American Dervish: A Novel

by Ayad Akhtar

  I sat back and plugged my ears. I looked out the window, humming to myself to drown out any sound of their discussion. I didn’t want to hear anything more they had to say.

  Back home, I was the first one out of the car and into the house. Mina was in the kitchen, looking lovely in a brown shalwar-kameez and crimson dupatta. She was eager and aglow, her eyes brimming with anticipation. “How was it, behta?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Did Nathan talk to the imam?”

  I nodded.

  “Good,” she said, looking pleased. “And how was the prayer?”

  I hesitated for a second, realizing I didn’t want to tell her we hadn’t prayed. “Fine,” I said with a smile.

  “That’s nice, behta.” She looked over at the front door. “Where is he?”

  I shrugged, suddenly elated. I leaned in to touch my lips to Mina’s cheek.

  “That’s so sweet, behta.”

  “I love you, Auntie.”

  “I love you, too, Hayat.”

  And then I left her there—her smile still brimming—and went up to my room.

  Upstairs, I sat down at my desk with my Quran, and opened to Al-Baqara, the chapter from which Souhef had read to us that day. It began with a series of warnings to those who denied the truth of the Prophet’s message, those he called the deniers and the hypocrites. The footnotes told the story of Muhammad’s flight from Mecca in the year AD 622 and his relocation to the city of Medina, where there was a large and prosperous Jewish community. These Jews were the ones being warned at the outset of Al-Baqara, for even though the Prophet created a constitution that guaranteed Jews equal rights, they were not happy. It was bad enough they refused the truth of our Prophet’s teachings, but then they conspired against him, making alliances with his enemies, some even plotting to kill him. It was for this, the footnotes explained, that Muhammad eventually turned against the Jews of Medina.

  The verses from Al-Baqara that Souhef had quoted in his sermon were originally addressed to these Medina Jews who denied the Quran and believed that they—and not Muslims—were the only ones with true knowledge about the Lord. The verses offered ample proof of Souhef’s contention, chronicling Moses’s own troubles with his followers, a people chosen by Allah, but who would lose His love because of their selfishness. And it was in Al-Baqara that I found the curse Chatha shared at the December dinner at his house two years earlier.

  At my open window, I heard voices. Then sniffling. I got up to look. Nathan’s loafers poked out from beneath the front porch eaves. I could tell Mina was talking to him, but I couldn’t make out her words. And then I distinctly heard the sound of his sobbing.

  I went downstairs into the living room. There, through the window, I saw them. Nathan’s head was buried in Mina’s lap, and he was clutching at her waist, crying. It felt like something I should not be seeing, but I couldn’t look away. I’d never seen a grown man cry, except on television. And as Mina caressed his hair, and as Nathan’s grip on her waist tightened—his thin fingers blanching as he wiggled and pressed and held her close—I wondered what he had to be crying about. If anything, he had only reason to be happy. He was going to be a Muslim. All Souhef had done was to give him reasons—better ones than the one he really had—for becoming one of us. After all, he would no longer be one of Allah’s despised Jews. Which meant he wouldn’t have to suffer under Allah’s curse anymore. It was extraordinary news. But was he happy about it? Of course not. He was ungrateful. Just as Souhef had said Jews were. So ungrateful that it made him blind to the very truth he had heard that afternoon and that could have saved him. What I was seeing before me, I thought, was the very reason that Allah had turned his back on Bani Israel.

  The Quran is right, I thought. They will never change.

  Father, Mother, Imran, and I were gathered in the kitchen for dinner when Mina finally came inside from the front porch. And though she had every appearance of disappointment—downcast eyes, a shuffling step, mumbled replies to Mother’s questions about her wanting dinner—she looked oddly satisfied. She had that same arresting bloom about her I remembered from the first afternoon she met Nathan. She muttered an apology about dinner, avoiding eye contact with all of us, especially—I thought—with Imran. And as she headed for the stairs, Mother asked if she should set a place for Nathan.

  Mina stopped, shook her head. And then she was gone.

  Mother lingered at the counter for a moment, troubled. She looked at Father.

  “Go,” he said. “I’ll take care of dinner.”

  Mother nodded, and followed Mina out.

  After dinner, Mother left the dishes for me. She and Father stood out on the patio, talking. I was finishing up, wiping down the counter, when they came back inside. Father went downstairs to join Imran for television in the family room. Mother lingered with me in the kitchen. She told me Father had explained to her what had happened that afternoon. But now she wanted to hear my version.

  I told her Souhef had read to us from Al-Baqara.

  She asked me to get the Quran and show her. So I did.

  She sat at the dining table, poring over the pages where I pointed out the citations. She shook her head to herself as she read. Finally, she looked up at me, asking: “What did he say in his khutbah? What did Souhef say exactly about Bani Israel?”

  “He said they love themselves, not Allah. He said they’re selfish. He said we should never be like them.” This was very different than what Mother usually said about Jews. It felt good to correct her.

  She held my gaze, her expression dark. Then she looked away. From the family room downstairs, the computerized melody of the CHiPs opening theme drifted up into the kitchen. “The man is already having second thoughts about converting,” she said quietly. “He’s already asked the poor woman if she’ll still have him if he doesn’t become a Muslim.” She brought her hand to her forehead to run it along the deep ridges there. “I have worked so hard for this…and if it doesn’t happen—” She stopped herself, looking completely helpless. “Why today, Hayat?” she asked, pleading. “Why today of all days?”

  I waited before replying. “It was Allah’s will,” I finally said, quietly.

  The response surprised her. She held my gaze for a long moment, then offered a gentle, reluctant nod.

  Downstairs, Father was sitting on the couch, Imran straddled on his knee. He turned to me, patting at the place beside him. “C’mon, behta. It just started.”

  I didn’t move.

  “You don’t want to watch?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I thought you liked CHiPs.”

  “I love CHiPs, Dad!” Imran interjected. I’d never heard him call my father that. It was jarring.

  “I’m going to build a castle keep,” I replied. “Up in my room.” I knew this would get Imran’s attention.

  “Can I come, too?” he asked, turning to me.

  “Why don’t we see a little CHiPs?” Father said, rubbing him tenderly on the back. “Then you go up to play with Hayat, okay?”

  Imran nodded, eager, melting into Father’s chest as the commercial ended and the show resumed.

  On my way to my room, I slowed as I approached Mina’s door. Behind it, Mother’s voice came through clearly: “What does it matter?! It doesn’t matter! Let him stay like he is…You stay like you are! These things don’t matter!” Mother’s impassioned pleas were followed by a long silence.

  I moved on.

  At the end of the hall, I opened the linen closet, pulling out sheets. I went into my room and draped them over my desk chair and desk, then used stacks of books to fix the corners in place. I turned out the lights and climbed inside. The tent’s space was small, but it comforted me. Like the graves of the hafiz, I thought, which Mina had once explained to me were kept warm and comfortable through the long string of centuries until—on that last day of creation—everyone would rise from the dead to face the Final Judgment.

  “Can I come inside, too?”
I heard.

  It was Imran. He was holding up the ends of one of the sheets as he peered in. I’d fallen asleep.

  “Sure,” I mumbled, turning over.

  He crawled in alongside me. We lay side by side, staring up at the canopy of sheets, brushed by the moonlight coming through the windows. After a long silence, I spoke: “My dad is my dad, Imran. Not yours.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Did you hear me?” I asked.

  Imran turned onto his side to face me. “He’s my dad, too… ,” he said softly.

  “No he’s not. Maybe he’s like a dad to you. But he’s not your real dad. He’s my dad.”

  “He said it.”

  “He said what?”

  “He’s my dad, too.”

  “No, he didn’t. Maybe he said he loves you just like he was your dad …”

  I paused.

  “And that’s nice for you. But he didn’t say he was your dad. He wouldn’t do that, because it’s not true. And he’s not a liar.”

  Imran’s eyes glistened with worry. “Share him with me,” he whispered.

  “I already share him with you. But he’s not your real dad.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s not married to your mom.”

  “She can marry him.”

  “No she can’t. My dad’s already married. To my mom.”

  “He can marry her, too.”

  “Who?”

  “Your mom.”

  “No. I said he’s already married to my mom. So he can’t marry yours.”

  “My mom can marry him,” he said, “and your mom, too. And then he can be my dad and your dad. He’s a Muslim.”

  I was surprised. The boy’s mind was quick.

  “You can’t do that in America. And we live in America. This is your home. In America, if you have more than one wife, they put you in jail.”

  “Why?”

  “For polygamy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you marry more than one woman. You can’t do that here, except in Utah.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s one of the states.”

  He looked confused.

  “It’s a place in America,” I explained. “It’s just not here.”

  “You-taa?” he repeated.

  “Yeah. You can do polygamy in Utah, because that’s where Mormons are.”

  “What are Mormons?”

  “People with a lot of wives. And there’s a big lake there full of salt and worms.”

  Imran looked at me, puzzled. “Can we go fishing?”

  “No,” I said. “We’re in our castle keep.”

  My response sounded ominous, even to me.

  Imran didn’t say anything. “I’m going to sleep,” I finally said, turning away.

  “Please, Hayat. Please share him with me,” Imran pleaded as he pressed himself against me, his small hands tightly gripping my waist. “Please let him be my dad, too. Please let’s go to You-taa.”

  “Stop it, Imran,” I snapped. “Don’t be stupid. It’s not up to me anyway. Or you. We’re just kids. Nobody’s going to Utah just because you or I want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we have a house here.”

  “We can get a new one.”

  “My dad’s got a job. I’ve got school. We can’t just leave like that.”

  “Please,” Imran cried, clinging to me. I turned, pulling him off. I looked into his face. His small, sharp eyes simmered with yearning.

  “No,” I said. “Anyway, you’ll have a dad soon. Nathan’s gonna be your dad.”

  “He can’t be,” Imran said, turning abruptly away.

  “He will be. All your mom has to do is marry him.”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s white. He’s not my real dad.”

  “I didn’t say he was your real dad.” Imran didn’t reply. “My dad wouldn’t be your real dad either.”

  There was silence.

  “Anyway,” I said, “it doesn’t matter if he’s white or if he’s a Jew or anything else. It doesn’t matter what you think. She’s going to do whatever she wants…”

  “Chew?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “What’s a chew?”

  “Jew,” I said, correcting him.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “A Jew is the kind of person Allah hates the most in the world,” I said.

  Imran’s expression emptied with shock. I sensed his fear. It made me want to go on. “Jews are the people who used to live in Egypt a long time ago,” I continued. “Before the pyramids…You know what the pyramids are, right?”

  Imran shook his head.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that a long time ago, the Jews were very special. Allah loved them a lot. He loved them more than all other kinds of people. But then something happened.”

  “What?”

  “They didn’t behave. They didn’t do what they were told.” I paused, staring intently at the boy. “When Allah told them to do things, they didn’t listen. Instead of doing what Allah wanted, they did what they wanted. And then they even made fun of Allah behind his back…”

  “Why?”

  “Because they are selfish. And Allah realized this. And He started to hate them. And soon, Allah hated them more than all the other people He created. More than animals. More than pigs, even.”

  Imran’s eyes widened with alarm. “Pigs?!”

  I knew the effect saying this would have on him. More than alcohol, more than naked white women, more than gambling, the pig was the ultimate taboo in Islam, the summary image of everything unholy to us.

  “Imran,” I continued, gravely, “when I say Jews are what Allah hates the most, I mean it. On the Day of Judgment, at the end of time, the sun will come down to the earth this high…” I pointed at the sheeted canopy above us. “On that day Allah will talk to every single person and ask him what good he did in his life and what bad he did…and the people who did more bad things will be standing on the left side of Allah”—I paused, sticking out my tongue—“and a huge tongue will come and swallow all these bad people away into hell. And you know who the first people will be that this tongue will swallow into hell?”

  Imran shook his head.

  “The Jews,” I said with finality. “The Jews will be first to go into the fire. You remember when your mom told us all about hell, right? About the fires…where bad people burn forever and ever…?”

  Imran nodded. His eyes were filling with tears.

  “Don’t cry,” I said. “There’s no reason to cry. You have nothing to be afraid of. You’re a Muslim, and if you learn your namaaz and you learn your holy book, you’ll never go to hell. Do you hear me? That tongue won’t wash you into hell. If you’re a Muslim, you’ll be saved.”

  Tears rolled down his cheeks: “But I don’t want Nathan for a dad,” he pleaded.

  “If you’re a good boy and you pray to Allah, maybe he’ll listen …”

  “Really?”

  “Maybe,” I offered, noncommittal, “or maybe not.”

  The next morning, I woke up in pain, my bones sore from a night on the floor. I smelled ghee, heard sounds in the kitchen. It took me a moment to remember that I’d fallen asleep holding Imran in my arms as he cried. Now he was gone.

  Downstairs, Mother was standing at the stove. She was surprised to find me still dressed in the previous day’s clothes. “Didn’t you change last night?” she asked. I told her I’d built a castle keep and fallen asleep inside it with Imran. “I’m such a bad mother,” she said. “I didn’t even check on you. Shame on me.”

  I sat down at the kitchen table and started on a plate of fresh parathas. Mother stood over me, watching me eat. She looked angry.

  “Mom? Are you okay?” I asked, chewing.

  She shrugged. “You would think that last night was a night he should have stayed home. After everything that h
appened yesterday. You would think that, no? A time when his presence was needed? His support?” She looked away, seeming to hold in tears. “But if you thought that, you thought wrong! Instead, he gets a call and off he goes running. Chasing white flesh. What is it with Eastern men? You would think he could desist for one night? There’s a crisis in the house? So you stay with your family? No? Of course not! The first thing he does is run off with a prostitute! Is that normal?”

  My head was lowered. I was avoiding her gaze.

  “Hayat,” she snapped.

  “Hmm?”

  “Is there something wrong with me for thinking that this is not normal behavior?!”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said. And then I added: “He’s sick.”

  “Kurban, you don’t even know half of it,” she said, sliding into the chair beside me. “I woke up this morning only to discover he was still gone. The man never came home. Who knows what happened to him? Maybe he’s dead, for all we know! So I call him at the hospital. I don’t tell them it’s me. I have them page him. After ten minutes, he finally comes to the phone. When he realizes it’s me, he starts yelling! In front of his own staff! It’s just the height of indecency. Not only are you off running around with women when your own family needs you—on top of that, your wife calls you to find out if you’re still alive, and you scream indecencies at her in front of your colleagues! You should have heard the things he said! What a savage!”

  That was when the phone rang.

  Mother looked over at the red receiver with dread. “It’s probably him. God only knows where he’s calling from.” She turned to me. “You pick it up. If it’s him, tell him I’m not here.”

  “Where are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If he asks me where you are…”

  “I don’t know. Make up something…the post office.”

  I got up and answered the phone. “Hello?” I said.

  “Hi there!” a woman’s voice shot out brightly. “Can I speak to—uh—Mun…Mau …Maureen?”

  “You mean Muneer?”

  “Now, I guess I do. Is that your mother, young man?”

  From upstairs, I heard an eruption of muffled shouts and cries. The woman on the other end was still talking, but the commotion distracted me. It was Mina’s voice, shouting. There was banging, and more chaos. And then a loud thud.