Yes. And in two weeks, I’ll no longer need it.
Excellent, Khaled said. Then we can do things.
John nodded. He’d like that. He wondered what sorts of things Khaled did in his off time. He worked, John already knew, at a video store in downtown Brooklyn, and he also helped out an older brother in some kind of moving business. He would have no interest, John knew without asking, in the skaters at Brooklyn Banks. He was somehow too grown up or too elegant for grinding.
IN CLASS, John worked hard to respond in full sentences to questions put to him in al-r-ra-be-ya, and though he managed only with difficulty, with long pauses and multiple ums, Mr. Sami complimented him and threatened the others: If you don’t do something about it, this new all-American talib will soon surpass you.
After class, Fawal walked up to John and asked him what he thought he was up to. John looked at him.
What do you mean? John said, careful not to match hostility with hostility.
The student pointed at John’s clothes. Either you’re Muslim or you’re not. You can’t pick and choose parts.
Khaled stepped up. He’s American, he said in Arabic. Let him be.
He steered John toward the door. Outside they found Noor and Samina already in conversation.
Noor stepped back and stared at John. Why are you dressed like that?
John shrugged. Asked that way, the question was unanswerable.
Why? Samina asked, ending the uncomfortable silence. Don’t you think it suits him?
Khaled agreed. It does somehow suit him, even with his cast and crutches.
That’s not the point, Noor said. I just don’t understand why.
Why not? Khaled said.
John swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat. He was grateful to Khaled for backing him up.
Do we have time for tea together? Samina asked.
Khaled looked at his watch. I have an hour before my shift. Can we go somewhere nearby?
There’s the corner bistro, Samina suggested.
Does your mom know about this? Noor asked when they were seated.
John shook his head. My mom would laugh and call it a phase.
The tea arrived. I wonder, Samina said, why you mind. They’re only clothes.
He’s not Muslim, Noor said. So it’s kind of like a lie.
What if looking Muslim helps him become one? Khaled inquired. Would that make you feel better?
Noor leaned her head on her arm. It’s just that it’s not who he really is.
But students in America do things like this all the time, Samina said. My friend Alice is doing the seventies this year. Last year, she did grunge, which her parents hated, but her boyfriend was into it.
John was relieved when the conversation finally drifted away from him. Samina, he learned, was a second-year, full-scholarship, French-literature major at Barnard, making the long trip from Brooklyn to Morningside Heights every day.
Next year, she said, I want to live on campus. Or I might do junior year in Paris. Khaled will be in Pakistan anyway.
I wanted to live at school, too, Noor seconded, but NYU is so close, and my mom and little brother would be too sad if I moved out.
Khaled had to get going, and Samina went with him.
See you tomorrow, Khaled said. They’d paired up for a class assignment. Working together, Mr. Sami suggested, can make it more fun and productive.
Noor and John walked toward Atlantic Avenue. Noor was silent, and finally John said, If you hate me in these clothes I won’t wear them again.
No, she said. It just came as a surprise.
They were at his corner, and Noor paused.
Do you want to stop at my place? John asked.
I can’t, she said, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him, right-left-right, whispered good-bye, and walked off.
John stood on the sidewalk, puzzled, watching her retreating red coat. She definitely didn’t like him in Muslim clothes. She’d welcomed his not being Muslim, he understood now. Maybe because her father objected to it. She was complicated, this was complicated, more than he knew what to do with, and it wasn’t even really about him. He turned toward home.
Inside, still in his jacket, he stood in front of the mirror. It’s certainly not because these clothes are unattractive, he decided. The white definitely went with his dark brown hair. And his dark jacket made the thin cotton seasonally appropriate. He looked like a traveler, a great adventurer. Sir John Parish, at your service, he introduced himself to himself, and bowed.
THEIR ASSIGNMENT—a short essay on a verse from the Qur’an, written in al-r-ra-be-ya—required real thinking rather than mere memorization, and John found himself looking forward to it. He’d read Corbin on Ibn ’Arabi’s interpretation of Jacob Wrestling with the Angel, on the angel’s identity and the story’s meaning, and now he thought it might be cool to write about it. He would wait for Khaled, who might have other ideas.
In the meantime, he read more of Corbin, practiced the alphabet, then went to shower, which still took twice as long as it should, but half as long as it had the week before. After which he was hungry. He planned to make a quick sandwich, then he remembered that he had eaten his last slice of bread the day before. And he also had no milk or juice left, nor much else. He would have to find a supermarket. He’d passed corner delis, but no supermarket. He hoped Khaled could help.
Khaled arrived twenty minutes late. John was just finishing the last of the frozen meals his mother had stacked in his freezer.
Coffee, he told Khaled, pouring water into the electric drip machine on the counter, is all I can offer. Where’s the nearest supermarket?
Khaled thought about it. It’s really too far for you to walk. Besides, how’re you gonna carry your groceries home? Can you wait until tomorrow? I’ll try to borrow my brother’s car.
John nodded. I’ll stop at a local deli in the meantime. Or order in.
He showed Khaled the apartment. Roor-fa ah-noum hoo-naa, he said, and opened the door to his bedroom. Khaled followed him into the kitchen, which John introduced as his math-bahk, then outside to al Ha-dee-qa.
This is all for you? Khaled asked. And you don’t even have a keT-Ta or kelb.
They laughed. We used to have a cat, when I was little.
THAT’S THE JEWISH VERSION, Khaled said when John mentioned Jacob Wrestling with the Angel.
Genesis, John said. So?
The point is it’s not in al-r-ra-be-ya, Khaled said, stretching out the vowels for emphasis. And this assignment is intended as an exercise in language. Is it all right to smoke? he asked, patting his pockets for a pack.
And you don’t think it will be exercising me enough to write in al-kr-ra-be-ya? John asked. And no, you can’t smoke in here. But you can in al Ha-dee-qa.
They stepped out to the garden, and Khaled lit a cigarette. He inhaled, found the fence to lean on, then spoke.
We have a similar story by the way. The angel Gabriel visits the Prophet in the cave and commands him to recite. The Prophet resists at first, saying, I can’t read. How shall I recite? The angel Gabriel grabs him and repeats the command, Recite. Three times this happens. Finally, the Prophet submits and recites.
Let’s work here, John said pointing to the sofa.
Khaled noticed the label marking the sofa an ah-ree-ka. He looked up with a smile and saw the mis-baH and ta-we-la. You’re a very serious student, he said.
My mom calls it either focused or baroque, depending on whether she’s trying to be complimentary or not.
Did you check out Islamia’s website?
As a matter of fact, I did, John said. You realize that it’s a Muslim school for Muslims?
So, Khaled said nonchalantly. You’ll make al shahada. Im’sh’allah. I’ll introduce you to the brother in charge at our masjid.
I need to think about it, John said, and realized that he had been thinking about it. To taste is to know, Sufis believed, and he had been looking to know. As Burton had known. After studying the Kabbalah
, the dervishes, Buddhism, and more, Burton chose Sufism. And translated Arabic literature, submitted to Islam, practiced the salaat, fasted, read, meditated, danced with dervishes, hung in a well, went to Mecca, and encountered the extraordinary. Burton had lived the life of a nineteenth-century adventurer, but he’d also penetrated the ancient wisdom of secret worlds. Which John wanted. Both the physical and spiritual experiences. So he would study and know. So he would practice. Plan. Im’sh’allah.
HE STARTED by typing the passage from Genesis in English, then, with Khaled’s help, he cited in al-r-ra-be-ya the Sufic idea that the man is Jacob’s own ego, his inner enemy, whom he vanquished, then recognized as his other I, or his thou, a God, and prostrated himself and asked for a blessing. When Jacob asked to know the man’s name, it was not revealed, because, the Sufis say, it would have unveiled a difficult truth: the inseparable unity of man and God, not an I or a thou, but a One. According to the Sufis, then—and also the American Transcendentalist Ralph Waldo Emerson, John added in parentheses—man is God and God is man.
Khaled introduced the story of the Prophet’s first revelation and submission in complex Arabic sentences way beyond John’s ability. Together they managed to write something close to what they were attempting to say. They finished with several sentences on the difference between struggle and submission, which they compared to performance versus grace, made the point that both ways ended in triumph, Muhammed founded Islam, while Jacob became the father of a nation, but Jacob suffered damage to his physical self while Muhammed did not.
You know I’m really really really digging this, John said. This way of reading and interpreting. This way of understanding people, and life. Struggle and submission as character defining. It’s way cool.
There’s a sort of proverb, Khaled said, and recited: There is no difference in the destination, the difference is in the journey.
That’s good, John said. Let’s use Same Destination, Different Journeys as our title.
They reread, edited, read again, and agreed the essay was good enough.
John printed two copies and handed one to Khaled.
The doorbell rang. John picked up his crutches. He returned with a priority mail envelope from Barbara.
It’s just from my mom, John explained. My absentee ballot. To make sure I vote.
Who you voting for? Khaled asked.
Gore, of course, John said. Aren’t you?
No. Bush is a better man because he believes. Muslims are voting for Bush.
That’s strange, John said, because I can guarantee you that Democrats are better friends to Muslims, certainly better friends than Republicans will ever be.
We judge a person by his ideals, Khaled said. And a man who believes in something higher is more trustworthy.
I don’t disagree with you in principle, but it isn’t true of most Republican politicians, and it’s certainly not true of George W. Bush. I know, John said. I live in D.C.
Khaled merely shrugged, a gesture John was coming to admire. It seemed to him usefully inflected with various meanings. Khaled shrugged either to end discussions or further them, to project attitude, purchase persona, capture comedy, a variation on the American I-don’t-care, or I-don’t-want-to-disagree-with-you, or to-each-his-own, or it’s-not-worth-mentioning, or a mere go-on. One thing Khaled didn’t do is stop to explain. Already, he was stretching his legs, getting ready to leave. He stood, shouldered his backpack. I have to go now, he said. I’ll ask my brother for his car and e-mail you. And I’ll see you in class Thursday. He put his palms together and bowed his head ever so slightly. Massak allah bilkheir, he said, backing out of the room.
John followed Khaled down the hallway.
Kathar allah kheirkum, John said at the door, and they both laughed.
You’re good, Khaled said.
IN HIS INBOX were three e-mails, one each from Katie, Sylvie, and Jilly, each informing him of a skating special on Tony Alva on HBO. In a p.s., Katie also mentioned that their trip to Hawaii was definitely scheduled for January, and that she still hoped he would join them. He paused to imagine himself in Hawaii for the winter months, a return to sun and surf and aloha, to body over mind. He wished he didn’t have to choose. He had embraced the physical for a summer, and now he was giving himself to mind. Broken bones had initiated this return to scholarship, and he couldn’t just stop. Some days, he thought of the accident as his sign: to choose mind over body, spiritual over the physical. He couldn’t put Arabic on hold and surfing back in play; surfing, so right for last summer, would now be a cop-out. He would stay put and make progress in his studies, his readings, his language skills. And he would continue the friendships he’d started. But he would skate. He turned on the television, found the HBO channel, located the special on his electronic guide. It was scheduled to begin at eight, and he wondered whether Noor would want to join him to watch. He considered calling her. He paused to wonder at the inevitable infidelities of life: though the alert had come from Katie, he wanted to watch it with Noor. Barbara would merely smile. He paced forward and back on crutches, shrugged, and dialed Noor at work.
You’ll get to see this other side of me, he said.
That might be useful, Noor said, since I’m kind of wondering who you are. But I can’t. I already told my mom I’d be home for dinner. Can you record it for me?
AFTER HIS THERAPY SESSION with Sarah, he hailed a taxi and gave the address on Mott. He would visit Noor and get something to eat at the same time. In his backpack, he had the tape for her. He opened the window and gave himself up to this brief, stop-and-go tour of lower Manhattan.
The café was quiet and sunny, but Noor wasn’t there.
I think she usually arrives about one, the waitress informed him.
He ordered the cucumber hummus plate and a hot chocolate. It was early, only 11:30, which was why it was quiet. He sipped his hot chocolate and sank into a sun-induced reverie. Red brick spun to gold on the garden wall across the street. Should he leave the tape for her, so she’d know he’d stopped in? Would she meet him after class tomorrow night? He’d forgotten to ask, and now he was at the bottom of his cup, swallowing bitter mud.
He left the tape, paid for lunch, and walked west on Prince. He would try to see a bit of SoHo.
Crossing Broadway, the jostle and push scared him. He had to concentrate. Keep his crutches from snagging on a crack in the sidewalk or a pedestrian’s toe. People passed on his right, and people passed on his left, as if he were a slow wide load in traffic. Then a grom on a board snaked around him, using him as a found street obstacle, and John recovered his humor.
ON HIS MACHINE at home was a message from Khaled. I’ll pick you up at 3:30. I have to be at work by 5:30, so we’ll have to shop fast.
A dusty white van pulled up and beeped once. John emerged on crutches and heaved himself up into the van.
I’m taking you to Costco so you can shop in bulk.
In the store, Khaled pushed the large cart from aisle to aisle, and John had only to point at something and it would make its way into the cart. When they’d covered every aisle, they pulled up at the register with three six-packs of Hungry-Man-size turkey dinners, a jumbo family-sized Cheerios, packs of waffles. A full cardboard tray of Campbell’s tomato soup. Another tray of Chicken of the Sea tuna. A case of Coke and a large can of Hershey’s cocoa. A double pack of Thomas’ English muffins with raisins. A jumbo jar of Smucker’s natural peanut butter. Entenmann’s All Butter Loaf Cake.
I hope you have enough money, Khaled said.
I’ll put it on my parents’ card, John said and produced the new AmEx that Barbara had given him.
This should last all the way through January, John said. You’re welcome to stop by and help me eat through this.
Khaled laughed. I’ll keep that in mind.
The groceries on his side of the cart were more basic. A sack of rice, a sack of lentils, a sack of chickpeas, a sack of onions. A family-pack size of chicken quarters. Lemons. He led the way ba
ck to the van and loaded the bags. When they were buckled in, Khaled looked at his watch.
Good, he said. We have time for a quick stop at the masjid. I want to introduce you to the brother.
Khaled turned off the Gowanus, took a left on Atlantic and a left on Flatbush Avenue, and kept going until John wondered where they were. Finally, Khaled stopped in front of a small nondescript square white structure.
This is your mosque?
It was a small factory at one time, Khaled explained, and still looks it, at least on the outside.
Inside, every inch of wall and floor was sheathed and muffled in thick Turkish rugs, like an ABC Carpet department. Khaled took off his shoes at the entrance. John took off his one sneaker, then, making a quick decision, pulled back the Velcro straps holding his green cast in place, slipped off the cast along with the special fat shoe he’d been wearing. In stocking feet and on crutches, he followed Khaled in, the tap-tap of his wooden crutches muffled by the thick rugs. At the room’s center, Khaled kneeled and prostrated himself and remained that way for several long minutes, whispering. John stood by silently. He hadn’t seen Khaled this way before, in prayer, and yes, it changed something, changed Khaled into someone impassioned, even spiritual, which was weird, unlike him, unlike his usual cool, drawling self. John was seeing a different side of Khaled, his spiritual aspect, and liked it. He caught what he thought was an illaha, and understood that Khaled was mouthing the words of the shahada, la illaha il’allah et Muhammed rasulu. Some of the mystics, John had read, repeated the phrase five hundred times an hour in order to achieve an altered, exalted state. Khaled stopped after about ten repetitions, then unbowed his body and sat back on his heels. He held his hands together, palm to palm, and recited one more time, slowly—heatedly, John thought—la illaha il’allah et Muhammed rasulu. And suddenly, silently, a man dressed in spotless white appeared and gave his hands to Khaled.
Khaled greeted the brother, then turned to John. This is my remarkable friend I told you about, John Parish. He’s studying at the school as well as reading on his own.
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