Jihadi (28 page)

Having completed fajr and the supererogatory prayers that followed it, Indelible sipped his Darjeeling tea and consulted his various online profiles, all of which pointed their messages to ^indelible^@gmail.com. Three emails from [email protected] materialized in quick succession. Indelible set the cup down and peered in at the screen. None of the three had content in the body of the message. The headings read:

A fourth message presented itself, with the heading ‘Well?' It had this message in the body:
Salaam. Well? Why don't you talk to me?

He studied the messages, then ran a simple, if unorthodox, diagnostic.

The messages were tracking from Langley, Virginia. Indelible would create a recommendation concerning whether he should answer them – no, how he should answer them – when he returned from Jahannum.

Thelonius said, ‘Teach me how to pray for something.'

A prayer right now, with a city of two million or so people calling for his head, certainly wouldn't hurt. Since he was here, since she was out of sorts, he would humour her and pray her way. Whatever way that was.

The Raisin was not as surprised as he'd expected her to be, but she didn't say anything back, either.

‘I mean: Would you please teach me how to pray for something. No one ever taught me that before. I have this meeting today at ten. I want it to go well.'

She looked away. He felt the volcano. That was it. That was the part that triggered him. Looking away. Like Becky had.

Stress breath. It was possible she was testing him. Likely.

Stress breath.

‘I want to pray to God for help,' Thelonius said. ‘For forgiveness of my sins.'

‘As you say.' She caught his stare and held it. ‘Whenever we are done praying, we are to continue praying. We are to pray to God when we are standing, pray when we are sitting, pray when we are lying down. Impossible, yes? But people are praying even when they don't think they are praying. What are you praying to now?'

He didn't want to try to answer.

‘Hmm? To what?'

‘I give up. I don't know what I'm praying to.'

‘Always our question the same: Does one use free choice to worship the Creator, or to worship what is created? If one worships the Creator alone, one is a Muslim. If one does not, one wanders and strays. A man has only what he strives for.'

‘I'm not sure I'm praying right, then.'

The Raisin took a leathery pull on her two unfiltered Pall Malls. When she let the smoke out through her nostrils, she looked like a dragon.

‘I think maybe I've just got too many bad things going on in my head to pray for anything,' said Thelonius.

She shook her head. ‘Prayer is to worship Allah as though you are seeing Him, and while you see Him not, to be certain He sees you. If you want to pray, say what the Prophet, peace and blessings be upon him, used to say. Say,
Guide us to the straight path – the path of those upon whom You have bestowed favour, not of those who have evoked Your anger or of those who are astray
. Will you say that?'

Thelonius thought of what a lousy Christian he had been whenever Hal and Louise tried to turn him into a Christian. He was about to tell the Raisin he had reconsidered, that he wasn't built for this kind of thing, but something, a trickling feeling inside, stopped him from saying that, and instead he said, ‘Give it to me slowly.'

‘Guide us to the straight path,' the Raisin said.

‘Guide us to the straight path.'

‘The path of those upon whom You have bestowed favour.'

‘The path of those upon whom You have bestowed favour.'

‘Not of those who have evoked your anger.'

‘Not … of those who have evoked your anger.'

‘Or of those who are astray.'

‘Or of those … of those who are astray.'

Just to keep the peace in the cell.

Before leaving her kitchen window, Fatima reminded herself of Wafa’s favorite proverb: One must enter a house through the proper door. Meaning: Begin all matters properly.

She reminded herself of this proverb with regard to Noura, who was in the wild garden twilling a pleasant-looking weed. The discussion must begin properly. No time for it now. Perhaps when there was the opportunity for a long walk. The proverb was also relevant in regard to Ummi, to whom she owed respect, not resentment.

‘Ummi?’

‘Yes?’

Probably still in bed.

‘Leaving for work now. Noura is in the yard. Will I call her in?’

‘Yes, love.
Assalamu alaykum
.’

‘
Wa alaykum salaam
.’

Fatima knocked on the window again, caught Noura’s glance, waved her hand for her to come inside. Noura came in the back door.

And to that sour driver out there, doubtless drumming his fingers within the sedan he never seemed to leave. The journey with him should begin properly, too.

And even in regard to Thelonius.

Time. Best to go now. Before the driver honks again.

‘I thought smoking was prohibited in Islam,’ Thelonius said.

‘It is,’ said the Raisin, who had just lit the two simultaneous cigarettes permitted to her by mutual agreement. No more before the dhuhr prayer, which was still three hours away. Thelonius knew the timings now.

‘Then why do you smoke?’

‘Because I am addicted.’

‘Doesn’t count as a sin?’

‘Oh, I believe it does,’ the Raisin answered. ‘Every day, I repent for it and strive to leave the addiction behind. Perhaps today.’

‘Surely at this point…’

‘I know. I will be dead soon.’

An awkward moment.

‘Everybody will be tasting death. Everybody. You. More obvious in my case, is all. Angel Gabriel gave the Koran to the Prophet, peace be upon him, to remind us of this. And of other matters we forget. At this stage, the doctor says I may do as I please. I smoke far less since we made our agreement, you know.’

‘You suppose God will forgive all the cigarettes you smoke now because you’re smoking less?’

‘I pray God will forgive me, not for the outcome, but for the sincerity of my effort.’

‘Sounds like a lot of trauma for nothing.’

‘It is Jihad. The heart of any religion worthy of practice.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard about Jihad. Jihad is why I had to come out here.’

‘There was a listening issue. Jihad means striving. Any striving.’

That possibility circulated in wreaths of smoke.

‘Anyway, a lot of work,’ Thelonius said, ‘quitting smoking while you’re…’ There was no tactful word.

‘Dying?’ the Raisin offered. ‘What I am occupying myself with now is dying.’

‘What I mean is, you might as well take advantage of any way to enjoy yourself.’

Kneeling there, her beads in her hand, blanketed on the floor, the Raisin took a long drag on both her cigarettes, expelled a wave of smoke, crushed one of the embers on her palm, deposited the half-length butt in the can, held on to the other one. She said: ‘The chrysalis of the Monarch butterfly shakes quite a bit when it is touched. Some think this is to ward off predators. I wonder if something else is happening.’

Her voice was ragged and slow now. She took a drag on the remaining cigarette. Another plume of smoke went up.

‘Look at our cell. Look at our bodies disintegrating. This is Jihad. You and I are Jihadis. We struggle. Struggles and obstacles are gifts from our Lord. Even our faults. Even our losses. Even our weaknesses. What is our intention? Whatever we intend to strive for, that is what we worship. Again: Where are we going? What matters is not whether what we
attain
is just. What matters is whether what we are
striving for
is just. Whether we make an effort.’

She ventured to stand, did not, rearranged herself onto the cot.

‘Jihad,’ the Raisin said, ‘is God-conscious intention and effort in the face of an obstacle. If it is easier for you to be just by saying “intention”, say “intention”, and don’t say “jihad”. Whatever you say, or don’t say, justice is personal intention and effort. Personal empathy. Personal striving. You must
be
there. It’s like pissing. Such a trivial undertaking. But you must do it in person. And with the right intention.’

Morale Specialist appeared at the bars: ‘Time.’ Thelonius’s visitor was waiting in a private interrogation room. The visitor wanted him to know their discussion would not be monitored or recorded.

‘Take the Koran with you,’ the Raisin said. ‘On the windowsill.
Assalamu alaykum
.’ The little eyes managed a spark.

He hesitated for a moment, stood with difficulty, then limped
to the window, where the morning light made a kind of clearing, despite the clouds and the soot of the city. He took a breath. Then the book was in his hand.

At key intersections, the streets were choked with white walkers, all of them gathering for the latest in a series of protests against the anticipated release of the American to the U.S. government. A popular sign held aloft by hundreds of white-clad arms read:
The American Must Die
.

‘That’s all they ever call him. Maybe you know his real name.’ The driver’s eyes were uneven in the rear-view mirror.

Not quite a joke, not quite a question.

‘Whose name?’

‘The American’s.’

Fatima looked at him, bit her lower lip. What had made the driver so interested in the details of this case?

Then he laughed and looked back to the road. Fatima resettled her facial veil, which had slipped very slightly when she turned her head to look at him.

‘But maybe you do know his name.’

‘No,’ Fatima lied.

They pulled up. She exited the car and made her way up to Ra’id’s office.

Ra’id informed her she was not to worry. Her driver was a relative of his and had passed a background check. Then he told her about the unfortunate leak and about the importance of her meeting with the American today. Time was an issue now.

With less than fifteen minutes to prepare, Fatima passed loathsome, talkative Murad Murad in the hallway, and ignored his casually obscene greeting. She could feel him appraising her body even after she turned the corner. She took a moment in the empty corridor, covered her mouth with her hand and steadied herself.

Distracted – her stomach had nearly rebelled – she made her way
downstairs, toward the room she had secured for her private discussion with Thelonius. When she entered it, she sighed and shook her head.

It was, alas, the very same room in which he had been tortured. The only space available. She left, made her way back upstairs and arranged for him to enter it by a different door.