by Kyell Gold
"Of course not. But you can change a little at a time, bit by bit. The future contains both the past and the present, as much as you allow it. And your son is still alive, so perhaps you can start by forgiving him. A small amount."
"I don't know." Aziz clasped his paws together. The smell of the mint tea calmed him, made the words easier. "But at least perhaps I see the path toward forgiveness."
Bakr nodded. "And then perhaps you may forgive yourself." Aziz jerked his head up. The lion smiled. "At least for your treatment of your son. And... forgive me if I overstep, but many who come to see me about others also have questions about...themselves?"
Aziz started to say "No," but found himself unwilling to lie. "Perhaps," he said.
"It can be very difficult to see your son giving in to the urges it has cost you so much to restrain. Having invested so much in denying yourself, it can be even more difficult to turn and give in. It will feel wrong. It won't be easy, but is not forgiveness and repentance part of the teaching of Allah and of the Prophet, peace be upon him? That forgiveness extends also to yourself."
"The future contains the past, though," Aziz said. "As you said. I can't erase that."
"But it also contains the present." Bakr gestured toward his teapot. "You might not drink heated water by itself, but add mint leaves to it and it becomes palatable. And the heat diminishes with time, if you add no more to it."
Aziz stared down at his teacup and didn't say anything. "Would you like more tea?" Bakr asked.
"No, thank you. You've been very hospitable." Aziz breathed in and sat straighter, uncurling his tail. "I feel I have taken up too much of your time."
"This is what my time is for." Bakr smiled. "But I won't keep you. Please do call on me if you wish to talk again, and I would very much enjoy seeing you at one of our group meetings. I did send you the times in the e-mail?"
"Yes." Aziz stood. "I don't know if I'm ready for a large group. But thank you for the talk. I have...much to think about."
Outside, he looked up at the clouds moving across the sky and breathed in the warm air. The day felt more open to him now. The past and present are contained in the future, he thought as he walked down the street. He'd never quite looked at the world that way, and he found it hopeful, if not liberating. The idea that he could maybe one day talk to his son, let alone that his faith could be broad enough to allow for homosexuality beneath its aegis, seemed still as remote as the clouds themselves. But gradually, perhaps, he could change his course.
He stopped on a cool, shady street with an antique store and a vintage clothing shop next to each other. Beside them was an empty storefront, small, with a real estate agent's number on it.
Aziz stared at it. His recent days had been full of signs and portents. Was this another? He took out his phone and noted down the number and then walked on, through Cottage Hill and back to Upper Devos and his own soon-to-be-empty store.
15
Separation
"Whoo!" Doug sauntered into the pawnshop and bent his head to the straw in the drink he carried, the plastic cup dripping with condensation. "It's a scorcher today."
Aziz looked up from his computer and smiled. "Summer's in full swing. You closed the store today?"
"All shuttered and the last box off to Tenpenny. I'll go over there next week in case they need help unpacking, but I'm no longer a business owner." The squirrel took in the half-empty pawnshop. "How much longer do you have here?"
"They gave me until the end of July. It's not like I have a place in Coronado to move into by the first."
"Yeah, sorry." Doug leaned against an empty shelf and smiled. "It's been so humid the last few days, I can't wait another week to get out there, much less a month and a half. I can manage the money as well from there as from here."
The payments from Vorvarts were going through banks and lawyers and escrows, and would be parceled out over the next year. There were—necessarily, Aziz and Halifa's lawyer had assured them—plenty of safeguards in place for both parties should something go wrong with the plans. But Vorvarts had put up the money and as of yesterday the first payment had been released from their escrow account, so that was a positive sign.
"Yes." Aziz smiled. "It will be better for me to be here this summer. But I'll come visit you in the fall."
"I still don't know why you'd want to stay here instead of coming out to Coronado. You're used to managing remotely anyway. Just Skype or e-mail. You can work from anywhere."
"I'm changing enough about my life." Aziz looked down at the mail he'd received that day. "The divorce is almost finalized."
Doug sipped from his drink again. "Are you happy?"
"Stop asking me that. Yes, I'm fine."
The squirrel shook his head. "Not the same thing. You're splitting but you're not coming out with me. Losing someone you care about...no matter how you feel now, that's hard."
"We are both moving toward the life we want, and while it is hard to let go, we understand that those lives do not include each other." He flattened his ears. "We will be performing the ceremony at the mosque tonight."
"A ceremony? Is that usual?" Doug waved a paw around. "In front of all those people? You guys take marriage seriously."
"It is very much not usual." Aziz coughed. "Most divorces we know are performed very quietly. But because there is the community here, and..." He looked out the window to the blue glass reflections. "We wanted people to understand, to know, and to not be sad for us. It was Halifa's idea, but I think it is a good one. After all, our faith tells us to think of our fellows above all. Why not allow them to witness this?"
"I guess." Doug took another drink. "Are you going to do another ceremony for your non-Muslim friends?"
Aziz shook his head slowly. "That's why I didn't tell you before."
"Oh well." The squirrel flashed a bucktoothed smile. "You're coming to my going-away party, though, right?"
"Of course."
Doug flipped idly through the last twelve DVDs in the bin without looking at them. Fingers still on the cases, he raised his eyes, his expression more serious. "So tell me something. She's going to do her charities, right? What about you? You keep saying you're going to 'figure it out.' But you're no closer to telling me what you're doing than you were a month ago."
"I haven't figured it out yet." He smiled. "But I feel certain Allah will provide.”
Doug chuckled. "Well, I can't argue. You seem happier lately, like the store was a weight lifted off your back."
"Something like that perhaps." Aziz looked past Doug, out the window past the sign that said "SALES ONLY — NOTHING BOUGHT" to the bright storefronts across the street. "I've been feeling more sorry for the people losing their place here, but there's nothing more I can do at this point."
"You're doing all you can." Doug walked up to the counter, looking over it for Aziz's trash bin. The cheetah held it up and Doug dropped his drink into it. "That's another reason I'm leaving. I don't want to see it die. I'll have my family out in Coronado and that'll have to be enough."
"It will be."
The squirrel remained by the counter, searching Aziz's eyes. "You still haven't called him?"
The cheetah shook his head. "I don't know what I'd say."
"You know how to start. Don't worry about the rest."
"I know." He placed his paws on the glass below which was displayed only one tarnished silver necklace. "But it's so difficult."
Doug reached over to pat him on the shoulder. "Trust yourself. Let go of the past."
"Easy for you to say. You sold your past so you could run away from it."
"I'm not running away so fast you couldn't catch me if you wanted to." The squirrel grinned.
"I'll come out often, if I can afford it. My money will be tied up for the first year or two."
"I'll buy you a ticket, then."
"Deal." Aziz stuck out a paw. "See you Thursday night."
"You bet." Doug grasped and squeezed the offered paw. "All right. Hey,
it's about your tea time, isn't it?"
"Is it?" Aziz turned to the space where the grandfather clock had been and then looked down at his phone. "So it is."
"I'm going to get on home and start packing. Good luck tonight, huh?"
"Thank you." Aziz raised a paw and watched his friend's bushy tail flick back and forth as he stepped out into the glow of the afternoon and disappeared past the window. Then he took out his samovar and sat at the end of his nearly-empty counter.
*
A few of the males and females gathered together after their prayer in the community room on the second floor of the mosque. Aziz and Halifa stood at the center, holding each other's paws. She wore her green and yellow scarf over her head and ears, and Aziz wore the shirt he'd brought from Madiyah, the one Halifa had mended several times and later taken to be repaired several more. As he felt the warmth of her paws in his and studied her golden eyes, Aziz felt moved to speak. "I've cherished the years of our marriage and the friendship we've grown between us," he said. "This is not an expression of regret for the past, but of understanding of the future."
"We'll remain friends," Halifa said. Her paws squeezed his lightly. "You have been an excellent husband and partner, and I look forward to our separate futures."
He smiled and opened his mouth. The words stuck, difficult to say even though he could hear them in his head. He saw before him their marriage ceremony in the courtyard of his father's house, the bright sun over their heads, the greenery and flowers all around against the yellow sandstone of the house, all the guests cheering as he and Halifa joined their lives together. He saw them in the cool strangeness of the airplane with only one suitcase each, stepping off a bus into a loud, smelly morass of people in Upper Devos. Sanding and painting the shop, working with the numbers in paper books and later on computers, traveling to the beach with their son, going to see him play tennis, all the pieces of their lives together to that point. The future, he reminded himself, contains the past. And also the present.
"I divorce you. I divorce you. I divorce you," he said, and released her paws.
She bowed her head. "I divorce you," she repeated three times, even though the wife was not required to say the words.
Then she bowed, for physical contact between them was no longer proper, and the small crowd around them murmured their blessings. When they broke apart, the females came forward to take Halifa to them, and the males came forward for Aziz.
Marris came up to him first. "Salaam," he said, and Aziz returned the greeting. "I'm hopeful this new life you're beginning will be good for you."
"Thank you. And thank you for coming to witness."
"I haven't seen a divorce celebrated before."
"And?"
Marris tilted his head, thinking. "I believe I like it. You're letting us know it's desired by both parties." He smiled. "We're all of us servants of Allah, no?"
"Yes." Aziz swept his ears back. "I heard about your apartment building today. I'm sorry. Do you have another place?"
The red fox nodded. "Out in Sun Terrace. It will be a longer ride to work, but at least it's a home. I can still come here most days in the evening before going home."
"I'm glad to hear it."
Marris bowed his head, his ears settling back. "I did not take any of your generous gift to the mosque. I can afford to move. There are others not so lucky."
"Don't hesitate to ask Ashtari if you run into extra expenses. That happens a lot when you move. I promise, there's enough to go around."
From him, Aziz moved on to talk with the others. None of them blamed him to his face for the development, but below the pleasant conversation he sensed a distance still there, and there were some who'd chosen not to come to the ceremony at all. He had chosen to give up his home and business and been paid well for it, so whether they held him accountable or not, he wasn't facing the same problems they were. Some of them saw the money he and Halifa had contributed—a tenth of what they'd received from Vorvarts—as an attempt to expiate their guilt rather than Islamic charity.
"Look at it like a natural disaster," Halifa said when he brought this up in the car. Technically speaking, he should not be in the company of an unrelated, unaccompanied female, but when he'd suggested he could take a cab to his apartment, Halifa had told him to get in the car, that she would drive him, and none of the bystanders had even looked bothered. "A tornado ravages the community, leaving behind soulless conglomerations of identical housing and corporate shops. You hope it's not your community, but if it is, you make the best of it."
"That absolves the people behind the decisions. Nobody tells the tornado where to land, but they choose where to send the bulldozers."
"Yes," she said, "but we're not talking about them. We're talking about us. We can no more affect what buildings they set their sights on than we can tell the sandstorm to turn back. Or the thunderstorm, if you like."
"But we could have fought. We could have made it harder for them."
"And gained what, in the end? They have money and power. Better to put our energies toward rebuilding our communities where we can. You and I, we've been through enough change to know that change isn't only an ending. It's a beginning."
Of course it was, he thought as he fitted the unfamiliar key into the door of his apartment. And yet, he would miss his house, the old wood railings on the staircase, the creaky step he'd learned to avoid. He would miss the smells that had accumulated over time and the particularly crooked way the door hung in his doorway—not enough to keep it from closing, but enough to let light in near the top. He would miss Halifa, of course, but they would remain close; dissolving their marriage and their business partnership wouldn't end their friendship.
The future might be unknown, unknowable, but by choosing the parts of his past that he chose to bring forward into it, he could at least control some of its shape. He might not know where he would live, but he would have Doug and Halifa and Gerald as friends. He would have his possessions: the tea service, the rugs, the clothing he loved. He would have his tail and his ears and the ache in his back.
Perhaps it was all the things that were leaving his life that made him think of one that had already left. Or maybe it was the words of Gerald and Bakr and most of all Halifa that had allowed him to open the door he'd thought closed forever. He had not forgotten, would never forget, the words his son had spoken. But he could choose to leave those in the past and bring the parts of his son that he loved with him into the future.
He sat on the bed in his new room beside the suitcase he hadn't yet unpacked and took out his phone. The name "Marquize" glowed up at him over ten digits and the picture of an old phone receiver, like the kind they'd had when they'd first moved to the States.
He said a short du'a to ask for favorable outcomes—to ask for the patience and love he should have had years ago. Then he touched the phone icon and brought the phone to his ear.
Epilogue
The chill of winter still lingered in the air outside, but the flowers blooming in the window planters outside the pastry shop assured Aziz that spring was not far away. Beyond them, he recognized Halifa’s figure crossing the street, checking her phone, and then looking up and spotting the shop. He smiled and took a sip of his tea, listening to the busy murmur of all the people sitting at tables, talking, checking their laptops. His own phone was open to the text messages with Gerald; the cougar said he had a friend Aziz might like and Aziz was trying to figure out how to reply. The whole conversation had rekindled his apprehension about how today would go. Would he have enough strength and inner peace? He hoped so; he had prayed for those qualities every day for the past three weeks.
A few moments later, the bell on the door tinkled and Halifa entered. Aziz rose to his feet. “I’m so glad you made it.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have missed it.” She adjusted her scarf. “It’s very busy. You’ve done a good job promoting it. I saw several people talking about it.”
“I hired a young fellow
from the mosque. He’s much more adept with social media than I am. Has a Twitter…is that right? And Insta…”
“Instagram,” Halifa supplied, still smiling. She stepped up to the counter. “Hello, Tanska. The new shop is lovely.”
“Hmph.” The tiger glanced at Aziz. “It’s smaller.”
“It’s actually fifty square feet larger,” Aziz told Halifa.
“This counter is larger. Too big.” Halifa swept her paws across it. “And I don’t need all this space behind it.”
“When it’s two people back there, you will.” Aziz brushed the gleaming amber surface. “This is polished marble from Siberia.”
“It’s lovely,” Halifa said.
“It’s heavy.” Tanska grunted. “I strained my back lifting it.”
“I told you to let the workers do it.” Aziz turned to Halifa. “She’s very particular when it comes to her store.”
“I know how I like things done.” The tiger made another “hmph” noise. “This one thinks he knows best. Pawnshops aren’t pastry shops.”
“He knows a lot,” Halifa said. “You two work very well together. Now…” She examined the case. “Oh, it must be the rosewater and pistachio crescents, no?”
Aziz stood a little straighter, his chest puffed out. “Yes.”
“They are palatable,” Tanska admitted grudgingly. “He is not bad with dough.”
“I looked up a recipe online and Tanska helped me work it with her ingredients.” Aziz smiled. “Sort of a present reimagining of the past.”
“I like that. One, please, and a mint tea.”
Tanska plated the pastry and poured the tea, but when she placed them on the counter, she refused Halifa’s money. “Aziz always said you talked him into staying in this area, so I owe you at least one meal.”
Halifa turned, her smile getting wider. “I didn’t talk him into anything. He chose to educate himself and to discover what he valued and wanted to preserve from his life.”
“Don’t be modest,” Aziz said. “Take the free pastry.”
