A Good Country

by Laleh Khadivi

  Totally. Where is Kelly going?

  Air Force Academy.

  No shit.

  Shit.

  Rez kicked his feet in the water and wished for a wave but everything around was flat. Matthews lay down on his stomach and tilted his head toward Rez.

  Is Arash ok?

  Yeah. He’s ok.

  Not going to Stanford?

  They withdrew their acceptance. It’s standard if someone is accused of cheating.

  So what’s he gonna do?

  Don’t know. He listens to the news a lot. And he doesn’t puff anymore. And he’s going to the mosque with his brother, says it chills him out.

  That’s weird.

  Show some respect, dude. You wouldn’t say that if he were going to church.

  Maybe I would.

  Maybe you would. Everything is weird for a dweeb.

  Rez splashed at Matthews with the flat of his hand and Matthews feigned a clumsy fall off his board into the water in a jokey display.

  They ate at a taqueria in San Clemente and ordered everything a twenty would pay for, including beer, because the lady behind the counter never carded, even if they did look like unwashed children who had just crawled out of the sea. Rez loved this feeling more than all other feelings, the sand in his hair, the salt still on his skin, the great wash of waves still in his ears. Only the feeling after sex was just as good.

  What’s up with you and Fatty?

  Don’t call her that.

  She let everyone call her that in middle school. She was so skinny, it was a joke.

  Careful, hombre.

  All right, all right. Fa. Ti. Ma. You guys serious?

  Just hanging.

  I always liked her. She was in my ninth-grade English class. Didn’t let anyone get away with anything. And then her hair.

  Yeah. There is the hair.

  Like Beyoncé.

  Yup. Like Beyoncé. It’s fun.

  Everything is all fun from here on out. Senior summer, buddy.

  Rez looked at his friend Matthews, who chewed and then downed his beer in clumsy gulps and sighed the sigh of a glad dog, and Rez could not help but love him in that moment. His love was open and flat like the sea had been that day and he thought how strange that their lives should be like this, happy and chill and of such little consequence. Senior summer and all the ease that stretched out beyond it and how could someone take to it like Peter, without a worry, and someone could be like Arash, a ball of nerves, quiet and angry and torn? How is that? Rez lifted his beer to his mouth and drank the two thirds that was left and felt a sudden wild satisfaction, gold and effervescent.

  18

  The room smelled like shoes. Shoes and feet and men. Rez breathed through his mouth and then after a while he’d forget and breathe normal and in a second the stench filled his whole face and head and he thought he was going to puke. Arash didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, it wasn’t a thing. It was part of the whole thing, this dank man smell. Rez slipped off his flip-flops and pushed them up against the wall with the other shoes. Did the woman’s side smell as bad? His mother’s feet didn’t smell, and Fatima’s feet, the painted toenails with little gemstones, could not smell, it was impossible. And with just the memory of them they were in his mouth, like yesterday, round and slippery and clean, her legs stretched up to his face. He stared at the pile of shoes, inhaled a few times through his mouth, and went and stood beside Arash in line.

  The line was long and slow and Rez looked around to keep himself entertained, to keep himself quiet, to keep from saying anything mean or pissy or rude. True, he didn’t want to be here, but also true that he was here and knew it was no big deal, just a few hours and then done. Whatev. Ahead of them men bowed and stooped to wash their hands and forearms and elbows. Rez saw them lift the water to the back of their necks, across their faces and temples, into and out of their mouths with forceful spits. They cupped the water and breathed it into their noses and then blew, one nostril and then the other, quick and violent.

  Arash stood close. Rez felt Arash’s eyes on him.

  You know you don’t have to do all that.

  Yeah. No. It’s cool. I was just checking it out.

  You only have to wash your hands. Three times. And your face. You took a shower this morning, right?

  Yes indeedy.

  He had done all Arash asked. Taken a shower. Kept off the smoke for the morning. Didn’t fuck. Didn’t have Bloody Marys with Fatima when she picked him up for brunch. He wore khaki pants and a button-down shirt. Skipped a whole Friday at school. He could wash his hands three times if it meant that the thing would be closer to over and they could go to the beach, light a joint, and chill. Arash seemed pleased.

  And your intentions, you got them straight?

  I do.

  Rez lied to his friend. It was not a word in his everyday life. Intentions. And the last time he heard it was in a yoga class Sophia dragged him to in eleventh grade. The yoga teacher said it once—Now before we start, let us all take a moment to set an intention for your practice—and Rez was so stoned and the room so hot that the teacher transformed from yoga instructor into an isolated voice that butterflied its way around the room, into his ears, and down his throat, void of all literal meaning. At the end of that class she asked them all to hum a long hum—Now remember your intentions—and he still had no idea what she was talking about but opened his mouth anyway and let out the same note that vibrated with all of the other notes in the room.

  Arash slapped Rez’s shoulder a few times with his palm.

  Awesome, man. That’s awesome. I knew you could do this.

  Rez wanted to remind Arash what awesome was. Awesome was what they did on this day last year when they rented out Sloop, the whole restaurant, in Newport and danced until three in the morning and sang “Happy Birthday” every time they smoked a joint or did a line. That was awesome. This was just weird. Rez held his friend by the arm and gave him a friendly squeeze. The worse he felt, the better he lied.

  Good, man. I am glad you’re happy. It’s your birthday, you should be happy.

  Rez couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t just let it go. This is what Arash wanted. When Fatima asked him what they could do for his birthday this year, Arash shook his head no to every suggestion. No to the weekend at Joshua Tree with a night in Palm Springs. No to the barhopping in the Dana Point harbor. No to all of it, Arash dropping his head lower and lower with each suggestion.

  So what do you want?

  My birthday is Friday. I go to mosque on Fridays. I want you guys to come with.

  They agreed as if it were nothing, and Fatima borrowed a silk scarf from her mother and they followed his rules, and now, in the preparation room that led to the prayer room, Rez was antsy, his every thought annoyed. But he kept it together and stood beside his friend as they shuffled forward toward the sinks and Arash received the hugs and kisses of men, young and old, who came up to him and said the same words over and over, their faces solemn with happiness.

  As-salaam alaikum.

  Wa-alaikum salaam.

  Today is a great day, brother.

  Yes, brother. A great day.

  Rez wanted to make a joke about the hugging and kissing, but left it. Be good, he heard Fatima remind him as they’d split up into different washrooms and shoe rooms. This is an experience with someone’s beliefs. One joke was not going to hurt anyone.

  Hey, A, how do all these dudes know it’s your birthday? Was there some sort of mosque e-mail?

  Arash did not laugh. He looked ahead at the sinks and the washing men.

  Everyone always greets each other that way. And today there is a guest imam. He is leading the prayer. We are lucky to have him here.

  Then it was their turn and Rez watched Arash and copied him and did almost all the same washing that he did except for the nose part and then they dried their hands on clean damp towels and walked toward the entrance to the prayer room, a large doorway closed off by a thick burgundy
curtain. Rez took a deep inhale through his mouth and sighed.

  May the force be with you.

  Arash stopped.

  Are you nervous about something?

  No. Why?

  Because people make stupid jokes when they are nervous.

  No, I am good. I was just … sorry, man. I am good.

  It’s ok to be nervous your first time. Just get your intentions straight and everything will be fine.

  Rez nodded. This time Arash put his hand on Rez’s arm and Rez saw the look of Arash’s whole face, a new face, a different face from the one he had in eleventh grade, the one that sat next to Rez in the assembly and asked him if he blazed. This face now belonged to a young man going in a direction, toward a thing, not yet arrived but determined. Rez tapped his temple.

  Intentions. I got ’em right here.

  Arash put his hand over his heart in response. His eyes glassed.

  It means a lot to me that you came today.

  Of course. A birthday is a birthday. It’s your day, bro.

  Arash patted his heart again and they walked into the room, their bare feet silent on the end-to-end rugs. Rugs everywhere, Rez had never been anyplace with more complicated carpet. Maybe Vegas. The farther they got into the room, the more Rez stared at the carpets and remembered that guy, his father’s old friend, the rug seller who lived in Ventura, the widower with the house full of plants. Rugs everywhere. In the kitchen. In the hallway. On the patio and in the bathroom. Rez would sit down in a corner and stare at the patterns and the colors and listen to his father and the rug seller speak in Farsi. They were nice afternoons, no women, just the three of them sitting and talking and drinking tea, the rug seller letting Rez take four or five sugar cubes from the tea tray and then sneaking him a few more. The scent of the tea, the afternoon sun across the rugs in bands of gold, his father’s relaxed and happy moods. The memories came back to Rez with such vividness he thought he was stoned. Following Arash, Rez heard his father’s voice on their car rides home from the rug seller’s house. He took me in, in the beginning. My life here in America is because of him. My success. You. Your life and success. A good man.

  Arash pointed to a far back wall where a few old men, too old to sit up without support, leaned back against the wall, moved strings of beads through their fingers, crossed and uncrossed their skinny legs.

  You can sit there. You don’t have to do anything but listen.

  I can do that.

  Rez waited for Arash to add one of his wisecracks like don’t fall asleep or don’t fart or something stupid just to keep it lively but Arash just turned around and walked into a gathering of men, a back among backs.

  The room, enormous, spread out under a single cascading chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. Rez was glad it was a big room, full of people he didn’t know, all facing away from him. He could sit here for an hour and stare at these guys. He could do that. There were all kinds of guys, blond golfy guys, black guys, really black guys, Asian guys, lots of brown Middle Eastern–looking guys like Arash, whom Rez could no longer find in the crowd. They lined up in rows and sat cross-legged or on their calves and kept their eyes closed and their palms up, everything so ordered and quiet Rez was afraid they’d hear his nerves, the jingle of change in his pockets, his quick and cynical heartbeat.

  Far ahead, at the front of the room, a little stand with a narrow staircase led to a podium under a miniature minaret. The structure was not unlike the gazebo in Johnson’s yard, the same one Rez and Sophia used to make out in after swimming, splinters in their backs, a view of the birds’ nests in the beams when she was on top of him. He thought of her, the straight black hair spilling all over him, her ass in his hands, and Rez looked up at the chandelier and down at the lines of men and knew these thoughts were wrong for this room and he took a few breaths and tried to give himself to the experience, to give the experience a chance. He looked around. Everyone here seemed so easy with it. The man next to him offered his hand.

  As-salaam alaikum.

  Wa-alaikum salaam.

  When the words came out of Rez’s mouth, they felt dried-up, like fall leaves, and he croaked them again, held the man’s soft old hand in his hand and his soft old eyes on his eyes and let himself join for a moment and then unjoin and then he was relaxed, a bit at first, and then a lot, and sat back against the wall and slowly let loose all his tight doubt.

  A man in a white turban and pale robes floated the ten steps up to the podium. All rose to their feet and a wind of moving bodies went through the room and Rez felt it, knew it as intention, and he sensed it move through his skin. Intention filled the room, singular; encompassing; certain; silently impassioned, and Rez stood too.

  For one hour all reality of the room—Arash, the brightness of eleven o’clock in May, the glistening crystals of the chandelier, the snakes and gardens woven into the rugs beneath his feet—dissolved and Rez, in bits and pieces, did too. He slowed his heart, and he craned his neck to hear the man who had not started to talk, and it became clear that these were not entirely his choices, that the air in the room changed and he, Rez, no longer controlled what he felt, thought, believed. The skeptical skin shed itself and he stood and sat and listened and breathed and let himself be one among the many.

  The imam spoke with a soft voice. His gestures were gentle, and his face, from what Rez could see, kept the expression of a man about to tell a joke, joyful at the coming joy. Rez let the feeling of the room push him forward to hear, and when his mind wandered, the speaker quickly brought it back with a single word.

  Brother.

  It was the start of most sentences and the end of many. Brothers, here we are in the beautiful mosque of Anaheim, California. You must be proud of your brothers who have come together to build this … with your brothers, for your brothers. The imam said it again and again. Rez looked around at the men. Are these my brothers? They all kept a presence, open and receiving; a quiet devotion. Rez tried to hold himself back, to observe and not join, but the atmosphere of the room refused to let him sink into heavy, dull emotions, and so he listened and so he let himself hear.

  Today I have come to ask you, What is a Muslim in the world?

  The room kept still.

  It is a man, or woman, who moves with Allah as their guide. Do not let yourself be distracted by the circus around you. The devil has devised many enjoyable and dark temptations, and heaven will slip from your grasp.

  The old men beside Rez sat still but did not fall asleep.

  Who creates this desire? What drives a man to villainous acts? To jealousy or anger or mean deeds?

  The speaker waited.

  A distance from God. And how do we come closer to God? To resist the temptations of the devil and become better Muslims? Through service. Service and duty. I have seen so much suffering and death across this Muslim world, over every continent, on every stage of battle and peace, and the only thing that I have seen again and again is an ache for union. A need to reach out across oceans and help our brothers most in need. For if they are sacrificed, if they go to their deaths against the armies that seek to destroy Islam, then who will we commune with, how will Islam keep its rightful place among the men of earth? You must strive to join your brothers.

  The speaker paused and the room and positions changed, prayer beads clinked through fingers, backs stretched. The speaker waited and continued but Rez could not follow the words. His thoughts stayed on brothers, how he had always wanted one. A brother to kick it with, a person to be loyal to, without thought or guess. Once he wanted the apostles, but they were not brothers, except maybe for Matthews, and now Arash, who brought him here today, to show him what a brotherhood could be. Arash, who kept to the goodness of his heart; the worse things got, the more Arash kept faith. Arash his brother since the beginning, since that day at the assembly, since that Nice work, brother. Rez sighed and a big want carved a hollow in his gut and he stopped his thoughts and turned his face toward the speaker and the soft voic
e chronicling a harsh message.

  It is the age-old call for the union with all belief so Muslims may be victorious in this world. So your children can grow and live without fear. Your lives are beautiful now and for this we must thank Allah. And when Allah comes to ask you for your service, you must be ready. This is the exchange of love, the exchange that is devotion.

  Rez was sure that if he had a brother, older or younger, it didn’t matter, he would defend him. Yes. He would. That is the meaning of brother. The connection between you makes it so. He looked around the room; all the men had stopped their breaths. Their chests stood flat as boards and their eyes focused and somewhere above them their hearts floated, full of the electricity of new passions. He saw the backs of necks, pillars of blood life, lined up all the way to the front of the room and he saw Arash’s neck, skinny and tan, and the part of Rez that had just joined this room rushed to the front of his mind. Yeah, dude. I’d save your neck. I’d do that. Totally.

  The speaker led them in another set of prayers and the men stood and bowed and muttered and held their elbows and opened up their palms. Rez wished he knew the prayers, could join in with words, drop and lift his body in sync. His voice was dry and small when he repeated the Allah be with you and he felt instantly fragile and undone as if some solid thing in him had evaporated and his body had not realigned itself around the new vacancy just yet.

  They met on the sidewalk outside, the midday sun bright and their eyes squinting at the Anaheim streets around them. Fatima was pale now, paler than Rez had ever seen her, and she talked with Arash about the feeling of it, using the word feeling over and over. She held her scarf, and her hair was damp and flattened from the cover. That felt so good. So right. I felt my whole body relax listening to him. Rez watched her talk and it seemed frantic, a little nervous, different from her normal sure self. Rez said only single words: Awesome. Super. Relaxing. And stared at the cars and their drivers as they stopped and went at the light on Milva. Men in trucks. Men in Humvees. Men in cheap cars. All alone. On the phone. Smoking. Listening to music. Men in a brotherless world.