But Bassam’s mind is wandering and he must not allow it. They have already performed two raka’ats, and he knows he recited the prayers and words of praise with the others though time has left him, he has stepped into non-time, and how can this not be a sign from the Holy One Himself? This feeling he is nearly a spirit, he is already nearly a spirit in this world of flesh and a constant love of it. How happy he will be to rid himself of it. How joyous!
Now they are sitting, Imad’s shoulder touching his. His hip and his knee. He and Imad with their very important task. Amir and Tariq with theirs. His heart thrusts inside him. The camel races in the Empty Quarter, how the sand rose and blew over the tourists. He must forget this. He must let go of all thoughts of home for he will soon rise toward the only certain home there is. He is behind in reciting with his brothers the tashahud, and he begins it quickly to himself, then joins them.
Amir is gone. The room is quiet. Imad places his envelope on the lamp table. He sits upon the bed.
“You both should be fasting.”
Tariq holds the envelope to the light, his eyes becoming narrow.
“Yes,” Bassam says. “You are right.” And there is no bad feeling as before, no feeling that Imad is stronger than he and more disciplined and more prepared, that he is more deserving of this honor given to each of them. He looks at Imad sitting upon the bed in his polo shirt. Its back is wrinkled from his rest and his arms are thickened from exercise. And Tariq, look at him attempting to read the letter through the envelope, forever restless, a man Bassam has known since they were boys and they kicked the ball back and forth to each other in the dusty street, how Tariq would always keep it in the air before him, never letting it touch the ground.
“Brothers.” The room becomes blurred. There is only the light from the lamp and the shadows of his friends. “I have such a love for you. I have such a love.”
APRIL STOOD IN Franny’s doorway and tried to see her room as the inspectors would; the rug was vacuumed and the bed was made with the new bedspread. Behind the closed doors of the closet her dresses hung on hangers, her other clothes put away in the bureau April had dusted. The chest was bigger than she thought. It was painted yellow with white daisies, and in the store, among trunks of dark walnut and polished maple, it had looked like a cheerful child stuck in a roomful of adults and April couldn’t help but think of Franny. She set it at the foot of the bed and filled it with all of her toys. Even the new bucket, shovel, and goggles fit. She placed the Barbie dollhouse on top, the pink clashing with the yellow, but it all looked less perfect that way so she left it.
The beanbag chair was more of a problem. It fit just under the window, but it was shapeless and too big and its faux-leather cover gave off a new-chemical smell. She was still sweating from carrying it and the trunk up the stairs. Jean had come out of her house in her loose sundress, her hair matted on one side, her eyes puffy from sleep.
“April, let me help you.”
“I’ve got it, thanks.” April had hugged the trunk to her chest. Every few steps she rested the bottom on a stair and it would have been easier with Jean but the poor woman breathed hard just uncoiling the garden hose. It was nice of her to ask, though.
Last night, when she and Jean were eating dinner together in Jean’s kitchen, rain falling against the window panes, April had felt cared for. Jean drank wine and April had water and it was almost like being with Stephanie again. They didn’t talk much but it wasn’t uncomfortable. And now April would rather stay in and eat with Jean again, make her something this time.
Franny’s room had never looked this good. Why did it take this for April to finally throw away the cardboard box she’d been using for Franny’s toys? The same one she’d bought for their move down here? Why this to get her to buy something to sit in and a nicer bedspread? To clean and organize her daughter’s room better than ever before?
She could ask the same thing about this whole place, though. The furniture was Jean’s—the gilded mirror hanging in the living room, the lamps and stools, the bed and bedside tables in April’s room; it wasn’t April’s home in the first place. Just an in-between for where she’d been and where she was going. Franny’s real room was downstairs. The one she slept in four to five nights a week, the one she got tucked into.
Every night that week after Jean had finished it, April had walked into Jean’s house three hours before sunrise and crept to Franny. She pulled back the perfect comforter and lifted her daughter up and carried her out the door up the stairs to her room. With one hand April had pushed away clothes and toys and a tablet and crayons and laid Franny onto her bed. And so what if she woke and started to cry? So what if April had to lie down with her awhile under the sheet and hold her till she slept again?
Then Franny woke her three hours later ready to play, dress, and eat, and April had gotten up. She made coffee and poured Franny some cereal. She tried to be cheerful and listen to Franny talk about Dipsy and the boat she dreamed about or her list of favorite colors starting with yellow. But after only a half hour or more April would have to put in a Disney movie and lie down on the couch and wake up minutes later, it seemed, to the blank screen and Franny poking her arm with her finger. “Mama, can I go play with Jean now? Mama?”
So why not leave her to sleep there anyway? Let her be loved by a woman with nobody while April got some rest and Franny was happy?
A knock at the door, Lonnie standing there smiling on the other side of the glass.
FOR MAGHRIB THEY prayed separately, and now Imad is in one of the restaurants breaking his fast and Bassam has started his. He has purposely missed the night meal and will eat, Allah willing, tomorrow morning after Fajr. The entire last day he will fast, and after nightfall he will take only enough nourishment to reserve his strength for the morning after, which, Insha’Allah, will begin with a final meal.
Lying upon his bed, there is again a thrusting of his heart at the thinking of this, the final meal of Bassam al-Jizani. But it is not fear. Or, it is not entirely fear. It is readiness. It is the engine that must be in a condition to take him where he must go, for there is a calmness; the awareness of his fate approaching has lifted him away from noise and loud movement and trouble and worry. It is not unlike gazing into a fire, how everything falls away, how you stop thinking of all that has been done and must be done and should have been done differently by everyone, especially yourself.
There is the calm, and there is the clarity. How clear everything is: the ceiling above him, the round cast of light upon it from the lamp, its rough surface applied there by workers lost in their unbelief; the wooden cabinet built by more kufar, the polished scratches along its front and sides, the television it holds, surely an invention of Shaytan himself, for look at how Tariq stands there with the remote control device pushing the button so quickly, the screen a jumble of color moving pictures celebrating nothingness. And still, still Bassam would not stop him if he were to press the Adult button once more. Is this not so, Bassam? For even in the strength from prayer, your weakness remains. It is there in your desire for Tariq to press the button.
Tariq, his restlessness will not distract him. He has always been this way. He has never needed purity to perform his task. Khalid was the fastest, but after his death, it was Tariq, restless, distracted, always smoking.
“Bassam?”
“Mansoor.”
“Mansoor?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to buy a woman.”
“What?”
“I’m going to buy a woman.”
“When?”
“Now. Tonight. Tomorrow I will fast with you and Imad, Insha’Allah.”
Bassam’s heart beats more strongly. He wishes for Tariq to be lying. And he wishes for him to be speaking the truth. “Imad will not like it.”
“I do not care, Bassam. I have already called this escort service. It was easy. She will be here very soon, Allah willing. Do you want to share her?”
“No.”
“This is your last opportunity, Bassam. Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know what it’s like?”
“I will find out in Jannah, Insha’Allah.”
“But take this bounty from the kufar, Bassam. It is something the Holy One would not deny us. He deemed me to find the telephone number from the book.”
“Or it was Shaytan, Tariq.”
“No, Bassam. We have left our homes, our families, everything behind for the Creator. He wishes for the shahid to take a bounty.”
“Take it then.”
“Yes.” Tariq closes the television cabinet. “But where will you go?”
“Out. I will go out.”
Tariq nods his head and moves to the bathroom. He makes no supplications for entering the toilet, and Bassam can hear the slap of cologne, can smell it.
A woman. Here. A kafir who will do it for money. April who danced as Spring, how she pulled back so quickly when he touched her above her qus. And it’s true, he would like to sit with her once more. Not in that rented box in that evil place, but here in his room in this last hotel in this northern city.
A knocking. Bassam begins to stand, his heart thrusting. Imad? No, beyond the corner of the wall, Tariq’s voice. His clumsy English. And now a woman’s voice. Look at how she walks into the room. She could be one of the white students from the best school. In the bathroom’s light her hair is long and shining, brown and blonde at once, her eyes green, her legs uncovered from her short dress to her high heels.
“I thought it was just one, sweetheart.”
“He is leaving.”
“Really? I can do both of you for two-fifty.” She smiles directly at Bassam. It is playful, even respectful. She is like Kelly the trainer, and he says nothing and he does not move.
“Bassam?” Tariq says in their language. “Stay. She likes you. Stay.” He smiles at the kafir woman. “Please, wine? Whiskey? We have minibar.”
“First you have to pay me, sweetie. If it’s just you, he has to leave.”
Leave. Leave, Bassam. Go.
She holds a leather night bag over her shoulder. In its side pocket a silver cell phone shines. She still smiles, looking to each of them, but the playfulness has been blown from her by the cool wind of business. It is difficult not to look at her nuhood behind her blouse, at her hips and uncovered legs.
Bassam hears his voice say, “Two-fifty is too much.”
“One of you is one-fifty. I think that’s a good deal.”
“Two hundred.” Bassam’s breath is high in his chest, his legs have become thin reeds.
“Two-twenty.”
“Okay,” Tariq says. “That is good. That is good. Please, for sitting down.” He moves to the lamp table between their beds. His sealed envelope lies beside the Book beside his clip of money, a brass clip he purchased in Dubai, and he pulls free the bills and pushes them into the whore’s hand. She licks her finger and counts it quickly and efficiently. She smiles once more and pushes the money into her purse and how easy it would be to kill her now. Does she not know this? Does she not think of this? And the calmness and the clarity, where did it go? What is this shattered glass inside him?
Tariq is pouring wine from a small bottle from the mini-fridge. She unbuttons her buttons, and removes her shoes. How different it is to watch her do this when Bassam has not been drinking. How like a boy he feels. How dry is his mouth as she lets drop her shirt and brassiere. How damp are his hands and forehead as she unwraps her short dress and lays it over her purse and cell phone and money. She is completely uncovered except for her undergarment which is black and covers her backside. She walks slowly to the glass Tariq has filled. And restless, distracted Tariq, unbuttoning his shirt so quickly.
She drinks. Bassam can only look at her nuhood, small, smaller than those of April. Tariq is unclothed, lying there upon his bed. Bassam cannot look at him. She smiles into his face. She smiles and lowers her wine and walks to him. She views Tariq. “You don’t need any encouragement, do you? Put on some music, sweetie.”
But she says this as one moving sentence, and Tariq’s English, he does not understand and does not move. In their language, Bassam says to him, “Music, Tariq. She would like music.” And he would as well. And for the lamp to be off. For the room to be lost in shadows and noise, like the club for men in Florida.
“Where are you from? Is that Arabic?”
“No.” An intelligent whore. An educated whore. Music enters the room from the radio. It is not loud but still too loud. It is music he knows and it enters him as she touches his chest and begins to unbutton his shirt. It is the music of Khalid, David Lee Roth, this music for racing on the Road of Death, his loud screaming, his hat for cowboys, how Khalid loved it, and Bassam is hard and above the smell of Tariq’s cologne is her smell, cigarette smoke and mint, woman’s perfume and cosmetics. She smiles and looks him directly in his eyes. Her skin is smooth. She has more years than he and now her hand rubs him over his pants. On the bed behind her Tariq waits, his own hardness a thing Bassam sees and does not wish to see, and the electric guitar of David Lee Roth pierces him like a sword, the drums kick at him. No being has ever touched him where she touches now and he sees his body gone, evaporated. He will be given a new body. One untouched. And Khalid was never given this opportunity.
Khalid.
She frees him from his pants. She stands and pushes down her black undergarment. Bassam is ashamed of his hardness exposed for Tariq to see, and he covers himself but Tariq watches only the young kafir woman. Her hair above her qus is like the black whore’s, a thin shaved line. And she turns and lifts her clothing and reaches into her purse. Her naked rear is exposed to them.
“Bassam,” Tariq says in their language, “do you want to go first? You are older, you should go first.”
“It’s rude to tell secrets, boys. English, please.” She tosses to Tariq a small square package and she opens hers and kneels before Bassam. “Take off your clothes, honey. Come on, I won’t bite.” She pulls down his pants and he lifts one leg, then the next. How weak he is. How so very weak. Thirty or thirty-one years, this is what she has, and the skin of her back is smooth and Bassam touches it with fingers that shake. She rolls the rubber skin over his hardness, her face only centimeters from it. His legs are trembling.
“Go on, Bassam,” Tariq says. “I wait.”
“What’d he say, sweetie? Huh? You want to tell me? Do you?” She leaves the socks upon his feet, rises and pushes his shirt past his shoulders, Bassam’s throat and face burning. This is too much. This— “Tariq, please. Close the lamp. And the Book, remove it.” Now the music is finished and a man speaks loudly, selling a product, Ford trucks. The room darkens and Tariq carries the Book to the closet, making a supplication before closing the door. She pushes against Bassam’s chest, makes him lie down upon his bed. And she is a professional, such a professional. Where did she acquire the small bottle she opens now, pouring the liquid onto her hand, rubbing it along his hardness? Then she touches herself with it, wipes her hand on the bedcover, and more music begins, the kicking drums, the piercing guitar, the singer’s voice forcing its way out of the radio and over their sealed envelopes into Bassam’s head to where he has disappeared. He makes the du’a to be said before lying with a woman, one he has never made: In the name of Allah. O Allah, keep Shaytan away from us and keep Shaytan away from what you have blessed us with.
How soon and how fast he is inside her. Completely inside her. She begins to rise up and down and she calls to Tariq, calls him to her. Bassam closes his eyes. He holds her hips, feels the skin and beneath it her muscle and beneath that, her bones. How long will she possess this? How many years will she be given by the Creator before she will burn? For now a sadness opens itself inside him, a cool darkness where lies so much: his father and his brother, his mother’s cries, her cries for Khalid and the cries he knows she will have for him, Allah willing. Allah willing. These ripples of heat pricking across his skin, this fire lit and now burning. Her fire pus
hing onto his, his into hers. “That’s it, sweetie. That’s it. Come here. C’mon.”
There is Tariq’s leg touching his own. The woman makes sucking sounds and Bassam opens his eyes and look how in the near darkness she does as did the pale whore. He closes his eyes, the sadness receeding for there is only her fire pushing onto his, his pushing so deeply into hers, and Bassam sees the black whore, her qus, feels her now on top of him as he goes as deeply into her as this. Then she is Kelly the trainer, her fingers touching him as he exercised. And now she is April, her baby’s scar, her larger nuhood and long dark hair, her eyes like those of a girl from home, the flames inside him rising higher, higher. He could have had a good girl from a good family that in another’s fate he would have married, the Shawfa and Milka and Shabka, the Haflat al-Henna, his bride’s hands and feet decorated with henna, the flames rising and rising, the wedding celebrations he would have had, the dowry he could never have afforded himself, never, not as Bassam al-Jizani, a poor stock boy with only his father’s name he would never equal, except now, except now, bringing it lasting respect, not empty status, not envy, his flames now the whore’s flames, all of his thoughts and deeds descending, then gathering, then rising so hotly up and into the woman’s fire, a sound escaping him, a sound he has never before made and it shames him, his seed not in the whore but gathered in the reservoir of rubber, and the radio is too loud, a kafir woman singing, and this woman keeps moving for she does not know.
The Garden of Last Days Page 38
