American Dervish: A Novel (33 page)

They both laughed.

I wasn’t really listening to them anymore. My mind was clearing with a sudden, alarming thought.

“Sperm?” I asked. “What does it look like?”

“White and sticky,” Farhaz answered. “Like Elmer’s Glue.”

“But it smells more like bleach,” Hamza added.

They laughed again.

All at once, I realized that the white milky fluid that came out of my penis that afternoon I touched myself was sperm. He wasn’t lying. And the dawning truth that I could not escape whatever they were describing dislodged a torrent of unease inside me.

“It all sounds disgusting,” I replied, angry.

Farhaz held my gaze for a moment, then shook his head. “What’s wrong with this kid?” he said to Hamza.

“He thinks
that’s
disgusting. Wait’ll he hears about blow jobs.”

Farhaz looked at me and laughed. “That’s when you put your dick in a girl’s mouth and she sucks on it.”

Now I was sure they were making fun of me.

“Did you ever have a dream with the Prophet, Farhaz?” I asked, defiant.

“Did I what?”

“Did you have a dream with the Prophet,
peace be upon him?
”

Farhaz frowned, looking confused and not a little annoyed. “No. What’s your point?”

I shrugged. “I did.”

“So what?” Farhaz asked.

I shrugged again, feeling inwardly triumphant.

Hamza was looking at me, his gaze newly glistening with interest.

Farhaz snickered, turning away. “There she is,” he said getting up. Zakiya was standing at the bottom of the staircase.

“Hey, guys,” Zakiya offered cutely as she made her way up toward us. Sensitized to the matter, I had to admit her chest was big. Very big. “So what are you guys doing?”

Farhaz was smiling. “Just having a little discussion. Little Hayat here was ignorant about the birds and the bees…”

Zakiya smiled. “And is he still?”

“We did our best. Gotta hope for the rest…What d’you say we split up and go exploring?”

Zakiya smiled, nodding eagerly.

Farhaz turned to Hamza. “You take the kid and scope out the downstairs, Zakiya and I’ll take the upstairs. Meet back here”—he looked at his watch—“in half an hour.”

“The
walima’
s going to start,” Zakiya objected.

“They can stick their
walima
in the shitter.”

Zakiya giggled.

(After the official ceremony, called the
nikah—
and which took place in private with only two witnesses and an imam—the
walima,
or reception, followed. It was the guests’ first opportunity to see the new groom and bride.)

“So what d’you say, Hamz?” Farhaz asked, gazing down at us.

“Fine,” Hamza said.

“Let’s go,” Farhaz said to Zakiya, moving up the steps and gesturing her on. She giggled some more as she hopped up the stairs after him.

Hamza turned to me. “You ever go down to the lake?”

I nodded. I was having a difficult time looking him in the eye. I felt troubled, exposed. I didn’t know how to shake the discomfort Farhaz had awakened in me.

“Hey, Hayat,” Hamza prompted, briskly. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t worry about Farhaz,” Hamza said, patting me on the back. “My mom says he’s like that ’cause his mom died.”

“His mom died?”

“Yeah. When he was like nine.”

“That’s sad.”

“Yeah, it is… How about we head out to see the lake? Looks pretty cool.”

“Okay.”

The hall was filled with folks like us, and so was the lobby: Our various hues of brown, our baggy clothes, our skullcaps and beards, our shawls and head scarves on full display. If the help behind the desks and at the doors hadn’t been white, one could have imagined being in Cairo or Delhi or Baghdad: some architectural remnant of colonial times repossessed by the natives for their own inscrutable purposes. The young man in the tuxedo was looking on unhappily. “Keep! It! Moving! People!” he shouted as if addressing a crowd he wasn’t sure understood what he was saying. “To! The! Back!” he yelled again, exasperated. But the crowd paid him no mind. It was a growing, unruly mass, jabbering and moving about aimlessly. The young man finally gave up and returned to his perch beside the concierge’s podium, where he buried his head in his hands.

Outside, Hamza and I made our way along the sidewalk lined with shops and bars and restaurants leading down to the lakeshore. Above us, the cloud-swept sky was grim, dark—night was falling—but along the lake, the warm yellow lights in the windows and the muffled sounds of patrons dining and enjoying the evening offered a picture of life as warm, inviting. As Hamza and I walked, I noticed a woman with sandy-blond hair move past us quickly. She was wearing a thin, black overcoat, which her fingers—painted bright red—clutched at the lapels. As she hurried along, I caught the faint trace of a familiar lilac scent. The woman stopped at the door of a restaurant, and as she turned to pull it open, I realized I knew her face. I wasn’t sure why.

She disappeared inside.

“You cold?” Hamza asked.

It was chilly, but I was wearing a heavy sweater. I shook my head. We walked on, now passing the windows of the restaurant into which the woman had disappeared. I glanced inside. I didn’t see her.

“So what’s the deal with this dream? You really saw the Prophet?”

“Peace be upon him,” I added.

“Right. Peace be upon him.”

“I had a dream he saved me from this crazy woman who was chasing me. He took me to a mosque and then we led the prayer together.”

“You led prayer with the Prophet? Jeez. That is so cool… I heard that if you see the Prophet in a dream you’re gonna go to heaven.”

The conversation was only making me more uneasy. More than ever, I wanted the dream to mean what Hamza was saying, but I knew it didn’t.

We wandered farther on, toward the railing along the lakefront. “So what’d he look like?”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? The Prophet.”

I waited.

“Sorry,” Hamza said, adding, “
Peace be upon him.
”

“I don’t know. He looked good.” Then I added: “He had a gap between his front teeth.”

“I’ll bet he was a
badass,
” Hamza said, nodding. “That’s what my dad always says. That if the Prophet was still around,
we’d
be running the show. Like Bo Svenson on
Walking Tall.
You ever see that show?”

I shook my head.

“He’s this sheriff and all he has to do is carry a stick and everybody listens to him. My dad says that if the Prophet was alive today—sorry,
peace be upon him—
then we wouldn’t have any problems in Israel. He says Palestinians are babies. They want someone to take care of them. The Prophet would never let anybody—sorry,
peace be upon him—
the Prophet would never let
anyone
treat him that way. He would have taken over Israel by now if he was around.”

I heard what he was saying, but I wasn’t really listening. We were looking out at the lake now. Its surface rose and fell gently, like a slow steady breath. It was beautiful.

“Pretty cool,” Hamza said. “It’s one big lake. Sure looks like an ocean to me.”

“I guess.”

“You cold?” Hamza asked.

“Kind of.”

“We should go back. My dad’s gonna be pissed if I’m gone too long.”

“Hold on,” I said as he pulled away. “Is it true what he was saying about putting your dick in a girl’s mouth?”

Hamza nodded. “Sounds weird, doesn’t it? What’s even weirder is some guys put their mouth in a girl’s slit. They stick their tongue in there.”

“They what?”

“I saw it in a magazine.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to hear any more.

We made our way back, approaching the restaurant into which the blond woman in the overcoat had disappeared. I stopped at the window and looked inside. There she was, standing at the bar. Beside her, a man was seated, his arm around her waist.

It took me a moment to recognize it was Father.

He was listening as she talked, every part of him leaned in toward her. He sipped at a drink, nodding. He looked happy. They both did.

And then he kissed her.

As if sensing something, Father stopped. His gaze turned to the window. Our eyes met. He froze. Then the woman turned to look. I recognized her now. It was the nurse from the hospital room. Julie.

“What are you doing, Hayat?” Hamza asked. “Why are you standing there?”

“Let’s go,” I shouted, starting briskly back toward the hotel.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Hamza asked as he scurried after me.

I charged ahead, my heart darkly drumming in my ears. We were already most of the way back to the Atwater when I heard Father’s voice behind me: “Hayat!”

Hamza slowed and turned.

“Let’s go,” I said.

“Who’s that?”

“Who cares!?” I yelled, marching ahead.

“Hayat! Come back!” Father’s voice cried out again.

I didn’t stop. “Go to hell,” I muttered to myself as I went through the hotel’s revolving door.

As all of this was happening, Mina was being married in a hotel room on the tenth floor. The tale of her dramatic afternoon nuptials would become part of her legend, an episode Mother would recall and recount for years to come.

It began with a headache.

Shortly after getting to her hotel suite that afternoon, Mina started to complain she wasn’t well. Her head was hurting. She was feeling dizzy and light-headed. At some point, she asked Mother to open a window. Mother did. Then Mina asked her for a glass of water: “But cold,
bhaj.
Very cold.”

Mother took the ice bucket from the bathroom and headed out into the hall to the ice machine. On her way, Najat’s door opened abruptly, and Najat appeared in the doorway, completely covered in her black
burqa.

For a second, Mother was startled.

“Which room is it, Muneer?” Najat asked. She was holding a bag filled with Mina’s bridal jewelry.

“Ten fourteen,” Mother told her, “halfway down the hall.”

Mother watched as Najat glided down the hall, her billowing
chador
shawl trailing behind her as she went. Najat stopped at the door and knocked. She disappeared inside.

When Mother returned with the bucket of ice, Mina was in the midst of a full-blown panic attack. She was sitting on the couch, heaving as she tried to stand. Rabia, her mother, was holding her in place.

“But where do you want to go,
behti?
”

“I just need to leave,” Mina kept repeating. “I need to get out.”

“But to go where?”

“Anywhere…
Bhaj!
” she screamed suddenly when she saw Mother.

“What’s going on?”

“I need to get out.”

“Rabia, let her go,” Mother said sharply.

Rabia looked at Najat—who’d now removed her
burqa—
and Najat nodded. Rabia released her daughter, who then dashed to the window.

She stood against the sill, taking quick, deep breaths. Then she started to pull the window farther open.

Rabia shouted: “What are you doing?”

“Getting some air!” Mina shouted back. “I need more air.”

It wasn’t until Mina threw one leg onto the air-conditioning unit that Mother realized what she was doing. “Stop it!” Mother yelled, rushing to the window to take hold of her friend.

By now, Najat and Mother were both pulling Mina inside.

“I need to go out. I need to get out,” Mina kept repeating through her wheezing, labored breath.

She didn’t fight long. Najat led her back to the couch and Mother went to the bathroom to get Mina that glass of water. When she returned, Najat was already holding out a tiny, round powder-blue tablet on her open palm.

“What is it?” Mother asked.

“Valium.”

Mother offered Mina the water; Najat pushed the pill closer.

“Take it. You’ll feel better.”

Rabia, who had taken a seat next to her daughter, picked the pill from Najat’s palm and brought it to Mina’s mouth.

Mina gazed at her mother, her chest heaving. Then she closed her eyes and parted her lips. Rabia inserted the pill between her daughter’s teeth. Mina closed her mouth. Mother held the glass of water to her lips.

Mina sipped and swallowed.

“Give it ten minutes,” Najat said. “And you’ll be just fine. You’ll see.”

Mother turned to Najat and asked: “Where did you get that?”

“I always have it with me,” Najat said quietly. “I’ve been suffering panic attacks for years. I don’t know what I would do without it.”

Najat was right. It took ten minutes for Mina’s breathing to ease, and as it did, she started to feel better. She smiled as the women dressed her, and even smiled when, after a knock at the door—and after Najat stopped Mother from answering it long enough to disappear again beneath her
burqa—
Mother opened it to find the lanky, gray-clad Ghaleb Chatha standing there before her with his cadaverous gaze.

“Is she ready?” he asked.

“She may need a few minutes,” Mother replied.

“No,  
bhaj,
” Mina said lazily from her place at the couch. “I’m ready.”

“Take your time,” Chatha said. “Just to let you know Adnan is ready for the
nikah.
We’ll need the witnesses, too.”

“Thank you,
bhai-jaan,
” Mina offered in a singsong tone.

Chatha stared at her for a moment, sensing something. “Is she all right?” he asked.

“Everything’s fine, Ghaleb,” Najat said. “We’ll be right there.”

Fifteen minutes later, in room 1058, the short, unceremonious
nikah
took place. The participants gathered around the living room set: a couch, two armchairs, and a coffee table covered with a white cloth, on which a contract and two pens sat, as well as a copy of the Quran. Imam Souhef sat on a chair before the table. Sunil was on the couch beside him, Imran on his knee. Mina sat across from them, in an armchair. She wasn’t wearing a
hijab,
but a white silk
chador
shawl, which covered most of her body, leaving only her face and hands exposed. There were supposed to be two official witnesses, but since Ghaleb was the only male witness, it would take—according to Islamic law—two women witnesses to equal one male witness, so Mother and Najat were also huddled behind the couch. Just behind Souhef, Rafiq stood, watching nervously. Beside him, Rabia cried softly into a handkerchief.