Shadow Puppet

by Jeffrey Round

  “‘Prosperous are the believers,’” Dan quoted.

  “Inshallah,” replied Mustafa. If God wills.

  “What’s inside this?”

  “It is a marriage dua from our parents to Nabil. It is their fervent wish that he marry.”

  “Were they pressuring him?”

  Amir nodded. “Yes, I believe they were.”

  Dan thought of Domingo’s tale of violence, ending in the death of the young man in her community.

  “May I borrow it?”

  “If you wish.”

  “Thank you.” Dan pocketed the trinket and unplugged the computer. “Do you want a receipt for this?” he asked.

  The brothers looked to one another again, shaking their heads.

  “It is fine,” Amir said. “Please tell us about this group. When will you meet with them?”

  “This afternoon, if all goes well.”

  “And you will tell us what you learn?”

  “I will.”

  “Inshallah.”

  NINETEEN

  Mu’tazili

  DAN SHOWED UP PRECISELY HALF an hour before the group meeting. The woman who met him at the door was surprisingly young and petite. From her formidable presence on the phone, he’d been expecting someone more commanding and ferocious-looking.

  “Hi, I’m Dan.”

  She actually smiled. “I’m Khaleda. Please come in.”

  The apartment had a stunning view of the city sweeping westward from Yonge Street. Black thatched roofs, the sudden rush of green at Queen’s Park, high towers to the south curving around the lake. The living room was appointed with tasteful modern furniture — monochromatic, uniform — with here and there a dash of colour in hand-carved end tables and Hamsa cushions embroidered with Fatima’s lucky hand. Atop a bookcase, ornate silver frames showed smiling faces. Young, brave, resilient-looking all.

  She invited him to sit. A ceramic pot sat on a silver salver, emitting aromatic fumes. More tea. At least with Muslims he didn’t have to keep turning down alcohol. She poured and handed him a cup.

  Finally, she spoke. “One of the members thought I should ask you to participate in the prayer session before speaking to us. She felt it would show that you are in earnest. I assured her it wasn’t necessary. I looked you up. It seems you are known in the community. You have done good work for us. I am impressed.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You may, however, be wondering who I am.”

  “I did my research, as well. I know you’re a teacher and an author of several books. I also know you fled from Iran.” He caught her eye. “If that’s the correct verb.”

  She nodded. “Oh, yes. I fled. I left in the middle of the night. My life was definitely at risk.”

  “Because you write about gender and sexuality in Islam.”

  Her eyes told him she was pleased to hear this.

  “That and more. I was considered a Mu’tazili — a heretic. Mu’tazila was a school of theology that flourished from the eighth through the tenth centuries. The word means ‘to separate from.’ Though that is a misunderstanding of what I write. I have not separated from my faith; I merely disagree with some of its fundamental teachings. For instance, it is considered heretical to suggest that the Quran was not uncreated and therefore not co-existent with God.”

  “I’m sorry — you’ve lost me.”

  “Traditional wisdom suggests that the Quran, like God, has always existed. Mu’tazilites believed that God came first and created the Quran. That was a radical philosophical position back then, though one we might think reasonable today when we consider that if the Quran is God’s word then God must have preceded his own speech. Others have pointed out inconsistencies in the Quran, such as the sun going around the earth, to prove that the Quran was created at a time when our understanding of the world was faulty and limited.”

  “Like unicorns in the Bible,” Dan suggested.

  Khaleda smiled. “Yes, exactly. Scientific investigation, of course, has always been hindered by teachings of various religions. No one wants the inconsistencies of their views pointed out.”

  Dan thought of his Aunt Marge, a devout Jehovah’s Witness. She’d taken him to a Witness meeting where, during a discussion, he’d asked whether the dinosaurs had come before or after the tribes of Israel. The answer had started off a lifetime of questioning when he realized most believers had a habit of cherry-picking their way through books of faith to bolster their prejudices, disregarding anything that didn’t fit their ideology, all the while turning religion into a hating machine.

  “My faith is important to me,” Khaleda continued. “I’ve written secular views arguing that the words of God are accessible to reason. It’s my way of reclaiming Islam from the extremists. There are progressive Muslims, but the voices of the extremists drown us out. We don’t fly planes into buildings or behead prisoners; we want a better world, so we aren’t considered newsworthy.”

  She sipped from her cup as casually as if she’d been speaking of simple things like weather patterns or traffic congestion.

  “And it was this that made you a Mu’tazili?”

  “Yes. When my book came out I soon found myself under attack in my own country. There were death threats. I feared for my life. I knew it was just a matter of time before someone tried to kill me. So I came to Canada.”

  Once again, she made it sound like child’s play, something as simple as identifying a problem and finding a solution.

  “Here, I discovered I could be as outspoken as I wanted. It was here also that I came out.” She looked around the room. “So now I try to make a safe space for others who want to follow the faith and also follow their own inclinations of sexuality. As the Quran says, ‘To save one person is to save all of humanity.’”

  “Noble sentiments.”

  She nodded. “Yes, but as you know, we must put those sentiments into action, not just talk about them.”

  A buzzer sounded. She put down her cup.

  “The others are arriving.”

  Over the next quarter hour, the buzzer sounded repeatedly as eight women and four men arrived for the meeting. There were no hijabs or thobes, just plain Western dress. Jeans and slacks, T-shirts and blouses. Thoroughly modern Muslims.

  Dan had expected resistance or skepticism, but in fact they seemed eager to hear him. He explained how he’d noticed the poster for the first missing man then quickly learned of others who had vanished, leading him to the conclusion that someone was preying on men who were both Muslim and gay.

  “And you are sure these men are gay?” asked a young woman named Shenaz.

  “What I know is that they all had some association with the community. As for their all being Muslim, that’s only conjecture at this point, but I’m pretty confident that I’m right.”

  An older man with a gloomy expression spoke up. “I only heard about one man who was missing. Why are the other disappearances not on the news?”

  “That’s a good question,” Dan said. “As far as I can be sure, no one has put the pieces together till now. I brought my theory to the chief of police two days ago. He doesn’t think I’m wrong, but he’s not ready to jump to conclusions. Until he has anything further to go on, he’s reluctant to say that they’re connected. For now, they’re simply being viewed as random disappearances.”

  “It’s not very reassuring to hear this,” Shenaz said. “Do they not think Muslims are worth worrying about?”

  “I don’t believe that’s true in his case,” Dan said. “But until now no one has come forward from any of the men’s families to confirm that they’re missing.”

  “So you are saying we are victims because of our silence?”

  “I’m saying it helps to be open, even if you believe the police aren’t always on your side.”

  Dan brought out Nabil’s photograph. Heads began to nod.

  “He was here about six months ago,” Khaleda confirmed. “He didn’t give his name. That’s not uncommon for people w
ho are trying to see whether they fit in with our group. Then later, if they trust us enough to come back” — here she smiled at one of the women — “more is revealed when the group’s commonalities are shared with one another.”

  She turned back to the photo. “He came only twice. He seemed nice, but I could tell he was displeased about something. When I tried to talk to him after the prayers, he left without saying what it was he hadn’t liked. I never really gave it much thought after that. The group is not for everyone.”

  “I thought he was homophobic,” said one of the men. “It was as if he didn’t want to be one of us.”

  Dan nodded. “You might be right. He’s closeted and lives with two brothers who suspected he was gay but didn’t really want to face what he was until he disappeared.”

  “We’re not allowed to come out to our families,” said one of the women. “They want to hear us talk about getting married and how much we want to have babies. Anything else is forbidden. They think we are the radicals.” She put a hand on the arms of two women seated on either side of her. “Try to talk about things like polyamorous relationships and they would have you declared insane.”

  The women laughed lightly.

  “But oddly,” said another, “it’s fine to talk about transitioning from one sex to another. I’m trans, but somehow that’s seen as preferable to being gay. If you’re a man, you’re supposed to desire women, not men. It’s better to have a sex reassignment than to be gay.” She shrugged. “For me, it was like — hey, yeah! That’s what I want. But for others it’s just another form of oppression.”

  “In Iran and through much of the Middle East,” Khaleda said, “there are gangs who round up gays and lesbians. They run fake LGBTQ websites and lure their victims to meeting places. Then they are killed.”

  “In Nazi Germany,” Dan said, “they were called pansy catchers. Men who lured gay men into compromising situations then had them arrested and sent to concentration camps with pink triangles identifying their orientation.”

  “Heretics. Mu’tazili,” Khaleda said. “Those of us who go against the accepted order are always the first to die.”

  “What about someone named Hanani Sheikh?” Dan asked. “Is he a member of your group?”

  Eyes searched one another.

  “Why do you ask?” It was Khaleda who had spoken.

  “Nabil wrote about him in a calendar. He said he met him here.”

  She hesitated. “Hanani was a member, but I asked him not to return. He seemed to treat the group as a dating service. I doubted his sincerity in attending.”

  Dan looked around at the others and saw a faint smile on several of the men’s faces.

  An attractive young man with long eyelashes spoke up. “He poses as a devout man, but really he’s just a lech. He was a pest.”

  “Did he ever discuss arranging fake papers for people having trouble with visas?”

  “Yes.” Khaleda nodded. “Though it’s a difficult subject. I would prefer to discuss it with you in private.”

  “Fair enough,” Dan said. “Did any of you ever see Nabil outside of the prayer meeting?”

  “I used to see him at the Y all the time,” said another of the men. “But after he came to the meeting here he pretended not to remember me. I think he was afraid I would out him.”

  Dan stood. “Thank you. I won’t take up any more of your time.” He slid Nabil’s photo across the coffee table. “I’ll leave this here, in case any of you see him again. For now, I’d like to remind you to be extra careful of strangers. We don’t have any idea who is behind these disappearances, so unless you know a few basic facts about people you meet — who their friends are, where they work — please exercise caution. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  He saw his statement cast a pall over the group. The heretics and Mu’tazilites. When really they were just people who simply wanted to love in the only way available to them.

  TWENTY

  Betrayal

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER DAN WAS back at his office. He stood quietly looking out the window over the Don Valley, thinking of what he’d learned from Khaleda and her group, until screeching tires and honking horns on the parkway brought his reveries to an abrupt halt.

  He set up Nabil’s computer and turned it on. The missing folder bothered him. The childhood photos were still there, but the shots of Nabil in his leather gear were missing. He wondered what else might have been erased. From what he could tell, the calendar was still intact. Dan read it through again but it brought no further revelations.

  He was not sure what to make of it all, but he did know what to do about the missing folder. He called Donny and asked to speak to Lester.

  Lester came on the line. “Hey, Uncle Dan.”

  “I’ve got a little challenge for you. Can you restore some files that were deleted from a hard drive?”

  “As long as the drive hasn’t been wiped clean. But if they were just deleted and no one wrote over them yet, then yeah. I can find them for you.”

  “I’ll drop it off tomorrow morning.”

  “Cool.”

  There was a knock on the door. He looked over to the smoked-glass window and made out a familiar outline. When he opened the door, Kendra smiled at him.

  “Believe it or not, I was in your neighbourhood.”

  “That’s not something I hear very often. No one is ever in my neighbourhood on purpose. In fact, most people avoid it. What’s up?”

  She held up an insulated bag with a rooster logo.

  “Lunch, if you have time. And in case you’re wondering, I have no ulterior motives.”

  “Do I look suspicious?”

  “No, but I know how your brain works, so I just wanted to reassure you.”

  Kendra sauntered into the office and looked around. Things seemed to meet her expectations, or at least not to disappoint them any more than usual. She turned to the coffee table and proceeded to pull a variety of containers from the bags, opening them and doling out paper plates, chopsticks, and napkins.

  Dan told her of his meeting with the members of Almusawa as well as Prabin’s inclination to go ahead with his plan for staking out the bars.

  She listened in silence, a worried expression on her face.

  “Look after him,” was all she said.

  They ate and then cleared up the mess. Dan was making lattes on the office Faema when his phone rang. He ignored it and let it go to messages. A moment later it rang again. He glanced at the screen. It was Khaleda calling a second time.

  “Dan Sharp.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then Khaleda spoke. “You betrayed us!”

  It took a second before Dan found his voice. “What’s happened?”

  “We’ve been stalked. Someone showed up at my apartment at the end of the prayer meeting.”

  “Who showed up?”

  Dan exchanged glances with Kendra.

  “He didn’t give his name. He pounded on my door and when I opened it he began screaming that we had destroyed his brother Nabil. I said I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “Did he threaten you or do anything violent? Is anyone hurt?”

  “No, but we were all very frightened.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  “Twenty-something … bearded … dressed in old-

  fashioned clothes.”

  “Mustafa,” Dan said. “It was Nabil Ahmad’s younger brother. I’m sorry. I never gave out any personal information. He must have followed me.”

  “You’re a private investigator. Don’t you know when you’re being followed?” Khaleda’s voice was on the edge of hysterics again. “My god! I knew I would never be safe anywhere and you’ve just proved it to me.”

  “I’m sorry. I know this is an unforgivable breach of your privacy. I don’t think you or your members are in danger, but let me phone Nabil’s brothers and sort this out.”

  “You must do something. This is terrible!”

  Dan hung up
and explained to Kendra what had just happened.

  “She’s right — it is terrible. The poor woman. She’s probably terrified.”

  “Considering the precautions she takes to ensure the safety of her group, I have no doubt she is. Give me a moment while I phone the brothers.”

  Kendra sat on the couch as Dan dialed Nabil’s home. Amir answered. When Dan explained the situation, Amir took a breath.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “This is unforgivable. I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt —”

  He broke off. Dan heard a flurry of impassioned Arabic and put the call on speaker. The argument died after a brief exchange, followed by a door slamming in the background. Amir came back on the phone.

  “I heartily apologize for Mustafa’s actions. Yes, he admits it was him. He said he followed you to the meeting because he thought he might find Nabil there.”

  “I would have told you if Nabil was there,” Dan said angrily.

  “Yes, I understand this, but my brother does not. Please — forgive him for this outrage. I will ensure he never does anything like this again.”

  “It’s not me who has to forgive him. He disrupted a peaceful gathering and those people may want to press charges.”

  Amir muttered something in Arabic that Dan took as an injunction against such a thing from coming to pass.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said. “If anything further like this happens, I will drop the case.”

  Dan heard a sharp intake of breath.

  “Please do not do that,” Amir said. “I will speak with Mustafa.”

  The conversation ended. Dan turned to Kendra.

  “Your life is so colourful compared to mine,” she said with a timid smile.

  “It’s not by choice.”

  “From what I heard, I gather the brother who went to the apartment — Mustafa? — was not pleased to find men and women without head scarves gathered together in prayer. To him that was an abomination. It’s the sort of Western behaviour that devout Muslims abhor.”