American Taliban (11 page)

Ready? she asked, and put her right palm against the sole of his foot.

John nodded, and felt her gentle pressure pushing his leg back toward him. He returned the pressure, maintaining the distance between his leg and himself, and pinpricks like electrical impulses shot up his leg.

Good, she said. How does it feel?

As if my leg has been aching to do that.

Yes, your bones want and need weight on them in order to maintain their strength. She paused. I’m going to bring it up a notch. If at any point the sensation becomes unpleasant, if it feels at all like glass breaking, stop the pressure right away.

John felt her push harder, and he pushed back just enough, matching pressure with pressure.

She held it for a few moments, then released it. Good, she said. And again.

Let’s give your knee a workout. She stood, lifting his leg. Just relax, she said. Give me your leg. More, she said. Give it up. Allow me to do the work. Don’t try to do anything now.

She cupped his ankle with one hand and held his calf, just below his knee, with the other, bent and unbent the leg, then moved it side to side, then in small circles. Okay, she said, pushing his knee toward his chest. You may push back gently. Try to straighten it, but don’t lock.

John pushed, she pushed back, and they remained suspended for long seconds.

This is going well. Let’s take a quick X-ray, and if it looks good, and your doctor gives us the go-ahead, we can try putting some weight on it.

BILL HAD A MEETING
in New York City, and he offered to take John to an early dinner at Nobu Next Door, Barbara’s recommendation. She had seen Chef Nobu on the
Today
show, and seeing him work, she said, you just know the food will be amazing.

105 Hudson, between Franklin and North Moore, John e-mailed Bill, and they agreed to meet at 5:30.

It was early, and the wait was short. Seated, they studied the menu.

John was torn. He wanted a taste of the cooked dishes, but he also couldn’t pass up sushi rolls. Not here, in sushi heaven.

Order two starters, one cold and one hot, and then a sushi roll, Bill recommended. He ordered sake, the ceviche Nobu style as an appetizer, and the broiled black cod with miso as his entrée.

After considering the fish and chips Nobu style, the sashimi tacos, the lobster tempura, John finally settled on the salmon skin salad, the eggplant with miso, and the bigeye and bluefin toro scallion roll.

Bill asked about classes and Sharia students. Have they been welcoming?

Some, John said. Others are wary and critical. I’m told it’s because I’m not Muslim.

I can understand that, Bill said. You’re taking on their texts without adhering to their tenets.

I think it’s also a sort of territorial thing—

The first course arrived, and for the next five minutes they gave all
their attention to the compositions in front of them, drops and dabs and garnishes placed with the precision of an ink painting.

Weird but good, John said, tasting the salmon skin. He offered Bill a taste.

As an American, he continued, I think I threaten them when I enter their school, the one place they can think of as totally theirs. Does that make sense?

Sure, Bill said. Especially since you also bring with you American-style freedom.

John nodded. With his chopsticks, he reached for another mouthful of his salad, but paused midair.

Um—Dad. De Niro just walked in.

Well, he owns the place, Bill said.

John waited.

De Niro nodded greeting and moved toward the bar lined with illuminated sake bottles. The bartender poured him a cup, and he sipped, and the liquid, John thought, somehow expanded the man, and he filled the entire space. Sake cup in hand, he was suddenly at their table, asking how’s everything. He shook Bill’s hand.

Truly excellent, Bill said.

Awesome, John said.

Good, good. Enjoy, De Niro said, and moved to another table.

John returned to his salmon salad; Bill to his ceviche and sake.

What else are you reading, Bill asked.

Sufi poetry. Sufi books. One by Idries Shah. He mentions this wine allegory from the thirteenth century by a Sufi poet, Suhrawardi. It goes something like this:

The seed of Sufism was sown in the time of Adam, germed in the time of Noah, budded in the time of Abraham, began to develop in the time of Moses, reached maturity in the time of Jesus, and produced pure wine in the time of Muhammed. It’s cool because it connects everything. Prophets, humans, religions, time.

The entrées arrived with a flourish. Bill tried his black cod with miso and leaned back to savor it.

John tasted. It’s the miso. It’s awesome.

You’re interested in thinkers and thinking, Bill said. You might want to try philosophy at Brown.

JOHN WAS PLEASED
to find Khaled in his usual pose, leaning on the stair railing and smoking, exuding his particular not-quite-American nonchalance, which revealed itself in the way he held his cigarette between thumb and index finger, as if he were smoking a joint; in the way his shoulders hunched around his cigarette; the way he stretched his words out, which didn’t quite go with the way he stood a little too close, with no sense of the airspace Americans allow each other.

When Khaled saw John, he stopped short, and John felt himself taken in, his lime-green cast, his new white shalwar kameez, his old navy peacoat worn casually unbuttoned over them, the Black Watch tartan scarf hanging from his neck, and his favorite checkered Van sneaker on one foot. He’d dressed for effect, and it wasn’t going unnoticed.

Khaled smiled, appreciatively. Salaam, he said. Islam looks good on you.

Aleikum a salaam, John responded.

I printed the brochure for you, Khaled said, reaching into his pocket.

What brochure? John asked, trying to recall a conversation about a brochure.

Of Islamia College, Khaled reminded him. So you can apply for the summer semester, when I’ll be there.

The summer semester? John echoed.

The Sharia recommends it highly, our version of junior year abroad.

John stopped at the foot of the old synagogue’s first step. He could smell Khaled’s breath. Though he liked him well enough, such close physical proximity to another male was new to him. He shifted to the right, and adjusted his left crutch in order to free his left hand and receive the brochure.

The pictures were in color and depicted what looked like countryside, a mountainous region identified by the caption as the blue Margalla Hills. John mouthed the words. Blue. Margalla. And found them attractive. The school’s main building was pale stone done in Moghul style. The classically laid out long stone walks and arches and fountains were tree lined and immaculate. In the background, powder-blue sky with the Margalla Hills in a blue haze in the far distance. The brochure also featured a photo of Islamia’s president in turban and white tunic, with an old-style Dickensian coat over it.

You should go online to find out more, Khaled said, throwing his head back to blow his smoke away from John. He put out his cigarette, relieved John of one of his crutches, and they walked up the steps.

You have a new cast, Khaled said, pointing with his chin toward John’s leg.

Yes. And in two weeks, I’ll no longer need it.

Excellent, Khaled said. Then we can do things.

John nodded. He’d like that. He wondered what sorts of things Khaled did in his off time. He worked, John already knew, at a video store in downtown Brooklyn, and he also helped out an older brother in some kind of moving business. He would have no interest, John knew without asking, in the skaters at Brooklyn Banks. He was somehow too grown up or too elegant for grinding.

IN CLASS
, John worked hard to respond in full sentences to questions put to him in al-r-ra-be-ya, and though he managed only with difficulty, with long pauses and multiple ums, Mr. Sami complimented him and threatened the others: If you don’t do something about it, this new all-American talib will soon surpass you.

After class, Fawal walked up to John and asked him what he thought he was up to. John looked at him.

What do you mean? John said, careful not to match hostility with hostility.

The student pointed at John’s clothes. Either you’re Muslim or you’re not. You can’t pick and choose parts.

Khaled stepped up. He’s American, he said in Arabic. Let him be.

He steered John toward the door. Outside they found Noor and Samina already in conversation.

Noor stepped back and stared at John. Why are you dressed like that?

John shrugged. Asked that way, the question was unanswerable.

Why? Samina asked, ending the uncomfortable silence. Don’t you think it suits him?

Khaled agreed. It does somehow suit him, even with his cast and crutches.

That’s not the point, Noor said. I just don’t understand why.

Why not? Khaled said.

John swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat. He was grateful to Khaled for backing him up.

Do we have time for tea together? Samina asked.

Khaled looked at his watch. I have an hour before my shift. Can we go somewhere nearby?

There’s the corner bistro, Samina suggested.

Does your mom know about this? Noor asked when they were seated.

John shook his head. My mom would laugh and call it a phase.

The tea arrived. I wonder, Samina said, why you mind. They’re only clothes.

He’s not Muslim, Noor said. So it’s kind of like a lie.

What if looking Muslim helps him become one? Khaled inquired. Would that make you feel better?

Noor leaned her head on her arm. It’s just that it’s not who he really is.

But students in America do things like this all the time, Samina said. My friend Alice is doing the seventies this year. Last year, she did grunge, which her parents hated, but her boyfriend was into it.

John was relieved when the conversation finally drifted away from him. Samina, he learned, was a second-year, full-scholarship, French-literature major at Barnard, making the long trip from Brooklyn to Morningside Heights every day.

Next year, she said, I want to live on campus. Or I might do junior year in Paris. Khaled will be in Pakistan anyway.

I wanted to live at school, too, Noor seconded, but NYU is so close, and my mom and little brother would be too sad if I moved out.

Khaled had to get going, and Samina went with him.

See you tomorrow, Khaled said. They’d paired up for a class assignment. Working together, Mr. Sami suggested, can make it more fun and productive.

Noor and John walked toward Atlantic Avenue. Noor was silent, and finally John said, If you hate me in these clothes I won’t wear them again.

No, she said. It just came as a surprise.

They were at his corner, and Noor paused.

Do you want to stop at my place? John asked.

I can’t, she said, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him, right-left-right, whispered good-bye, and walked off.

John stood on the sidewalk, puzzled, watching her retreating red coat. She definitely didn’t like him in Muslim clothes. She’d welcomed his not being Muslim, he understood now. Maybe because her father objected to it. She was complicated, this was complicated, more than he knew what to do with, and it wasn’t even really about him. He turned toward home.

Inside, still in his jacket, he stood in front of the mirror. It’s certainly not because these clothes are unattractive, he decided. The white definitely went with his dark brown hair. And his dark jacket made the thin cotton seasonally appropriate. He looked like a traveler, a great adventurer. Sir John Parish, at your service, he introduced himself to himself, and bowed.

THEIR ASSIGNMENT—
a short essay on a verse from the Qur’an, written in al-r-ra-be-ya—required real thinking rather than mere memorization, and John found himself looking forward to it. He’d read Corbin on Ibn ’Arabi’s interpretation of Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, on the angel’s identity and the story’s meaning, and now he thought it might be cool to write about it. He would wait for Khaled, who might have other ideas.

In the meantime, he read more of Corbin, practiced the alphabet, then went to shower, which still took twice as long as it should, but half as long as it had the week before. After which he was hungry. He planned to make a quick sandwich, then he remembered that he had eaten his last slice of bread the day before. And he also had no milk or juice left, nor much else. He would have to find a supermarket. He’d passed corner delis, but no supermarket. He hoped Khaled could help.

Khaled arrived twenty minutes late. John was just finishing the last of the frozen meals his mother had stacked in his freezer.

Coffee, he told Khaled, pouring water into the electric drip machine on the counter, is all I can offer. Where’s the nearest supermarket?

Khaled thought about it. It’s really too far for you to walk. Besides, how’re you gonna carry your groceries home? Can you wait until tomorrow? I’ll try to borrow my brother’s car.

John nodded. I’ll stop at a local deli in the meantime. Or order in.

He showed Khaled the apartment. Roor-fa ah-noum hoo-naa, he said, and opened the door to his bedroom. Khaled followed him into the kitchen, which John introduced as his math-bahk, then outside to al Ha-dee-qa.

This is all for you? Khaled asked. And you don’t even have a keT-Ta or kelb.

They laughed. We used to have a cat, when I was little.

THAT’S THE JEWISH VERSION
, Khaled said when John mentioned Jacob Wrestling with the Angel.

Genesis, John said. So?

The point is it’s not in al-r-ra-be-ya, Khaled said, stretching out the vowels for emphasis. And this assignment is intended as an exercise in language. Is it all right to smoke? he asked, patting his pockets for a pack.