—You studied here, with Mu’allim Hayat?
Altaf shrugged.
—When was that?
—Perhaps six years ago or seven.
—How long did it take?
—How long?
—To learn the Recitation. She sat forward with her elbows on her knees, as she’d seen the men doing the evening before. —I hope to have it learned within the year.
Altaf’s expression clouded. Decker said something to him but he gave a quick hard laugh and shook his head. Again she’d committed some error.
—I failed to learn the Recitation, Altaf told her. He said it carelessly, as if the fact were of no consequence. —To commit the Book to memory, Brother Suleyman, one has to keep one’s distance from the troubles of this world.
—Of course, Decker put in. —Just look who runs this place.
—I disappointed the mu’allim. I broke off my course of studies.
She apologized and did her best to cover her confusion. She had known that the compound was open to people from the village and to travelers as well but she had no recollection of either Altaf or his brother at the first or second prayer. It seemed a grievous sin to use the school for any other purpose.
—The mu’allim must not be displeased with you, Brother Altaf, she said. —After all, he’s received you into his house.
Altaf shook his head. —We’re not here for the old man, he said. —We came to see our cousin. Your good friend.
—My mistake, she heard herself mumble. —I thought—
—Our cousin has grown into a man, Brother Suleyman, as you can see. Altaf took Decker fondly by the collar. —You yourself, who are still a child, have much to discover before you can follow his lead.
—I do, she said, looking down at the gravel.
—What’s that?
—I do. I have much to discover.
—And you shall, if God wills it. He rested a hand on her shoulder. —Apply yourself, little brother, that you may follow soon.
With that the two men rose and moved unhurriedly along the shaded wall of the courtyard and up the concrete steps into the house. They greeted no one and returned no one’s greeting. Decker kept his eyes on them until they had passed out of sight
.
—Who are those men, Decker?
—I told you. My cousins.
—Do you want to explain to me what the hell is going on?
—Brother Suleyman! I thought you’d given up cursing. I must have misunderstood.
—I’m going to ask you one more time.
—And then what?
—And then I guess you stand to lose a friend.
He said nothing to that, tugging idly at the hem of his kameez. She took in breath in steady pulls and waited for his answer. She felt far from things but calm and wide awake.
—One of them is, he said at last. —My cousin, I mean. Yaqub’s father was the one who hooked us up with this madrasa. He’s my father’s older brother. He lives a few towns over.
—He didn’t look anything like you. Or like your father either.
—Can’t help you there, Sawyer.
—What do they want from us?
He gave her no answer. Across the courtyard the others were getting to their feet and brushing the dust from their shirtfronts. She willed herself to speak softly.
—Why didn’t you introduce us yesterday?
—I told you already. They didn’t feel comfortable. They’re kind of twitchy.
Again she sat back and waited. It didn’t take long.
—They’re hiding out, said Decker.
—Who from?
—Come on, Sawyer. They’re not going to tell me that. If they did they’d have to shoot me or something.
—It almost sounds like that would make your day.
His face took on an air of gravity. —I probably shouldn’t have told you this much, even. They don’t trust you yet.
—They don’t have to trust me. I came here for school.
—I guess I’ll have to take your word on that.
—Decker, you’d better tell me—
—You know exactly what I mean. We could have stopped in Karachi if you wanted to study. We could have gone to the Emirates, like your mom and dad and everybody thinks. We might as well have stayed in Santa Rosa.
—But you have family here. That’s the reason we came. You just told me your uncle—
—Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Sawyer. That won’t cut it with me.
She leaned back and worked her palms into the gravel. —No way could I have stayed in Santa Rosa, she said finally. —You know what it was like.
—I’m just saying—
—I was a freak in Santa Rosa. A goddamn freak to everyone in town.
—Take a look around, Sawyer. Are you trying to tell me that you aren’t one here?
* * *
The next day at noon she was first to the courtyard and took a place under the windows of the recitation hall. A bolt of red faux-velvet cloth had been unrolled in the shade and bowls of dhal and plastic plates of naan arranged in tidy rows along it. She sat near a pitcher of tea with a tortoiseshell handle and the others found places for themselves around her and began to eat and drink without delay. Talk sprang up slowly, hesitantly it seemed. The men beside her spoke to no one and the boy who sat across from her hummed a sad droning air between mouthfuls of bread. A clean-shaven man next to the boy passed her his cup.
—If you would be so kind, brother, the man said in English.
She filled the man’s cup from the pitcher. —I’d like to speak in Arabic, if you don’t mind. I could do with the practice.
—You don’t get enough practice inside? Out here we may speak any language we choose. And about any topic.
—God is not unmindful of what you do, Ibra, someone called out.
The man heaved a sigh. Past him an older man shook his shorn head. He wore the long-suffering look of an adult compelled to spend his days in the company of children and he muttered loudly as he sipped his tea. The clean-shaven man gave an affable shrug.
—Please take no offense, brother. He means well, though you might not guess it.
She smiled. —I can’t take offense. I don’t know what he’s saying.
The meal came to an end and the dishes and teacups were carried away. She’d barely spoken after that first clumsy exchange, other than to ask for bread or dhal, but it was clear to her that some shift had occurred. She’d become visible. More than once she’d glanced up from her plate to find the younger students staring at her boldly.
—My name is Ibrahim Shah, said the clean-shaven man as they got to their feet. —My father’s name is Shah Qutub Mohammed.
She took his hand in both of hers, as seemed to be the custom. —Suleyman Al-Na’ama, she said. —And is this gentleman your father?
The man laughed. —In his way he is a father to us all, Suleyman, and a mother also. Abu Omar is the cook and cleaner here.
—I’m sorry. I misunderstood—
—And you must please forgive him his manners. He’s an old soldier, with no good feelings for khariji. To him all foreigners are godless apes.
—I understand.
—Do you, Suleyman? That is our hope.
They went up the concrete steps and passed into the cool and twilit hallway. Ibrahim paused at the door to the recitation hall. —We are pleased to have you with us, Suleyman. You do our school credit. And in any case, what Abu Omar said was of no great offense.
—That’s all right. What did he say?
—Please! It was nothing. He said you hold your teacup like a girl.
* * *
She awoke in the night to find Decker beside her. She needed no light to know who he was or to guess his intention. She’d have known him by his smell alone, or by his silhouette, or by the nervous way he had of rocking on his heels.
—Wake up, Sawyer.
It was quiet enough in the room that she could hear him pass his tongue along his teeth. He reached out a hand and brought it down against the whorl of cropped hair at the crown of her head. He seemed to think that she was still asleep. He brought his hand back to his mouth and breathed in deeply. Then he lay down next to her and spoke her name.
—Come on, Aden. You can’t still be out.
—I’m awake.
—All right, then. He hesitated. —All right. Good.
—I just don’t answer to that name. Not anymore.
—You’ll answer to whatever name I want. You’ll answer to Aden or Dipshit or the Shah of Iran.
She propped herself up on her elbows and waited.
—I want to get out of here, Sawyer. I can’t stand this place.
She said nothing to that. He was staring at the ceiling and gritting his teeth.
—Are you even listening? Don’t fall back asleep.
—I’m listening. She sat up and watched him. —I’m just wondering what you expected.
—Is this what you wanted? This box of mud and shit and bricks? Beans and backwash for dinner? The same prayers we were already sick of back in Santa Rosa?
—You were sick of them maybe. You don’t speak for me.
—Aren’t you even a little disgusted? Look at me. Aren’t you bored?
She let her head sink slowly back onto her folded arms. It was cold in the room and she was grateful for the heat from Decker’s body. She could almost see him steaming in the dark.
—The food could be better, she said finally.
—No shit it could. How about some salt just for starters. Some damn cheese. Some pepper.
—I’d love a cheeseburger. Do they have cheeseburgers here?
—Yesterday I got a look at the butter they use. It comes in a tin box with Russian words on it.
She turned her head to see him better. —Russian lettering? Cyrillic?
—That’s right, partner. We’re eating disco-era butter.
They lay together on their backs for an empty interval of time. A rooster somewhere nearby gave a single inconsolable cry.
—It’s not even midnight, he said. —Even their chickens are ignorant.
—Go to sleep, Decker.
—You really think that you can keep this up?
—I hope so.
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—What do you figure is going to happen if you can’t?
She rolled onto her side and said nothing.
—Someone’s going to catch you squatting behind a bush one of these days. Have you thought about that?
—Everyone squats over here. She smiled into the dark. —That’s one of my favorite things about this country.
—Not like you. Girls do it different. You do it different.
—I piss just like you do. You’re just making things up.
—They’ll get used to you, Sawyer. They’ll wonder why you don’t shave. They’ll start to notice when you’re on the rag.
She let out a sigh. —We’ve talked about this. It stops by itself if you’re skinny enough. And I’ve got pills to help with that part anyway.
—They’ll find the pills.
—Not unless you tell them.
He cursed and turned his body toward her. —What about your tits, Sawyer? You plan to keep that bandage on for the rest of your life? You’re not about to win any swimsuit contests, I know, but that thing must get painful. Or itchy at least.
—Never mind about that.
—Sawyer—
—I keep them wrapped all the time now. Even when I’m asleep.
—You’re lying, he said, slipping a hand up her shirt.
What she felt was not surprise or shock but just a sudden chill. The cold was electric and ran through her and forced her mouth shut. She’d hoped so much to fall asleep beside him.
—I almost forgot what you feel like, he said. —You feel good.
Her teeth seemed to chatter.
—What was that?
—We can’t do this Decker. Not here.
—It’s a room with a door. It’s the best place we’ll find.
—We can’t.
—Shut up and move over.
—It’s that time, she told him, her voice simpering and thin.
—What?
—You heard me. It’s that time. I can’t mess up these clothes.
—You’ve got pills. You just said.
—I’m not taking the pills yet. I’m saving them up.
He stared down at her. She could see his teeth now and the whites of his eyes. He glanced back toward the door, then out the window at the empty square.
—Lying’s a sin, Sawyer. Are you a sinner?