American Dervish: A Novel (24 page)

“People with a lot of wives. And there’s a big lake there full of salt and worms.”

Imran looked at me, puzzled. “Can we go fishing?”

“No,” I said. “We’re in our castle keep.”

My response sounded ominous, even to me.

Imran didn’t say anything. “I’m going to sleep,” I finally said, turning away.

“Please, Hayat. Please share him with me,” Imran pleaded as he pressed himself against me, his small hands tightly gripping my waist. “Please let him be my dad, too. Please let’s go to
You-taa.
”

“Stop it, Imran,” I snapped. “Don’t be stupid. It’s not up to me anyway. Or you. We’re just kids. Nobody’s going to Utah just because you or I want to.”

“Why not?”

“Because we have a house here.”

“We can get a new one.”

“My dad’s got a job. I’ve got school. We can’t just leave like that.”

“Please,” Imran cried, clinging to me. I turned, pulling him off. I looked into his face. His small, sharp eyes simmered with yearning.

“No,” I said. “Anyway, you’ll have a dad soon. Nathan’s gonna be your dad.”

“He can’t be,” Imran said, turning abruptly away.

“He will be. All your mom has to do is marry him.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“He’s
white.
He’s not my real dad.”

“I didn’t say he was your real dad.” Imran didn’t reply. “My dad wouldn’t be your real dad either.”

There was silence.

“Anyway,” I said, “it doesn’t matter if he’s white or if he’s a Jew or anything else. It doesn’t matter what you think. She’s going to do whatever she wants…”

“
Chew?
” he asked.

“What?”

“What’s a
chew?
”

“
Jew,
” I said, correcting him.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“A Jew is the kind of person Allah hates the most in the world,” I said.

Imran’s expression emptied with shock. I sensed his fear. It made me want to go on. “Jews are the people who used to live in Egypt a long time ago,” I continued. “Before the pyramids…You know what the pyramids are, right?”

Imran shook his head.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that a long time ago, the Jews were very special. Allah loved them a lot. He loved them more than all other kinds of people. But then something happened.”

“What?”

“They didn’t behave. They didn’t do what they were told.” I paused, staring intently at the boy. “When Allah told them to do things, they didn’t listen. Instead of doing what Allah wanted, they did what
they
wanted. And then they even made fun of Allah behind his back…”

“Why?”

“Because they are selfish. And Allah realized this. And He started to hate them. And soon, Allah hated them more than all the other people He created. More than animals. More than pigs, even.”

Imran’s eyes widened with alarm. “Pigs?!”

I knew the effect saying this would have on him. More than alcohol, more than naked white women, more than gambling, the pig was the ultimate taboo in Islam, the summary image of everything unholy to us.

“Imran,” I continued, gravely, “when I say Jews are what Allah hates the most, I mean it. On the Day of Judgment, at the end of time, the sun will come down to the earth this high…” I pointed at the sheeted canopy above us. “On that day Allah will talk to every single person and ask him what good he did in his life and what bad he did…and the people who did more bad things will be standing on the left side of Allah”—I paused, sticking out my tongue—“and a
huge tongue
will come and swallow all these bad people away into hell. And you know who the first people will be that this tongue will swallow into hell?”

Imran shook his head.

“The Jews,” I said with finality. “The Jews will be first to go into the fire. You remember when your mom told us all about hell, right? About the fires…where bad people burn forever and ever…?”

Imran nodded. His eyes were filling with tears.

“Don’t cry,” I said. “There’s no reason to cry.
You
have nothing to be afraid of. You’re a Muslim, and if you learn your
namaaz
and you learn your holy book, you’ll never go to hell. Do you hear me? That tongue won’t wash you into hell. If you’re a Muslim, you’ll be saved.”

Tears rolled down his cheeks: “But I don’t want Nathan for a dad,” he pleaded.

“If you’re a good boy and you pray to Allah, maybe he’ll listen …”

“Really?”

“Maybe,” I offered, noncommittal, “or maybe not.”

The next morning, I woke up in pain, my bones sore from a night on the floor. I smelled ghee, heard sounds in the kitchen. It took me a moment to remember that I’d fallen asleep holding Imran in my arms as he cried. Now he was gone.

Downstairs, Mother was standing at the stove. She was surprised to find me still dressed in the previous day’s clothes. “Didn’t you change last night?” she asked. I told her I’d built a castle keep and fallen asleep inside it with Imran. “I’m such a bad mother,” she said. “I didn’t even check on you. Shame on me.”

I sat down at the kitchen table and started on a plate of fresh
paratha
s
.
Mother stood over me, watching me eat. She looked angry.

“Mom? Are you okay?” I asked, chewing.

She shrugged. “You would think that last night was a night he should have stayed home. After everything that happened yesterday. You would think that, no? A time when his
presence
was needed? His
support?
” She looked away, seeming to hold in tears. “But if you thought that, you thought wrong! Instead, he gets a call and off he goes running. Chasing
white flesh.
What is it with
Eastern men?
You would think he could
desist
for one night? There’s a crisis in the house? So you stay with your family? No? Of course not! The first thing he does is run off with a prostitute! Is that normal?”

My head was lowered. I was avoiding her gaze.

“Hayat,” she snapped.

“Hmm?”

“Is there something wrong with me for thinking that this is not
normal
behavior?!”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. And then I added: “He’s sick.”

“
Kurban,
you don’t even know half of it,” she said, sliding into the chair beside me. “I woke up this morning only to discover he was
still
gone. The man
never came home.
Who knows what happened to him? Maybe he’s dead, for all we know! So I call him at the hospital. I don’t tell them it’s me. I have them page him. After ten minutes, he finally comes to the phone. When he realizes it’s me, he starts yelling! In front of his own staff! It’s just the
height
of indecency. Not only are you off running around with women when your own family needs you—on top of that, your wife calls you to find out if you’re still alive, and you scream indecencies at her in front of your colleagues! You should have heard the things he said! What a
savage!
”

That was when the phone rang.

Mother looked over at the red receiver with dread. “It’s probably him. God only knows where he’s calling from.” She turned to me. “You pick it up. If it’s him, tell him I’m not here.”

“Where are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“If he asks me where you are…”

“I don’t know. Make up something…the post office.”

I got up and answered the phone. “Hello?” I said.

“Hi there!” a woman’s voice shot out brightly. “Can I speak to—uh—Mun…Mau …Maureen?”

“You mean Muneer?”

“Now, I guess I do. Is that your mother, young man?”

From upstairs, I heard an eruption of muffled shouts and cries. The woman on the other end was still talking, but the commotion distracted me. It was Mina’s voice, shouting. There was banging, and more chaos. And then a loud thud.

I stepped out of the kitchen and into the hall with the receiver to my ear.

“Hello? Excuse me, son…are you still there?”

“What’s going on?” Mother said, looking over at me. I was standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Is that her there? I’d love to have a word with her about your homeowner’s insurance…”

Just then, Mina’s bedroom door flew open, slamming against the wall. Imran’s fulsome wailing burst forth from within, seeming to hurl Mina from the room. She looked large, so much larger than usual. She turned to look at me. Her electric gaze was terrifying.

The next thing I knew, she seemed to be flying down the steps, the scarlet shawl around her neck like a cape billowing behind her. “You evil child!” she screeched, headed right for me. My left leg was already wet with my own urine as she tore the phone from my hand. My face exploded with pain. “How could you say those things?! How could you?!” she screamed, hitting me with the receiver. I retreated, my hands raised to protect my face. She hit me again, hard enough to crack the phone’s plastic casing.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Mother screamed, trying to pull Mina away.

Mina had beaten me back to the steps leading down to the family room.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Mother kept screaming.

She grabbed Mina by the hair and pulled. Mina’s head flew back and her mouth flew open with a rending shriek: “Aaahhiiiyyyaaa!” As she fell back, her elbow flew out and swiped me across the face. All at once my feet were lost and there was no ground. I didn’t realize I was falling until my shoulder slammed into something hard. Tumbling sidewise, I rolled end over end. I reached out to stop myself, and something cracked.

From above, Mother raced down the steps and fell to her knees. Her hands were all over my face; her fingers were covered with my blood. “Hayat! Are you okay?!” she screamed. “Are you okay?”

I was dazed. My head hurt a little, but other than that, I felt fine. “I’m okay,” I said.

Up above, Mina was standing at the top of the stairs, Imran at her side. She wore a look of horror.

Mother turned to her: “
What
the hell do you think you’re doing?!
” she screamed.

Mina shook her head, backing away from the landing as Mother stormed up the steps.

“
Bhaj…
”

Mother cut her off viciously. “If you EVER touch him again!” Her voice bellowed: “If you EVER so much as RAISE YOUR VOICE at my son…I will KILL YOU!” Mina backed away, stumbling as her son tried to hide behind her thigh.

“
Bhaj…
I’m sorry!” Mina squawked. “He was saying things to Imran…horrible things …”

Mother wasn’t listening. She grabbed Mina’s collar and slapped her across the face with an open palm. “Don’t you
ever
touch”—and again, now with the back of her hand—“my son!”

She hit Mina again and again.

I looked down at my right arm. It looked strange. Bent at the wrist, my hand canted away, like a leaf dangling from a broken stem. Without thinking, I reached out with my other hand and snapped it back into place.

Then there was pain. Only pain. Everywhere. I had never experienced anything like it.

I screamed. I kept screaming.

Upstairs, Mother froze and turned.

Behind her, Mina crumpled to a heap on the kitchen floor, covered in her scarlet shawl.

I could tell now that the pain was in my arm, not in the rest of my body, which was recoiling from the onslaught. My mind reeled, stunned at the agony, the inscrutable injustice of what I was feeling. I screamed again, but it didn’t do any good. It seemed incomprehensible to me that I should feel such pain. My mind flashed to Souhef, and I heard his voice inside me:

Who are you not to deserve this pain?

“Haaayyyaaaat!!!” Mother cried out as she appeared at the top of the steps.

That was the last thing I remembered before I blacked out.

12

Fever Dreams

T
he fracture was bad. The chips of my shattered wrist had to be surgically aligned, and since the orthopedist had an immediate window, Father and Nathan—who Father had called when we got to the hospital—decided it was best to do it right away.

I spent the hours before the surgery in a haze. What I mostly remember is pain: an explosive, electric suffering that steadied—once the painkillers kicked in—into a throbbing, burning ache along the bone. But even with the sedatives, the pain was unbearable. Its pulsing, pendulumlike rhythm waxed and waned and waxed again. I’d never felt time’s passing so palpably, the flux and flow of my anguish defining each moment as distinct from the next, now as pain, now as relief. And through it all, the temptation to feel that I was being treated unjustly persisted, like a foul odor I fought to ignore. I thought, instead, of Souhef.

Who are you to think you deserve anything better?
I heard him say.
This pain is Allah’s will for you.

The words gave me comfort and strength. As I watched Nathan hover about—he’d shown up right after Father’s call, consulting with the doctors, comforting Mother—I told myself:
I can accept my pain. I’m not like you.

I woke up in a dark hospital room, the walls flickering blue and white with the changing images on the TV quietly humming in the corner. Mother was sitting beside me in an armchair. It took me a moment to realize where I was. Then I remembered:

The fall. My wrist. The emergency room.

I looked down at my arm, covered now to the elbow in a plaster cast. It didn’t seem like it was a part of me. I tried to move it. The pain was swift and searing.

Hearing me moan, Mother got up and pressed in, holding me tightly. It only made the pain worse.

“Don’t, Mom. It hurts…”

“Okay,
kurban,
” Mother said, starting to cry.

I closed my eyes. The sharp pain faded, giving way to a dull ache. I felt wearied. By the flickering walls. By my aching arm. By Mother’s face, slick with tears.

“I’m tired,” I moaned.

“Go back to sleep. Get your rest,” she said. “I love you, Hayat. I love you more than life itself.”