Oh Imran.
19. THOSE THAT RUN
I RETURNED TO THE SWIMMING POOL early the next day, leaving only to buy a slice of pizza and then finally to make my way home before dark. It was supposed to rain, but it didn’t. It was thirty-six degrees in the shade under my oak tree in the late evening, and the birds were singing wild songs: chirping, tweeting, even yapping. It was like they had heatstroke too. The mourning dove echoed her hooting call until I wanted to find her and stone her off her lofty perch. Animal lover, me. But there is a limit.The cool breeze helped briefly like the brush of a blue satin sheet, but it only teased and it vanished too soon.
I had not seen Lenny in ages, and I had nearly forgotten about him when I went back to the swimming pool the next day and bumped right into him. Literally.
Whoa, he said, putting his hand on my chest. If it isn’t Alleluia Ice Queen Cone.
Kitty Cat laughed. Good one, ice cream cone!
Lenny ignored her.
I felt hurt by his taunts. It wasn’t me who left that night. I knew none of it should have happened but I wasn’t to blame. Why did he hate me now? I looked at him, thinking so what if he saw that I was upset? But then I changed my mind and leaned down, exaggerating the motion to show my height over his, and I smelled that hash and Irish Spring mix and I whispered in his ear.
You’re just sore because you can’t have me, Lenny. I let my breath tickle his ear. And you, neither devil or angel, will lose everything. You’ll see.
He pulled back in anger. That’s what you think, he said, furious. I never lose. I always get what I want. You’ll be the one who sees.
I looked right at him as he leaned in close, and I felt that weird arousal again.
I form the light, and create darkness; I make peace and create evil, he quoted, and I stayed where I was, close to him, seemingly unable to pull away. Lenny, my obnoxious magnet.
You’re a legend in your own lunch box, I whispered. Have a nice day.
I forced myself to leave him and I walked away. I was determined not to show my fear by scurrying. But I could hardly breathe. My breakfast rose in my throat and I had to swallow it down. I had been stupid to antagonize him, but it seemed like we were destined to collide regardless of what I said or did.
I could not enjoy the swimming pool in the same way as before, even though I tried, and the words of my book swam before my eyes;
Falling like that out of the sky: did they imagine there would be no side-effects?
I didn’t know what I had imagined would happen, but seeing Lenny again had shattered the peace I had felt. Once again, I was alone and vulnerable and lost.
I decided, out of the blue, to pray.
Hey God, if you’re there at all, how about sending me a friend? I’m tired of only having my book for company and the jottings of some kid…. How about it? You there? Consider this a test. Maybe we aren’t supposed to test you but never mind, I am. I need a friend, right about now.
Nothing happened, not that I thought it would.
When I left the swimming pool I walked past the blonde girl with the big dog.
She stopped as I went by, as if she would be open to conversation. But I, for once, wanted no part of it. Besides, this time I was the one who was crying.
I walked, still crying, through the hot haze that hung low like a gauzy unwashed curtain in a sad-sack dollar store. I cried about Shayne. I cried because I felt I had been unfair and cruel to Mr. Alright who had really tried to be my dad. I cried because I missed my house, and I cried because no one in the world knew where I was.
I cried when the rain finally came, dropping bucket loads of water and causing flooding in the town. I lay in my room, with no tears left, and I listened to the rain, and I thought about how alone and lonely I was.
20. THE GLORIOUS MORNING LIGHT
AFTER THAT, I AVOIDED THE SWIMMING POOL. The searing heat returned, and my thighs felt as if they were made of half-melted candle wax, and the storm was a distant memory. My eyeballs were gritty, and my throat felt scorched by the air I breathed. The tiny sparrows were manic, and their frantic energy depressed me.
Having lost the swimming pool, I decided it was time to check out the library, the real government one. I would be cool and safe in the library.
I could read there during the day and look up things on the Internet and even check my email. No, cancel that thought. No email-checking. I was in no way ready to be part of the real world again.
I still wanted sanctuary and escape and anything from my old life would bring the exact opposite. But I wondered about Imran; who was he? I thought I would look him up on Facebook, see what I could find.
I approached the library with caution.
For some reason, I was convinced that entering a government institution, even one of such a placid nature, would send alarm bells ringing and suddenly the RCMP would be there in their funny black jodpurs and their even odder hats, deporting me. I realized it was this irrational fear that had prevented me from going in before now.
I plucked up my courage and strode through the double doors and the tiny turnstile, feeling increasingly trapped. I approached the desk hesitantly only to be ignored by the librarian for a good five minutes. The librarian was studying something on her computer, with one pair of glasses on the end of her nose, and another hanging from a cord around her neck.
I cleared my throat.
Yes? The librarian did not even look up at me.
I’m a visitor from England. I’d like to use the computer, I said, with only the slightest shake to my voice.
Help yourself. The woman waved a hand at a bank of computers. It’s easy. Call me if you need me.
The message was clear: Don’t need me. I didn’t intend to.
I eyed the rows of computers: one was occupied by an elderly man in a business suit, another by a large woman in a loud floral dress. I positioned myself away from them and figured out how to log on.
As the librarian had said, it wasn’t difficult.
I had never had a Facebook account, but it wasn’t hard to get one going.
Imran Ali, I typed and waited. Whoa, there were nearly a dozen Imran Alis. I clicked on each of them until I found him. His was the only profile that had him attending school in Ontario, and he was the right age.
His large Facebook picture was golden; a man on a camel surrounded by an army of soldiers, haloed by rings of golden light and symbols. “Soldier of Allah,” read the script. His smaller profile picture showed a young man, GQ-styled, in sunglasses, with a sharp hairstyle; a rich kid.
His photo gallery was open and the first slide was of a green symbol with “Fight them until all opposition ends and all submit to Allah” [The Holy Quran 8:39].
Okay.
I guess Allah failed to bring softness to his heart.
It was time for me to research Muhammad. One site claimed he was a terrorist, an epileptic, an orphan, a homosexual, a hashish addict; yet another indicated he had a brain tumour, that Muhammad bin Abdullah was personally guilty of murder by beheading, crucifixion, burning victims alive, drowning them in boiling water, pouring molten pitch down their throats, and ripping off their flesh. He was also guilty of rape, mutilations, kidnapping, extortion, slavery, banditry, domestic abuse, pedophilia, adultery and false witness.
I also found this in my research: “I am the prophet that laughs when killing my enemies.” Not exactly the god of loving kindness.
Islam seemed like a brutal religion, but I reminded myself of the Christian wars and the bloodshed spilled in the name of God. I thought that the finger could not be pointed at any particular religion; indeed, a small band of fanatics in any neighbourhood could wreak more havoc than all the actions of all the well-intentioned combined.
I logged off and asked the librarian if she had a copy of the Qur’an, and she was more helpful than she had first
seemed. She said she didn’t, but she drew me a map to a small second-hand bookstore.
They’re sure to have one, she said. Good luck with it, I tried to read it once and I gave up. It just didn’t make any sense.
I found the bookstore. Sure enough, there were a number of copies, and I parted with five dollars, gathered my book, and left. On the way home, I got a bag of ice from the gas station and cradled it, loving the cold.
When I got back to the admin building, I poured the icy cubes into two plastic bags. I put one bag on my head and the other under my feet, and I sat under my tree, reading the Qur’an. Or, should I say, trying to read the Qur’an. Like the librarian, I could make no sense of it either. It seemed like random poetry; somewhat repetitive random poetry.
I sighed and adjusted the ice at my feet. I was trying so hard to understand what everything meant, but the world was not being obliging.
I returned to The Satanic Verses instead, to one of my favourite passages, thinking that Rushdie said it best.
WHAT KIND OF IDEA ARE YOU? shouted the poet Baal to Gibreel Farishta. Are you the kind that compromises, does deals, accommodates to society, aims to find a niche, to survive; or are you the cussed, bloody-minded, ramrod-backed type of danmnfool notion that would rather break than sway with the breeze? — The kind that will almost certainly, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, be smashed to bits; but the hundredth time, will change the world.
I am an unformed idea, I had said to Lenny at our first meeting.
I was still unformed.
I picked up the Qur’an. I would not give up.
21. THE TRIBE OF QURAISH
I CONTINUED TO DO BATTLE with the Qur’an. 2:62: “Those who believe (in the Qur’an), and those who follow the Jewish (scriptures), and the Christians and the Sabians, and who believe in Allah and the Last Day, and work righteousness, shall have their reward with their Lord: on them shall be no fear, nor shall they grieve.”
That did not sound like “Kill all the infidels” to me. I continued.
2:190: “Fight in the cause of Allah those who fight you, but do not transgress limits; for Allah does not love transgressors.”
So far I was not seeing anything I could wildly take issue with. But I then I got to 2:222: “They ask you concerning women’s courses. Say: They are a hurt and a pollution: so keep away from women in their courses and do not approach them until they are clean. But when they have purified themselves, you may approach them in any manner, time or place ordained for you by Allah.”
I wanted to object. If Allah had created all, then had He not also created menses? I read on to discover that men have a degree of advantage over us and 2:230 had me stopped for a bit: “So, if a husband divorces his wife (irrevocably), he cannot, after that, re-marry her until after she has married another husband and he has divorced her. In that case there is no blame on either of them if they re-unite, provided they feel that they can keep the limits ordained by Allah which he makes plain to those who understand.”
Seriously? The Prophet, peace be upon Him, and I wasn’t being sarcastic, suffered from some baffling leaps in logic. And then He moved inexplicably from accepting all religions to 3:85: “If anyone desires a religion other than Islam (submission to Allah), never will it be accepted of him: and in the Hereafter he will be in the ranks of those who have lost (all spiritual good).” The momentum continued with 3:151: “Soon shall We cast terror into the hearts of the Unbelievers, for that they joined companions with Allah, for which He had sent no authority: their abode will be the Fire: And evil is the home of the wrong-doers!”
There were intricate mathematical equations of inheritance in 4:11: “Allah (thus) directs you as regards your children’s (inheritance): to the male, a portion equal to that of two females; if (there are) only daughters, two or more, their share is two-thirds of the inheritance; if only one, her share is half.”
And 4:34: “Men are the protectors and maintainers of women, because Allah has given the one more (strength) than the other, and because they support them from their means.… As to those women on whose part you fear disloyalty and ill-conduct, admonish them (first), (Next), refuse to share their beds, (And last) beat them (lightly).”
Beat them lightly?
Night fell so I went indoors where it was cooler and carried on reading. I wished I had a bottle of vodka, but the book was hard slog and it was better to stay sober. There was a huge amount of repetition, and I felt that if Muhammad had been blessed with a good editor, that the Qur’an would be a fifth its size. There was a lot about “Those who are wretched shall be in the Fire: There will be for them therein (nothing but) the heaving of sighs and sobs” in 11:106, but I had yet to come across the seven virgins in heaven for the suicide bombers, which was the main passage I was eager to find. I found the leech-like clot reference that Imran had likened to a piece of chewing gum with toothy imprints in 22:5: “O mankind! If you have a doubt about the Resurrection, (consider) that We created you out of dust, then out of sperm, then out of a leech-like clot, then out of a morsel of flesh, partly formed and partly unformed in order that We may manifest (Our power),” but again I was confused.
There was only one Allah, so who was this We? Perhaps it was a kind of royal we, like when Gran used to say, Duckie, we are not amused…. And Imran, my friend, I’m sorry, but you were supposed to abstain from sex unless you were married, but if you think you got a raw deal, be grateful you were not born a woman. In 24:30, it said women should: “lower their gaze and guard their modesty; that they should not display their beauty except to their husbands, their fathers, their husbands’ fathers, their sons, their husbands’ sons, their brothers or their brothers’ sons, or their sisters’ sons….” All the guys get to ogle and that’s just fine?
I was beginning to hallucinate with tiredness. I put the book aside and turned out my light. I fell into a fitful sleep, filled with strange winged creatures, ships sailing between mountains torn in two, blood clots raining from the sky, and men with long white beards waving curved sticks and igniting flames from the clouds and floods of boiling murky fluids spilling forth from rivers to scald the gathered crowds. I woke with a pounding head, determined to finish reading. I took a bottle of water and a packet of stale biscuits outside, and I sat under my tree, munching and forging on.
38:51-52: “In the Garden of Eternity, Therein will they recline (at ease): Therein can they call (at pleasure) for fruit in abundance, and (delicious) drink; And beside them will be chaste women restraining their glances, (companions) of equal age.”
Equal age? Excuse me Muhammad, but weren’t you in your forties or fifties when you married Aisha who was anywhere from six to eighteen? And yet … and yet … you speak of companions of equal age?
Biscuit bits were flying from my fingers. I slowed down. No point in ruining my breakfast, such as it was. Come lunchtime, I still had a third of the book to go. I trudged to the gas station for more ice, a tub of ice cream, a large packet of sour cream and onion chips, and a litre of Diet Coke. I was going to finish reading this book, no matter what it took.
I read more about bowels being cut to pieces by those having to drink boiling water, and the closest I came to the seven virgins was in 76:19: “Round about them will (serve) youths of perpetual (freshness)…. Companions with beautiful, big and lustrous eyes.… We have created (their Companions) of special creation. And made them virgin-pure (and undefiled) 56:35-36 and, 67:3: He Who created the seven heavens one above another.”
Perhaps there was a virgin in each heaven? Despite protestations to the contrary by Islamic fundamentalists, I did not find the Qur’an to be very specific.
As the book wound down, the chapters became (mercifully) shorter, and the day also drew to a close. Shortly before the sun finally set, I finished the last page and put the book aside. I felt as if I had run a marathon and was no closer to understanding Imran’s passion for this religion. But then a
gain, poor OneBee, what else did he have? But he wasn’t alone; Islam was the fastest growing religion in the world but I was no closer to understanding that phenomenon.
I put religion aside, enough for the moment. Never, ever, in my life had I craved a bath to this degree. I was exhausted and filthy. The swimming pool would be shut at this hour, and there was nowhere for me to go. I was sticky from the heat, ice cream, chips, and Diet Coke. I went inside and had a wet-wipes wash-down, dried myself with a towel, then covered my skin in baby powder that felt silky and cool. I even doused my hair with baby powder, thinking I probably looked like an old crone out of a horror movie, but I didn’t care. Once done, I felt marginally better though a bit sick from all the junk food and from not having moved much all day. I didn’t think I would sleep but I did, a deep dreamless sleep. When I woke, my world was mine again, not filled with camels and fires and the admonishments of the We.
Between the Cracks She Fell Page 10