Dear Allah,
I want to remind you about my weakness and your greatness, Oh Allah. I trust you, I believe in you, I live to obey and I rely and count on you. Oh Allah, I am weak and you are great. I am nothing compared to you.
I am weak and lazy. That’s why I would like to ask you to soften my heart. You are the best at softening hearts, and you love to soften hearts, so soften my heart.
Your loving servant,
Imran.
I wondered if his heart had softened. One thing was for sure — my heart was hard as a rock. Religion had never worked for me.
When I was little, I used to pray about my father all the time. Please, God, make Dad call me, write to me, come and see me. Something, anything. There wasn’t a birthday where I didn’t lie awake all night, making all kinds of deals with God: Please, God, send me my dad. Please, send him to me, I’ll do anything. I’ll even become a nun, if you send my dad to me. Just send me a sign that he’s still alive and he loves me.
I stopped praying when I was eleven. I was struck by the strong and certain memory of my mother and father arguing violently one night, and then there was a thud and a silence. I never saw my dad again. Mr. Alright came over and I heard him talking to Mum and next thing, he was there and Dad was not.
So much for God. And what about Mum? What kind of hypocrite does a thing like that and goes to church every Sunday?
I never asked Mum or Gran about that night. I couldn’t, not directly. So I asked them about Dad in a millon other ways and they always avoided answering me. So what was I to think?
Once upon a time — it was and it was not so … it happened and it never did.
Salman Rushdie was right.
I had no way of knowing.
And I had no house, no father, no boyfriend, no job.
I’m not myself, he thought as a faint fluttering feeling began in the vicinity of his heart.…
Masks beneath masks until suddenly the bare bloodless skull.
I leaned over to close Imran’s binder when the next bit he had written caught my attention:
She sexted me! Dear fucking diary, she did! She sent me a pic of her boobie, and she said U LIKE? U WANT? Right in middle of math class too! Dear fucking diary, I didn’t know what to do! I didn’t know what to say back so I just looked at her and nodded. Very uncool I know. I should have said something witty back like in your dreams baby, or you will cum harder with me than any body, or I don’t know, something. But now I have the pic of her boobie on my phone! And I swear the other boys looked at me with new respect when we left the classroom! Finally I will become one of the incrowd, I will shop with them and buy stupid fucking gangsta jeans and dear fucking diary, I won’t be spending any more time with YOU! I too will be cool! I cannot wait for tomorrow! Ayesha, just like the Prophet’s wife! Such an omen!
Oh dear. I didn’t care if I was tired, I was worried about poor Imran and wanted to know what had happened between him and this girl.
I turned the page.
“There are only two methods of dealing with an apostate. Either make him an outlaw by depriving him of his citizenship and allowing him mere existence, or end his life. The first method is definitely more severe than the second, because he exists in a state in which ‘he neither lives nor dies.’ Killing him is preferable. That way both his agony and the agony of the society are brought to an end simultaneously.”
Clearly things had not gone well with Ayesha.
Maududi was right. Dear fucking diary, so much has happened. It has taken me this long to tell you because I have been so ashamed. I have been defiled and in so doing, have allowed my faith to be defiled and I am a worthless dog. Daily I suffer, daily, and I deserve it. I was so stupid. I am so glad I didn’t tell Mummy that I had a date, that I had been invited to a real party because she would have been so happy and so proud. She would have told Daddy too, and he would have thought I was finally becoming a man. Oh this is so hard to write. But I must confess, I must, in order to become once again clean.
That weekend I went to the party. I drank beer and I tried to smoke shisha but it made me feel so sick. I got so dizzy, I could hardly walk or stand. I went outside, I thought I could clear my head, but I could hardly see straight. When I got outside, I was sick in the bush and I felt a bit better, but still, everything was spinning. And then she was there. She put her arm around me. “Imran,” she said. She called me by my real name. “Imran, are you alright?”
“I feel sick,” I told her. “The tobacco was too strong for me. I was trying to impress you and now look, I did the opposite.” “You don’t have to impress me,” she said, and she pulled me around the corner, so we could sit in the cool air, away from where I had been sick. She pulled out cigarettes and offered one to me, but I shook my head. “Since an hour ago, I am trying to quit,” I tried to joke. She lit the cigarette and I thought she looked so beautiful as she held her lighter to her cigarette and inhaled so deeply. She smoked, and she and I sat there in silence.
Then she moved closer to me. “You remember the picture?” she asked and I nodded. “You can touch, you know….” She stubbed her cigarette out with her boot and then she took my hand and put it inside her shirt. Her boobie was so soft I nearly cried. I didn’t know what to do with my fingers. I was so afraid I would pinch her or hurt her. “Like this,” she said, and she cupped my hand and her nipple grew hard. “Lie down,” she whispered, and she pushed me down on the cold concrete, and my heart was going so hard I couldn’t breathe, and then she undid my jeans. She rubbed my penis through my underwear and I was so hard and lying there, on the cold ground, looking up at the stars, thinking I was surely among them when she pulled my underwear down and held my penis in her hand.
Next thing I knew, a light flashed, and I didn’t know what happened except that it seemed like the whole school was standing around me, laughing and pointing.
I was so confused I just lay there, my penis going soft and small, like a poor animal trying to escape, and they were all taking more pictures and then someone shouted, “He’s got one ball! Nimrod’s only got one ball!”
They started chanting, “One ball, one ball, one ball,” and I finally had the wherewithal to pull up my underwear and do up my jeans and I got up, still so dizzy, and I pushed my way through them and came back here to my room.
And of course, it’s all they could talk about for weeks. Weeks. Dear fucking diary, I have been through hell. I fear hell no longer because I have lived through it, walked through it. And Ayesha, that … well, I do not want stoop to her level by calling her names, but she acted like she was the queen or something, like she had done something so real and noble and everybody treated her like she was royalty.
OneBee. That’s what they call me now. Not even Nimrod anymore, but OneBee. One ball.
And you know what, dear fucking diary, it’s taken me all this time but I don’t care any more. I thought I would die of the pain, I did. But they are the infidels, not me. I have nothing to be ashamed of. And now that my resolve is strengthened, I will become pure again, pure of heart, pure of purpose. They can call me whatever they like. They have been corrupted by Western ideology and materialism and sex and greed, but not me, not me. I was tempted and I failed, but I will not fail again.
BUT dear fucking diary, let us not forget what Maududi said: “Upon him who helps a cruel person, Allahu ta’ala sends that cruel person to worry him.” May Allah keep us all on the right path — the path of the the Ambiya, the Shuhadah, the Siddiqeen, and the Saleheen. Ameen!
I felt desperately saddened for Imran. And I felt horribly alone.
15. THE DAY OF NOISE AND CLAMOUR
THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS SATURDAY, and I went back to the coffee shop. The blonde girl and her big dog were nowhere to be seen, but Lenny and Company were hanging around the coffee shop exit, smoking.
I looked over at Lenny, and he met my e
ye with an arrogant stare, giving me a slight nod of acknowledgement as he hitched up his red jeans.
One of the hangers-on, a greasy boy with a Beatles haircut, did unattractive sexual things with his hips as he said, She wants you big time, Lenny.
The group laughed, the girl loudest of them all. He’s mine, the girl shouted. Don’t you mess with what’s mine.
No one would mess with you, Kitty Cat, the Beatles boy said fawningly while Lenny said nothing. He just looked at me.
I tucked my head down and walked past them as quickly as I could, but I could not help but feel the tug of his power, which was ridiculous. He was what? Twenty-two, twenty-three, in his low riding jeans, with his ridiculous clown hair?
I ordered oatmeal with brown sugar and an extra large coffee and took my seat by the window. I wondered if Lenny would come and join me, but he didn’t and I admit I felt slightly disappointed.
Later, there was still no sign of the blonde girl and her big dog, and when I walked through the busy town full of people ,shopping and stocking up on booze, I felt a longing to be back in my quiet hole. I didn’t know why, but I suddenly felt exhausted and depressed, and the world seemed an ugly and lonely place.
But at the same time, I wasn’t ready to go back to my room, so I went down to the water’s edge instead. The day was cold for summer, but this didn’t deter a group of scantily dressed volleyball players who hit high, leapt up in the air and threw themselves onto the sand. A few dog walkers watched their pets charge the choppy little waves that broke on the shoreline. A woman in a full sari was wading up to her knees and trying to encourage her little grandson to join her, but he knew better and refused to put a toe into the icy water.
There was a class doing tai chi under the white awning next to the public toilets and after they left, a woman in pink spandex arrived, with an old-fashioned boom box in hand. She was soon joined by a motley crew of all shapes and sizes who followed her lead, doing Jane Fondaesque pelvis thrusts.
I watched them for a bit, thinking that maybe I should try some fitness things myself, but the idea seemed as remote as a moon landing. So I left the beach and stopped in at the grocery store to buy a bagel, a can of soup, a bar of chocolate, and a small jar of peanut butter. I splurged on a bottle of cheap sherry at the LCBO; I deserved a treat.
Then I bought a dollar-store postcard with a picture of the town with the beach in the distance, and I wrote a quick note to Mum: The countryside is lovely, the weather sucks though. Miss you, Joss.
I mailed my card and picked up a thick Sears catalogue from the free stack and headed back to the school grounds. I thought about Shayne and wondered if he was finished having his nervous breakdown. I thought it must be six weeks or so since I’d last seen him.
But I didn’t want to think about Shayne and his slow stoner way of talking, his sense of humour that had me crying with laughter, or his funny ever-earnest expressions when he was telling me a story about his day. He was in the past and the reality of my day was a strong wind blowing cold and an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that something was very wrong.
I pushed through the thick grass en route to the school and saw Lenny and his group in the distance walking to the library. I immediately sank down out of sight, hidden by the grasses until I heard their shouts fade away completely.
16. THE SCANDAL MONGER
THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE with a tongue like an old shag rug and a demon headache with a life of its own. I lifted my head from the pillow and realized with revulsion that I had even drooled. I peeled myself off the pillow and sat up slowly, reaching for my flashlight.
I turned my flashlight to the bottle of sherry, which was empty. Evidence of the amount consumed made me feel even worse, and my stomach joined my head in various states of anguish.
I groaned quietly. The only thing to do was go back to sleep. I dug into my medicine bag and chewed two prescription painkillers Shayne had been given when he broke a rib falling off a ladder. He had refused to take them, so I pocketed them for future need — like now.
I soon fell back asleep and was woken by a bad dream some hours later. I sat up, rubbing my face.
In the dream, I hit Kitty Cat with a frying pan, killing her, and Lenny and I buried her in the forest to the side of the library. I saw it clearly. We put her in the ground, with those green stripes in her hair, her neck wobbly as a new born baby’s, those plump milk-white thighs spilling free. She was still wearing those filthy Ugg boots. Her little dog yapped until Lenny chased him off, throwing clods of earth at him. Once the grave was filled, Lenny pushed me down on top of the freshly dug earth, and undid the buttons of my trousers. Then he pulled my panties down and pushed himself inside me. And dear God, it felt so good.
I wound my legs around him and pulled him in deeper, matching his thrusts, holding his skinny back and ribs and bones for dear life.
And then we came, and I looked into those radioactive eyes, and he bent down to kiss me, but I pushed him off and rolled off the grave.
Scrambling for my clothes, I got dressed while he lay there, watching me.
Kitty’s dog came back and Lenny cradled it. Cupcake, he said. There there, Cupcake.
Run away, he said to me. Run, run, run, run. That’s what you do, you run.
And I turned and I ran. I ran through the grasses that clutched hard at me until I tripped and fell, and the grasses closed over me, closed off my air, smothered me like a blanket till I could not breathe. That was when I woke up, gasping as if I truly had been drowning in those grasses.
No doubt it was time to go out and get some fresh air. Besides, Mum would have killed me if I had stayed in bed all day because of a hangover.
I pulled on a pair of cargo pants, running shoes, and an old T-shirt of Shayne’s that said I escaped from Alcatraz. I donned the sunglasses I was sure I would need and headed out into the light. To my relief, the day was gloomy, overcast and drizzling.
I went past Lenny’s library and wondered if there was a way in. I peered up at a window that looked promising when a voice next to me nearly made me jump out of my skin.
What are you doing so far from Granny’s nice dry home?
It was Lenny. I immediately started shaking.
Just going for a walk, I said defensively, shoving my hands into my pockets and trying to banish the dream from my mind, but the thought of him pleasuring me so greatly still felt so real, like it had really happened.
Boring Sunday. Nothing on telly, and Gran doesn’t even have cable. I thought I’d go for a nice walk. Birds are waterproof, did you know? I was chattering stupidly, and Lenny just stood there looking at me, his green eyes dark for once and water running down his neck.
Their feathers are made from the same stuff as our nails, so that’s why they are tough as nails, birds are. Haven’t you heard the saying, “water off a duck’s back?” “Birds of wet weather stick together?” “The rainy bird catches the worm?” I stopped.
I don’t give a fuck about birds, Lenny said. You want a coffee?
I nodded.
Come on then.
We walked back to town in silence, passing a church along the way, a rather odd-looking one at that, all boxy and triangular.
What’s that building? I asked.
A church, Lenny said, for Jehovah’s weirdos.
They’re the ones who go door-to-door with pamphlets and have a lot of wives and their kids aren’t allowed any electrical items?
Lenny shrugged. Dunno. I think you’re confusing them with Mormons or Mennonites, I don’t know.
I thought you were the afficionado on religion?
On power, he corrected me. The only religion I believe in is the Bible of Lenny.
Their parking lot certainly is full, I said.
I was staring at the cars when I caught sight of a face in among the trees. It was a young man staring straight at me w
ith a face as pale as milk. He had platinum blond hair and fine, delicate features.
I did not want Lenny to notice him, but I slowed down anyway.
You think we could score a cuppa inside there, with them? I asked Lenny who snorted.
Not worth it, he said. It’s never worth the free stuff when it comes to things like that. You’d give up your soul and your life savings for a fucking cup of tea?
I don’t have life savings, I retorted. And my soul is very much mine.
I was still looking at the young man and he stared back at me and then, just like that, he vanished.
I caught up to Lenny who had walked on ahead.
Fireworks tonight, he said.
Pardon me?
Fireworks. It’s a town thing. They have it every year, on this weekend.
Bad weather for it, I said, looking up and getting a face full of drizzle.
It’ll clear. Lenny was confident.
We reached the Tim Horton’s.
What’ll you have? My treat, he said.
French Vanilla coffee with two sugars and a lemon poppyseed muffin, I said. Thanks.
He grinned his sharky teeth at me. Gran not feeding you?
I drank a bottle of sherry last night, I confessed. I feel hungover.
If you are looking for recreational chemicals, he said, I can provide you with anything you might need.
I don’t do drugs, I said. I just drink too much sometimes, and not that often either.
We got our food and coffees and sat down.
I pulled my muffin apart and drank a large gulp of coffee.
I must admit, I said, with my mouth full of muffin, that I still don’t really get the whole Islam versus Christianity thing or why the Muslims were so appalled by The Satanic Verses even though you tried to explain it.
It called their religion the dream ravings of a schizophrenic who had visions that the prophet’s teachings had been adulterated by a crazy poet. No biggie.
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