Prin prayed that his mumbling faux Arabic wouldn’t be noticed over the other man’s praying, never mind the noises outside, which were now just yelling and loudspeaker scratch, the tone suggesting warnings and taunts, demands and threats, back and forth, but no gunshots.
There were definitely more voices coming from one side than the other.
Which was down to a few fighters? And how long before whoever came back this way?
Prin needed more time. He had no idea how long these prayers went on. He was shaking with the idea that the other man would hit him with something while his head was down. He reared back and stood up and let out a choked sob.
“I can’t do this. Brother, I can’t pretend any longer,” Prin said.
The young man sprang to his feet and got in his face.
“I fucking knew it! I knew it! You’re no Mutadayyin Muslim!” he said.
The young man jabbed a finger into Prin’s forehead. Then he jabbed his own a few times.
“Your forehead is smooth, bro. You never pray. Check out mine. Five times a day, every day, bro,” he said.
“Yes. I see and I can feel the difference. You’re totally right. I don’t pray. My father, my father, what an evil man, he refused to teach me the faith, my whole life. He never let us go to mosque, he refused to keep halal, he laughed and ate steak and Snickers bars in front of his brothers and our cousins all day during Ramadan. I know nothing of the faith, brother, not even the prayers, only what I could find online,” Prin said.
“What sites?” he asked.
“What sites?” Prin asked.
“Yeah. What sites do you go to? You can’t just Google ‘I want to be a better Muslim,’ bro—”
“Actually, yes you can. That’s what I did. That’s how it started,” Prin said.
“Well, okay, you’re right. I actually started with Twitter: hashtag headmeat. But then what sites did you go to? Dabiq? What sheikhs do you follow? Yacoub? And don’t just say ‘Yeah, those ones,’ because I know you’re bullshitting,” he said.
“Listen, I don’t know how long we’re going to be in here or what’s going to happen next. What I found online was La illah ila Allah, Muhammad Rasul Allah, and I visited enough places to know I would find His Mercy in coming here to Dragomans and waging jihad, Insha’Allah. I don’t know if in His Mercy Allah will forgive me for following my father’s ways for so long, but I can at least try. Amiright?” Prin said.
The young man studied Prin. Then he giggled and shook his head.
“Bro, you and me both. My dad was the most anti-Muslim Muslim in all of America. He always said his favourite sheikh was the Iron Sheikh. You know, the wrestler? I came here more or less just like you. Some other stuff was going on, but yeah, basically, we’re the same,” he said.
“Yes, we’re the same. And we found each other, thanks be to Allah and Peace Upon His Name. So, what else was going on?” Prin asked.
He was now using the same voice he found when students came to him with their stories, seeking extensions for papers.
“Hold up. We need to complete Zuhr,” he said.
“Right. Please, teach me the way,” Prin said.
They pressed their heads down and prayed.
When they finished, the young man sat up, stood, then carefully removed the Danish blue cardboard prayer mats from the concrete floor and placed it on a nearby shelf. Prin did the same.
“Who knows how long we’ll be in here, right?” he said.
“Right. So, you were saying you had some stuff going on, before you came over?” Prin asked.
“Yeah, stuff, you know? Like I said, my grandmother, who actually lives in Dragomans, she’s really sick. But other stuff, too,” he said.
“Yeah, me too. But hey, tell me more. Like you said, we might be here for a while, depending on what’s going on outside. It’s already been at least an hour, right?” Prin said.
“Probably even longer, bro. So do you think we need a plan if one of the army men come in here? Or if some kuffar tourist tries to come in to hide?” he said.
“You’ll know what to do,” Prin said.
“Right on,” said the young man.
“So come on, we’re brothers, what’s been going on?” Prin asked.
“No man, it’s all shit and none of it matters because now I’m all for Allah and Peace Be Upon His name,” he said.
“Me too. You want me to go first? What I was dealing with, how I ended up here? My name’s Kareem, by the way,” Prin said.
“Okay. I’m Dawud. My buddies used to call me Dave. So did my dad and my brothers,” he said.
“But your true brothers call you Dawud,” Prin said.
“That’s right, Kareem,” he said.
“So, Dawud, you want to hear my story?” asked Prin.
“Nothing else to do until they come for us, right? Whether it’s our brothers or the army guys? There’s a rumour that American Special Forces guys are here too. Imagine if one of them came in here. Right?” he said.
Dawud swallowed hard when he said that.
A doe-eyed kid with gym muscles and a peach-pit prayer bump on his forehead.
“Well whoever’s out there, they’ve all stopped shooting. And there’s not as much talking as before. What do you think that means, Kareem?” he asked.
“It could mean anything. For now, I think it means we wait here, wait for a sign of what we should do next. It’ll come, Insha’Allah,” Prin said.
“Insha’Allah. And I don’t want to use my gun in here and tip off our location. We should have bottles with us,” he said.
39
The two of them walked around until they found big bottles of Absolut and Canadian Club.
“Now we’re ready,” he said.
“That’s right. But also, sorry, I know this is going to sound lame, but I’m starving,” Prin said.
“Me too, for sure!” he said.
He tapped the billowy sides of his cloak.
“Bro, I’ve been here two weeks and never mind Ramadan, I’ve lost twenty pounds, I swear. If my grandmother saw me—”
Bad idea, thinking of his grandmother just now. He shook his head free of her and kept going.
“Listen, I’ll eat almost anything other than chickpeas and dates and pita, bro. That’s basically all they give you when you join. Even for Iftar at night, that’s it! Also, this nasty yoghurt drink that I’m pretty sure has gone bad but they think it’s supposed to taste that way,” he said.
“Well, I guess I’ll get my fill of that food, if we make it out of here, Insha’Allah,” Prin said.
“Yeah yeah, Insha’Allah,” he said.
“Insha’Allah. So, what’s wrong with some M&M’s right now? Do you think there’s a hadith authorizing the eating of the infidel’s rations during a time of war? You’d know better than I would,” Prin said.
“For sure. It’s not like they’re bacon M&M’s, right?” he said.
Prin fist-bumped Dawud and they went down another aisle—soaps, colognes and perfumes, hair-dryers with engines by Porsche, Braun electric razors, deluxe antimacassars—and then another aisle, and another, until at last they found a giant Rubik’s cube set-up of M&M’s. Each tore open a carton and took out a bag the size of a small pillowcase.
Prin downed a handful for Dawud’s every two. Everything was quiet but for the sound of happy crunching. After a little while, they nodded at each other.
“So, what do you think, does this make sense, what we’re doing right now?” Prin asked.
Dawud paused between handfuls. He looked annoyed.
“Wait, you said there was a hadith. Now you’re saying eating M&M’s during jihad is haram?” he said.
“Actually I asked you if there’s a hadith. But I’m sure there is. I just mean, the two of us sitting back here like this, eating snack
s and talking, while who-knows-what’s happening to our brothers right now. You think that’s okay?” Prin asked.
“Listen, we’re not going to just give up, right, bro? We can’t. Even if we wanted to, we can’t. We can’t, we can’t, we can’t … and we don’t want to! So let’s just say our brothers have all gone to the paradise of the martyrs—”
“Insha’Allah,” Prin said.
“Yeah yeah, Insha’Allah, and so, well, we know we’re going to join them, right?” he said.
“Right,” Prin said.
“So, whether it happens in five minutes or five hours, what’s the difference?” he asked.
“Well, I’d rather spend more time in paradise than sitting here, like this, right?” Prin said.
“Sure, but bro, it’s not all about you, right? I mean, how much better if they think we’re all dead and then do a sweep back here and we take down a few more of them? To me, that’s totally worth waiting a few extra hours before … paradise,” he said.
“You’re right. You’re younger than me, brother, but very wise. Thank you,” Prin said.
The young man shrugged off the compliment, unconvincingly.
“So then, how should we wait for them to come for us?” Prin asked.
This entire time, Prin had been making infinitesimal shifts along the floor towards the whisky bottle near him.
“Look, it’s been days since I’ve had a chance to talk like this, with a brother. Most of the others only speak in Arabic, and I can get by or whatever, but even the brothers from England or wherever won’t really speak to you in English. And they’re always texting people back home and chatting with fat ugly kuffar French girls looking for boyfriends. They’re not looking to hear anyone’s story here or, whatever, make any friends. So it’s just, you know, good to talk like this,” he said.
“I agree,” said Prin.
“Then what’s your story, bro? Tell me how you got here,” he said.
“Okay. So here goes. This won’t be easy, okay?” Prin said.
“Bro, Hadith 54,” he said.
“I’m not going to lie to you. I have no idea what Hadith 54 says,” Prin said.
“Bro! You just made yourself Hadith 54 legit! It’s the one that says we just need to keep on telling the truth, all the way to Allah, Peace Be Upon His Name, and if we don’t …”
“If we don’t …”
“We burn. But not the good burn, like at the end of a beast set in the gym or … taking out kuffars, but, you know, the other place,” he said.
“Hell,” Prin said.
“Get with the true wording, Bro! We call it al-Nar,” he said.
“Got it. Thanks, I’m going to try my best—”
“No you’re not! You’re going to tell the truth! Hadith …”
“54. Yes. Right. So obviously I’m older than you, and come to this not knowing a lot except this: a few months ago, I was diagnosed with cancer,” Prin said.
“Oh! Bro, that sucks,” he said.
He tapped himself in the chest twice and then reached over and shared a fist bump with Prin.
“Thanks. It’s okay. I’m here now, right? And that’s for one reason only. The night before my surgery, I prayed to God—didn’t even call Him Allah Peace Be Upon His Name back then, that’s how far away I was—that I would do something important with my life, if He let me live. And that wasn’t going back to teaching high-school English to anti-Muslim infidels. Kuffars,” Prin said.
“You’re a teacher?” he asked.
“I used to be. Now I’ve come here,” Prin said.
“And what’s your wife think about it?” he asked.
“My wife?” Prin said.
“Fourth finger, left hand,” he said.
“Bro, you should be in intelligence, not just a regular fighter. But, well, actually I’m not married. I don’t have a wife,” Prin said.
He pulled off his wedding ring and studied it in his palm. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“So I read online that the border guards stop you from coming in if you fit the profile—single brown male, 19-45. I bought a fake ring so I could get past passport control. But now that you’ve already started the purification of Dragomans, I guess I won’t have to worry about passport checks,” Prin said.
He tossed his wedding ring down the aisle.
“Funny you said what you said,” he said.
“What?” Prin asked.
“That I should be in intelligence,” he said.
“Why?” Prin asked.
He shrugged and tried to hide his smile.
He didn’t try very hard.
“Bro, come on, tell me,” Prin said.
“I really shouldn’t. I’m not supposed to tell anyone,” he said.
“So, can you at least tell me when we’re both in the martyr’s paradise?” Prin asked.
“For sure, 100 percent,” he said.
“So what’s the difference, telling me five hours earlier?” Prin asked.
He nodded, conceding the point.
Also, he desperately wanted to concede this point.
“So, I’ve already been sent out as advance intelligence on a mission. I set it up, but it didn’t work out, which is why the Sheikh decided on the airport, instead,” he said.
“You can’t say what the mission was?” Prin asked.
“You’ll keep this to your death?” he asked.
“Insha’Allah, Hadith 54,” Prin said.
“So for sure? 100 percent?” he asked.
“That’s what it means, right bro?” Prin said.
“Right. Okay. So I had to pretend I was a business-development guy for startups. That’s how I got a meeting with this retarded Silicon Valley-wannabe Dragomans douchebag politician who’s all set up fancy in the big government complex and thinks he’s Steve Jobs or whatever. I said my startup was working on a new kind of security-tracking tab and that got me in behind the walls for a meeting, bro; behind the walls, no problem. Only the politician couldn’t meet with me and instead I had to meet with these … women,” he said.
Prin spat.
“Exactly. These two women, their hijabs weren’t even tight, and they asked to see a demo and I’m like ‘sure, sure,’ but wow, what a place, can I get a tour first? and they were so stupid they showed me around and so I took all these notes about the complex, the number of guards I saw, that kind of thing,” he said.
“And you didn’t connect with my guy Rafik, seriously?” Prin asked.
“That’s right. But maybe he knew something and told the Sheikh it wasn’t the right time. Who knows? I didn’t hear anything about that, only that it was called off and then we were supposed to be going into the big market in the old city this morning, but then that was called off, and suddenly we’re all in delivery trucks, going to this fake Christian chapel in the middle of some mountain, but that was called off too and so then we came to the airport. And then it was on, bro, it was on. Big-time, like every video game and blessing of the Prophet rolled into one. So fuck, yeah, I did, I actually did it,” he said.
“Did what?” Prin asked.
“You know what I mean. Now your turn,” he said.
“Wait. Dawud, brother, what did you do?” Prin asked.
“I purified this land of an infidel,” he said.
His voice was joyless and flat and metallic.
“What kind?” Prin asked.
“Some skinny slut. She dropped her smoothie when I hit her and some of it got on my shoes. See?” he said.
“Yes, I, I see. But, she wasn’t, I mean, how do you know she was a …”
“What, a slut? Well, first of all, she was totally uncovered! And her shirt’s undone all the way, tight pants, jewellery. Kind of obvious, bro,” he said.
“Okay … Praise, p-praise be unto Allah and
peace be upon His name … Way, um, way to go, bro,” Prin said.
“Thanks,” he said.
“But only one?” Prin asked.
“One more than you, bro. But that’s right. I had, well, whatever,” he said.
“You had what?” Prin asked.
“Well, so I had a pretty clean shot at this other chick. Chinese,” he said.
“And?”
“I TOLD YOU! MY GUN JAMMED!” he said.
“Okay, okay. Easy. Sorry, all’s good,” Prin said.
“So cancer, right? Is that what woke you up to the call?” he asked.
“Yeah. So like I told you already, Dawud, I had cancer, I prayed to Allah, Peace Be Upon His Name, I made a promise to Allah, Peace Be Upon His Name, and my cancer was cured, and so I came here,” he said.
“I don’t believe you,” he said.
His voice was again metallic and flat.
“That’s just too easy. No one’s story is that easy,” he said.
“Oh, so now you’re cool with complicated? What about your story?” Prin asked.
“What about it?” he asked.
“Did your gun really jam, or did you get scared and run in here?” Prin asked.
He punched Prin in the mouth. Prin’s head snapped back against the stock shelf. He spat out a tooth in a gobby little balloon of blood. His face throbbed. His heart was banging all the way through to his fattening lip now and he strained to hear anything else. Still no gunfire, no calling for help, no barking orders and threats and taunts.
Was it all over?
How much longer before someone checked the stockroom?
Could he keep this going for long enough?
Or would he have to try with the bottle?
Shaking his head and holding both hands to his bleeding mouth, he writhed closer to the bottle.
“I’m sorry, brother. I’m truly sorry. Forgive me,” Prin said.
“Not until you tell me the truth, bro. The more I think about this, the less it makes sense. You’re cured of cancer and then just walk off a plane, not knowing anyone here, and not even a Dragomani yourself, but you’re all ready to make jihad? Nope. You better start proving yourself legit Mutadayyin Muslim or else I’m going to do more than just punch you in the face,” he said.
Original Prin Page 17
