by John Wray
—I beg your pardon, mu’allim. I was looking for—
—What is it, Suleyman? Are you feeling poorly?
—No, mu’allim.
He waited for a moment. —Then what ails you, child?
—Are they gone?
—I’m an old man, Suleyman. Old and befuddled. I need more in the way of specifics.
—You know exactly what I’m asking you.
She’d spoken the words without thinking and she expected him to show surprise at her impertinence, perhaps even anger, but his expression remained kindly and composed. Nothing she said or did could trouble him, apparently. Not him, not Ibrahim Shah, not anyone else under that roof. She was suddenly sick of all their smiling faces.
—Sit down, said the mullah, gesturing toward the cushions. She sat on the floor with her feet on the kilim. He raised the glazed yellow lid of the teapot on his desk and looked momentarily aggrieved to find it empty. He clucked to himself and shook his head and set the pot aside. She sat with her arms around her knees and watched his small unhurried movements and asked herself what they might signify.
—Do you remember, Suleyman, when you first sat with me here?
—I do, mu’allim. I was just thinking of it.
—On that day I asked you why you’d come to us. You said that you had come to us to learn.
—I did, she said.
—And you have been a fine student. He pursed his lips slightly, exactly as Ibrahim Shah had done the previous night. —But what you have learned in your brief time with us could fit into a fold of your kameez.
—I’d be grateful if you’d tell me where they’ve gone.
—Whom do you mean? Your traveling companion? The boy called Ali?
She managed to nod.
—Your friend has crossed the border with my son.
Though she was already sitting on the floor she felt herself list sideways. She braced her palms against the kilim until her dizziness had passed. Hayat watched with interest.
—You are discomfited by this news, he said. —You are asking yourself why you were not informed.
—Did they tell you when they might be coming back?
The mullah made a peculiar downward gesture with his chin. It made no sense to her. Somewhere nearby a motorbike sputtered and failed. A long moment later it started again.
—My understanding, he said finally, —is that your friend has gone to war.
She felt herself flinch.
—Is this your understanding, Suleyman?
—I don’t know anything about it.
—I see. He smoothed down his shirtfront, moving idly as if to provoke her. He called for more tea.
—My son visits this madrasa only rarely, Suleyman, and never for reasons of study. He comes to rest, or to hide, or to seek medical attention in Sadda. Most often he comes looking for recruits.
—You have no objection to armed jihad. You told me that.
The boy with the harelip entered the room and Hayat sat back to let him take the tray. —I told you something else, he said. —I told you it was a waste of many gifted boys.
—Not everyone can sit here and recite all day. Not when a sovereign Muslim state is under siege.
—By other Muslims.
—The warlords? You can’t be serious, mu’allim. Those men are Muslims in name only. Sometimes not even that.
Hayat’s smile returned. —I see that my son’s time with you has not been wasted.
—You wouldn’t let him stay here if you thought that he was wrong. You wouldn’t even let him through the gate.
—Bless you, Suleyman! the mullah said. —What price an old man wouldn’t pay to see the world so plainly. He coughed into his fist. —The nearer you approach God’s throne, my child, the stranger He appears. He is no more simple than this world that He has fashioned. His face, you’ll find as you draw near, is not a human face at all. He coughed again. —You’re wondering what I mean by this. Should you choose to remain in this house you may learn.
—God was simple to the Messenger, she said, pressing her palms into the kilim. —He wasn’t strange to the Prophet. Not at all.
—The Prophet was God’s chosen herald, Suleyman, and His particular delight. He shook his head. —You and I, I fear, are less than specks of pollen in a corner of His eye.
He was squinting at her now, rocking slowly back and forth, like a student focused on his recitation. A question was forming in his mind. Though she knew how she must look she could only remain as she was, slouching red-cheeked before him with her palms on the floor like the most abject sinner. She wished to God that the harelipped boy would come. If he would come then she could get away.
—It saddens me that you are not at today’s reading, Suleyman. It will sadden Brother Ibrahim as well.
Hayat took a Qur’an from a pile on the desktop. —I gave instructions for a specific passage to be featured, as I’ve already mentioned. Perhaps you’ll let me read it to you now.
When she gave him no answer he put on his glasses and opened the Book. —From the ninth sura, he said formally, as though a hall of eager students sat before him. —The title of this sura is Repentance.
He cleared his throat softly and held up a hand.
—Had they wanted to march out, they would have made preparations for it, but God was averse to their joining the expedition. So He slackened them, and it was said to them: Stay behind with those who stay behind.
—Mu’allim, I don’t—
—Had they gone out with you, they would only have added to your difficulties, hastening between your ranks and intending to spread discord among you, while some of you would have lent them an ear. But God knows full well who the wrongdoers are. They had once intended to sow discord, and had turned matters topsy-turvy for you, until the truth was at hand and the command of God won the day, even though they detested it.
—Is that what I am to you, mu’allim? A wrongdoer?
—Not at all, Suleyman. He shook his head patiently, indulgently, as she’d seen her father do times without number. —But if you had gone off with my son, you might have been.
The boy returned at last and set the pot between them. He remained at the mullah’s left shoulder, arms loosely folded, silently taking her measure. Hayat made a gesture and he disappeared at once.
—Noor is a fine child, he said. —He had difficulties when he first arrived, as many do. He was restless and cried for his mother. He was headstrong, as small boys will be, and distrustful. But he is learning to submit. The mullah took her teacup and filled it. —Do not lose hope, Suleyman. This may also prove to be the case with you.
—Tell me where they’ve gone, mu’allim. I’ll submit to whatever you want. This is the only thing I’ll ask of you. I swear.
As they sat in that sunlit room in utter silence the sound of footfalls carried to them through the wall. Labored steps, shuffling and circumspect, as of someone very old or very tired. She thought of the caretaker, Abu Omar, and pictured him on his changeless daily rounds. The image was a balm to her and she thanked Heaven for it. Then she remembered how the old man had stared that first day in the yard, the contemptuous look he’d given her, and what he’d said to Ibrahim Shah about her girlishness. She set down her cup without tasting the tea.
—We are discussing the ninth sura, Suleyman, said the mullah. —Not any other subject. I have nothing more to tell you in the matter of my son.
She nodded at the floor.
—Have you nothing to say with regard to the passage I read?
After a moment she nodded again.
—I am waiting to hear it.
—O Prophet, she said woodenly. —Urge the believers on to the fight. If there are twenty steadfast among you they will overcome two hundred. If there are a hundred of you they will overcome a thousand unbelievers. For they are a people of no understanding.
His mouth twitched at its corners. —That is from the eighth sura, Suleyman. We are discussing the ninth.
—Hypo
crites, male and female, are alike. They command what is forbidden and forbid what is virtuous. They clench tight their hands.
—Take great care, Suleyman. You bring distinction to this house but we are not beholden to you. We may close our door to you at any time.
—Why did they go without me? I’m asking you to help me understand. She took a breath. —I beg you, mu’allim.
The mullah made as if to speak, then stopped himself. —They went suddenly, he said at last. —In the middle of the night. Such is the custom.
—He never tried to recruit me, she heard herself stammer. —He never asked me, not once. Am I so worthless to the cause? Am I so weak?
—You said you had no interest in fighting, Suleyman. You swore to me, in this very room, that my suspicions were mistaken.
For a time she said nothing. —I didn’t, she said finally.
—What does that mean?
—What I told you was the truth.
—Stop mumbling, child. I can barely hear you.
—I’m sorry, mu’allim.
—I have no use for your apology. I do not hold you accountable. He looked past her and sighed. —I know perfectly well that my son has seduced you.
—Please, mu’allim. Why would he do that? Why would he do that and leave me behind?
The mullah turned his teacup back and forth.
—What is it?
—I asked that he not take you, he said. —I asked of my son that he leave you in my care.
—What did you say? Tears were welling in her eyes now and she struggled to speak clearly. —You did what?
—You’ve shown such devotion, Suleyman. Such faith. We have lofty hopes for you.
She raised her head. —You told him not to take me. You decided this.
—Your purpose lies in study, little brother. In Sunna and Recitation. Armed jihad is not for children. Believe me when I say that both of us prefer you here.
The mullah’s voice was sympathetic now, affectionate, even honeyed. She pressed the knuckles of her fists against her eyes.
—Do you understand, child? Are these reasons sufficient?
—I understand, she said under her breath.
When I first got here Teacher I made a mistake.
I thought they could see me and guess what I was. Everybody I met. I told myself they couldn’t but it seemed as if they could and even maybe see right through my clothes. X-ray vision or something like that. Mystic sight. It felt crazy to be here. Like they were waiting for me to do just one wrong thing. I was so frightened Teacher. I wrote you a letter and threw it away.
One thing in that letter was I asked what you thought of me when I converted. When you finally believed it. You thought I was making fun of you at first do you remember? You said I was pretending. But I left the door of my room open so you’d see me praying there when you walked by.
My next mistake was I should have sent that letter. You owe me an answer. How you took it when you realized I’d made My Own Decision. That no way was I joking. That it was real for me in ways that it was never real for you. I knew what Mom thought loud and clear but all you did was you got quiet. You got quieter and quieter. And then you disappeared.
When I finally got my visa did I tell you what she said? She said I bet he feels fulfilled and justified. She thinks I did it to impress you but I know that you know better. I did it to erase you. And it worked all right Teacher. I forgot what you taught me and that I was your daughter and I even forgot the place where I was born. That made things easier.
My friend Ibrahim Shah said something when I told him about my family. Your father was like a god to you Suleyman he said. Now you know there is no god but God.
2
Three days later she walked into a low stucco building a stone’s throw from the University of Peshawar’s brick-and-terra-cotta gate. The room she entered was floored in white tile and had once been a pharmacy or some kind of clinic. Lines of glue ran along the walls where shelves of cosmetics and skin cream and medicine had hung in some lost age when such extravagances could still be found for purchase. Now the color of the floor could barely be guessed at through the litter and the dust.
The room was empty save for a man in a skullcap hunched over a desk. A green apothecary’s cross showed faintly on the wall above him through a wash of yellow paint. A slogan had been scrawled below it in Arabic but she couldn’t make sense of the script. She stopped before the desk and waited. The man was taking apart a handheld transistor radio of the kind her mother might once have taken to the beach. He gave no sign of having seen or heard her.
—As-salaamu alaikum, she said.
The man turned the radio over. —Wa-alaikum as-salaam.
—I’ve come here from Sadda. From the madrasa there.
The man shrugged his shoulders.
—I’ve learned the first sixteen suras, she said, forcing herself to speak slowly. —Nearly half of the Book. And I’ll return there, God willing, once I’ve fulfilled my obligation.
He looked up at her without interest.
—My obligation to go to the Mountain, she said. —The promise that I made to Ziar Khan.
The man pushed the radio aside and brought his elbows down to lean against the desktop. —Ziar Khan, he repeated. His voice was thick and wet and strangely garbled. When he smiled at her she saw that half his lower jaw was gone.
—That’s right, she said. —I think you know the name.
The man said nothing for a time, grinning in his hostile slack-mouthed way. Then he answered her in Pashto and reached underneath the desk.
—Nenet Pashto, she said, raising both her arms. —Nenet Pashto. Suk Arabi. Suk Arabi. Ziar Khan.
He straightened in his chair, looking back and forth between her and the clutter on his desk. The radio, a hunting knife, two rolls of duct tape and a snarl of copper wire. For a moment all was quiet. Then a door behind him opened and he got reluctantly to his feet and a man in tinted glasses took his place behind the desk.
—You speak no Pashto, the man in the glasses said in English. —And no Urdu either. What do you speak.
—I speak the language of the Messenger. I speak the language of the Most Holy Qur’an.
—That is praiseworthy. But this is Peshawar, not paradise.
She lowered her eyes and nodded.
—Not paradise, he said again. —Not some tucked-away madrasa. Not a cool and shaded garden underneath which rivers flow.
—I can get there on my own. Just tell me the way.
—The way? He raised his eyebrows. —To where, little brother?
She hesitated only for an instant. —To the Mountain.
—We have no end of mountains here. You may visit whichever you like. How you choose to spend your holiday is no concern of ours.
—I’m here at the request of Ziar Khan. He came to my madrasa and he summoned us to arms. I was to go to the Mountain as soon as possible. I gave him my word.
—As soon as possible. At Ziar Khan’s request.
—That’s right, she said. —As soon as I could get away.
—You are lying, said the man.
She took a step backward. A truck passed outside and the room seemed to darken. The slack-mouthed man was standing close behind her.
—Come with me, said the smaller man, pushing his chair back and closing a drawer of the desk.
She nodded and reached for her duffel but the slack-mouthed man took it and ushered her forward. —Never mind your baggage, the smaller man said in a reasonable voice. —You won’t have need of it.
They led her into a windowless low-ceilinged chamber that looked to have once been a safe room. The walls were cinder block and slick with condensation. To her left a padded metal apparatus hung between cantilevered rails, as if for the support or the confinement of a body. They steered her toward it and a sob of fear escaped her. A moment later she recognized it as an exercise machine.
The two men left her there and locked the door behind them. She guessed that th
ey were searching her duffel and sat down on the floor and tried to think of all the things that it contained. Among the T-shirts and the boxers were the panties she’d been wearing on the flight from California. That and the little silver wheel of pills. It was possible she’d thrown away the panties but she somehow couldn’t manage to remember. Her chest was aching in its binding and her bowels began to cramp. Thus far her anger had sustained her but she could feel that it would carry her no further. It was childish indignation, childish righteousness. From now on it would only bring her pain.
The thing she feared most was being asked to explain her decision to leave the madrasa. She had no explanation that could stand their scrutiny. She had her knowledge of scripture and her concern for Decker’s safety and that was all she had, or almost all. She had her resentment of the mullah’s interference. She had the memory of Ziar’s voice as he described his mother’s picture.
It seemed to her now in that windowless room that she’d had no reason for anything she’d said or done since leaving Santa Rosa: no reason and no alternative. Her life was a smooth line, an unbroken wire, too slender and too dark for her to see. She closed her eyes and sensed it quivering before her.
Much later the man in the tinted glasses was sitting close beside her on a stool. Her duffel lay open on the floor between them.
—Why go to the Mountain, said the man.
—I told you before, she answered. —I want to serve.
—To serve, he repeated. —Serve who. Ziar Khan?
—To serve God, she said. —To obey Him and obey His chosen servants.
—But you are a liar. He smiled at her. —Therefore you should fear God and the men who do His bidding.
—I do fear God, she said.
He reached into her duffel. —What is this now, he asked her. He brought out the wheel of pills.
—Medication.
—What?
—Medication, she said slowly. —Without it I couldn’t be here.
He hummed to himself as he frowned at the pills, to suppress a shout of outrage, possibly, or perhaps only a yawn. Eventually he dropped them back into her duffel. He took out a pair of boxer shorts and held them to the light. They seemed to intrigue him.