American Dervish: A Novel (15 page)

They will not fear. They will not grieve.

There was a short silence. Sonny was looking at Chatha. “Explain that,” he said. “Reconcile
that,
my dear
maulvi-sahib.
”

“Reconcile?” Chatha asked.

“C’mon, man!” Sonny exploded. “God condemns them in verse sixty-one, which you choose to underline, and then follows it with accepting them in the next?! That’s an outright contradiction and unless you can explain it, it renders
both verses utterly meaningless…”

Dawood and Majid traded alarmed looks. Both turned to Chatha, expectant. But Chatha didn’t look worried. “The answer is simple,” he began. “And if you knew the Quran at all, you wouldn’t ask such a question. You wouldn’t pit one verse against the next like a riddle to be resolved! There is no contradiction! The Quran is perfect and complete.”

“What’s the answer, Ghaleb?” Sonny insisted.

“Doctor-
sahib,
” Chatha said with disdain, “our dear Allah would accept them, every single one of them, if only they would behave. But they
don’t
behave. They
don’t
obey. And as long as they don’t, they will pay. If they were to behave righteously, they would be accepted with open arms. But this is the tragedy of the Jew: That he will never learn. Not until he’s roasting in hellfire!”

I thought again of Jason Blum…

Until his parents took him out of school two months into fourth grade, Jason had been my new best friend. With an open, welcoming face—something about his wide-set eyes and broad toothy smile made you feel like you could trust him—he exuded uncommon confidence for a fourth grader. He was the smartest kid in class, and the best dressed: in a Polo or Lacoste shirt, his colored corduroys always matching, the same eternally gleaming Stan Smith tennis shoes on his feet.

Jason’s country club attire was less an indicator of his family’s lifestyle—they were Jewish, and would never have been accepted as members at Indian Hills, the local country club—and more a product of his passion for tennis. He was all the rage in the under-ten category of the local USTA. One evening in his bedroom, our vision blurred by a solid afternoon spent in front of the television playing Atari, he pulled the state ranking booklet from his bookshelf.

“Check it out,” he said, opening to a page.

There he was. In a murky black-and-white shot, unsmiling but unmistakable, the number-one-ranking holder. Under his picture was listed a name I didn’t recognize: Yitzhak Blum.

“Is that your name?” I asked.

“Yeah. It was my grandfather’s name. He died in the Holocaust,” he said blankly. “But everyone calls me Jason. I like Jason better.”

“How do you say your real name?”

He pronounced it, and the gutturals he spoke sounded not unlike sounds my own parents made at home when they talked to each other in Punjabi. I repeated it back to him. “Exactly. That’s really good, Hayat,” he said, impressed. “But I like Jason better.”

He couldn’t have been half as impressed as I was. I’d never met anyone who had his picture in a book before. He shut it and returned it to the shelf, then said matter-of-factly: “I’m Jewish. That’s why my grandfather was killed in the Holocaust. You know what the Holocaust is, right?”

I nodded. “Isn’t that when Hitler killed everybody?”

“It’s when he killed the Jews. He hated us.”

“Oh,” I replied. I felt silly. I realized that Mother had explained this to me when she wouldn’t let me watch the miniseries that had created such a stir the previous year.
He’s gonna think you’re an idiot,
I thought.

“What are you?” he asked.

“Muslim,” I replied.

He nodded, picking up a racket in the corner. I watched him, my awe only growing, as he swung it. Here before me was my first Jewish friend, tennis champ and classroom math brain, an example, I thought, of exactly why Mother said Jews were so special. If I had ever had any doubt about Mother’s claims, Jason put them to rest. “My mom says you guys are special,” I said with admiration.

“Who?”

“Jews.”

“Oh.” Jason shrugged. “Guess we are,” he added. And then, with a sudden thought, he pointed at me. “Moslem…so that means you don’t go to church, you go to a mosque, right?”

I nodded. “But we don’t go much. Only like on holidays and stuff.”

Jason nodded. “So we’re the only ones at Mason who don’t go to church?”

“You don’t go to church?” I asked.

“Not on your life. You couldn’t get me in a church if you paid me. The Christians think we killed Jesus. My dad says they’re crazy. He says
they’re
the ones who killed Jesus themselves, and then they blamed us for it.”

I knew the basics of the story Muslims told about Jesus, a story Mina would tell me in great detail a few years later: that Jesus never actually died, but was saved by God at the last minute. I also knew that we Muslims considered Jesus a prophet, but not the Son of God. I mentioned both details to Jason.

“I don’t know about all that…All I know is, my dad says the guy was loony. He’d be in a hospital for crazy people if he was alive today. My dad says the guy was looking to get killed. He says Jesus had a death wish.”

I nodded. I didn’t really know much about the whole thing. And it sounded to me like Jason did.

A week after he said those things to me about Jesus at his house, he would apparently repeat them at school. I wasn’t there to hear it, but I was present for the aftermath.

It was morning recess and I couldn’t find him. After combing the playground—the kickball diamonds and tetherball posts—I found myself at the edge of the school grounds, where I noticed a group of boys gathered around a tree, cheering. Through an opening in the curtain that the boys’ backs formed, I spied Jason. He was leaned against the tree.

“Jason!” I shouted. He didn’t hear me.

As I made my way toward them, one of the boys stepped away from the tree, zipping himself up. Another stepped forward. The new boy pulled his pants down to his knees and began to pee. Someone moved and I saw Jason clearly. His hands were tied to the tree. And the boy was peeing on him.

“Jew! Jew! Jew! Jew!” they started jeering.

“You’re the one with the
death wish!
” one of them shouted.

“Stop it!” I yelled. I sprinted ahead, throwing myself at them. “Stop it! Stop it!”

Hands grabbed at my windbreaker, pulling it over my head. The boys shoved me back and forth between them, weak blows slapping against my back. I heard the hiss of the playground supervisor’s whistle, and everyone went scurrying off. I pulled the jacket from my head and saw Jason. He was crumpled against the tree, drenched in urine, weeping.

I went over and started to untie him. “Are you okay?” I asked.

He just shook his head. He wouldn’t even look up at me.

That afternoon, I was sent to the principal’s office to report the perpetrators. The boys were suspended, and I would become a pariah for weeks for having squealed for the sake of a Jew.

Jason’s parents would end up pulling him from school. I would never see him again.

The
kawa
tea came, wheeled in on a trolley by Najat and a couple of the other wives. Sonny rose as the women started serving. He made his apologies to Najat, shook hands with Father, then left—and without a word to Chatha. Amidst the ensuing (and uneasy) tinkle of stirring spoons and the slurping sips, the men’s discussion drifted back to the subject of Carter and Reagan. Chatha tried to provoke Father into picking up the discussion about Jews again. Father wasn’t interested. He kept to himself.

On the way out to the car that night, my parents got into an argument. Father was angry that Mother had made him come to the dinner. He got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, and Mother—who didn’t want to have to sit next to him—made me sit in front. As we drove back through the continuing snowstorm, the car’s headlights rushing forward into the thick, insistent swirl of falling flakes, Father simmered in silence. He said nothing about the argument that had taken place among the men. Not to Mother. Not to me. And I sat next to him, worried.

I was worried that if what Chatha had said about Jews was right, then Jason’s troubles had only just begun…

8

Independence Day

W
hen do the fireworks start?” Nathan asked Mother.

We were sitting in folding chairs at the edge of the local high school football field, one of the few points of local elevation, and thus a privileged perch from which to watch the municipal fireworks. We came every year with our Tupperware containers filled with Pakistani food and
lassi,
and this year Nathan had joined us as well.

“When it gets dark,” Father replied, taking a bite of a
samosa.
“What? You’ve never seen fireworks before?”

“I have, Naveed. I was just wondering. I mean, the sun’s already setting.”

“They’ll start when they start, Nate.”

“Fair enough.” Nathan looked in the direction of the goalpost, where Imran was playing with a new action figure Nathan had given him that evening back at the house. “I think he likes that figure I got him,” he said to Mina.

“Looks like it,” she replied with a high-pitched, singsong tone. She handed him a plastic plate heaped with white rice and ground beef curry. “You want some
lassi,
Nate?” she asked.

“Do I ever.”

Mina flashed him a wide grin.

I’d been noticing more and more that there was something different about Mina when Nathan was around, something stilted and performed. Something false. I couldn’t understand what it was about him that made her like this.

Mina held out a cup. Mother poured the yogurt drink into it, humming a tune to herself.

“What do you keep humming?” Mina asked.

“That song on the radio all day.”

“‘America the Beautiful,’” Nathan said.

“What?” Mother asked.

“It’s called ‘America the Beautiful.’ That’s what you’re humming.”

“I like it,” Mother said. Mina handed Nathan the
lassi,
then served another small plate of food and rose to her feet.

“Where are you going?” Nathan asked.

“I’m going to get Imran to eat something.” She walked over to her son and sat down next to him. As soon as he saw the food, Imran started whining.

Mother stopped humming. “Not good,” she muttered as she watched Mina with her son. Imran was slapping at his mother’s arm, to bat the plate away. He finally upended it, the food spilling on the grass. She got up and made her way back to us, empty plate in hand.

“
Bhaj?
Can you give me a couple
gulab jamun
s?”

“That’s for dessert.”

“He said he’ll eat that. I just want him to eat something.”

“You should be firmer with him. He leads you around by the nose.”

Mina stiffened. “What do you suggest?” she asked coldly.

“
Make
him eat.” Mother made no move for the dessert bin.

“That’s what I’m
trying
to do,” Mina replied, irritated. “Please just give me a few
gulab jamun
s.”

“You know where they are. Take them yourself.”

Mina stared at Mother, incredulous.

“I’ll get them for you, Meen,” Nathan offered, setting his plate down on the blanket. Mina ignored him as she kneeled and snatched the oblong container, tearing open the plastic lid and picking out two golden, syrupy balls.

She stood again and walked back over to her son.

“Always creating trouble, Muneer,” Father said as he chewed. “Let her bring up her own child.”

Mother turned to him, her eyebrows arched. “See those blondes over there?” She gestured at a group of girls in shorts playing Frisbee farther out on the field. “Why don’t you offer them some of your
sage counsel?
Maybe they’ll get you drunk in return? Hmm? Who knows, maybe you’ll even get lucky. You would like that, I’m sure.”

“That’s enough, Muneer,” Father said firmly.

Mother pursed her lips. She turned to Nathan now. “She’s creating a monster…”

Nathan didn’t reply. He smiled weakly, looking down at his plate.

When Mina returned, she took up a plate for herself, serving herself a small portion of rice and beef. No one spoke as she ate.

The aluminum joints of Father’s folding chair released with a groan as he rose. “Good food, ladies. As always,” he said as he walked off.

I watched to see if he was going to go over to the blondes. Instead, he went to the parking lot, where he pulled open our car trunk and stood there.

Mother watched Mina as she ate. Mina ignored her.

When Mina was done, she set her plate down. Mother reached out for the dessert bin, opened it, and pulled out a sticky
gulab jamun
ball, which she set down on Mina’s plate. Mina looked up, her gaze locking in with Mother’s. They stared at each other for a moment, their expressions completely blank…

And then they burst out laughing.

“You can be such a pain,
bhaj,
you know that?”

“You’re not the first to say it,” Mother said with a smile.

“I don’t think you’re a pain, Muneer,” Nathan added, clearly relieved.

“You don’t know me that well, Nathan. Just wait. You’ll find out.”

He laughed. Then he looked over at Imran. “I’m gonna go check up on him,” Nathan said, rising, his plate of unfinished food in hand.

He walked over to the goalpost and sat down beside Imran. As Nathan tried to get the boy to eat, Imran marched his action figure through Nathan’s food. Nathan watched, seeming amused, and soon enough they were playing together, each taking turns at marching the figure across Nathan’s plate.

I looked over at the parking lot again. Father was still standing there, staring down into the open trunk. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing there. All at once, he slammed it shut.

“We had fun,” Nathan said as he plopped back into his chair. “I even got him to eat a little.”