The Taqwacores (12 page)

“Romance?”

“Passion.”

“Passion?” I had to think about it. “Well, you know, you date after you’re married.”

“Huh?”

“It’s exciting, you know, being with your new spouse, and going to the movies, going to dinner, doing fun romantic things
together... um...”

“Yeah.”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“But that’s the Islamic way?” she asked.

“Uh... yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense to me.”

“That’s a cultural thing,” I replied. “You know, you have a Western background, it might be hard to understand because you were raised to—”

“So you’re saying I can’t understand Islam because I wasn’t born in the right hemisphere?”

“Well, from a certain—”

“I thought Islam was universal. I thought it was for everyone. I thought it applied to every society at every corner of the earth.”

“Right, but—”

“But
shit,”
she snapped. We were silent for awhile. Eventually I could almost hear her breath rate slowing. “So... what’s your major again?”

“Engineering,” I replied.

“Why?”

“Because... what do you mean?”

“Why engineering? Is engineering what you’re passionate about? What the fuck is engineering, anyway? Because I don’t even know.”

“Engineering is just—”

“Did your mom tell you to be an engineer?”

“No!” I almost sounded like a child.

“Bullshit,” she replied.

“What are you talking about? Don’t assume—”

“Yusef you have a dick in those pants, I know you do. You can’t hide it.”

“What does that even mean?”

“When was the last time you ever did anything remotely interesting?”

“What?”

She stood up off the bed and went through the CDs on my dresser stacked up out of their jewel cases, most of them burned off the computer and labeled in my handwriting. She shuffled through them like cards, noting each one. NOFX. Qari Abdul-Basit. Descendents. Cat Stevens.

“Question,” she said, eyes still on the CDs. “Has Umar ever like,
done
it?”

“Now that’s ghiba—”

“Don’t spout that shit at me, neither of us speak Arabic.”

“Staghfir’Allah—”

“I’m talking to the wall here.” She kept going through my music. Focused on Lynn’s bare back, I grew accustomed to her toplessness. “You listen to this shit?” she asked, turning around with a disc in her hand. Her breasts moved when she moved.

“Which one is that?” I asked.

“Soldiers of Allah,” she replied in sarcastic deference.

“It’s Umar’s. They have a couple songs I like; you know, about the state of the umma and such—”

“These guys are fuckin’ sociopaths!”

“The Soldiers of Allah?”

“Yeah,
they
seem like a fun bunch.” She placed it delicately atop the others and sat back on the bed, breasts flopping nonchalantly. “We should go party with ’em sometime.”

“I don’t think they’re the type who’d party with you.”

“You’re probably right,” she replied.

“Were you ever even Muslim at all?”

I am still not sure how I failed to keep myself from blurting that out. She answered only with a desperate grab for her shirt, throwing it on haphazardly and bolting out of my room, blue bra
still on the bed. I think the only thing that kept her from just running out topless was the eczema.

I sat on the bed somewhat stunned from the last five minutes or so. I had put my hands on a girl’s breasts, even briefly entered the realm of pubic hair. That was something, I guess. And she was gone.

 

 

I looked over at Mustafa’s old green Bukharis on the bookshelf. Went over and opened Volume Nine for no reason. Flipped the pages and a folded sheet of blue-lined notebook paper fell out. I unfolded it to see a series of handwritten ayats with the English translation underneath each corresponding word. Assuming it was Mustafa’s writing, I felt as though I had come into possession of some holy relic—no less than a Prophet’s Hair in terms of that house and its history. How weird, finding this and five minutes ago I had touched breasts. The world itself seemed to be spinning at a different speed. Just then my brain again registered the sounds of drunks and songs coming from downstairs and I remembered that a party was going on in my house. And a girl had been in my room. And hours before that was jumaa. I felt as though I had been upstairs for three days and that afternoon’s jumaa had been ten years ago.

Was not sure if I wanted to ruin the weirdness by going downstairs, but figured checking up on Lynn would be the right thing to do. Wondered how long it had been since she ran out of my room; probably long enough for me to be incredibly rude for having stayed on my bed. I managed to get up and walk to the bathroom. Looked out the window to find nobody on the roof. I pulled the window closed and drew the curtains. Closed and locked the bathroom door. Turned on the water. Climbed in and
sat down. The shower had tremendous pressure, sometimes feeling like it could knock you out. I let it all crash hot on the vertex of my skull.

Stayed under the shower’s steady blast long enough to again lose my concept of time. Even after turning off the water I just sat there awhile, motionless and wet until I began to feel cold.

I toweled, dressed and walked downstairs slowly to the tune of Minor Threat’s “Salad Days.” Just as expected, I’d find Umar standing by the CD player with arms folded across his chest.

“As-salaamu alaikum,” I said timidly.

“Wa-alaik,” he replied stiffly. I wondered if he knew or at least held suspicions. A guy like Umar makes you feel defensive even when you hadn’t done anything wrong. Things were dying down slow. Most of the characters had left or passed out. Jehangir sat slumped exactly where I had left him, dead to the world. “Have you made Isha yet?” Umar asked.

“No,” I replied.

“You have wudhu?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go then. We’ll pray in my room.” So I followed Umar back upstairs. Upon opening his door Umar discovered Amazing Ayyub fucking a random wasted girl in his bed. Forgive the word—I generally don’t say it and until seeing that pair I never imagined a necessary use for it. But standing there watching Ayyub pound away on a sloppy vagina, I realized that there was such a distinct act as
fucking
and no other word really meant what
fucking
meant. So yes, Ayyub fucked her. It took a second for Umar to fully process what he was witnessing. Once it registered he ran over and pulled Ayyub off her so hard Ayyub was instantly on his feet. I turned away at first glance of the girl’s vaginal secretions glistening on Ayyub’s sizable dong—apologies again, but
dong
seems like the only word that describes it. My back to the scene, I nonetheless
heard the smack and knew it was a fist on face. I turned back around. Naked Ayyub was back-up on the floor, Umar’s knee pressed into his kidneys as Umar applied some sort of ultimate-fighting hold around Ayyub’s neck. I ran over and tried to pull Umar off. Feeling his arms so tense and tight intimidated me. I knew Umar was worlds stronger than me and had forgotten more about the science of violence than I would ever know. I figured my chances were better if I got off and tried talking to him.

“Umar, man,” I said standing in awkward stance over a menacing Umar and moaning Ayyub. I am not sure what the girl was even doing at this point. “Umar, man, c’mon...”

“Fuckin’ junkie piece of shit,” Umar growled at hapless Ayyub. “You want to fuck in my bed? You want to fuck your little slut in my fucking bed? After I let you stay in my house—how long now? How long have you been sleeping on my couch, you fucking little piece of Shi’a shit? That’s right, Shi‘a-shit, fuckin’ Shi‘it, yeah there you go, fuckin’ kafr.” Umar untangled one of his arms from the web of limbs around Ayyub’s neck, Ayyub still secured at his mercy, and punched him right below the shoulder blade. Ayyub yelped. “I could fucking kill you right now, what the shit would you even do?” I looked around the room. The girl was gone. Umar leaned in close to Ayyub’s ear. “You stupid fucking kafr bitch, you’re a kafr bitch, you know that? I go to Makkah, you go to Najaf because you’re a fucking kafr bitch.” Umar then let go of Ayyub in such a way that it looked like even that hurt. Ayyub. lay motionless on the floor. “Naked fucking kafr bitch on my floor,” said Umar, “that’s great.” He gave Ayyub a kick in the ribs. “Get your shit and get out of my house.” Umar looked at me. “I’m sick of this shit,” he yelled. “You didn’t see this shit when Mustafa was here! Nobody was FUCKING in my bed when Mustafa was here. Nobody was out on the fucking roof smoking weed, and when they read Qur’an no less, when MUSTAFA was here!” Umar
stormed out of his room. I followed with the weak idea that perhaps I could prevent further violence better than I had between him and Ayyub. Umar tromped down the stairs and into the living room to find Fasiq Abasa rolling around the floor with a big smelly golden retriever. Fasiq looked up at us, tried dodging Umar’s eyes.

“Salaams, guys. Check this shit out.” With this shit he pointed at the dog.

“What the fuck is that?” grunted Umar.

“I walked down to the park and found him. His leash was tied around a tree. I waited around forever but nobody came. I figure somebody just left him or something. But I named him ‘Ilm,’ isn’t that cool?” Umar looked at the dog. Didn’t say anything. Then he kicked it. Ilm let out a higher-pitched squeal than Ayyub had and put his tail between his legs. Fasiq rushed to his feet and tried giving Umar a shoulder-block in the ribs but Umar caught him and drove an elbow in the small of his back. He shoved Fasiq off and left the house. A few wasted punks stood in silent witness. Jehangir was still passed out on the couch less than ten feet away.

“What’s with that?” I asked.

“What?”

“Your shirt.” Jehangir’s black tee bore white stencil letters reading
Vote Hezbollah.

“It’s just the name of a band,” he shrugged, slapping the football with his left hand before launching it on a graceful arc that met its conclusion in my waiting arms. There’s more to playing catch than just throwing and catching: there’s posture, a vibe even, that implies your right to comfortably and coolly take part. It’s our inherited culture. Jehangir had the posture; after each toss he seemed frozen as though in an old Jim Kelly Topps card. And he had the vibe of a guy whose old man started him early throwing pigskins in the backyard. Jehangir’s father, however, died when he was little; so I don’t know where he got it. I, on the other hand, did not have the posture
or
vibe. I couldn’t pass or receive—more importantly, I did not know how to at least look cool trying. Jehangir could run after an overthrown ball with no chance in hell of getting it, but he still moved with a personality that I couldn’t capture.

“Sorry,” I said as my throw veered across the street. Jehangir waited for a car to go by before crossing to retrieve it. Even Jehangir leaning over to scoop up the ball hit me with his coolness and charisma, the magic intangibles that he possessed as much as any man I’d known. He walked slowly back to our side and nonchalantly over-handed the ball my way.

“Umar’s a cock,” he said.

“Yeah, he is.” I waited for him to jog back to his original spot before throwing it.

“I feel bad that I was passed out,” he said, cutting himself off to focus on the descending ball. Caught it and resumed. “I was right there the whole time. I could have done something. And poor fuckin’ Ayyub—”

Minutes went without either of us saying a word, the casual pat-sound of our hands stopping football flights becoming all the more apparent. Then Jehangir finally said, “Yusef Ali, I need to lay off the booze.”

“Insha’Allah.”

“Hope so.” He caught the ball and threw it back. “Booze and girls, bro. When we’re resurrected and our bodies bear witness to our deeds...” He ran to catch my stray pass. “You know the parts that’ll do the most talking, right?” He waited for a response but I just nodded my head. “The mouths and dicks,” he said.

“Amazing Ayyub told me that,” I replied.

“I can just picture my mouth on the
yawm
telling Allah how I made it an expert on fine imported ales.” I laughed. “And my dick’ll say ‘Ya Allah subhanahu wa ta’Ala, don’t let Jehangir tell you he never mingled with the kafrs.” The ball went back and forth almost rhythmically as we talked, becoming in its beats and pauses a part of the conversation. “But you know what, Yusef Ali?”

“What?”

“I don’t believe in hell.”

“You don’t?”

“Nope.”

“I think that’s fairly pivotal to being a Muslim.”

“Probably so.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t think it means anything.”

“You don’t? You don’t think it means anything whether or not you’re a Muslim?”

“Maybe. Maybe not, Yusef. Islam’s all about knowledge, right? Muslims know everything. We seek knowledge from the cradle to the grave. We seek knowledge even if it be in China, Yusef, EVEN IN CHINA! And we’ve reduced our religion to fuckin’ academics. The guy who knows Islam best is the one who really hits the books hard, learns his shit. Muslims brag about having no priests but we’re getting molested by scholars. Yusef Ali, books are not Allah. Even a book by or from Allah is not Allah.” He looked up to the clouds for support, and apparently found it. He caught my pass and held onto the ball. “And the Qur’an, bro, it wasn’t even a book in Muhammad’s own lifetime. It had to be collected off stones and leaves and animal ribs, revised in Uthman’s khilafah... with suras shortened, parts lost or switched around, subject to faulty human memory, opposing versions destroyed, and a thousand variant readings. There’s a lot of human-ness in that divine text. After all is said and done it’s a tiny little book for tiny little men, and Allah is BIG. You want to be Muslim? I’m so Muslim I can take a shit on Bukhari and wipe my ass with the Muwatta. I can say that Muhammad ate a fat dick and it doesn’t even matter because he’s dead and Allah’s alive.”