by S. L. Lim
The plan seemed most viable when he was at his lowest: tormented by his mother, betrayed by his friends, disgusted by his lack of control over his humiliating appetites and bodily desires. This last sensation was the most excruciating of all. He would do anything at all to clean himself of the tendrils of sin that clung to his filthy flesh. Lying in bed, he would visualise fires, cities swept by typhoons, cataclysmic and all-encompassing explosions. It was a pornography of disaster, only loosely connected to anything a boy like him might feasibly accomplish. (He still thought of himself as a boy.) How wonderful it would be, to cease his existence at a heroic peak of feeling. At the moment of death, he would suffer less pain than from the prick of a needle.
Do you really think Jannah is waiting for you?
Of course I do.
Then what are you afraid of?
In bed one evening, he lay on his back feeling even more miserable than usual. He had an urge to go to the bathroom but he just couldn’t rouse himself. It was as if his limbs had bore the weight of his accumulated failures. Round about now the usual shiver of pointless desire would start up in his thighs. Already, wearily, he knew what was going to happen. There would be desire and resistance, appeals to Allah, followed by a sticky wave of culpability and reproach.
He was afraid, of course he was – afraid of all the future he would lose. But set against that was a fear even more awful: that the truth was neither elegant nor beautiful, that books told lies and the written word could not be trusted. That whatever you did would come to nothing; when we die, all we turn into is peat bog and dust. That he would waste all his time, the whole span of consciousness allotted to him – an entire life spent inside a half-lit room, waiting for real life to begin.
What saved him was a text from Katherine. He felt his phone tremble on the pillow and was overcome with a sense of unspeakable relief. The message read: The souls of the martyrs are in the hearts of green birds, and they have lanterns hanging underneath the throne of Allah. They roam around in Paradise wherever they wish, then they return to their lanterns.
Tony closed his eyes. All at once there were lanterns in the room. Green birds, green birds. He closed his eyes to observe them better. The faint glow from his phone cast a pale halo round the room.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I was surprised when Tony agreed to catch up for dinner. (Why did we say ‘catch up’, as if the opportunity would slip through our hands if we didn’t seize it quickly enough? I was there. I was always there. It made me sick to think of it, how there I inevitably was, no matter the occasion.) Andie had asked me to meet with him and I’d said yes, even though I wasn’t feeling quite myself. I had a soggy feeling from the SSRIs, as if all my thoughts were wrapped in a damp wad of cotton. Still, I liked the idea of being somebody’s benevolent non-biological uncle. I had to be some kind of mentor – it was the age-appropriate thing to add to my résumé. Left and right my friends were getting married and falling pregnant and posting pictures of their ultrasounds on Facebook.
We met at an Italian place on King Street, the one which was really run by Egyptians. I hardly recognised Tony and had to blink and look twice when he waved and called me over. He looked much taller than I remembered, although he probably hadn’t grown up very much, more outwards. He wasn’t fat by any means but he was definitely stockier, with the body of an adult man rather than a child. He had also grown himself a sparse little beard, which looked out of place. I’d hardly ever seen a young Chinese man wearing a beard before.
We took our seats. ‘Well, how are you, Nick?’ he said, not even bothering to look at the menu. ‘Did my cousin send you to interrogate me?’
‘I wouldn’t say interrogate. More keep an eye on. You must know you’re acting weird on Facebook. All those messed-up links you post - killing gays and cutting off people’s hands. And not doing so well at uni, either. Come on, Tony, what’s happening? You’re meant to be on a scholarship. Andie is really disappointed – she says that was the deal. She’ll keep your parents off your back if you can just keep up the marks.’
Tony had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Well, I still passed.’
‘Uh-huh. A conceded pass. That’s not really a pass at all. It’s more like … an honourable fail. A fail plus begging.’
‘How do they even know? Results are meant to be private. Oh, shit –’ he actually physically facepalmed, which touched me very much – ‘Mum must have logged in to my account. Because I saved my password … yeah, that’s the kind of thing she would do.’ He looked directly at me. ‘Where do you come into this, anyway?’
‘Me?’
‘Yeah, you. Like, why do you even care about this? You’re not part of the family. Why does it even matter to you what I choose to do with my life?’
‘Good question.’ I thought about it. ‘Well, a big part of it’s for Andie’s sake. She’s done a lot for me and she’s my friend, and I can tell that she’s worried. Also, I remember you when you were a kid. You obviously haven’t had this experience yet, but when you do, you feel kind of protective. It’s like watching someone walk off the edge of a cliff in slow motion. They’re so wrapped up they can’t see where they’re going, but you can. You feel like you can see their whole future, and it’s terrifying. You don’t want them to throw it all away on a random phase which won’t even mean anything to them in a couple of years’ time.’
‘“A random phase”.’ Tony enunciated the words slowly, drawing out the insult. ‘Wow, Nick. That’s pretty patronising.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Not that your faith isn’t … real, or meaningful to you. But sometimes the way we express …’ The wool was wrapping itself round my brain again. ‘Tony, I can’t speak for you, but let me tell you about my own experience. I used to be a pretty idealistic person. I wanted – well, I can’t even remember what I wanted now. There were all kinds of things I had planned. I was going to move to the Gaza Strip – God, it’s so embarrassing to think about. I didn’t think about money or careers – I thought it was beneath me to consider those kinds of things. If my ideals were real, I should act on them – that was all that mattered to me back then.
‘But here’s the thing. I’m not saying there’s no such thing as constancy or loyalty - for ideas as well as people. You can have a belief which you hold for the rest of your life. But even then, the way you express it at different times will be different. I know that Islam –’ I noticed my own slight hesitation before the word – ‘means a lot to you, and I know that your family hasn’t been supportive. For what it’s worth, I don’t agree with that. I think they’ve treated you really badly.’
Tony raised his eyebrows. ‘Nice to know you were on my side all along. Weird how you didn’t say so at the time. Weird that you’re only showing up now that my cousin’s getting pissed because my precious marks are starting to suffer.’
‘Yeah, well, you’re right. It’s hypocritical for me to show up now and start telling you how to live. Well, better late than never. And what I’m trying to tell you is that things don’t have to be mutually exclusive. Yes, it’s a real thing – you are really a Muslim; you’ve proven that to everybody now. But it hurts everyone, and helps nobody, if you fall out with your family. It’s even worse if your studies get derailed. It might seem meaningless at the moment, but believe me, in a few years’ time, when you’re looking for a job … What if your future boss sees your old Facebook posts five years from now? You have to understand, it could have a real impact on your life. I’m pretty sure Allah wouldn’t want you to harm yourself that way.’
The moment the words were out of my mouth I sensed that I had made an error. Tony’s eyes glinted with a flash of intelligent mockery. ‘I don’t get it. You’re an atheist, Nick. A super small-l liberal atheist. You don’t believe in Allah. You don’t believe in God at all. So why did you invoke His name just then?’
I shifted guiltily. ‘I wanted to get through to you, that’s all.’
‘Well, it’s a cheap tri
ck. You shouldn’t do it.’ I nodded, chastened. ‘Anyway, another question: why did they send you to talk to me, of all people? What makes you the expert in anything?’
‘I don’t know. Probably it was a last resort. Believe me, it’s not like they haven’t already tried. Andie would obviously prefer it if you talked to her, but she says you’ve been ignoring her. I can’t think why, but she had this idea that I might do better. Maybe because I’m more of a stranger, or because I come at things from a different perspective. You know – what was that thing you said to me in Year Nine? You said that you needed to get some advice from a “normal person”.’
Tony laughed. He looked a lot younger when he was smiling. ‘Oh, yeah. I remember when I told you that, too. Wow, that was embarrassing. Do you remember the grand final debate? The one about legalising drugs? Oh, man, that speech was so clichéd. I can’t believe the adjudicators bought it.’
‘I thought it was brilliant,’ I said simply. I wasn’t lying. He had been such a brilliant, articulate child.
‘Yes, well. And then my mother went and embarrassed herself in front of everyone. I practically wanted to die just so I wouldn’t have to hear her. Especially because – well, because you were there.’ He dropped his eyes and smiled, showing a hint of dimples. ‘I used to kind of hero-worship you, actually.’
‘Wow, really? No, I didn’t know.’ I laughed a little bit, flattered. ‘Was there any, um, reason you had for that?’
‘I have no idea! You seemed like you were young but you still had so much authority. You didn’t seem frightened of stuff, like my parents. You always looked like you were in control, no matter what the situation was. And the way you always hung out with my cousin Andie – you weren’t married, you weren’t even dating, but you seemed so comfortable around each other, like you were so grown-up.’ Tony looked at the tablecloth. ‘Don’t get a big head about it. I see things pretty differently now.’
‘Good on you. Probably you’re wiser. I used to get crushes on adults too, when I was young.’
The waiter came round to ask if we wanted drinks. ‘Red wine for me, ginger beer for Tony,’ I said. I liked the sound of my own voice ordering ginger beer. It felt very quaint and civilised.
‘Tell me, Nick, in a perfect world, if I took all of your advice, what would I be doing? What would my life look like? I want you to describe it to me.’
I bit my lip. ‘Well, let me think. This whole conversation doesn’t come easily to me. I don’t like advising people, especially kids – and in spite of everything, I definitely see you as a kid still. I can’t help it. I know it makes me sound old.
‘But since you ask: in ten years’ time I can see you working as an engineer – maybe for a private company, maybe some government body. Decent pay, good hours, and an opportunity to use your skills doing something tangibly useful to society. You’ll take up a hobby – touch footy, or cricket, or whatever. Something to keep you in shape and help you meet new people. Maybe you’ll have met some woman, or maybe you’ll still be single. That’s cool, too.
‘You’ll have some distance from your family. You’ll be kinder to them – I understand that they’re difficult, but they are worried sick about you. You’ll still be religious – you’ll do the five prayers and the mosque every Friday. But it won’t be the only thing that you spend your time thinking about. You’ll be invested in things you can do in this world right now, not the next one.
‘I don’t have any problem with you being a believer. I don’t think it’s true, obviously, but if it helps you get through the day, there’s nothing wrong with that. I just think you need to change the emphasis. Less time on the fire-and-brimstone verses, more time on the nice ones. Even your own scholars tell you there are differences in interpretation. Ask yourself whether what you’re reading is meant to be taken literally, or if it’s just a metaphor. Ask yourself about context. Ask yourself if this is the only way to think about the story.’ I rubbed my eyelids with my thumbs. Concentration was eluding me. The drugs stretched their dampening fingers across my brain.
Tony was quiet for so long I wondered if he was angry. ‘Nick, are you an atheist?’ he asked at last.
I paused fractionally. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘So when you die, that’s it? Worms and microbes in the ground? Rot away into nothing?’
I looked away and laughed. ‘It’s not fun to think about, is it? But yeah, I guess that’s right. Mind you, just because it isn’t nice doesn’t mean that it’s not true. I don’t think believing or not believing makes any difference.’
Tony nodded vigorously. ‘Exactly. Belief doesn’t come in to it. Either it’s true, or else it isn’t. And if you’re correct, then people like me are all stupid idiots. Wasting our time praying and restricting our lives and missing out on all the fun for nothing. Bowing down to some imaginary sky god who isn’t even really there. That’s what you’re telling me, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, sure. That’s true to an extent. And when you put it like that, it makes me sound like I’m being kind of rude. But let’s look at it from the other side. If what you believe is true, then after I die I’m going to be thrown into a burning pit. I’m going to have to eat thorns and drink boiling water or whatever, and be tortured for thousands of years. Or maybe eternity, I can’t remember which. And apparently this is just what I deserve because I don’t believe the same as you. Let’s not get confused about whose beliefs are more threatening if you don’t agree.’
Tony for a moment said nothing, playing with his serviette. Then he looked up and grinned. ‘Very good! I guess it does sound pretty rude, when you put it like that. But you have to understand, it’s not as if I want to go around telling people they’re going to burn forever. It’s not something I enjoy doing. It just so happens to be true.’
‘I’m sure it does.’ Our entrees arrived. I fiddled with my garlic bread, which tasted like salt more than anything else. We chewed in silence.
‘You know what frustrates me most?’ Tony said suddenly. ‘The way people like you pretend to be so tolerant and generous and open-minded. “I don’t mind you believing, whatever gets you through the day, there’s nothing wrong with that.” I mean, do you think that I mind? Do you think I care that you’re an atheist?’
‘I don’t know. Do you?’
‘Yes, I do. Of course I do. You’ve rejected Allah. Rejected the Creator of everything. Do you think that doesn’t scare me? Horrify me, even? Do you think that I don’t pray –’ his voice was shaking - ‘every single day for the people I love? That they’ll come around and see the truth? You think we can all get along and be one big happy family. And if you’re right, and there’s no God, then I guess we can. It doesn’t matter what you think or what I think, or who is right. You can be a Hindu or a Christian or a Buddhist or a fucking Scientologist, or whatever, and there’s not going to be any reward or punishment which flows from that. Nobody’s watching. Nobody cares. Nothing matters, so long as people have enough food and don’t beat each other up and set fire to stuff.
‘But if what I believe is true – well, it actually has consequences. Remember what you said before? “Mutually exclusive”? Well, my belief is mutually exclusive with yours. If Allah exists, then it’s not enough for me to pay lip-service to him every Friday. I have to live every part of my life under that knowledge. Same with Christ, or Ganesha, or whatever. Although I guess the Hindus have a looser attitude towards their gods – like, there’s just more of them. But if Allah exists, if we are being judged every moment of our lives for the hereafter, then there is nothing more important than us doing what he wants. This “tolerance”, this “moderation” – it’s so fucking hypocritical. You can only be tolerant if you don’t really believe in anything. You can only treat religions “equally” by showing equal contempt for all of them. Secularism is just code for atheism in the end. And it makes me sick when people like you act like you’re being so tolerant, so generous, when everyone in society is playing by your rules.’
T
he pasta arrived. I twirled the strands round my fork. It wasn’t great, but at least it was inoffensive. There isn’t that much which can go wrong with Napoletana.
‘Nick, I was just wondering …’ In contrast to the flow of words only moments ago, Tony seemed almost tongue-tied. ‘Did you lose your job?’
I was floored. ‘Yeah, I did. How did you know?’
‘I worked it out from Facebook.’ Seeing my face, he added, ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t actually say that you got fired. I just noticed you weren’t listing the same workplace, so I wondered.’ He sipped his water. ‘Are you OK with it?’
‘Of course I am,’ I said testily. I didn’t like how our roles had been reversed.
‘You shouldn’t let these things get to you. Even if you didn’t know it, it was Allah who was looking after you before, and Allah who will look after you now. Nothing happens without –’
‘Don’t lecture me, Tony,’ I interrupted wearily. I could sense a Hadith coming on. ‘I’m the adult, you’re … an adult too, I suppose, but only borderline. There are things I’ve experienced that you have no idea about.’ I could hear the petulance in my voice. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so childish. I didn’t mean to condescend to you.’
‘That’s all right. I know it’s hard for you. And for Andie, and my family.’
‘Yeah, well. You know that, but you don’t make it any easier.’
‘But I can’t.’ Tony smiled radiantly across the table. ‘I wish we could be friends, Nick. But we can’t. It’s like … oil and water. Soluble and insoluble. We like each other, and in some ways we have a lot in common, but in other ways we’re totally apart. Even now, you want to erode my faith away from me. You’re all about living in this world – your job is to earn money, have sex and have fun. Well, mine is to worship our Creator. You want to be happy while you’re alive, which is just a few decades. I want to hold on to my faith for as long as I exist, which is forever.’