A Good Country
Page 17
She stopped talking and took another sip.
One of the officers said I should be brought in, just to make sure I had no affiliations. The other cop, a Mexican guy, told him to drop it. Then they left. There have been other incidents since. Mostly harassment. But that was the worst.
She put the teacup down and sat back and stared at Rez, her posture still straight, her gaze harder now. Rez waited and she said nothing. He waited a little longer.
Tomorrow I’m going to a new mosque, to begin my studies, to see what I can contribute.
Rez waited for the invitation to join her, waited to see what his heart felt at the thought of it, but she did not ask. Fatima stood and tucked the new loose hairs under her scarf and then put out her hand to him, not with the palm sideways like a handshake, but with the palm up, as an invitation. He placed his hand on hers and they closed fingers and for a minute the garden, the table, the three-tiered fountain, and the million-dollar house swirled as his head went light and his balance gave.
But first I needed to see you. The way we used to. One last time.
He followed her to the bedroom they’d spent countless afternoons in, smoking and fucking and not even pretending to do the chemistry they were supposed to be doing. At first their bodies met in silence, with intensity; the second time slowly; and the third time with a violence she did not protest. She fell asleep nearly immediately afterward and he sat up beside the smell and sight of her, the woman of her, and thought the thought that wouldn’t leave him: how to become a man?
Choices. To make them yourself and then live by them. To know what to do with your own body and mind. A man made choices. A child did not make choices. He thought of the man in the military uniform from the black-and-white photographs. His pleased gaze, in command of his fate. He saw his father, just arrived in America, the man in him beginning to make the decisions that would take him into manhood and now old age. Rez stared at Fatima, who directed the course of her life, regardless of what people thought. He considered himself, and the way he moved in reaction, like a pinball, from one thing to the next, as he was told, as was expected, as made the least friction, and he knew this was the lazy behavior of a scared boy.
He watched her sleep. He watched her sleep and stretch and sleep again and told himself this would not be the last time to see it, her naked body full of him, this body that made him awake to life. No, this would not be the last time. He let this feeling form in him like a strong sense of direction and slowly it became a determination and a decision. To be a man was to be with Fatima, to have the woman of his choice, to make a union with her, see this body without cover, available to him at any time. To be a man he must enter into love.
27
The packet came with the rest of the mail and Rez grabbed it off the floor. It was heavy and stamped with the words WELCOME, FRESHMAN across the front and the back. He went to his room, threw it on his bed, and closed the blinds against the heat.
Afternoon today was hotter than yesterday and the day before and probably not as hot as tomorrow and this was late July in SoCal. He should have been at the beach but he liked the cool empty vibe of his house and stayed home, in board shorts, in and out of the pool, reading the old copies of National Geographic his father collected before the Internet showed the world at a glance whenever they wanted. Rez fanned out the pieces: magazines and leaflets and flyers and a decal of the university bear. The pictures showed students and teachers and classrooms, lots of grass and lots of backpacks. Rez saw a photo of a clock tower with a great bay behind it and the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. The water looked steely and flat and Rez wondered where exactly the waves were.
Consent forms. Class offerings. A letter from the head of the chemistry program. Orientation schedule. Social mixers for freshmen. Dorm assignments. Sports clubs. Academic clubs. Student health clubs. 10 Tips for Surviving Your First Month. Rez wondered, what would kill him the first month? All the images in the pamphlet showed students all around campus, smiling in various versions of the school logo, sweatshirts, shorts, T-shirts, soccer socks. There were no heads in any of the photographs, just artfully shot body parts. The pages were numbered like a Letterman countdown: 10. Don’t overpack. 9. Attend welcome events. 7. Don’t forget where you come from. It is ok to feel a little homesick at first, or to even feel like you’ve outgrown your home … 3. Ask an upperclassman for help. 2. Call home. 1. Keep an open mind.
Rez gathered the materials and shoved them back into the envelope and threw the whole packet into the bottom drawer of his desk. In three weeks he could look at it again, maybe then it would mean something.
28
Who doesn’t like surprises?
Fatima asked again and again until he finally said, Ok, and when she came to pick him up, he had to talk himself down from horny expectations and just be happy to see her and sit in the closed space of the car with her skin and scent.
Salaam.
Hello to you too.
The last time they hung out she’d brought a picnic and they went to a park and sat in the shade not far from a playground full of blond kids and OC moms. She sat across from him and snacked on grapes and read passages from the Koran out loud to practice her Arabic, to try out the thoughts. Rez resisted the sound of them, their order and severity, but after a while he opened his ears and his brain switched to student mode and listened to her slow and faulty Arabic and the translation she did immediately afterward. He wondered about the passages, their odd directives and complete certainty, and considered the feelings they left him with—at once gentle and determined—his mind turned toward them now, curious. Fatima read on.
And forget not your portion of legal enjoyment in this world and do good as Allah has been good to you and seek not mischief in the land.
Rez noticed her scarf, nicely tied, was cleaner around the face now, neater over the head. He’d complimented her on it when she picked him up.
YouTube, Arab girls in the projects in France have their own channel. The girls in France don’t mess around.
He saw how much care she put into it, how it was ironed and smooth, and when the wind blew, it fluttered a little but nothing was exposed. She continued to read as if in a kind of musical meditation.
Stand firmly against injustice as witness to Allah even if it be against yourselves or your parents and relatives. It feels like it was written for me, maybe for all of us. Here we are, in this country suspicious of us, in a world that is trying to make life miserable for Muslims who want to be peaceful and devout. Stand firm. Stand firmly.
On and on it went until the grapes and the chips and the lemonade were gone. Rez absorbed each passage like the solution to a long problem he tried to solve every morning. How to be good. How to trust. How to be a person. The words from the Koran were clues, and when an ant crawled slowly up his flip-flop and his foot, he let it alone and thought of grace. Fatima read and he listened and watched the children play their games on the playground, their souls unconcerned with God, and the words of the old text came through him and he understood them as a call to a devotion complete and without error.
When she dropped him off at his house, Rez said thank-you and wanted to touch her but instead just let his eyes settle into hers for a moment longer and the heat built between them. Rez felt himself light up from the center out to the fingers and toes and Fatima blushed.
Ok. Bye.
Bye.
When he sat for dinner with his parents, he stared at the food, eggplant stew and rice, fresh radishes and mint and green onions, and thought of the perfect symmetry, the crisp and soft, fresh and cooked, and opened himself up to it and to the gratitude he had to his mother and father for providing it. Another kind of heat began to spread, evenly and throughout his form.
This is so good.
His mother looked at him and tilted her head.
Same as it has been all these years.
From the head of the table his father gave a loud, solid laugh.
Yes,
but he is just starting to realize how much he will miss it in two weeks! Don’t worry, we will visit. I am sure she will bring a cooler full of food.
Rez did not know what he had done to deserve the mother before him, the father, and it broke his heart to imagine himself far from them, detached. He stared at the flat blue water of the pool outside and focused on the single yellow ginkgo leaf in a slow float across the surface, the water’s easy way.
She drove down Highway 1 until they turned into an anonymous strip mall where Rez assumed she was going to run some errand. Nail shop. Dry cleaner. Designer consignment. Walgreens. Sushi restaurant. FedEx. Kinko’s.
The surprise is dry cleaning?
Hop out.
He followed her into the Kinko’s and waited before the counter as she paid the cashier in cash for an hour on a computer.
What’s wrong with your computer? Why the cash? What happened to your card?
Don’t worry about it.
The cashier, in his late thirties with soft thin blond hair and crooked shoulders, pointed at the computer farthest away from him and said, Use the headphones if you are going to chat and don’t talk too loud. He seemed to have an idea of who they were and what they wanted, which was more than Rez could say.
Fatima woke the screen and logged on to her Skype account with a name he didn’t recognize. She scrolled through a list of contacts Rez had never heard of. She clicked on one before he had a chance to read it and the screen went blue and they sat and stared at the reflection of themselves: two people, a pretty girl in a scarf, big cat eyes and pale skin, and a handsome guy, younger than a man but older than a boy, square jaw and close-cut hair. For that instant Rez did not recognize himself or Fatima and saw two strangers, a boy and a girl, waiting. Then the call connected and a guy in a funny hat, with a spotty thin beard, spoke to them and Rez nearly jumped out of his seat.
Dude. A! What’s up?!
Light filled Arash’s eyes.
Reza, my man! Long time!
And it was him. Arash. The same voice, same happy face, thinner and smaller under the hat. Different costume, but everything else like it was. A sharp sensation went through Rez and he wanted his friend here right now, to hang with, to fill the hot, empty days with thinking and talking and smoke. Rez remembered the night they went to the Hollywood Bowl show, how fun it was to have a friend like that, how much better college would be with someone he didn’t have to explain anything to. Fatima spoke to Arash in Arabic and he spoke back and Rez tried to give them a moment but he was too excited.
Dude, where are you? Where have you been? What’s with the beard? It’s a little … fluffy … and not total coverage exactly, but the hat’s dope …
From wherever he was, Arash laughed and then Rez laughed.
It is good to see you, brother. Looking well. Looking ready.
Where are you, dude?
Arash went quiet for a moment and Rez was about to repeat himself when his friend’s face got serious and the voice that responded was deeper.
Brother, I am in the good land. The land of right and wrong. A place I cannot even describe.
Rez looked at his friend and started to see it, in bits and pieces, the truth as it was before him. The clean white shirt, the try at the beard, the Muslim beard, the fundamentalist beard. The beard that proves you believe Islam in all its force as the imam in one of the YouTube videos had said.
Yeah, but, are you, like, ok?
I am well, Rez. Better than well. Don’t even think otherwise. You?
Good. College in a few weeks. Gonna be better since Fatima is coming with. Stanford. Her family is really proud. I don’t want to brag, but I think my tutoring in AP is really what did it …
Arash said nothing, made no gesture with his face or head, and Fatima looked down at her hands, clasped tight in her lap. She did not share in the joke that had always been a joke. On the screen Arash leaned forward, the smile still pasted across his face. The screen unfroze and then he was talking again.
No one can tell the future, my brother. Only Allah knows the way.
Yeah. Well. I know my own way.
There was the defiance again, the defiance Rez had felt the day at Javad’s when they watched the imam’s talk about Muslims as the victims and the need to rise up, to fight. Rez wanted nothing to do with it. Fatima placed her hand on his knee.
Remember? The suras I read you? Patience? An open heart?
Rez felt her fingers not as if they were on the outside of his pant leg but as if they were stroking him, keeping him calm and safe and pleased.
He looked at Arash and saw his old friend in new form and took a breath and pulled his roller chair closer to the screen and took another breath.
So then where are you?
In the good land. Building a new country.
Building? Building what?
A country. A community. A homeland where there is no punishment for believing in Allah. Only rewards. I am happy for you and your life, Reza, my brother. I hope that you can be happy for my life as well. Like I said, we are all on the paths set out for us.
Yeah. Well, I wish you were here too. There were good times this summer. Rez lied.
That’s good, man. I wish you were here. There is so much to show you. We are going to build beautiful new hospitals, smooth streets without beggars, all the children in schools. I’ve even got enough engineering under my belt to work on a water-treatment plant. Can you believe it! Work my father wasn’t allowed to do until he was thirty-three! I am only eighteen!
Rez smiled at his friend’s giddy brags. There he was, just a million pixels in a weird costume, still Arash.
My time is up soon. What a great day to see both of your faces. We need people like you here. But I guess the world needs good people like you everywhere. Rez, stay true. You know how we do.
Arash put his fist up to the camera and in simple reaction Rez did the same and hit the screen with a bump and felt dumb as soon as his knuckles hit the screen. Fatima said a few words in Arabic and Arash listened and said a few words back and Rez looked around at the empty Kinko’s and caught the eye of the cashier, who stared at them, his look impatient and suspicious and Rez saw them as they seemed. Two kids, Middle Eastern–looking, talking to a guy on the screen with a beard. That is all he needed to make a call. Rez took off his headphones and tapped Fatima on the shoulder and tilted his head toward the door. He heard Fatima keep talking, saying good-bye the way they always did at her house or Arash’s house with long phrases such as Alhamdulillah and Bismillah again and again until there was the silence and the frozen image of Arash, the cement wall and smiling face.
29
It was hot in the car and it was hot outside. Rez sat in the driver’s seat with the windows down and watched men and women come and go to the Jummah prayers and to the small grocery store next to the mosque. Then it was sweltering and he got out and stood beside the car, on the sidewalk, and paced the few feet between parking meters and wondered how it could be so hot in Anaheim. It was only twenty minutes from his house, thirty with traffic, and yet the air, the plants, the dirt, was all desert. He got back in the car, rolled up the windows, and turned on the AC and the radio, and when the car was an icebox and he was still burning up, he knew the heat was inside him, and had been all morning since the beach.
He went because Matthews said it was the best swell of the year and there would be nothing like it at the mushy beaches up north and so why not? Matthews had time for a super quickie, two or three waves before the doctor’s appointment he’d already flaked on twice, but he could take Rez and then Rez could stay and bum a ride home. Rez texted. Fatima can pick me up. There was a pause and then a ding and Matthews’s jokey reply: Oh I bet she can …
Rez texted her and she told him he’d have to come to mosque with her afterward and wait in the car and he said fine and he and Matthews went into the August ocean with just board shorts and spent an hour so blissed out that he thanked Matthews for the heads-up and thanked th
e tectonic plates for the way they made the shelf off the coast of California and thanked the ocean herself for the fast, elegant heaves. After he surfed along for what felt like a lifetime, Rez rode a shallow wave in and walked onto the shore and up to his small pile of things.
Next to him a group of guys, still wet, sat together and looked out over the water and he gave a what’s-up nod in their direction and a few of them looked back and a few of them looked away. He took off his leash and his rash guard and heard laughter. First quick and quiet and then big and loud. He stared in the direction of the group of guys and the sounds stopped and Rez grabbed for his towel and wrapped it around him and took off his board shorts and looked around for his jeans, naked and searching, he heard the word monkey and then hairy and then Arab, and then I didn’t know Muslims could swim. All that desert and shit.
Rez first looked down at his body. Were they talking to him? He had hair on his chest, a thin patch between his nipples, and his shoulders and back were smooth, like a kid’s. He looked like most guys his age, and certainly not as hairy as some, or as dark. What were they talking about? He wasn’t an Arab. His parents were from Iran. Rez was born here, as American as they were. They didn’t know shit. What the fuck?
I hear those guys are hung like camels. Should we check?
The laughs were snickers now, fast and furtive. A few stood up and walked toward him.
Rez grabbed the towel around his waist, clenched it to him, and straightened his body and faced in their direction.
Fuck off.
It’s cool, man. It’s cool. Just doing a little research. Gotta know your enemy.
They put their palms up in a fake innocence but kept moving toward him.