Chapter VII
Fanaa Fi Allah
The next morning I sleep till 11 even though the shift starts at 11. It’s Sunday. When I get to work at 11:45, Leo is outside. Waiting.
Leo the rationalist. Dull, light-grey eyes with a sometimes twinkle, a sometimes madness. Weekdays when Cal and Ron are around he is serious. On Friday evenings he drinks a $4.95 bottle of Santa Ana or Santa Carolina wine from Chile, and on Saturdays and Sundays during the day he declines orders and writes poetry.
He slips me a napkin. It’s the fine velvety napkins he steals from Bare Bones BBQ, folds into fours and fades brown at the corners with a cigarette lighter held four inches away. I write one more, he says.
Ballpoint on velvet?
He laughs at the joke he makes every time he gives me a poem.
Always, he says. It is my art.
Your medium.
When you find your art you follow it.
Your medium. Not your art.
My medium? He points to his tummy.
My turn to laugh. Kind of. It’s your …
But he’s laughing too much at his own joke, so I stop.
Yes. I know. His tummy is still rippling in laughter. Your medium is the middle of you and your viewer. No my middle.
I smile. Your medium is whatever is convenient when you are inspired.
Yes, convenient. But also it has to show beauty.
Yes. Or you innovate the medium.
Meaning?
Like you innovate English, and then it fits your experiences, the way you think.
I change English?
Yes. Look at this line.
Sitting by a hat store on Nevsky Prospect,
sensitive artist sees his dark-haired love
It’s different now. Last time it was innovative.
He frowns.
Yes. I make new. And he makes a scrubbing motion with his hands. You tell me if it’s good now.
Last time it said:
By hat store on Nevsky Prospekt, every day he sits …
He breaks in:
… on a borrowed chair, the sometimes artist,
long dark hair of his love he will see.
Look at this again. I put my notebook on the hot hood of the truck, write on the middle of the page in my imperfect cursive.
By hat store on Nevsky Prospekt, every day he sits
on a borrowed chair, the sometimes artist,
long dark hair of his love he will see.
Yes. I change it.
The last one is more mad.
Yes. And no is correct. No … and he makes two parallel lines. Right?
If you fix the madness you lose the beauty. Look here. In Russian you say it like this?
Yes. But in English is wrong.
Not wrong. Different. And different can be better.
Make English better? So I am like the French? Hee hee. His little squirrel laugh is infectious, and I can’t help but join in.
Yes. Why not?
First the Frenchie put pretty curls on this German language. Then the Russian come from the east and make it less parallel. Hee hee. Then he stops suddenly, ponders a bit, looks at me with fake suspicion, a twinkle lighting the corners of his eyes.
But maybe you are too mad. Maybe I am more English. More vraiment.
Vraiment?
See in English parallel lines are neat. They never meet. So I try to make it parallel. And again, with his hands, he draws the carefully parallel planes.
And in Russia parallel lines will meet?
Maybe, in Russia, some of us are mad enough to imagine a world not created by reason.
Yes! This world was not created by reason.
Aha. But maybe I am too European for that.
European?
See I live half life in Petersburg. In Europe. Yes, Russian, but I grow up in Europe. So I only half mad. But you are from full east. Full mad. And he laughs and laughs.
You know, ammi always says what exists in Arabic doesn’t exist in Urdu.
What? He stops laughing.
What exists …
Yes, yes, he says impatiently. Excited. I know, I know. Why is hard to write about Russia in English.
Because here, people are different, feelings are different, …. Because what exists in Russia does not exist in America.
Yes! His shoulders in, eyes wide, fists under his chin shaking with emphasis. That is why what I try to show. Is impossible.
My mother says the same thing.
What she says? What exists in Arabia does not exist in Pakistan?
Yes.
But the prayers are in Arabic, no?
Yes, and many are translated to Urdu so we understand.
Is good? The translation?
I don’t know.
You write? He makes a scribbling motion.
Only a little.
In Pakistani language? Or in Arabic?
In English, for my poetry class.
Aah. Is hard?
Yes. I don’t think I can write ghazals in English.
In Arabic?
No. Only in Urdu.
Aah. But no one here read Urdu. Like no one here read Russian.
So I give up?
Never. You find a way.
I try.
Okay. You write down what I change. In my poem. Okay?
Thirty feet behind him, Kara comes out of the office and shuts the door carefully, sees us together, nods. Waits.
How do I know, Leo?
Because you go to college.
No. How do I know if I want to marry someone?
He turns around to see what I see over his shoulder, then smiles so wide all the gums of his upper teeth shine pink in the sun and the corners of his eyes shut entirely. And I see what they say about scratching the Russian to find the Tartar.
And he bows to her, a little curtesy from low in his back, eyes closing as he bends. And as he walks off giggling to himself she walks right up to me and kisses me on the lips. So soft.
I’m riding with you today, she says looking up at me, hands locked behind my waist, toes on my toes, swinging lightly from my fulcrum. I told Cal yesterday that they didn’t need two order takers during the day on Sunday, and I’d rather ride with you than cost them money.
Back to Mount Saint Mary's tomorrow?
She snuggles side face into my chest. I don’t want to go, she says, but Conor says I have to go to college.
I am looking straight at Leo, standing by the door of the office about twenty feet away, and he is watching, his eyes still crinkled into his big smile. He blows me a kiss and walks inside.
Close your eyes she says at the long light on 355 and Shady Grove. She unhooks her seatbelt, kisses my right eyelash and it flutters open.
How do you have such long lashes, she says.
Close them again she says. Keep them closed.
She kisses both my lids, and the lashes flutter open and brush her lips.
Again! She is giggling so hard she falls into me, and I put my hand around her loose.
We are picking up from Wurzburg Haus in Derwood and delivering way down 124, almost at Damascus.
I’ll go pick it up, she says at Wurzburg. Cause it’s not Halal.
She read up on Halal.
I can serve it. Just can’t eat it. But she is out of the truck already, unhooking the big green back from the hooks on the corners of the bed.
While she’s in the restaurant I pull out the map book and memorize the map.
It’s up 124, almost all the way to Damascus.
On Shady Grove past Muncaster there is nothing but farmland. She rolls open her windows. Her left hand stretched out in mine, her right free in the wind. In my rear view mirror, in the distance, empty road and one motorcycle.
As I turn right on 124, the biker comes up behind me, looks at us as he passes, salutes Kara. She smiles, and so does he. And off he goes.
I look at her and she blushes, squeezes my hand.
What, she says, and reddens more.
Nothing, I say. I just like looking at you while you blush.
Jerk. And she pushes my shoulder. Then reaches for my hand, but I hide it in my lap.
Gimme your hand, she says, and pulls it off my lap back into the middle.
Ahead a horrible screech of rubber on asphalt. And a crash. And then metal on asphalt. Oh my god, she says.
Go, she says. Go Ali.
I’m going.
Around a bend in the road, a white Chevy Blazer on the other side of the road at a crazy angle.
The motorcycle.
Then I see him. Fifty yards up he landed. And then a thirty yard smear of blood and flesh where he slid on the asphalt.
Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck! The Blazer. He pulled out in front of him. Pull over, she yells.
I’m doing it.
She jumps out.
I pull out the handset of my radio.
This is Ali, copy?
Nothing. Slow Saturday, and Big Bo is outside in the sun.
This is Ali, copy? Accident on 124. Need someone to call 911.
What happened, Ali? It’s Flora.
Flora. Call 911. It’s bad. Maybe someone died. 124. Two miles west of Shady Grove. Call now please.
10-4 Ali.
I make myself walk toward the biker. Kara is already up by him. Bloody jeans and on the road. And flesh. And so much blood. Twenty yards away I can’t. I walk to the bushes and puke.
Ali, she yells.
I kneel by the bushes.
Ali! She walks back to me, pulls me up.
What?
Come.
I’m not a medic, Kara. Flora already called 911.
Come!
She’s dragging me.
Kara. There’s nothing I can do.
Come! WE NEED TO BE WITH HIM.
But there is no him, Kara.
But there is. He’s still twitching. His torso is still spraying blood. Take his helmet off, Ali.
No.
Please.
So I make myself find the clasp under his chin. My fingers shaking so big. I can’t find it. His blood all over my hands.
I don’t want to take it off, Kara. I might hurt him.
She pops the visor. His eyes are open, glassy and staring straight up. His neck is twisted at a crazy angle. His lips are moving. He is talking to us, but no sound is coming from his mouth.
Your jacket, Ali.
It’s okay, buddy. She is so calm, folds and slides the green plastic Waiter on Wheels jacket under his head. So gentle. You’ll be just fine. You just took a little spill. It’s okay.
She sits by him, looks straight into his eyes. Puts a calm hand on his chest. It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay. I promise.
Then they’re here. Lights, so many lights. A cop gets her up, walks us to the side of the road, asks questions I don’t hear. Her vocal chords are popping, her gestures animated. I don’t hear her.
10 feet from us there’s a dark blue shirted medic with white gloves, talking calmly on a handheld radio. A big guy with a scraggly black beard.
Excuse me, she says to the cop and walks up to the medic. You’re a medic! You’re just gonna stand around?
He shrugs. Nothing I can do here. I called the chopper.
You have to do something.
He shakes his head. I’m sorry. He’s getting airlifted.
She walks toward the motorcyclist, surrounded by puffy brown coats and tight blue jackets.
Hey! You can’t go there.
Medic looks at me. Tell her to come back.
I shake my head.
Then chopper is above us, hovering, hovering. Hovering forever.
Finally it lands in the road, fifty yards up.
There’s eight cop cars walling him off. Somehow she is inside the perimeter.
Kara!
She looks at me like she doesn’t know me.
We have to go.
She shakes head head, eyes blank, walks back to the big medic, who is still standing a few feet from me. The chopper crew is running the show.
What happens now? She has to yell above the chopper.
They bag his stuff.
His stuff?
He points his chin on the road behind us. A line of entrails stretches from the twisted motorcycle to the pool of blood. Two medics from the chopper with big zip lock bags.
His junk.
Come, Kara.
All through the run she is silent. We are an hour late, but Flora has called ahead to explain. She stays in the car while I take in the Wurzburg Haus.
*
Corn fields on our right. A horse farm on our left. We pass a gravel driveway and my eyes follow until it goes into empty pasture. She’s sitting all the way in her corner, staring out the window.
Tell me about your brother.
It’s so sudden I take a moment.
Conor?
Not my brother. Your brother.
Gullu?
Yes him.
Ali is quiet and feels the familiar old pain, welcomes it.
What about him?
His name is long, no? Did you say the full name?
Ammi and abbu called him Gullu.
Gullu?
His name is Gul Muhammad.
She nods. Aah. Like a nickname. How old was he?
He is five years older. I used to follow him around. I was late to walk, so I would just crawl around after him until he picked me up.
Was he kind?
He was kind to me. My father would say that if he could keep him alive until he was 30, he would live a long life.
How old would he be now?
26.
Same age as Conor.
Yeah.
Ali turns to her. How do you feel loss?
In waves.
Of sorrow?
Anger. So much anger.
Anger?
Yeah.
Where?
What?
Where in your body?
Nowhere in my body. My arms I guess.
And your stomach?
I guess. And you?
In waves of sorrow.
Sorrow?
Yes.
I don’t think I know how to feel sorrow. What’s it like?
I look at her angry chin.
In my stomach, I feel empty. Sometimes pain. And sometimes in my throat and chest. When I can’t take it anymore I walk. Real slow. Like this. I slide the gear into neutral, plod my feet on the cabin floor, let my shoulders droop. Truck slows. I keep plodding.
Okay, okay I get it. Just drive.
And then I wail.
Wail?
Yes.
Does it help?
Yes.
How?
Right now I need to let out pain for the dead guy.
He’s not dead.
So I need to do it.
Do it.
I can’t. With you here.
This?
My Zikr.
My remembrance. My grief. My honoring.
She, still looking straight ahead: I just get angry. I want to kill him. I want him to suffer the way she suffered. I want him to shake in pain. So much.
Who?
My mom. You don’t feel anger?
Anger? At whom would I feel anger?
At the people who killed your father. The people who might kill your brother.
The person who killed my father was an uneducated tribesman from Chilas. And Muhammad maybe killed him already. Or someone who looked like him. Who knows whom he killed?
And Muhammad? He is still hunted by them?
I’m haunted forever by him.
I would be exactly like Muhammad. If someone destroyed my family.
Why?
What?
Did you go after the guy in the Blazer?
What guy?
The guy who pulled out into 124 in front of the red bike.
No. The biker was dying. He needed me.
Exactly. My mother needs me.
So you wail?
Zikr. It’s my Zikr.
What?
Worship. Devotion. Like repeating God’s name.
Wailing in pain is like repeating God’s name?
Repentance and Zikr are the foundations of my faith.
You didn’t answer my question.
It’s the closest I get to God. Except when I’m with my ammi.
You wail God’s name?
No. Not when I feel pain. I said it’s like repeating God’s name. I need to feel connected to the pain. To his pain. My pain. All pain. So I wail.
And I show her.
She puts a hand on mine. Okay. Stop.
Does she understand?
And then you stop eating?
Yes.
Why no eating?
Because it helps.
How?
It helps me to be present to pain. That I would otherwise forget. Hunger is nothing compared to how my brother must suffer. How the martyrs suffered.
You need to move on.
Never.
Why?
Because to love someone is to be there for them.
And after they’re gone?
It’s a knife stab like I can’t breathe.
He’s here. My brother is here.
I’m sorry.
And your father?
I will never let him go.
On the faded gear knob, from her far corner, she reaches out, squeezes my knuckles and fingers with soft palm. I understand.
I want to be one with her, but I have a hole in me that can’t be filled.
We pass a clean small white church on our left on 124. Gravel driveway into a lot for maybe 30 cars.
Simple black on white sign, with no serif lettering:
Jesus said, “Love each other as I have loved you.”
That’s our church, she says.
I nod. Do you go every Sunday?
She shakes her head. I tried. For her. But it’s too much.
Does Conor go?
She nods. On Mondays. When it’s quiet.
Why is it too much?
Last time I went … maybe a year ago. I went to confession.
And I told Father O.
My dad killed my mom.
And I’m going to kill him.
What did he say?
Nothing. He said nothing. After a few minutes he said a Hail Mary. And then he wished me peace. With love.
And nothing else?
Nothing else.
He’s a good man.
Yes. And he told me to come to church on Sunday.
Did you go?
No.
Why not?
Because I’m going to kill him.
Will it give you peace?
I don’t know. God knows. But I know he has my sister. And he’s probably abusing her now.
Maybe. Or maybe he repents.
She sighs. I can’t forgive him. It would be disloyal. It would end my purpose. Pull over, please. Just pull over some place.
There’s a big gearbox in the middle. And no AC. And the tape deck.
From behind the seat I pull out my blanket. We walk into the cornfields.
They are full and green, and we stomp out a place to lay down.
The sun is climbing in the sky, but if you cover your eyes with your arm it’s not so hot.
A sparrow comes hopping over. Another one is further out. It hops on my outstretched arm, then off.
She rolls over. In my arms, in the fields, in the sun.
Blocks the sun and looks into my eyes. I can’t get over your lashes.
I smile at her.
Are you feeling pain now?
Yes.
Are you always in pain?
Yes. Almost.
Are you ever happy?
Yes.
How?
I was born happy. I couldn’t help it. My mother would make me stand on her feet and hold my hands and walk. For three years she did that, and when I was four I learned to walk. And then kids would knock me over and run away and I’d still be smiling. Muhammad would make fun of me. Abbey bewaqoof hans kyun raha hai?
What does that mean?
Hey fool, why you laughing?
You are still smiling.
Yes. I smile wider.
But were you happy? Or just smiling because you’re broken?
I’m happy when you are in my arms.
Now?
Yes.
Did you forget about Mo now?
Yes. And as I say it I feel pain. I push her off me.
Do you feel guilty?
Yes.
Let it go. You can’t stop. On her side. Looking at me intensely.
I can’t. I don’t want to. I would hate myself if I did. Muhammad is me. And I am him. That will never change.
And my mom is me and I will never stop being angry until I’ve killed him.
I am sitting by her side now as she lays in the field, chewing on straw.
Do you cry, Kara?
Cry?
Yes, cry.
No. Do you?
Yes. I wail.
What do you do after you wail?
I put the radio on the floor, turn on the heat and curl into a ball on the seat.
And?
And try to be nothing.
Sleep?
Sometimes.
Why?
Cause it’s too much.
Where?
Here. I show her my stomach.
You feel him now?
Yeah.
And here in my heart.
I’ll fill it up for you, she says.
I’ll hold you tight until you’re full again.
You think we can every be full?
She shakes her head. Not me.
Never?
Maybe when I become a mom. I’ll fill the hole. When there’s a baby in me. Loving the baby with all my love will fill me up and make me whole.
I squeeze her hand.
I love you, Ali.
I hold her.
Disturbance. Too much disturbance on radio. Crackling. Like fighting. I ignore.
My stomach hurts, I say.
Maybe you should drink some water.
Water?
Father O says when your stomach hurts drink water.
Maybe Father O is not so smart sometimes.
Maybe you’re a little stupid sometimes.
Maybe I hate you sometimes, I say.
She draws away slow, uncomprehending, smiling, then fast. Like a shot doe.
What?
I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I said. I’ve never said those words in my life. I don’t know what just happened.
You hate me, Ali?
No. It’s a joke. Sorry! Who’s Father O?
I told you, Ali. He saved Conor’s life. And mine.
I know. I’m sorry. Your pastor.
Conor’s pastor.
And yours?
But I’ve lost her.
Kara. Trust me. I’m sorry.
Who are you, Ali?
I’m here. I’m yours.
But you’re a muslim, Ali.
So?
And you all hate us.
I love. That’s all I know.
Why did you all attack us? Strident anger.
I’ve never attacked anyone.
The World Trade Center? I was 11. We were supposed to go to New York and it got cancelled. Ramzi Youssef.
Kara. It’s me. I’ve never attacked anyone.
You just gave it away, Ali.
What?
Why did you say those words?
What words?
Shut up, Ali.
I don’t know. It was stupid. I’m so sorry. I’ve never said those words before. I’m sorry.
We gotta go. She runs to the truck.
Inside, she’s staring straight ahead, sitting on the far end of her seat, by the window. All through the ride. I want to die.
Back at the office lot, I put the car in gear, turn the ignition off. She turns to me, pulls her loose T-shirt down over her full breasts, small fists over her nipples.
Look, she says.
Her tattoo in gothic font. And she looks straight at me until I meet her eyes, so she can be sure I have understood.
Fanaa, she says.
You understand?
Conor sees her run. Comes to me. A bro shake and a bro hug, and I’m not hugging.
Hey, I gotta tell you something.
She’s so mad at me.
His car honks. Three times. Two seconds each. He turns. She is in his car, signaling let’s go.
Give her time, he says, still smiling at me. She has never learned to love.
No. It’s me. Not her.
Don’t worry. She does this. You know what I learned at the Buddhist monastery?
No. It’s me, Conor.
Don’t cry, Ali. He’s smiling. Mocking me, but gently. Trust me. She just needs time.
No bro. I fucked up.
No. She needs you to stick around when she pushes you away.
No. She’s done.
What happened?
Why did I say that?
What?
I have never felt what I was feeling. I had thought I could only be one with Allah and my mother and my father and brother, and then I was one with her.
Conor laughs. That makes me happy. What did she say to you? With laughing eyes.
Fanaa.
And what does that mean?
It means the end of ego, to be one with God.
And what does she think it means?
He’s laughing.
Why are you laughing?
Because I love you, man.
You’re laughing at me?
You’re Siddhartha, he says.
Who?
The book Father O gave me. Remember? I told you.
Is that an Indian book?
Yeah. Father O reads a lot.
I’m not from India.
I know, my brother. I know. Hang on. I’ll get it for you.
He turns to run to the green Cavalier. Kara’s gone, at the far end of the large lot, running.
He slows to a walk, finds it in his glove box. Dog eared Siddhartha. Picture of the Buddha on cover. The author is someone called Herman Hesse.
How will this help me? I’m Muslim.
Conor laughs again. Why you angry, bro?
I’m not angry I say, irritated. How will this help me?
Because he is you.
I feel something rising inside, and I look away.
How is this man in me? I’m Muslim.
Because he is as pure as you. And in order to become fully whole he finds that he has to live as a human. Not a monk.
I’m not a monk.
But you’ve been cloistered. You might as well be. And when you leave the cloister you must struggle.
Is he a Christian?
What does it matter?
It matters to Kara.
What?
She said I’m Muslim, and so I hate her.
What?
I nod.
No way. She would never say that.
I nod.
No way, bro. She’s not narrow like that.
Are you angry with me also?
What?
What did you want to tell me?
It’s about anger, and letting go of anger. But I’ll tell you later. He is still smiling. Take this.
Another soft, white Bare Bones napkin. So soft you feel the gentleness on your lips as you wipe the sweet sauce off. And you savor the sweetness of the pig.
I wrote something inside.
I open it and see the letters, but they are swimming.
Ballpoint on velvet, I say.
What?
Nothing. I smile and the tears come out.
Fuck. I can’t cry in America. But I don’t know how to stop it.
Take care, bro. Arm fully extended, he puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. And don’t worry. Just wait for her. Don’t let go.
I just wanted a hug. Someone to hold me.
But I fucked up so bad I don’t deserve it.
That was August 20, and the next week she left for college. Two weeks after she left, 19 Arabs drove three passenger planes into the Pentagon and the twin towers of the World Trade Centers. A fourth plane’s passengers resisted. They crashed themselves into farmland in Pennsylvania.
I had an early morning catering run, a big delivery from a bagel place to the Hughes building, for a company get together. They wanted it there by 9:30, so I picked up at 8:45.
It was a cloudless, sunny day in DC, and I’d been up early. After delivering, I parked in a shaded corner of the huge parking lot and prayed in the truck bed. Then I cracked my window a little to let the breeze in and stretched out in the cab for a nap in the sun until we open at 10. Woke up at 10:30 and flipped my phone open. It showed the time but no bars. No texts. On the radio I signed on. Ali’s clear at Hughes. Silence on the radio. Ali’s clear at Hughes Network Systems.
Ali. Come in to the office please. It’s Cal.
10-4.
Phone in the glove box was buzzing. I flipped it open. Conor.
Crackle crackle. Where are you? I’ve been calling.
At Hughes. I was napping. What’s up?
He says something I can’t hear.
I can’t hear you.
Crackle, crackle.
I still can’t hear you.
Come to the office. Now.
What’s up?
He’s saying something I can’t hear, and the phone cuts off.
At the entrance to Ziggy Ave, off Shady Grove Road, about 100 yards from the turn that leads into the office cul-de-sac, out of sight of our little building, he is waiting. Flags me down. Gets in.
Clock out, he says.
What?
Clock out and meet me here. I’ll wait.
He jumps out as I pull in. Comes around and opens my door. Puts a hand on my shoulder, walks in with me.
Everyone.
All the drivers are in the office.
Everyone is looking at me.
I turn in my one signed receipt, collect my tip. He follows me out, then follows me home in the blue Cavalier, parks in the fire lane next to my truck in the handicapped spot. Runs up the steps ahead of me, shuts the door behind me, bolts it, faces me.
You need to shave.
What?
Shave your beard. If you shave and don’t wear that, he points to my head, you’ll be okay. You’re lighter than me.
Yes, says ammi, walking up behind me. It’s only 12 p.m. but she’s home from school already. He is right. She has the TV on. There is a plane passing by the World Trade Center. It looks like it will go past. But it doesn’t.
Close ups.
Then another one, from the other side.
So much smoke.
People running around New York.
Then they show a plane crashing into the Pentagon.
They have been showing this nonstop since I got home. She looks at me. You can’t have the beard any more, Ali.
When did this happen?
Between 8:30 and 9:30.
At some point while he was driving to Hughes that plane could have flown over him.
All caps scrolling at the bottom of the screen:
DOZENS FEARED DEAD. ISLAMIC TERRORISM SUSPECTED.
We go to the TV.
Everyone on CNN is confused. Talking over each other.
The President comes on. Little children sitting around him. Why are little children around him?
I’ll help you shave. We’ll need clippers.
No.
Yes, ammi says in English. Stop this silliness. We are educated people. You’re not even Sunni. Your father didn’t even pray. Even your Peer didn’t even have a long beard.
No, ammi. I can’t.
Why?
Because I deserve it. I deserve to suffer.
* * *
Next —> Chapter VIII