(It was an old piece of bread, rock-hard and moldy. I remember how he thanked the imam, carefully brushed off the mold, and managed to stay dignified, gnawing at it with his strong side teeth.)
He told them he kept the old book because of the beauty of the writing, but I knew his feelings went deeper than that: he thought the Q'ran in any language other than Arabic was just a book, not holy. As a boy of five, I was secretly overjoyed that I could stop memorizing the Q'ran in Arabic; it was hard enough in English.
I agree with him now, and ever since it was legal again, I've spent my Sundays trying to cram the Arabic into my gray head. With God's grace I might live long enough to learn it all. Having long ago memorized the English version helps make up for my slow brain.
I put the old book back in its nitrogen seal bag and took it up to bed with me, dropping off a bundle of sticks by the stove on the way. I checked on both children and both wives; all were sleeping soundly. With a prayer of thanks for this strange discovery, I joined Nadia and dreamed of a strange future that had not come to pass.
The next day was market day. I left Nadia with the children and Fatimah and I went down to the medina for the week's supplies.
It really is more a woman's work than a man's, and normally I enjoy watching Fatimah go through the rituals of inspection and barter the mock arguments and grudging agreement that comprise the morning's entertainment for customer and merchant alike. But this time I left her in the food part of the medina with the cart, while I went over to the antiques section.
You don't see many Kafir in the produce part of the medina, but there are always plenty wandering through the crafts and antiques section, I suppose looking for curiosities and bargains. Things that are everyday to us are exotic to them, and vice versa.
It was two large tents, connected by a canvas breezeway under which merchants were roasting meats and nuts and selling drinks for dollars or dirhams. I got a small cup of sweet coffee, redolent of honey and cardamom, for two dirhams, and sipped it standing there, enjoying the crowd.
Both tents had similar assortments of useful and worthless things, but one was for dollar transactions and the other was for dirhams and barter. The dollar purchases had to go through an imam, who would extract a fee for handling the money, and pay the merchant what was left, converting into dirham. There were easily three times as many merchants and customers in the dirham-and-barter tent, the Kafir looking for bargains and the sellers for surprises, as much as for doing business. It was festive there, too, a lot of chatter and laughing over the rattle and whine of an amateur band of drummers and fiddlers. People who think we are aloof from infidels, or hate them, should spend an hour here.
Those who did this regularly had tables they rented by the day or month; we amateurs just sat on the ground with our wares on display. I walked around and didn't see anyone I knew, so finally just sat next to a table where a man and a woman were selling books. I laid out a square of newspaper in front of me and set the Thrilling Wonder Stories on it.
The woman looked down at it with interest. "What kind of a magazine is that?"
Magazine, I'd forgotten that word. "I don't know. Strange tales, most of them religious."
"It's 'science fiction,'" the man said. "They used to do that, predict what the future would be like."
"Used to? We still do that."
He shrugged. "Not that way. Not as fiction."
"I wouldn't let a child see that," the woman said.
"I don't think the artist was a good Muslim," I said, and they both chuckled. They wished me luck with finding a buyer, but didn't make an offer themselves.
Over the next hour, five or six people looked at the magazine and asked questions, most of which I couldn't answer. The imam in charge of the tent came over and gave me a long silent look. I looked right back at him and asked him how business was.
Fatimah came by, the cart loaded with groceries. I offered to wheel it home if she would sit with the magazine. She covered her face and giggled. More realistically, I said I could push the cart home when I was done, if she would take the perishables now. She said no, she'd take it all after she'd done a turn around the tent. That cost me twenty dirham; she found a set of wooden spoons for the kitchen. They were freshly made by a fellow who had set up shop in the opposite comer, running a child-powered lathe, his sons taking turns striding on a treadmill attached by a series of creaking pulleys to the axis of the tool. People may have bought his wares more out of curiosity and pity for his sons than because of the workmanship.
I almost sold it to a fat old man who had lost both ears, I suppose in the war. He offered fifty dirham, but while I was trying to bargain the price up, his ancient crone of a wife charged up and physically hauled him away, shrieking. If he'd had an ear, she would have pulled him by it. The bookseller started to offer his sympathies, but then both of them doubled over in laughter, and I had to join them.
As it turned out, the loss of that sale was a good thing. But first I had to endure my trial.
A barefoot man who looked as if he'd been fasting all year picked up the magazine and leafed through it carefully, mumbling. I knew he was trouble. I'd seen him around, begging and haranguing. He was white, which normally is not a problem with me. But white people who choose to live inside the walls are often types who would not be welcome at home, wherever that might be.
He proceeded to berate me for being a bad Muslim not hearing my correction, that I belonged to Chrislam and, starting with the licentious cover and working his way through the inside illustrations and advertisements, to the last story, which actually had God's name in the title… he said that even a bad Muslim would have no choice but to burn it on the spot.
I would have gladly burned it if I could burn it under him, but I was saved from making that decision by the imam. Drawn by the commotion, he stamped over and began to question the man, in a voice as shrill as his own, on matters of doctrine. The man's Arabic was no better than his diet, and he slunk away in mid-diatribe. I thanked the imam and he left with a slight smile.
Then a wave of silence unrolled across the room like a heavy blanket, I looked to the tent entrance and there were four men: Abdullah Zaragosa, our chief imam, some white man in a business suit, and two policemen in uniform, seriously armed. In between them was an alien, one of those odd creatures visiting from Arcturus.
I had never seen one, though I had heard them described on the radio. I looked around and was sad not to see Fa-timah; she would hate having missed this.
It was much taller than the tallest human; it had a short torso but a giraffe-like neck. Its head was something like a bird's, one large eye on either side. It cocked its head this way and that, looking around, and then dropped down to say something to the imam!
They all walked directly toward me, the alien rippling on six legs. Cameras clicked; I hadn't brought one. The imam asked if I was Ahmed Abd al-kareem, and I said yes, in a voice that squeaked.
"Our visitor heard of your magazine. May we inspect it?" I nodded, not trusting my voice, and handed it to him, but the white man took it.
He showed the cover to the alien. "This is what we expected you to look like."
"Sorry to disappoint," it said in a voice that sounded like it came from a cave. It took the magazine in an ugly hand, too many fingers and warts that moved, and inspected it with first one eye, and then the other.
It held the magazine up and pointed to it, with a smaller hand. "I would like to buy this."
"I—I can't take white people's money. Only dirhams or, or trade."
"Barter," it said, surprising me. "That is when people exchange things of unequal value, and both think they have gotten the better deal."
The imam looked like he was trying to swallow a pill. "That's true enough," I said. "At best, they both do get better deals, by their own reckoning."
"Here, then." It reached into a pocket or a pouch I couldn't tell whether it was wearing clothes and brought out a ball of light.
It held out the light to a point midway between us, and let go. It floated in the air. "The light will stay wherever you put it."
It shimmered a brilliant blue, with fringes of rainbow colors. "How long will it last?"
"Longer than you."
It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. I touched it with my finger it felt cool, and tingled and pushed it a few inches. It stayed where I moved it.
"It's a deal, sir. Thank you."
"Shukran," it said, and they moved on down the line of tables.
I don't think it bought anything else. But it might have. I kept looking away from it, back into the light.
The imams and the white scientists all want to take the light away to study it. Eventually, I will loan it out.
For now, though, it is a Christmas gift to my son and daughter. The faithful, and the merely curious, come to look at it, and wonder. But it stays in my house.
In Chrislam, as in old Islam, angels are not humanlike creatures with robes and wings. They are male 'ikah, beings of pure light.
They look wonderful on the top of a tree.
L.J. Blount
ALL I WANTED FOR CHRISTMAS WAS TO DIE
OUTSIDE, FLUFFY FLAKES of snow tumbled lightly to the ground. The white blanket it laid was pure and untouched. A wave of lights reflected upon the fresh virgin snow. A rainbow of orange, green, red, and blue. Gold and silver garlands snaked up light poles. Decorative candy canes hung stretched across a quiet street in rows of red and white. The snow, it continued to fall, floating delicately among the lights and decorations, and the sounds of Christmas carols could be heard faintly amidst the glory.
* * *
Zak Tran sat up in bed in a cold sweat. The pain in his abdomen was unbearable. He held his breath as the sharpness increased. It was a twisting pain, the kind that gnaws on you as if you are being eaten alive. Zak crawled out of bed, stopped to double over before making his way to the bathroom as quickly as he could. By the time he reached the toilet, he had vomit trickling from between his lips, with some finding its way onto his nightshirt.
He hung over the toilet for several minutes, making sure his stomach was empty before he would rinse his mouth to extinguish the taste. Grabbing the half-full bottle of mouthwash, he stopped to examine himself. Blood-shot eyes, dark bags hanging beneath them. He was unattractive in his opinion already; the added baggage only made him homelier. He smiled - his teeth bore specks of vomit that had clung to the enamel. He frowned and took a mouth full of mouthwash - before reaching his toothbrush he noticed the string of puke that soiled his coffin-blue shirt. His frown grew deeper as he brushed his teeth and changed out of his nightshirt.
He stared again at his sunken face, hollowed eyes staring back at him. He couldn't remember the last time he felt good, or the last time he was happy. This was his gift two Christmases ago, his diagnosis of cancer. It wasn't until it was in stage four before they discovered it. A little known cancer of the T-Cells. He didn't concern himself with the specifics, only that he was given a few months to live. That was two years ago.
Zak made his way back to his bed, in slow arduous steps. Plopped down on his bed, not bothering to right himself or make himself comfortable. There was no need, he wasn't going to sleep again that night.
* * *
Zak watched Dr. Gibbons with a doubtful eye.
"Looks like you're gonna kick out another Christmas, Mr. Tran."
Zak ignored the doctor and finished buttoning his shirt. Another Christmas to celebrate my pain, Zak thought as he twisted the last button into place. He grimaced - be it ever so slightly, it was enough to draw the good doctor's attention.
"Are your hands giving you discomfort?"
Zak sighed as he sat. Always the same bullshit, "Does this hurt, or that. Tell me about the pain you're feeling." But they never yielded him any relief. "Yeah doc, but nothing like the pain in my abdomen." He replied.
Dr. Gibbons gave a thoughtful nod. The same he did every visit. Zak looked off to keep himself from getting angry.
"You know," Dr. Gibbons began, "I can't give you anything for the pain in your abdomen. I can give you a prescription for an anti-inflammatory that might help your hands."
Zak watched the smile on the doctor's face spread again. It was like a viral infection moving rapidly across his vapid face. His nose crinkled and his eyes drew in tight. "You know they upset my stomach, just like the pain meds."
He smirked as Dr. Gibbons stopped his scribbling and looked off as if in thought. "That's right," he said in a disappointed fashion.
Zak grabbed his coat and reached for the door when Dr. Gibbons repeated his original observation. "Looks like you're gonna kick out another Christmas, Mr. Tran."
How un-doctor like, Zak thought as he turned to give Dr. Gibbons a flash of a grin.
He left the office without making his usual follow-up appointment. They would call him with a time and date, every two months like clockwork he was in Dr. Gibbons' office having his lymph nodes poked and pushed on. His blood drawn, of which he never received any reports. And finally, the chest X-ray, which made very little sense to him, since his cancer was eating him away in his abdomen.
It didn't matter, because at that moment in time Zak Tran decided he was never going back to see Dr. Gibbons or any other oncologist for that matter. To Hell with it, he thought. All I want is something to ease the pain.
It was then that he noticed it. Had it been there every day for the past two years? Had he been so preoccupied being pissed off that the sign he rested his back on held the key to relieving his misery? There on the bus stop bench, the one he had traveled to and from Dr. Gibbons' office for nearly three years now, was an advertisement for pain relief. Not an ordinary sign for pain relief, like you might find for aspirin. This was a special pain reliever, home remedy and guaranteed to take your pain away or ten-times your money back.
He thought it a gimmick at first, but then convinced himself he had nothing to loose. Zak jotted the address down, with every intention of visiting "Juanna's Remedies," on Baker Street today.
* * *
He made it as far as Baker Street before the pain got the better of him. Zak sat down and propped himself up against a trash dumpster. The pain was terrible, much worse than yesterday. Perhaps the worst it had ever been. He thought for a moment, between agonizing shocks. Perhaps I'll die here now, finally. His grunts were coming quicker and louder as he leaned up against the dumpster. The people that did happen by Baker Street ignored him or made it a point to avoid him.
He was not alone, however - a voice called to him, one he likened to an angel. He looked up and he saw her, an elderly woman. Her wrinkled faced showed a life that must have been hard, and like his, lived far to long. Her eyes though, they were lively and showed much concern. He stared at her a moment longer, watching her aged lines with his stare before she spoke to him.
"Do you need some help young man?"
Zak tried to force a smile to be polite, but all he could do was grimace. "I-I am in..." He could squeeze no more out.
"Pain dear. I can see that. There is nothing more obvious than the pain that is eating up your insides."
"Juanna..." Zak slumped deeper into the rubbish he sat atop.
"Oh, she's not going to be able to calm your pain young man. She's all talk and new age. You need some real down home remedies."
Zak looked up queerly at the old woman that held out a bottle in her trembling hand. "Take it," she said.
He did as she said, but couldn't extend his arm too far. Each time it left his cramping abdomen, the pain would increase causing him to draw his hand back.
"Here," the old woman knelt beside him, "allow me." The old woman held Zak's head in her arm and gently poured the contents of the bottle into his open and willing mouth. Zak watched her as she stood, and about the time she had straightened herself up as much as she could, the pain was gone.
He sat for a moment, basking in the wonderment of the miracle. He stood,
brushed the debris off his pants and began to thank the old woman. "Ma'am, I don't know how..."
"Hush now." She said, holding up an arthritic hand to halt his continuing. "You just be thankful and praise Jahobe tonight before you sleep."
"Jahobe?"
The old woman shook her head. "It is where that there cure came from. Jahobe is great and wonderful. Here, you take one more just in case the pain returns."
Zak took the small bottle from the woman's hand and thanked her again. She waved a hand as if to shoo him, be he a pest or something and carried on about her business. Zak watched the old woman as she slowly walked down the sidewalk.
* * *
The apartment was unusually warm that night. Comforting, Zak thought. He hadn't any pain and the chills that usually shook him were gone as well. Everything seemed that much more pleasant, even the stale dusty air was a pleasure for him to inhale, of which he did often and deeply.
He made himself comfortable in his bed, a warm smile filled his face as he thought a good night's sleep for once.
Thoughts of the old lady crept into his mind. He remembered her telling him to thank Jahobe before he slept. His recollection was fleeting, however, as he basked in the painless evening. It was the first such evening in nearly three years. "Yeah, I'll make another Christmas." He said aloud, answering Dr. Gibbons' observation.
He lay down, head on pillow, body straight, not leaning towards the edge, readied for a quick run to the bathroom. Instead, he sank into his goose down pillow and his mattress ready for a relaxing night's sleep. His warm smile faded as he slipped into a deep sleep.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 83
