Since John’s hands weren’t quite free for a handshake, Brother Gabirol placed his hand on John’s shoulder, not as an overzealous clap but as a gentle encouraging caress.
Give me a moment. Brother Gabirol disappeared behind a rug on the wall at the far end, as if it were a door, and returned with a pamphlet.
Take this home and read it at your leisure, the brother said. He had a Pakistani accent, John thought. He pronounced the word leisure the British way.
This literature, Gabirol continued, explains the salaat in some depth and provides an excellent grounding in the meaning and purpose of prayer. If you like, come back and we’ll discuss it, perhaps you’ll have questions, which I can try to answer.
John accepted the pamphlet. Shukran, he said. I’ll read it and try to understand.
DURING THE QUESTION SESSION following the delivery of their paper, Fawal stood to speak, addressing himself to John.
If you are a faithful man, he said, you can’t possibly think that man, including Jacob, since he was only a man, could struggle with and vanquish God.
Let me explain, John said, pausing momentarily at hearing himself identified as faithful, at having to speak as a man of faith. Fawal knew he hadn’t submitted to Islam.
I’ll try in Een-zhlee-zee-yah, he said, and got a smile from some students, but not from his challenger, who only glared. John took a breath. Jacob is fighting himself not God, at least that’s how I understand the story. He’s fighting against his own limitations, and I think what I’m trying to say is that every person who seeks that kind of self-fulfillment must fight this fight against his own limitations. The Sufis go further. They say that Jacob’s imagination created the enemy in the first place, and so he had to struggle with this apparition because it was his own inner enemy, created in his own mind, but still real enough to prevent Jacob from achieving his full potential. After vanquishing his own self-created, imagined enemy, Jacob comes to understand himself as a theophany of God; in other words, he achieves full self-knowledge, or Emersonian divinity. This is what the morning light reveals.
Another student asked John whether this was how he had broken his leg, fighting himself, and a low rumble of laughter began as a wave, rippled wide, and finally included John and Khaled.
That, John said, is the best explanation I’ve heard yet.
Mr. Sami ended the questioning. He put his hand on John’s shoulder. Well done. Our brother here may be on his way to becoming a Sufi Gnostic.
After class, Fawal walked up to him and said, Our greatest sheikhs were first good Muslims, then Sufis.
John nodded. Good point. I’ll work on it.
Outside, they found Noor and Samina waiting. How did it go? Noor asked.
John and Khaled looked at each other and laughed. The students, Khaled told them, want John to submit to Islam.
One student, John said. And I’m not sure he wants me to be Muslim. He may just want me out of his face.
AT HOME, John looked for and found the pamphlet Brother Gabirol had given him. Was it true? Were the great Sufis first good Muslims? He read and ruminated on the description of a man in private, of meditative prayer as the imam of a man’s own microcosm, of the ritual of private prayer as an act of creation. Prayer as creative, with the creative imagination concentrated, visualizing your highest form, a way of knowing your own highest potential. The condition of this personal revelation, John read, is that it be privately contemplative, solitary, so that the act of prayer itself becomes the fulfillment of one’s highest capacity, one’s divine potential, the possibility of an epiphany. Which he has been wanting. He has been looking to know the extraordinary, he has been wanting to experience his own highest capacity. Jilly had found hers in the sea, on a wave. Maybe for him, the extraordinary will arrive in meditative, creative prayer.
He studied the steps of the salaat as described in the brochure and tried it, though with the cast on his leg he couldn’t take the full position on both knees. He removed the cast and tried again, gingerly. But he would have to memorize the seven verses of the Qur’an, so that he could recite the tasbeeh, the tamheed, and the tahleel with his head down, eyes closed. He tried the head turns, first right, then left, while pronouncing the illaha il’allah. In solitude, in the privacy of his apartment, he would attempt prayer, but he wondered whether Noor would disapprove. And did praying the Muslim way make him Muslim?
The brochure also discussed the zakat, the third pillar of Islam, which was easy enough to commit to. He would set aside 2.5 percent of his monthly allowance for charity, which came to twelve dollars and fifty cents a month, not much. He took thirteen dollars from his wallet and sealed it in an envelope, which he addressed to Brother Gabirol. He would let the brother determine which charity should get it. The fourth pillar, the pilgrimage, he decided, would be his reward: a travel adventure, starting with a summer in Pakistan.
THE X-RAY SHOWED John’s tibia healed, and Sarah went to work. She started by inserting his leg, from the knee down, in a whirlpool-like vat of heated silicone particles that bubbled and pushed and warmed up long-unused muscles. The sensation was weird, John thought, silicone rather than water therapy, but it did seem to work. His muscles were less stiff. After which, Sarah used her weight to push against his leg, instructed him to push back hard, and harder, until she could no longer hold up against him.
Okay, she said. Since that didn’t hurt, let’s try the leg in standing position, using your own weight.
John stood. Took a light step forward and felt nerve endings rushing up and down his leg, reconnecting. He had tried it once at home and scared himself. But here, in front of Sarah, he was more confident, and he transferred more weight onto the leg, then stepped forward with his good leg and shifted his weight again. He looked at Sarah, delighted.
I’m walking, he said.
Congratulations, she said. Are you game for more?
John nodded and kept going. When he turned, he pivoted on his good leg.
Careful, Sarah warned.
He walked back toward her, a toddler showing off his first steps. I’m ready to go.
It would seem so, but you’ll tire easily at first. Your muscles will need building up.
She took him to a stationary bicycle and helped him on. This way we can control the resistance and exercise your muscles without putting your full weight on the bone. One thing: Don’t push on the pedal, pull up instead, and the force of that will bring the pedal round. Got it?
Afterward, John hailed a cab. He had an idea. In the long corridor entrance, where his renovated board was parked, he removed his cast without stopping to take off his coat, stomped on the heel of the board with his good leg, to turn it, and stepped on, and YES. If he kept his weight on his left foot, and used his vulnerable right only for light steering, he could be on wheels sooner rather than later. He rolled slowly up and down the corridor, pausing at the end to steer about. So long as he stuck to the basics, no grinding, no fancy maneuvers, his wheels would help rather than hurt. He could skate to school and back, but he couldn’t skate circles around Noor, at least not yet. Still, he was stoked.
He continued practicing, moving from room to room, from kitchen to living room, on wheels rather than crutches. The hardest part was getting on and off the board, but if he was careful to favor his right leg, keeping it in the lead, he could manage. His left leg, which had gotten a workout these last months, was stronger than before.
The phone rang and he skated toward it, picking up after the first ring, and Barbara was immediately suspicious.
Were you waiting by the phone?
I happened to be near it.
How are you and Noor getting along? she inquired. John knew that no matter what he said, Barbara would suspect him of pining.
Mom, I had my second therapy session today and I was able to walk.
So that’s what you’re up to, Barbara said, catching on quickly. You’re walking without your cast.
Well, not quite, but I am getting around a l
ot faster.
John, Barbara said, in a stern voice. I shouldn’t have to say this. You know better. You’ve been in a cast for three months. You don’t want to put yourself back in a cast foolishly. What’s another week or two?
Mom, my leg’s healed. The X-ray shows no sign of the fracture. My therapist put me on a stationary bike today, exercising my muscles. It’s a matter of getting my muscles up to speed now.
Okay, Barbara said. That’s great news. Your arm certainly seems to have healed well. Remember to send in your ballot.
I already have, John said. Last week. Does Gore have a chance? What’s the word in D.C.?
A lot of waffling, which means voters are uncertain about Gore. Clearly he just isn’t convincing enough people. And though I completely understand why he did it, I’m not persuaded that distancing himself from Clinton was the wisest decision.
Well, he’s got my vote, John said.
Good. My next patient’s here, so we’ll talk later. Be careful. And also, Dad suggests you visit us this weekend, for the fund-raiser. There’s a chance one of Gore’s daughters will attend. She’s about your age. Think about it? I’ll call you tomorrow.
John hung up and cruised up and down his hallway. D.C. for the weekend? All the more reason to be rid of his cast and crutches. Also, a weekend with his parents would give him an opportunity to mention the possibility of a year in Pakistan. They wouldn’t like it. They’d mind that he was deferring Brown again. But if he broached the subject correctly, if the credits could transfer to Brown, they’d eventually approve. Barbara, he knew, was a great believer in educational travel.
HE WENT TO CLASS ON WHEELS, backpack on his back and, under his arm, his crutches, in case of emergency. Khaled was already there waiting and smoking, as usual. John cruised up at full speed and executed a sudden full stop in front of him. Startled, Khaled dropped his cigarette, cursed, grabbed John by his upper arm, as if to keep him upright.
Are you for real?
John was pleased to have startled Khaled.
Look, he said, demonstrating. I’m actually keeping my weight off the bad leg.
Anyone else know about this? Khaled asked. Like your doctor?
Nope. I’m hoping Noor shows tonight, because I want to surprise her. Is there a back-door exit in this building?
Khaled smiled. There is, he said. We’ll exit into the alley, and you can come around the block on the sidewalk, pull up in front of her, and make her heart stop. After which she’ll be fully in love with you, if she isn’t already.
NOOR SHRIEKED. Which only encouraged John, and he skated slow circles around her, which was more than he’d intended to do. He held back on the finish, avoided the flourish of an ollie or grind, grateful to be on wheels at all, grateful to inhabit his body again, to have full use of his limbs. He felt reborn.
Noor put her hands on his shoulders, to stop him, and laughed. You’re amazing and insane at once, she said. When did you get your cast off? I don’t know how anyone can go from crutches to a skateboard in a day.
I still need my crutches, John said, and pointed toward Khaled, who wasn’t just carrying but using them, hopping two-footed, amusing Samina.
It’s like they’ve switched places, she said.
They hurt my underarms, Khaled said, pausing. I don’t know how you could do it for so long.
Precisely, John said. Which is why I’m happier without them.
Doing without them, though, doesn’t have to mean going directly to skating, does it? Noor said. You could try walking, like the rest of us.
Watch, John explained, getting on the board again. Wheels don’t require me to put much weight on my broken leg. Though nonintuitive, this actually helps.
They laughed. Well, we can go places faster now, Noor said.
Rumbling on wheels beside Noor, who was on foot, John noted with pleasure that she was more talkative tonight. She liked him again, though he was wearing the white tunic over his regular jeans.
Ali would love it, she said, but I’m afraid to let him see you. He will immediately want to try it.
I’m happy to teach him, but he’ll need permission from your parents. They’ve seen me so they know what can happen, but I could teach him the simple stuff, no tricks.
Do you want to stop at my house to show him? Noor asked.
Now? he asked, surprised. He hadn’t expected another invitation so soon. He wondered but didn’t ask whether her father was home. He’d find out.
Here, let me carry these, she said, taking the crutches from him.
At their building, Noor rang the buzzer. Oom, she said. Send Ali down. I want to show him something.
Ali came racing out. Mr. and Mrs. Bint-Khan, John noted, stood at an upstairs window. He waved. Then he skated down the sidewalk, turned, came back, keeping it all low and slow and very safe. On his second loop, Ali skipped beside him.
I want to try it, he said. Please?
You’ll need your parents’ permission, John said.
Ali lifted his arms toward the heavens, though his parents were only on the second floor, put his palms together, beseeching. Noor looked up, saw her father nod. Her mother, however, had her hand over her mouth.
Is it possible to slow the wheels down even more? Noor asked John. My mother looks afraid.
Okay. If you hold his hand, I’ll hold his other hand. I’ll need one of my crutches and I’ll try to stay in front of the board, to slow it down.
But Ali wouldn’t hold their hands. He’d seen kids on boards, and he already knew where to place the heel of his right foot, and how to use the other foot on the sidewalk to get the wheels moving. Whoa, John said, putting the point of his crutch in front of the board, to stop it. I can’t keep up with you, if you go so fast. And it’s your first time. You don’t even know how to stop.
Listen, Ali, Noor said. You can only try it if you do exactly what John says. If you fall, Oom’ll never let you do it again, so you’d better hold my hand.
Noor and John led Ali down the sidewalk. For his return, John instructed him. If you want to take it back by yourself, just remember to step off the board when you get to the steps. Got it?
Ali nodded. They started him off, then let him go and held their breath and watched Ali bend his knees and struggle for balance, but he stayed on and, when the sidewalk came to an end, hopped off coolly and scooped up the board.
Noor and John clapped. Above them, Ali’s parents clapped and waved. Do you want to come upstairs for tea? Noor asked.
John agreed and they made their way up the stoop and into the elevator. Mrs. Bint-Khan welcomed John. Mr. Bint-Khan shook John’s hands with more warmth than he’d expected and led the way into the living room.
Noor tells me, Mr. Bint-Khan said, you have an interest in Sufism. As it happens, we have a scholar coming to lecture on the topic. Would you like to attend?
John nodded. Very much.
Very well, Mr. Bint-Khan said, clapping his hands together. Noor will bring you.
Noor grimaced. I have so much homework, and I’m already in lecture like five times a week, but if you really really want to, I’ll go.
Noor doesn’t yet believe that all learning leads to the same place, Mr. Bint-Khan said.
Let’s put it this way, Noor said. If I don’t attend classes and write assigned papers, I won’t graduate.
WHEN HE EMERGED through the double doors of Union Station on wheels, Barbara was already there, waiting in her black Mercedes. He cruised up to the vehicle, deposited board and bag in the backseat, himself in the passenger seat, and kissed his mother, who was shaking her head.
I knew you’d be on wheels, Barbara said. Did your therapist approve this, too?
Kind of. She said yesterday that I was definitely walking.
But she didn’t recommend skating.
That’s my own insight. I realized that on the board, I could keep eighty percent of my weight on the back leg, and use the front leg only for steering. Which is perfect, considering. Obviously, no
tricks for a while.
I’m glad to hear it, Barbara said, drily. I’m very pleased to hear that my son has a percentage of good sense, however slight it is.
John put his hand on her shoulder. Mom, it’s nice to see you, too.
She pulled up in front of TipTops. I’ll be a moment, she said.
John grabbed his board and got out. To grind again on Connecticut. He hadn’t done it since June, when he’d moved down to the Outer Banks, and now, newly back on wheels, he couldn’t get enough of it. Besides he knew every seam of this sidewalk, every lip and crack, every metal plate. He could skate Connecticut Avenue in the dark, in his sleep. His experience of being grounded for ten weeks, he could now admit, had been terrible, and though he’d accomplished much, read and learned, he’d lived only half a life, the life of the mind, but disconnected from the body, which isn’t full life. It was doable, he’d done it, but life without the physical was life without joy. Physical play makes for intellectual play. Thus he feels deliriously alive, impatient to range wide, to explore new things, new places. Thus he can’t wait. Thus, before Barbara turns the ignition to restart the engine, he blurts it all out:
Mom, he said. I want to study abroad, starting this June. At Islamia College in Pakistan. Khaled’s going.
Pakistan? Barbara echoed. What about Brown?
I checked out Brown’s Middle Eastern studies concentration, which requires extensive language credits and a year abroad in the region, so I’m pretty sure my credits from Islamia will transfer. It’s Pakistan’s most prestigious college, known for the best classical Arabic teaching.
Sounds like an adventure, Barbara said, but is it safe?
It’s in the countryside, in the hills. They have a website you can check out.
But you’ll miss a summer of surfing and the girls.
True, John said. But there’s plenty of white concrete for grinding.
Let’s talk about this at dinner with Dad. We have a reservation at Dish. There’s lunch meat for a sandwich in the fridge. I have two more patients to see today. What will you do this afternoon?
American Taliban: A Novel Page 10
