American Dervish: A Novel (20 page)

By Sunday, Nathan was back. It was the day Father had agreed to accompany him to the South Side Islamic Center so that Nathan could introduce himself to the imam. Father asked me if I wanted to come along. I was ecstatic. Father almost never took me to the mosque. Of course I wanted to go, I told him.

Nathan showed up at the house late that morning wearing the same skullcap he’d worn the day he’d told his tale of Ibrahim. Father had never seen him in a
topi
skullcap before, and made no attempt to hide his surprise as we all stood in the vestibule before heading out.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Nate? Why are you wearing that thing on your head?”

“We’re going to the mosque, Naveed.”

“So?”

“I want to be respectful.”

“I think he looks handsome,” Mina said, proudly. “Don’t you think,
bhaj?
”

“I
love
the
topi,
” Mother said. She was holding Imran. “And the beard, too. It makes him look dignified.”

Father rolled his eyes. “He already knows what I think of that growth on his face. But it’s even worse with the
topi.
The man looks like a damn imam. You’re a doctor, Nate. Not a
maulvi.
”

“Not yet,” Mina replied with a smile.

“God forbid,” Father moaned.

Nathan pointed at me. “
He’s
wearing one,” he said.

Father shook his head. “He’s a child, Nate. He doesn’t know any better…”

Nathan looked at me, holding my gaze with a smile.

I looked away.

“Let’s get going,” Father said, pulling his keys from his pocket. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this. I really can’t believe it.”

“It’s ’cause you love me, Naveed,” Nathan said, playfully.

“It’s true,” Father said, suddenly serious. “I do.”

For years, local Muslims had made do on religious holidays with impromptu prayer rooms hastily prepared in the banquet wings of area hotels. Adnan Souhef—a portly chemist from Jordan with enough religious education to pass for an imam—serviced the community’s need to congregate by renting the rooms out and getting them ready for worship the night before either of the biannual Eid festivals: covering coffee-stained carpets with white sheets—bleached and ironed—on which worshippers could pray; erecting a
mihrab
(prayer niche) to indicate the direction of Mecca; raising a curtain to separate the sexes; and finally, installing the PA system that allowed the women on the other side of that curtain to hear the
khutbah
(sermon) that Souhef would deliver before the prayer. For ten years, this was the routine; ten years, for that’s how long it took Souhef to raise enough money not to have to make do any longer.

By 1980, Souhef and his consortium of local Muslim-American professionals had enough saved to fund the purchase of a permanent home. And so it was that, for the price of a quarter of a million dollars, the Molaskey Schoolhouse—an abandoned glory in the middle of a Polish neighborhood on the South Side—would become our first Islamic Center.

Named for the hill on which it was perched, the Molaskey Schoolhouse stood four stories tall, a solid stone-and-brick block of a building complete with rounded towers and conical roofs. It looked more like a fort than a mosque. Overlooking the southbound highway, its Romanesque Revival façade (complete with Gothic gables) was dark with years of exhaust from passing cars. Empty of the children who’d once passed along its hallways and played on its lots—and whose presence would have softened the austere, forbidding impression—the Islamic Center gave off a sinister, even haunted air.

“There it is,” Father said as he turned off the highway and merged onto the steeply canted Molaskey Street.

“How funny,” Nathan said. “I’ve seen it from the highway a thousand times. I always thought it was abandoned.”

“Would be better for us all if it was,” Father said. We climbed another twenty yards, then turned into a parking lot filled with cars. “There he is,” Father said in a joking tone.

“Who?” Nathan asked.

Father pointed over at the front steps as he pulled into an empty spot. “The king clown himself…or king
crook,
I should say.” He was pointing at Imam Souhef, who was standing on the stairs and smoking a cigarette.

“Who is that?”

“Imaaam Souhaaaif.” Father drew out the syllables for mocking effect, throwing the car into park.

“Why are you calling him a crook?”

“Did you ever meet a man of God who loved God half as much as he loved money?”

Nathan was peering out the window, intrigued.

“You hear me, Nate?”

“I heard you…To be honest—yes, Naveed. I have met men of God who love God more than money.”

“In books,” Father snickered.

“No. When I was a kid. My dad had a close friend who was a rabbi. He was a good man. Genuinely. A
really
good man. People in his synagogue adored him.”

“Well, go back there, Nate! Go back!” Father said, pushing at Nathan playfully. “I don’t know what you’re doing here…”

Nathan shook his head as he popped open the passenger-side door. He paused before getting out. “Naveed, I need to make a good impression on these people. I’m probably gonna need this guy in some way…”

Father waved Nathan off. “Don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior…”

“Thanks.”

“Just don’t come complaining when he bleeds you dry for consulting services and fees.”

“Fees? For what?”

“Your conversion. Your this. Your that. And God only knows what else.”

From the front steps, Souhef watched us as we made our way toward him. He was a sight to behold: his girth filling out the shimmering, silk-woven robe that flowed and billowed about his imposing frame; his unusually long, gray-black beard, its tapered tip swaying in the blistering August breeze; and on his head, the white skullcap that gleamed, like a solar panel, flat and bright in the midday sun. Father had known Souhef a long time—the two of them had been among the first of our kind to move into the area—and I’d heard more than an earful about the man over the years. For her part, Mother never took anything Father said about Souhef seriously. She couldn’t understand why Father even bothered to offer an opinion about an imam. After all, a man who drank and cheated on his wife couldn’t claim to have any
credibility,
she liked to say. As for my own feelings about Souhef, on the rare occasions that I ever saw him, I was drawn to the man. He had a commanding presence, and though his sermons could be terrifying—filled with Islamic fire and brimstone, and delivered with decisive and pitiless passion—I always recalled his very palpable warmth. To many of the Muslims in our community, Souhef was a guardian angel. He presided over births and marriages and deaths, made midnight house calls in cases of spiritual crisis and domestic conflict, and even interceded with local authorities in matters as unremarkable as a Muslim boy who’d been barred from gym class for refusing to shower publicly in the locker room.

But despite Souhef’s very obvious devotion to our community, Father didn’t like him. He conceded the man was committed, but to his pocketbook, Father liked to say. As proof, he told the story of Souhef’s first approaching him ten years earlier, when the Islamic Center was nothing more than a proposal scratched out in Souhef’s hand on a piece of paper. Souhef asked Father for a donation. Father declined. A few months later, Souhef came back to ask for money again, but now saying it was on behalf of a Palestinian immigrant in dire straits. Souhef told Father a tale about a man who’d escaped torture at the hands of Israelis and was fighting to stay in this country. Father was moved and pulled out his checkbook.

“Who do I write the check to?”

“To me,” Souhef replied.

“To you?”

“Brother Shah, don’t doubt me. He’s a poor man. He doesn’t know about banks and checks and things like that. He’ll get the money. As Allah is my witness.”

Father was still skeptical, but he wrote a check for a thousand dollars anyway.

Over the next few weeks and months, Father asked Souhef for news about the Palestinian. He was perplexed that he’d never heard from the man, not a call to thank him, not a note. Souhef was always evasive. Until, one day, he told Father that the Palestinian had been picked up by immigration and deported. That was the only confirmation Father needed: He’d long since concluded that the Palestinian had been Souhef’s ruse to get Father to cough up cash. From that day on, Father wanted nothing more to do with him.

“How are those brains doing, Doctor?” Souhef asked playfully as we approached the mosque steps. He stood above us, a cigarette between his lips, glancing at Nathan, then back at Father.

“Fine, Adnan,” Father replied, curtly.

“Mashallah,”
Souhef responded, laying his right hand—which was bandaged—against his heart. I was surprised at the warmth of his gesture; I wondered if he had noticed Father’s coldness, or if he was just ignoring it. “So tell me, Naveed—are you any closer to discovering the secret of life?”

“Didn’t know there was one.”

“There is, brother. There is,” Souhef replied with a wry smile, drawing on his cigarette.

“Guess we’ll have to wait until we can lay you out and figure out what’s going on in that brain of yours, Adnan.”

“Won’t be worth your while. Nothing up there but air. Air and homesickness,” Souhef said, his mouth leaking smoke. He glanced at me, smiling.

I smiled back.

Just then, three men passed us. They climbed the steps, each placing his right hand on his heart to greet the imam: “
Assalamulaikum,
Imam.”

“
Valaikum-salaam,
” Souhef replied with a short nod.

The men stopped as they got to the top of the stairs, looking back at Nathan. Nathan nodded. “
Assalamulaikum,
” he said.

Surprised, the men broke into bright smiles. “
Valaikum-salaam,
” they replied, lingering at the door. One of them nodded again, reiterating his greeting. Nathan repeated his own. The men nodded some more and finally went inside.

I noticed Souhef studying Nathan intently.

Father cleared his throat. “Adnan…I’d like you to meet my colleague at the lab, Nathan Wolfsohn. Nathan…Adnan Souhef, the imam here at the Islamic Center.”

“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” Nathan replied, nervously offering his hand. The imam showed his bandaged hand. “Excuse me, brother,” he said, putting his hand to his heart instead.

“What happened to your hand, Adnan?” Father asked.

“I was fixing the sink. I hurt it.”

“Are you okay?”

“A nasty cut, Naveed. But it’s fine. It actually served as inspiration for me. For today’s
khutbah…
”

There was an awkward pause as Father didn’t respond.

Souhef turned to Nathan. “So what brings you to us, brother?”

“I have an interest in Islam,” Nathan began stiffly, as if repeating something he’d rehearsed. “I have interest in your way, sir…in the way of submission as I understand it.”

Father looked out at the parking lot, embarrassed. My gaze followed his. On the lot, the rows of parked cars shimmered and shook in the waves of heat coming up from the hot asphalt. The bitter odor of softening tar filled the air. “More people every time I’m here, Adnan,” Father said, turning back to Souhef. “You’ve got a good racket going…”

“Racket?”

“You know…operation.”

Souhef stared at Father without replying. Father stared back. The tension between them was palpable.

“If Allah is pleased, brother, then we are, too,” Souhef responded remotely, his lips closing around the filter of his cigarette as he pulled in more smoke. I noticed that though I was covered in sweat—and so were Nathan and Father—there wasn’t a sign of perspiration anywhere on the imam, not his face, not his hands. Souhef finally turned away from Father, exhaling. “Brother Nathan. Is your interest in our way curiosity or something more? I hope you don’t mind if I ask…”

“No, I don’t mind, Imam,” Nathan replied, still nervous. “Umm—actually, to be honest, it started as curiosity. But the more I’ve learned about Islam…the more personal my interest has become.”

“I see.”

“I hope it’s okay if I’m here,” Nathan added.

Souhef smiled. “Of course, you’re welcome to join us, brother. Just be sure to remove your shoes downstairs. Naveed will show you…and please take a place at the back of the room for the prayer.” Souhef took a final drag, smoking the cigarette down to its filter. “What’s your tradition, brother?”

“Well…I was born into the Jewish faith.”

I noticed a sudden feline glint in Souhef’s eye. “People of the book,” he said.

“Thank you, Imam,” Nathan said.

Souhef continued: “We all come from Ibrahim. Our Jewish brothers from Isaac. Muslims from Ishmail…”

Nathan glanced over at me.

“You know our Quran, brother, don’t you?” Souhef asked.

“I do, Imam. I’ve been learning.”

“Allah’s greatest miracle.”

“Indeed.”

“The very sounds of reality itself,” Souhef added in an impressive tone. “The great song of the atoms and molecules crying out Allah’s praise.”

“The music of the spheres,” Nathan added eagerly.

Father rolled his eyes.

Souhef nodded, smiling, and tossed the filter to the steps. He looked as if he were about to go inside when he paused. A gaunt man in an ash-gray suit was making his way from among the cars toward us. It was Ghaleb Chatha. I hadn’t seen him since that December night more than two years earlier, when he’d explained the curse on the Jews. He looked different: his beard was thick and full now, covering most of his pockmarked face, and his gray, lifeless eyes were bigger than I remembered.

“Brother Chatha,” Souhef said warmly. Chatha stopped alongside Father, pressing his eyelids shut and offering the imam a slow, deliberate nod. He turned to Father, repeating the gesture, but with noticeably less warmth.

“Naveed. Good to see you here.”

“Good to see you, too, Ghaleb,” Father replied, without much conviction.