“I need to speak to you about the situation Abu Fahd discussed with you,” he said, without waiting for me to say anything.
“I can’t really talk to you about that.”
“I also have my own questions. Can you meet me?”
I agreed because getting out of the apartment seemed like a good idea and any distraction from thoughts of Zuha and Aamir felt like a welcome one. Besides, somehow, my acquaintance with Qais had been the most uncomplicated relationship in my life. He gave me the name of an Egyptian restaurant on Jones Street and we agreed on a time.
I arrived ten minutes early and he was already there. The restaurant itself was fine. The sparse furniture and uninspired ambience were typical of the Tenderloin District.
Qais frowned when he saw me. The black eye I had forming was not pretty.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Were you attacked by racists?”
“What?”
“Islamophobia. It’s everywhere these days.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Did they jump you near the mosque? Just tell me who it was, and I will take care of them, you better believe that.”
“I didn’t get hit because I’m Muslim. I got hit because I’m not Muslim enough.”
“One of us did that?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s our problem right there. No unity among the ummah, you know. It’s like brother against brother out there.”
“That’s precisely what it is like.”
“Very sad.”
“Sure. What did you want to talk about?”
“Let’s get some food first.”
He ordered something called hawawshy. I got the same thing without looking at the menu.
“Here is the thing,” Qais said, leaning forward to whisper, though we were virtually alone in the restaurant. “I want to make sure you know not to repeat anything Abu Fahd told you.”
“I couldn’t repeat it even if I wanted to. He hired me as his attorney.”
“He paid you?”
“Using breath mints.”
Qais grinned. “You’re great.”
“I’m aware. It means everything he told me is confidential.”
“Good. Very good. Very bad things could happen if people found out. He never should have told you. We agreed not to tell anyone.”
“He was worried about his daughter.”
Qais nodded. “It is still strange of him to go back on his word. Abu Fahd takes his honor very seriously. Once Azza ran out of the house without her niqab for some reason. I can’t even remember why she did it. He locked her in a room and didn’t feed her for three days. You’re shocked? Yes. It is shocking, maybe, but not so surprising. All that grief, all that pain, it shifts the balance of the mind, no?”
I’d heard stories of women being abused, and been forced to sit through a couple of Pakistani television dramas where such violence was a theme, but it was foreign to my personal experience. Learning this about Azza was like coming home to find that someone had broken in and rearranged everything, so nothing was where it should’ve been.
I couldn’t react much or even seem interested, of course. Qais couldn’t know that I knew Azza. From his perspective, the only reason for me to care about his story was Abu Fahd. If I wanted to know more, I’d have to direct my inquiry through Azza’s father. “What do you mean by grief and pain?”
As the waiter returned with water, Qais fell silent. When we were alone again, he changed the subject. “Since you are accepting food as payment these days…”
“I’m not.”
“In exchange for this meal, can I ask you some questions?”
“You’re already asking me questions and I can pay for my own lunch.”
Qais hesitated, then seemed to decide to say what he wanted. “I want to know about the Second Commandment.”
“You shall have no gods but me?”
He looked completely confused.
“That’s the Second Commandment. At least, I’m pretty sure it is.”
Qais scratched his head. “I’m talking about guns.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “You mean the Second Amendment.”
“Yes,” he said, obviously irritated. “That one.”
“It’s the right to bear arms. What do you want to know?”
Our food arrived before he could answer. It turned out that I had ordered a toasted pita filled with ground beef mixed with lamb. It was greasy, but the perfectly cooked meat was deliciously spiced with coriander, cayenne pepper and garlic. I nodded my appreciation to Qais.
“Does it only apply to guns? You said the right to arms, right? Bombs are arms.”
“Those are illegal though.”
“Good. That’s good. So,” he went on between mouthfuls. “I heard that pretty much the only way illegals get deported is if they commit a crime. But the Second Amendment says that I can get a gun, right? So it isn’t a crime for me to have one?”
“I don’t know. You aren’t a citizen, so the question of whether or not a constitutional provision applies to someone in your position would probably be based on a substantial connections test. If you have enough contact with the United States—”
“I’m here.”
“What I’m saying is that I’ve seen that test applied for other amendments. I don’t know if it applies to the Second.”
“So, it could be different.”
I shrugged. “Could be.”
“These people just make this whole thing up as they go along, don’t they?”
“It feels that way sometimes.”
“How do you spend your life wading through their bullshit? It’s all about using the right words against the wrong words. That’s not justice.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s not complicated. You’re a Muslim, aren’t you?” The way he asked the question made it seem more than rhetorical. “Then you should know that law comes from Allah. Right is right and wrong is wrong. We have an example before us. Just because Americans wrote a law allowing them to do what they did to Abu Fahd doesn’t make it okay, right?”
“What did they do to Abu Fahd?”
“You’ve seen his right hand. Did you notice he has no fingernails? It was the Americans who took them.” Qais paused, then laughed. “Sometimes I wonder if he is here only to get them back.”
“You’re saying that he was tortured?”
“It was a bad place he was held in. He was lucky to come out alive. Many were not so fortunate.”
“What was he in prison for?”
“Americans don’t need a reason. They do whatever they want. In Afghanistan, I know of men who disappeared because they wore Casio watches. Abu Fahd was just Iraqi at the wrong time.”
“Hold on. So this man who we tortured—”
“You didn’t torture anyone.”
“America, I mean. How can he be here?”
There was pride on Qais’s face now. “I arranged all of it.”
“How?”
“That I cannot tell you. It is amazing though, isn’t it? These people would shit their pants if they knew who Abu Fahd was. They are good at making demons for themselves, these Americans.”
“And you’re one of them now.”
“No,” Qais said. “They are making it very clear that I am not one of them. And neither are you.”
I didn’t really know what to say to that. So instead, I asked, “Why did you want to know about the Second Amendment?”
Leaning forward, he said quietly, “I got a gun. I just wanted to know if it is a crime, if I have to keep it a secret from my roommates or if they can know about it. Like I said, from what I’ve heard only criminals get deported.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes and
then he asked, “Do you have a gun?”
I shook my head.
“Get one,” Qais said. “Bad men will come for you someday. You should be able to defend yourself.”
“What makes you think they will come for me?”
“Only the fact that they have been coming for me my entire life.”
* * *
—
As I walked back to my apartment, I passed Hafeez Bhatti’s office. He called out to me, waving his betel-nut-juice-stained handkerchief wildly to get my attention.
“It may be wise for you not to go home just now, Barrister Sahib. Your mother is here.”
I glanced at the stairs I’d been about to climb and stepped back, retreating toward my landlord’s office. “That’s not good.”
“No indeed. She stopped by to ask where you were. Very much angry she was looking, I can tell you. Truth be told, even I was a little scared.” He chortled happily at this, though it was unclear to me why he should find it at all funny. “So, tell me, what did you do?”
“I remained silent when I should have spoken.”
The landlord gave a long, drawn-out sigh that emanated from the core of his being and seemed to leave his massive balloon of a body slightly deflated. “What living Muslim can’t relate to that, Barrister Sahib? Come now, why don’t you walk with me for a while.”
“Where are you going?”
Hafeez shrugged. “What does it matter to you? It is away from here.”
A fair point, given the circumstances. I fell in step next to him as he led me back outside, loudly chewing his paan. We were silent for a few blocks. It was a clear afternoon in the Tenderloin, the less-than-glamorous underbelly of San Francisco. I noticed things I wouldn’t normally notice when moving at my own faster pace. A run-down hotel had dressed its doormen in bright, lemon-yellow overcoats. A new Chinese restaurant had opened and claimed to serve the perfect apple pie.
“You shouldn’t avoid your mother,” Bhatti finally told me. “No matter how much trouble you’re having. I helped you in this one instance as a way to apologize.”
“For what?”
“I shouldn’t have sent Abu Fahd to your apartment. Shouldn’t have told him where you lived.”
“It’s fine.”
“Is it?” Bhatti asked, his beady eyes keen and shining. “And what if he had come and his daughter was there also?” I was so stunned that he knew about my relationship with Azza, I stopped walking.
Bhatti shot me a sideways glance when I caught up to him. “Of course, I was aware of your filthy hanky-panky. Everything that happens in that building, I know. I forgot momentarily is all. I should’ve been more careful. And you, you should be more careful, my young friend. You don’t know what you’re mixing yourself up in.”
“He just had a few legal questions.”
“He said as much,” Hafeez said. “I’ve walked a long time on this world. I have seen a few things. I have learned how to tell one kind of man from another kind. Let’s take you, for example. I know full well you are a man of conflict.”
“All lawyers are.”
“Maybe. But you are different. You don’t fight others. You fight the Great Jihad. The Prophet said that the fight inside a man, the fight for his soul, is the greatest struggle of all, yes? The fight between the white brown man and the brown white man. The fight between the good bad man and the bad good man. I see it in you all the time. That is why I let you stay in my building for cheap. To see how it ends.” He smiled at me. It was a kind expression. “Right now, I think it is not going so well.”
After we’d been walking together silently for a while, he went on. “It’s okay, you know, if things aren’t going well. Even if you lose a hundred battles, perhaps Allah helps you, and you win the war.”
“We were talking about Abu Fahd.”
“Abu Fahd. The Father of the Lion. That one is a different man. Best keep your distance from him. Keep your distance from that Qais Badami also. Like a hyena that one. Did you know I had to kick him out of the building once? These are men of violence. Wallahi, were it not for what I saw in Azza’s eyes, they would not have found a home with me.”
“What did you see in her eyes?”
The old man gave me a sudden wide grin. “Better to ask what you have seen in her eyes. Or were you looking at other things? Secret things?” He smirked. “To be young again would be a blessing and a curse, I think. Young people are so silly. You think you know the whole world. You think you understand everything. The truth is that you read aloud the story of your life and don’t realize that it is in first person. Each and every one of you tells their own life story to the soul of the world, all the while thinking you are the only one with a story to tell.”
“I’m not sure what you are trying to say, Hafeez Bhai.”
“I am saying that you should read everyone else’s story with the same respect as you do your own. Think about that girl, Azza. Have you ever thought about why she really comes to you? You get the sexy times and are satisfied. What about her? Did you ever think what would happen to her if Abu Fahd found out about your fun-time activities? It is not beyond a man like that to hurt her very much. At the very least, he would kick her out of his home. She must know this. Still the girl is risking it. For you? Has she told you she loves you?”
I shook my head.
“Do you think she loves you?”
“No.”
“Then why does she risk her life as she knows it? For a little rub-a-dub-dub only? Or does she get something else out of it?”
I frowned, trying to answer the question he posed, one that I had never bothered asking myself. Maybe her time with me was the only small measure of independence, of freedom, she found in her life. Maybe she was lonely, maybe just bored.
“What do you think she’s getting out of it?”
Bhatti gave a little sigh, a forlorn, wistful thing. “A little stolen happiness, I think, or a little forgetfulness of what has not yet happened.”
“I’m not sure what that means. But you’re right. I don’t understand Azza.”
“Of course you don’t. Only God understands people. My problem is that you young people don’t even try to understand each other. You make no attempt. This is why there is so much less wisdom in the world. You try to understand one other person and you learn to love. You try to understand many people and you become wise.”
“And if you try to understand everybody?”
“Then you become a poet, of course.” He came to a stop and I realized that he had brought me to our mosque. “Come along,” he said. “Pray with me and see what happens next.”
* * *
—
Hafeez Bhatti was part of a study group at the mosque. After evening prayers, they gathered to discuss the life of the Prophet Muhammad. These halaqas, as they were called, were obviously not for me. Still, I was glad not to be alone just then. I didn’t want to think about what Bhatti had said. How had I not considered Azza’s motives for being with me before?
The answer was an uncomfortable mix of ego, selfishness and, as I’m sure Aamir would be happy to point out, cowardice. It takes courage of a kind to look at a friend or a lover and wonder if we are enough for them or if they are with us despite the fact that we are not. It was easier and prettier to let myself believe that Azza had come to me because of who I was than to wonder if I was just a diversion or escape from things she didn’t want to even share with me.
Bhatti, who seemed to be looking at me more than he was looking at Imam Sama, leaned over after a few minutes and whispered, “Attention, please.”
I nodded. The Imam was telling us about the time the Prophet fell asleep under a tree. For a refugee, a man persecuted and hunted for his religious beliefs, this was dangerous.
Indeed, when the Prophet awoke, one of his enemies was standing before him, swor
d drawn. As the Prophet rose to his feet, the man challenged Muhammad, saying, “Who will save you from me now?”
There was no fear in the Prophet’s voice when he gave his reply. It was simple. He said that Allah would save him.
This conviction left the man so stunned that his grip on his blade weakened and it fell to the ground. The Prophet picked up the sword and asked the man who would save him from Muhammad. When the man said he had no one to help him, the Prophet spared his life.
* * *
—
“You’re very quiet,” Hafeez Bhatti noted, something like approval in his voice. “Imam Sama put you in a reflective mood, haan?”
“Actually, I was just wondering how a man who is all over the place in his sermon can be so eloquent and focused in a study group.”
My landlord chortled. “The fewer people he is around, the better he seems to become at being an imam. And when he is giving one-on-one advice, he is brilliant. Just imagine how good he must be at this job when he is with himself only, looking into a mirror.”
We walked through the early night in silence. The moon was bright but distant, withdrawn from our affairs. It was waning, diminishing, and would soon disappear from the sky for a time. On the days when it wasn’t forced to hang in the sky, did it feel relieved, finally able to look away from the unending struggles, petty and terrific, that mark the lives of humankind, or did it just feel alone?
When Bhatti spoke again, he said, “So are you coming back for the study group next week?”
“Not unless Ma shows up at my door again.”
“You’re not curious to know what lesson to take from the hadith that was told to you?”
“The Imam wants us to think about the power of faith. The lesson is that if you have faith, God will reward you with His help.”
“It is probable you are right,” Hafeez said. “Did you also think it was a story about faith?”
The Bad Muslim Discount Page 25
