American Dervish: A Novel (32 page)

Father ignored the comment.

“So what do you do, Naveed?”

“I’m a physician.”

“Fantastic! I’m in medical sales!” Mirza said enthusiastically, pulling out his wallet. “What specialty?”

“Neurology.”

“Aha! Great stuff, great stuff.” Mirza removed a business card and handed it to Father. “Mostly cardiac equipment. But you never know, Dr. Shah…”

Father gazed at the card blankly, then shoved it in his pocket.

“What a place this is!” Mirza remarked as he peered about the lobby atrium. It was three stories high, with two sets of dark, mahogany balconies held up by ornately carved columns. Along the lobby’s walls, paintings hung neatly side by side. Mirza pointed at the canvases.  “Someone was telling me this is all
real
Victorian art. Worth hundreds of thousands.”

Father feigned interest, his gaze drifting to the glass and latticework skylight above, which showed a gray-white, overcast November day.

At the revolving doors, Sunil appeared, unwrapping a new pack of cigarettes.

“There’s the man of the hour!” Mirza exclaimed. “Ready for the big day?”

“Now I am,” Sunil joked, holding up a cigarette as he approached. “Naveed? You waaant one?”

Father shook his head.

Sunil nodded, lighting up. “Naveed Shah, Mirza Hassan.”

“We’ve met,” Mirza said.

Sunil looked over at the reception desk, exhaling smoke. Imam Souhef and Ghaleb Chatha were standing there, watching us, Souhef in a resplendent
jalabiyah
that ballooned around his impressive girth, Chatha in a tailored Nehru.

Sunil held up his finger to indicate he would be right there. “Sooo…the young scholars have met?” he asked, turning to Farhaz and me.

Farhaz stared blankly back at him, not seeming to understand.

Sunil explained, smoke pouring from his mouth: “I told you about Hayat,
behta.
He’s studying to be a
haaafiz
like you.”

I could feel Father seize up beside me. I stole a glance at him. He was eyeing Sunil with contempt.

“Better Muslims than we’ll ever be,” Mirza joked.

“You’re mistaken,” Father said abruptly. “The boy has given up his studies.” Father turned to me. I winced, suddenly afraid he was going to hit me. Sunil noticed.

“Better Muslims than we will ever be, indeed,” Sunil said softly, still holding Father’s gaze. “They’re waiting for me,” he finally added, blowing smoke. “Have to prepare the room for the
nikah.
”

“Oh! Good luck!” Mirza said, excited.

“Next time you see me, I’ll be
marrieeed,
” Sunil said as he turned and headed for the reception desk to join up with Ghaleb and Souhef.

“It warms the heart to think that such things are possible,” Mirza said, watching Sunil go. “It’s a miracle after what he’s been through… just a miracle.
Mashallah! Mashallah!
”

Father was looking off now, simmering.

“So what’s your relation to the family?” Mirza asked.

Father made no attempt to hide his disgust. “Friends of the bride.”

“I see.” I couldn’t tell if Mirza was doing his best to ignore Father’s behavior or just didn’t notice it. But whatever it was made him seem like a good man. “What a wonderful story
that
is. After what she went through. And now the boy has found himself a magnificent father!”

Father shrugged, grunting a reply.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” we heard, looking over to find a young blond man in white gloves and a tuxedo addressing us. “We’re expecting quite a few of you people, and we’d like to keep the lobby clear. The reception area is this way.”

Father didn’t move. He just held the young man’s gaze. “A few of us
people?
What
people,
if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Sir, correct me if I’m wrong…you’re with the Chatha–Ali wedding, no?”

“That’s right.”

“The reception area is this way, sir,” the young man said curtly. The defiance in his tone was unmistakable. He lifted his arm and pointed down the hall. “Allow me to show you the way.”

“Go ahead, young man!” Mirza offered, warmly, stepping forward to stand between Father and the tuxedoed man.

“Will you take Hayat with you?” Father said to Mirza. “I’m stepping out.”

“Very good, Doctor-
sahib.
”

Father turned to me. “If your Mother asks where I am, tell her I had to make some calls.”

“Okay,” I said.

I looked over at Farhaz. He was staring at me. I tried to keep staring back, but I couldn’t.

“Let’s go, boys,” Mirza said, patting me on the back as he led us off.

The Atwater’s chandelier ballroom was impressive. As you walked in through the twenty-foot-high mahogany double doors, it hung there before you: the enormous glittering chandelier—easily the size of a small elephant—for which the room was named. It sparkled, like a diamond in the sun, filling the room with white light.

The room’s paneling was—like the doors and much of the hotel’s woodwork—a deep mahogany hue. The flooring was a lighter, elm shade. Two sets of a dozen tables each had been set up—tables for the men on one side, for the women on the other—each covered with a green tablecloth and a light blue vase at the center, filled with fresh white peonies. Along a wall of windows to the left, a dais had been raised, on which three chairs and a table stood, all draped with golden fabric. We were not the first ones there: Caterers were setting up trays and stacks of plates along the far end of the room; a young man was standing behind the dais at a mixing board, testing the PA system; and there was a heavy-shouldered woman in a head scarf wandering among the tables and placing tiny cards before the chairs, with a girl who must have been her daughter—also in a head scarf—walking along in tow.

Mirza led us to a table, but he looked unsure. He turned to his son. “Go find out from your auntie Neema where we’re supposed to sit.”

Farhaz lumbered off toward the woman and her daughter.

“Where are you from,
behta?
” Mirza asked me.

“We live here.”

“That’s convenient. We just drove in from Michigan. Seven hours’ drive and not a scenic minute. Seven hours! My back is
killing
me.” Mirza looked over at his son, who was consulting a sheet of paper the large woman was holding. “Oh, all this fuss for nothing. I’m just going to sit…So what’s your name, again,
behta?
”

“Hayat.”

“Hayat. What a nice name. You are a
hafiz,
too,
behta?
”

“Not yet.”

“But you’re on your way, no?”

I nodded.

Mirza looked over at his son again, who was now making his way back toward us. “It took him three years. He had a very good teacher…But don’t get the wrong idea. I
paid
for every minute of that man’s time. It cost me a
fortune
.” Mirza paused, considering. “But it’s worth it. Heaven is worth every penny and a hundred million more.”

“Dad, we’re at table fifteen,” Farhaz said, approaching.

“Which one is that?”

“Says by the bouquet. This is table twelve. Fifteen’s over there,” Farhaz said, pointing.

“What a lot of fuss,” Mirza complained as he rose.

“I don’t know what table you’re at, though,” Farhaz said to me.

“I’ll just sit with you.”

He shrugged. I followed them to the new table, where we all settled in.

“So, Farhaz,” Mirza said. “Our young friend here is studying to be a
hafiz.
”

“I know, Dad. Uncle Sunil told us. I’m not deaf.” The boy’s tone was surprisingly dismissive. His father didn’t look pleased, but instead of saying anything, Mirza just looked away.

People were appearing at the double doors. “There’s Salman!” Mirza exclaimed. He got up and went over to embrace a man with a thick handlebar mustache and a beige Afghan hat.

“So how far are you?” Farhaz asked me. His expression was as blank as his tone.

“Huh?”

“How many
juz
have you got through?”

“Eleven.”

“Just nineteen more, huh? That’s pretty cool.”

I nodded.

“Boy, am I fucking relieved
that’s
over. What a fucking nightmare.”

“What?”

He looked at me, confused. “Memorizing that stuff. Like drinking castor oil every day for three years.
Jeez-fucking-Louise
.”

For a second, what he was saying just didn’t compute. And once I realized he was talking about the Quran, I didn’t know what to say.

“What do you say we hit this shit hole?”

“We do what?”

“You’re a little wet behind the ears, aren’t you?  I said: Let’s check out the hotel, see what they got goin’ on.”

“Oh—okay,” I said.

We got up from our places, but before we left, Farhaz went over to the girl laying out the place cards, said something to her, then pointed at the double doors. She nodded.

Farhaz looked pleased as he returned. “She’s gonna meet us when she’s done,” he said. “I told her we’d be scopin’ out the joint. Let’s go.”

The long, mirrored hall was filling with guests, men in
shalwar
s or suits, women in long, loose-fitting clothes, almost all of them with head scarves and holding or corralling young children. We passed an adolescent in a white skullcap. “What’s up, Hamza?” Farhaz called out.

The boy looked over. His eyes sparkled with recognition. “Farhaz!”

They greeted each other with high-fives. To me, the boy looked a little like Farhaz, the same wide jaw and small eyes. But he wasn’t losing his hair.

Farhaz turned to me. “This is Hamza, my cousin. Hamza, this is Hayat.”

“Hey, Hayat, what’s up?”

“Nothing,” I replied.

“So what’re you guys doing?” Hamza asked.

“We’re gonna check out this hole in the wall,” Farhaz said. “See if this place’s got any action. Wanna come?”

Hamza looked back at his father, another wide-jawed man with tiny eyes, who was in the midst of a conversation with an elderly man in a gray Nehru jacket. “I’munna go with Farhaz,
Abu.
”

 “Farhaz,
behta,
” said Hamza’s father. “Nice to see you. How are you?”

“Fine, Uncle Imtiaz. How are you?”

“Good, good. So where are you boys going?”

“We were just going to take a look around.”

“Okay—but don’t get into any trouble.”

“We won’t. Don’t worry.”

Hamza’s father nodded and returned to his conversation.

Farhaz led us both to a large, sweeping marble staircase at the end of the hall, and we sat down at the first turn of the steps, where we had a clear view of the guests filing into the reception room.

“Let’s wait for Zakiya,” Farhaz said. “She said she’d meet us.”

“Zakiya, huh?”

“I haven’t seen her in like two years. The rack she grew on her!”

“She’s got tits. That’s for sure. But she’s our cousin.”

“So what? We can marry our cousins in Islam.”

Hamza shrugged. “You don’t have to spend time around her. She’s annoying. And I don’t like her face.”

“Hate to break it to you, Hamz. But you don’t fuck a face.”

“True.”

Hamza looked at me. “You know what fucking is, right?”

“Huh?”

“Fucking. Do you know what it is?”

“Sure,” I said. I didn’t have a clue.

Hamza shook his head, turning back to Farhaz. “He doesn’t know. Should we tell him?”

“Let’s do him the favor.”

“He may get pissed off at us, like what’s-his-face.”

“That guy’s a fucking moron.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t even fucking care.” Farhaz turned to me. “You’re not gonna be a moron if we tell you what fucking is, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not gonna go tattling to your mommy and daddy that the boys you met were talking dirty to you, are you?”

“No.”

No sooner had I replied than Farhaz had already started in: “So
fucking
is how
you
got here. It’s when your dad put his dick in your mom.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“You do know what a dick is, right?”

“Yeah?”

“And you do know that girls don’t have dicks, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Farhaz studied me for a moment. If my reply had sounded less than confident, it wasn’t because I wasn’t aware that girls didn’t have dicks, but because I wasn’t sure what they had instead. Aside from that night more than a year prior when I spied the dark triangle between Mina’s legs in the bathroom mirror, I’d never seen a naked woman.

Farhaz was looking at me closely. “You know that’s what makes them girls, right? That they don’t have dicks. You know that, right?” he asked, insistent.

“Yeah. Of course.”

Farhaz kept staring at me, then turned to Hamza, exasperated. “He doesn’t know that they don’t have dicks. What is wrong with this kid?”

Hamza explained, more gently: “Girls have a slit. Like someone came and cut off their dicks and cut them open between the legs. That’s all they’ve got. That slit. And that’s where you put it in.”

What he was saying didn’t square with what I remembered between Mina’s legs. I didn’t recall a cut or a slit. Just that dark, triangular patch. I was confused.

“Right,” Farhaz went on. “So when your dick gets hard, you put it inside a girl’s slit, that’s what
sex
is. And it’s fucking killer.”

Sex. I’d heard the word so many times. They were both nodding like they knew what they were talking about, but what they were describing sounded so improbable, so unnecessary. It didn’t make any sense.

“Why would you ever do that?” I asked.

“You have to. That’s how you make a baby. You put your dick in a girl’s slit and squirt your
sperm
in there. That’s
fucking
.” Farhaz turned to Hamza. “That’s what
nikah
means in Arabic, by the way.”

“What?” Hamza asked.

“Fucking. My buddy told me. He’s an Arab. I told him I was going to a
nikah,
and he told me it means ‘fucking.’”