American Taliban: A Novel

by Pearl Abraham

  Go back into the hallway, take off your coat and shoes, come back, and I’ll introduce you, Noor instructed.

  Ali stepped out, Noor and John could hear his clumsy movements in the hallway, the thud of a heavy book bag, the slam of a sliding door, then muffled steps.

  John, this is my brother Ali. Ali, this is my friend John.

  Pleased to meet you, John said, and pushing himself up with one arm, reached out with the other.

  Ali’s small hand slipped into his. I understand, John said, that even without knowing you, I managed to bring your favorite dessert for dessert.

  Halvah? Ali asked, then saw the wrapped parcels beside Noor. Chocolate?

  Both, John said. Though I’m partial to chocolate, too.

  Noor handed Ali the parcels. Take them directly to Oom, she said. Don’t even think of opening them.

  He has his shoes on, Ali pointed out to Noor, and ambled out, swinging a parcel in each hand. Noor and John laughed.

  He’s not fat, John said.

  Pudgy, Noor said, like American kids.

  Baby fat, John said. Which he’ll lose within a year, guaranteed.

  I hope so. She stood. Let me help you up, she said.

  Shouldn’t I take off my shoes, or shoe? I’m setting a bad example.

  Nah, Noor said. It’s hard enough for you to get around as is.

  She offered both her hands to help him up, but John pushed up against the bolster with his arms, keeping most of his weight on his good leg.

  Ali came in. Oom says to say dinner’s ready.

  We’re on our way, Noor said. She handed John his crutches. Careful on the rugs, she said. They can slip.

  Ali pulled out a chair for John, and he sat at a Western-style dining table with regular chairs: though they lounged like Bedouins, the Bint-Khans dined Western style.

  Mrs. Bint-Khan put her palms together, bowed her head, recited, clapped her hands, and finished with an Im’sh’allah.

  Noor lifted the heavy lid of the casserole and announced, Tajine of chicken with lemon and cracked green olives.

  John inhaled. Lemon, olives, cinnamon, and ginger maybe.

  Ty-yee-ba wehzh-ba, he wished the others, as his book advised.

  It was a strange combination, but deliciously strange. The couscous infused with stew was awesome. Delicious, he said.

  Andak kam sana? Noor’s mother asked him, then looked at Noor to translate, but John didn’t wait. He recognized the question from his workbook.

  Andi ‘as-hara sana min tha-maa-nee-ya, he said, meaning, I’m ten years older than eight years.

  Noor laughed. Her mother smiled and said in English, Good answer. Who learned you?

  Taught, Mom, Ali corrected. Who taught you.

  John responded. Ana hina lee dirasa al-r-ra-be-ya. Ana talib.

  Mrs. Bint-Khan’s face crinkled. Hoo-wa ’aa-il? she asked Noor. Hoo-wa Kaatib eye-dahn?

  He doesn’t know yet, Noor answered. But a journalist is a good idea. My mom thinks you could be a journalist, too, since you’re so good at languages. It does kind of suit you, I think.

  John shrugged. For now, I’m a reader. He put another olive in his mouth. I love these.

  FOR DESSERT they returned to the living room. Noor poured sweet tea. Ali brought in the halvah on a platter, and Mrs. Bint-Khan came in with a tray of cups.

  Mahalabiyya, Mrs. Bint-Khan said.

  I love these, Noor said. I can eat three cups in three minutes. And proving it, she finished her first cup and reached for a second.

  They heard the front door and Ali jumped up to greet his father, whom he led into the room moments later, as if pulling a pull toy.

  John attempted to get up.

  Sit, sit, Mr. Bint-Khan said, and lowered his hand toward John.

  Noor stood on tiptoe to kiss her father. After which he settled on the cushion beside his wife and brought her hand to his lips.

  Watching this intimate family scene, formally ritualistic but also private somehow, John was both enchanted and embarrassed. He should probably have left earlier. Perhaps there’d been a signal and he’d missed it.

  Noor held out a small deep dish. Libb, she announced, and Mr. Bint-Khan reached in and came away with a handful of sunflower seeds.

  Want to try them? she asked John. My father eats them as a kind of digestive.

  Thanks, John said, declining, I really should go. Noor helped him up, handed him his crutches. I’ll get my coat and walk you, she said, and hurried out.

  John thanked Mrs. Bint-Khan for having him as a guest in her home, for making him welcome, for a wonderful and beautiful dinner. He stopped, self-consciously, not accustomed to saying so much, having run out of things to say.

  Noor’s father sprang up and walked John to the door. He was wiry, medium height, with dark skin and wavy steely hair. And he dressed part Arab, part Western. Like the Sharia’s maulana, he wore the white Arab tunic and floppy white pants, but with a Western pin-striped jacket thrown over it, and with the dash of a Hollywood movie star, which both attracted and intimidated John. Sharia students mixed it up, too—Khaled wore the tunic over jeans and sometimes the knitted cap—but not with so much style. Still, John decided, mixing it up was the way to wear these clothes. One or two items at a time.

  In the hallway, Mr. Bint-Khan took John’s hand in both of his, as if to read it, and said, You are new to Brooklyn and new to the Arabic language and culture, both of which are old, laden with history and tradition. And you are no Muslim.

  Noor reappeared, buttoning her coat, and Mr. Bint-Khan released John’s hand. Well, good night to you, he said, and withdrew.

  John welcomed the cooling air on his face, on his red cheeks, which were aflame. It wasn’t his imagination. Mr. Bint-Khan thought him intrusive. But Noor was talking, and John tuned in to listen.

  Did my dad say something to you? she finally asked. You shouldn’t mind him. He thinks every new person, every new thing even, is a threat to the family. He’ll get used to you, but it’ll take him a while.

  John couldn’t really disagree with Mr. Bint-Khan, and yet, he wanted to. I’m different, he wanted to argue, not an everyday American, not a mere tourist. But what, he asked himself, really made him different?

  You’re quiet, Noor said.

  You have a wonderful family, John said. And you’re very beautiful. And I, I feel as if I’ve stumbled into a fairy tale as a bumbling fool and emerged with a donkey’s head. Maybe it’s the food, the ginger and cardamom.

  No, Noor said. You’ve just read too much of Arabian Nights.

  John laughed.

  At his door, she hesitated, then nodded, and came in.

  For only a few minutes, she said. Or else—

  Or else your father—she was right behind him, he could feel her warmth, and he didn’t want to move. They were just inside, in his long hallway entrance, the door still open.

  He turned and found her lips with his, and kissed them ever so lightly, their second kiss, but this time his lips traveled to her nose and eyes and back to her lips and down to her throat.

  Your coat, he said, and reached to help her out of it.

  She shook her head. Better not, she said. And she put her chin on his shoulder.

  Then we’ll stay right here. All night. Our Arabian night in Brooklyn. Or is it a Brooklyn night in Arabia.

  Yes, she said. You’re jinned. Hair ah-la toos-beh-hoo-na. See you after class tomorrow.

  I miss you already, he said.

  She backed out through the still open door, blew him a kiss off her open palm, and hurried away.

  Inside, John dropped onto his ah-ree-ka and stayed there. He touched his lips, remembering her chapped lips on his. She chewed them, he’d noted. Whenever she was the least bit anxious. He would have to remind her to coat her lips to protect them. That is, if he ever saw her again, if her father allowed it. He hoped to see her tomorrow. After class. She would wait for him on the steps after class. Or he would never see her again.

&nbs
p; He stood at the mirror in his bathroom and looked at himself. You arrre no Moosleem, he quoted and, on crutches, stopped to press PLAY on his minidisk. He removed his cast, propped the leg up on the tah-wi-lah, leaned back, and listened.

  Wherever turn

  His camels, Love is still my creed and faith.

  For Ibn ’Arabi, for himself, and for Noor, love might be enough. Mr. Bint-Khan clearly felt otherwise. And Barbara, he was quite certain, would agree with Mr. Bint-Khan. He pulled his laptop into his lap.

  From: Uniform Source Maryam@Al-ma-Ha-laat.com

  To: Attar attar7@adelphia.net

  Date: October 3, 2000

  RE: Muslim suit

  Dear Mr. Attar:

  We have the Muslim tunic and djellabah pants, about which you inquired, in white. Based on the information you provided, you will need a size Extra-Long. The cost of this suit is $75, plus tax. The qoob-ba or skully is $10.

  The cost of overnight shipping will be $19.95. We accept all major credit cards. Please remember to provide a mailing address.

  Thank you,

  Maryam

  Sales assistant at Al-ma-Ha-laat.com

  FOR HIS FIRST THERAPY SESSION at NYU Medical, John arrived early and unrealistically optimistic, though Barbara had warned him not to expect miracles, that healing takes time. Still, he hoped to walk out of the place without crutches, freed.

  After a fifteen-minute wait, a girl named Sarah introduced herself as his therapist. She had a narrow face, long lank hair, a girl way too ordinary for miracles, John thought.

  She looked at his chart. We will begin with mild exercise, she said in the singsong of routine. Your doctor doesn’t want you to put too much weight on the leg, which means we will be working in a seated position.

  I feel more than ready to get on it, John protested.

  She looked at him. She didn’t know how to smile, he decided. Next week, perhaps, we’ll do more. She led him to a reclining chair, and he heaved himself into it.

  John pulled up the leg of his pants, and undid the Velcro holding his cast, which Sarah took from him, pausing to notice Noor’s squiggles, signs, and signature. Pretty, she said. What does it say?

  Kaththar allah kheirkum, John said, then translated. May God increase your bounty.

  She took a tube of Bengay from the taboret beside her, squeezed some onto his leg, and massaged. His skin tingled.

  To warm up your muscles, she said. They’ve been fallow for so long, we want to stimulate them.

  Now, she said, I’m going to push against your foot, and I want you to push back gently, but steadily, in other words keep a gentle but firm pressure on, nothing sudden. And keep your knee bent. In fact, here. She reached behind her and brought out a soft block. Place this under your knee.

  Ready? she asked, and put her right palm against the sole of his foot.

  John nodded, and felt her gentle pressure pushing his leg back toward him. He returned the pressure, maintaining the distance between his leg and himself, and pinpricks like electrical impulses shot up his leg.

  Good, she said. How does it feel?

  As if my leg has been aching to do that.

  Yes, your bones want and need weight on them in order to maintain their strength. She paused. I’m going to bring it up a notch. If at any point the sensation becomes unpleasant, if it feels at all like glass breaking, stop the pressure right away.

  John felt her push harder, and he pushed back just enough, matching pressure with pressure.

  She held it for a few moments, then released it. Good, she said. And again.

  Let’s give your knee a workout. She stood, lifting his leg. Just relax, she said. Give me your leg. More, she said. Give it up. Allow me to do the work. Don’t try to do anything now.

  She cupped his ankle with one hand and held his calf, just below his knee, with the other, bent and unbent the leg, then moved it side to side, then in small circles. Okay, she said, pushing his knee toward his chest. You may push back gently. Try to straighten it, but don’t lock.

  John pushed, she pushed back, and they remained suspended for long seconds.

  This is going well. Let’s take a quick X-ray, and if it looks good, and your doctor gives us the go-ahead, we can try putting some weight on it.

  BILL HAD A MEETING in New York City, and he offered to take John to an early dinner at Nobu Next Door, Barbara’s recommendation. She had seen Chef Nobu on the Today show, and seeing him work, she said, you just know the food will be amazing.

  105 Hudson, between Franklin and North Moore, John e-mailed Bill, and they agreed to meet at 5:30.

  It was early, and the wait was short. Seated, they studied the menu.

  John was torn. He wanted a taste of the cooked dishes, but he also couldn’t pass up sushi rolls. Not here, in sushi heaven.

  Order two starters, one cold and one hot, and then a sushi roll, Bill recommended. He ordered sake, the ceviche Nobu style as an appetizer, and the broiled black cod with miso as his entrée.

  After considering the fish and chips Nobu style, the sashimi tacos, the lobster tempura, John finally settled on the salmon skin salad, the eggplant with miso, and the bigeye and bluefin toro scallion roll.

  Bill asked about classes and Sharia students. Have they been welcoming?

  Some, John said. Others are wary and critical. I’m told it’s because I’m not Muslim.

  I can understand that, Bill said. You’re taking on their texts without adhering to their tenets.

  I think it’s also a sort of territorial thing—

  The first course arrived, and for the next five minutes they gave all their attention to the compositions in front of them, drops and dabs and garnishes placed with the precision of an ink painting.

  Weird but good, John said, tasting the salmon skin. He offered Bill a taste.

  As an American, he continued, I think I threaten them when I enter their school, the one place they can think of as totally theirs. Does that make sense?

  Sure, Bill said. Especially since you also bring with you American-style freedom.

  John nodded. With his chopsticks, he reached for another mouthful of his salad, but paused midair.

  Um—Dad. De Niro just walked in.

  Well, he owns the place, Bill said.

  John waited.

  De Niro nodded greeting and moved toward the bar lined with illuminated sake bottles. The bartender poured him a cup, and he sipped, and the liquid, John thought, somehow expanded the man, and he filled the entire space. Sake cup in hand, he was suddenly at their table, asking how’s everything. He shook Bill’s hand.

  Truly excellent, Bill said.

  Awesome, John said.

  Good, good. Enjoy, De Niro said, and moved to another table.

  John returned to his salmon salad; Bill to his ceviche and sake.

  What else are you reading, Bill asked.

  Sufi poetry. Sufi books. One by Idries Shah. He mentions this wine allegory from the thirteenth century by a Sufi poet, Suhrawardi. It goes something like this:

  The seed of Sufism was sown in the time of Adam, germed in the time of Noah, budded in the time of Abraham, began to develop in the time of Moses, reached maturity in the time of Jesus, and produced pure wine in the time of Muhammed. It’s cool because it connects everything. Prophets, humans, religions, time.

  The entrées arrived with a flourish. Bill tried his black cod with miso and leaned back to savor it.

  John tasted. It’s the miso. It’s awesome.

  You’re interested in thinkers and thinking, Bill said. You might want to try philosophy at Brown.

  JOHN WAS PLEASED to find Khaled in his usual pose, leaning on the stair railing and smoking, exuding his particular not-quite-American nonchalance, which revealed itself in the way he held his cigarette between thumb and index finger, as if he were smoking a joint; in the way his shoulders hunched around his cigarette; the way he stretched his words out, which didn’t quite go with the way he stood a little too close, with no se
nse of the airspace Americans allow each other.

  When Khaled saw John, he stopped short, and John felt himself taken in, his lime-green cast, his new white shalwar kameez, his old navy peacoat worn casually unbuttoned over them, the Black Watch tartan scarf hanging from his neck, and his favorite checkered Van sneaker on one foot. He’d dressed for effect, and it wasn’t going unnoticed.

  Khaled smiled, appreciatively. Salaam, he said. Islam looks good on you.

  Aleikum a salaam, John responded.

  I printed the brochure for you, Khaled said, reaching into his pocket.

  What brochure? John asked, trying to recall a conversation about a brochure.

  Of Islamia College, Khaled reminded him. So you can apply for the summer semester, when I’ll be there.

  The summer semester? John echoed.

  The Sharia recommends it highly, our version of junior year abroad.

  John stopped at the foot of the old synagogue’s first step. He could smell Khaled’s breath. Though he liked him well enough, such close physical proximity to another male was new to him. He shifted to the right, and adjusted his left crutch in order to free his left hand and receive the brochure.

  The pictures were in color and depicted what looked like countryside, a mountainous region identified by the caption as the blue Margalla Hills. John mouthed the words. Blue. Margalla. And found them attractive. The school’s main building was pale stone done in Moghul style. The classically laid out long stone walks and arches and fountains were tree lined and immaculate. In the background, powder-blue sky with the Margalla Hills in a blue haze in the far distance. The brochure also featured a photo of Islamia’s president in turban and white tunic, with an old-style Dickensian coat over it.

  You should go online to find out more, Khaled said, throwing his head back to blow his smoke away from John. He put out his cigarette, relieved John of one of his crutches, and they walked up the steps.

  You have a new cast, Khaled said, pointing with his chin toward John’s leg.