The Taqwacores (21 page)

“Aoudhu billahi mina shaytani rajeem,” I said quickly under my breath, “bismillahi rahmanir raheem.

“Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The parable of his Light is as if there were a niche and in it a lamp, the lamp enclosed in glass. The glass as it were a brilliant star lit from a blessed tree; an olive, neither of East nor West, whose oil would almost glow forth though no fire had touched it. Light upon light!
Allah guides to His Light whom He wills. And Allah sets forth parables for man, and Allah knows all things.”

“Jazakullah khair,” said Umar. “Now brothers, first we need to note that Allah subhanahu wa ta‘Ala tells us that this is a parable, so that is how we need to look at it. Allah subhanahu wa ta’Ala is the Light of the heavens and the earth. Light is warmth, warmth is life. In the pre-Islamic days, people used to think the sun was Allah subhanahu wa ta‘Ala because when the sun seemed to make them warm and cause their crops to grow. But in reality, Allah subhanahu wa ta’Ala is the real Light because without Allah subhanahu wa ta‘Ala there is no sun. And though we think the sun is this great big thing, so many millions of times larger than our own earth, it is smaller than other stars and its light and warmth extends to only a tiny corner of a tiny corner of even this galaxy. But you see, Allah subhanahu wa ta’Ala’s Light is everywhere, throughout the universe.

“Now Allah subhanahu wa ta‘Ala’s Light is like a lamp inside a niche. Brothers, in the olden days people would build a niche in their wall and place the light in that niche, and they would build the niche high so the light could shine throughout the room. The niche is made especially for this Light; and the glass, you know, it reflects the Light, the Light shines through it; so if Allah is the Light, all these devices through which He shines are the creation, the created universe. Just as you can look to the stars and feel incredible rushes of iman come over you, or look at the ocean and tremble with appreciation of Allah subhanahu wa ta’Ala’s Will, or look at the animals or even at your own bodies—your internal processes, your fingerprints, your eyes, your brain, your skin, our reproductive systems, the development of a fetus in the womb—these are all Allah’s Light shining through His created things.

“And the glass, it says, is like a brilliant star lit from a blessed tree neither East nor West. If something is only in the East, it is cold and dark when the sun is shining upon the West. And vice
versa. But this tree is neither East nor West, it is never cold and dark. It receives Allah’s Light all the time.

“Like I said there are many volumes written about this ayat. Imam Ghazali devoted a great deal of time to the study of its meaning and he wrote a great book, the
Mishkat al Anwar,
that I wish we had with us right now. But not even Imam Ghazali could find the complete meaning, insha‘Allah wa Ta’Ala.” Umar closed his Qur‘an, cupped his hands and led us in a lengthy Arabic du’a. Then we rubbed our hands down our faces and got up.

“One time I read that verse with Amazing Ayyub,” said Fasiq as he gently placed his Qur’an back on the shelf. “Out on the roof and we were both pretty gone, you know. But he said the niche was Fatima, and the lamp symbolized Hasan and Husain.”

We made sure to step out left-foot first.

“Shotgun,” I called. The sky was an interesting color most of us rarely got to see. Umar double-checked the masjid door before climbing in back. Jehangir pulled out of the empty parking lot to the Dead Kennedys’ “Kill the Poor” but turned it down a little because it was still so early.

In roughly an hour we had made it back to our home planet. Most of us slept the rest of the day.

 

 

Rude Dawud’s going-away party filled the house with his Caribbean scene that we barely knew existed in Buffalo. Jehangir had made it a rule that for the night it’d only be classic ska, starting with Prince Buster’s “Judge Dread.” Lynn showed up with that Marcos kid who found himself privy to a drunken Jehangir Tabari briefing on the Moors.

“Gibraltar’s named after a Muslim,” Jehangir reminded him, haphazardly waving his green Heineken. “It’s actually Jibral-Tariq:
‘Mountain of Tariq,’ named for the general who took Spain.”

“That’s awesome,” said Marcos.

“And you got fuckin’ cathedrals that started out as masjids and nobody knows it. All these Catholics going in on Sunday to eat their wafers and there’s fuckin’ Qur’an all over the walls.”

“Wow.”

“And you know, brother, Muslim Spain had such an incredible freedom of thought... that’s why the Inquisition happened. When the Catholics retook Spain, there were all these Christian heresies that had flourished because the Muslims didn’t give a shit... and all these Jews—like fuckin’ Maimonides their greatest medieval thinker, right there in Muslim Spain. And of course, lots of mumins. So when the Church got it back they had to clean up, wipe out all that free thought.”

“Damn,” said Marcos.

“Yeah,” said Jehangir. “We used to be the good guys, and
they
were the assholes.”

“What happened?”

“Allahu Alim.”

 

 

I watched Rude Dawud hugging everyone and getting lots of attention from girls.

“You think we’ll ever see him again?” I asked Jehangir. By then it was a point in the night, and Jehangir’s drinking pattern, when I knew he’d give a hyper-sentimental response that may be low on rationale.

“If not in this world,” he said, “the next. You never know, y’akhi. It’s all the al-Zariyats.”

“The what?”

“The al-Zariyats. The fuckin’... Winds that Scatter. It’s a
sura... fifty-one, I think. ‘Wal-zariyati zarwaa—’”

“And?”

“Yusef, Allah is the Wind, the fuckin’ Winds that Scatter.” Jehangir put his arm around me. He smelled bad and his eyes were red. “You see all these people, Yusef Ali? They’re like fuckin’ leaves on the ground. One leaf, two leaves, three leaves. A fuckin’ mess of leaves. Okay, now look at that guy over there with the spiked hair. See him? Here he is tonight, with all of us. Here he is at Dawud’s Costa Rica party. Here he is in Buffalo with circles of friends and who knows what else. Maybe he goes to school here, and-or works. He’s got a life here filled with people of varying values. And then Allah the Winds that Scatter just picks him up and takes him to fuckin’ Michigan or something. Bam! New people. Like a fuckin’ leaf caught in the breeze flying here and there, in this pile, in that pile. Look at me, Yusef, and all the scenes I’ve seen. The Winds pick me up and toss me around. It’s beautiful.”

“Right.”

“Now Allah is taking Rude Dawud to Costa Rica. We have no idea how long that’ll last. Maybe in a month he’s back up here, he misses the fuckin’ snow or something. Maybe the plane crashes and everyone dies. Insha’Allah, you know? Or maybe he goes down there, loves it, and then ten years from now you and your wife go on a second honeymoon? Where? Costa Rica. And without even thinking twice that you have a friend in Costa Rica, you go down there and bump into him on the beach. Holy shit, takbir!”

“Allahu Akbar,” I replied.

“And if not, then there’s Kauthar.”

“Insha’Allah.”

“But you know what, bro? I’ve had enough of all... this.” He waved at all the punks and Jamaicans drinking together. “Time for me to go upstairs and make my salatul-Isha, right? That’s where I’ll be if I make it up the stairs.” He patted my shoulder and walked
off. A few minutes later I decided to join him. Increases the reward of prayer twenty-seven times, after all.

I went up to his room and found him passed out in sujdah, his anus pointing to heaven.

 

 

Standing in front of China Buffet, I felt a
moment
. It disappeared as soon as I noticed it, but it was real. It was the moment when Buffalo weather begins to get nasty; the first time an autumn breeze hurts your face. Weeks can go by from that moment to the hard Buffalo winters and massive thigh-high snow. But that moment tells you it’s coming.

“I bought this for Jehangir,” said Amazing Ayyub in his Confederate t-shirt which was dirtier every time I saw him. He handed me a red tulip.

“Okay.”

“I’m not a fag.”

“I know.”

“That’s on the Iranian flag, you know.”

“The tulip?”

“Yeah man. If you look at the flag, the fuckin’ red crescents and sword, you know, they spell out Allah’ but it’s all shaped like a tulip, if you look at it.”

“I never saw it like that before.”

“It’s for Jehangir. I’m not a homo. It’s for fuckin’ martyrs an’ shit.”

“I know, Ayyub. So how are you doing, man?”

“I’m hurting, bro.”

“Really?”

“I walk all day. My left foot’s green and swollen. I limp all the fuckin’ time. They got a curfew at Camp Fun so sometimes I sleep
between pillars at the Albright-Knox.”

“How’s that going, Ayyub—with Camp Fun, I mean.”

“Besides the Bible stuff and having to take a shit in front of everybody, and having to be in by seven at night, it’s okay. I met a girl there.”

“What’s her name?”

“Devon. She’s a cool girl.” He nodded in agreement with himself. “She’s nineteen.”

“She sounds cool,” I said.

“She jerked me off and then licked her hand.”

“That’s fantastic,” I replied. Amazing Ayyub smiled.

“Tell Jehangir about that.”

“I Will.”

“I can get girls, even if it’s at a homeless shelter.”

“You want to go in and eat?” I asked.

“Sure.”

We entered the China Buffet but Ayyub never ordered anything, electing instead to swipe things off my plate when the manager wasn’t looking. “Get some more sesame chicken,” he suggested each time I stood up. Ayyub ate like a creature on the Discovery Channel; urgent, paranoid, snatching up a handful and stuffing it into his mouth with eyes darting back and forth for his enemies. I was sure someone noticed, but nobody said anything.

 

 

Somebody pounded on our door. Jehangir, Umar and Rabeya were slouched on the living room couch, none of them appearing too eager to move.

“I’ll get it,” I volunteered.

“I’m here about the room,” said the guy on our porch.

“Ayyub, man, I don’t know. I think Umar’s still pissed at you.”

“That was months ago, brother. I’ve seen the fliers all over, I know you got a room.”

“Okay, but—”

“I missed this place,” he said walking right past me and into the living room. “As-salaamu alaikum guys.” Jehangir was no less than stunned. There was no gauging Rabeya’s reaction behind the burqa. Umar did not move. “Umar, man, um, I guess... brother, I’m sorry about doing shit in your bed.”

“Mash‘Allah, y’akhi.”

“If you can forgive me, I don’t know, I was kind of wondering if I can rent Rude Dawud’s old room.”

“Do you have a job?” asked Rabeya.

“Yeah, I work at Wal-Mart now. Maintenance on the overnights. Mopping floors, cleaning toilets. That kinda shit.” I imagined what his matrimonial ad would be in those Muslim magazines.
Graveyard shift janitor, tattoos and poor hygiene, seeks handjobs for self. Preferred: attractive Shi’a in medical or related field.

“If you’re good for the rent, I don’t care,” said Rabeya.

“He’s fine by me,” said Jehangir. “Hey man, thanks for the tulip.”

“No problem, bro,” Ayyub replied. “Did you hear about that girl at Camp Fun?”

“Which one?”

“The licker?” He pretended to lick his hand.

“Oh—oh yeah, yeah I heard about her. Good job.”

“Thanks. Umar, what do you say?” We all looked at him.

“Okay,” Umar replied. “Okay, insha’Allah.” Ayyub’s face lit up and he tackled me in a joyous mock dry-humping.

The heat had been in Rude Dawud’s name. I volunteered to switch it over to mine. I parked a healthy walk from the gas place because much of Main Street isn’t even accessible by car. The old buildings wore masks of plywood which themselves were dressed in spray-painted apparel. I noted one reading, HELP! UNREGULATED SPRAWL IS ROBBING BUFFALO’S DIGNITY. Dead businesses, boarded-up stores and a glass door leading nowhere with blue and gold lettering telling me it had once been an office of the UNITED STEELWORKERS OF AMERICA, AFL CIO • CLC—LOUIS J. THOMAS, DIRECTOR. Above it now hung a sign reading WHOLESALE JEWELERS. Stood up close to the glass door and looked past the lettering and I saw no jewelry or steel, just chipping walls and a paint roller long abandoned.

Then I veered into Theater Place quick to defecate. I really had to go. Suddenly, like sneaking to a Warp Zone in the old NES Super Mario I was ported into a different, distant Buffalo. First thing I saw was a long line of middle-class people waiting to buy tickets at the Shea box office. To my left was Melanie’s Sweets, the walls covered with portraits of Elvis, everything well-lit with faint jazz in the background. I walked up the winding banistered stairwell in search of a restroom, finding the second floor all offices. I came across a men’s room that turned out to be locked. I took the elevator down this time, wishing I could just take a dump there and leave it.

Stepping out of Theater Place, Buffalo hit me differently. This time I noticed all the placards advertising art and theater events. Don’t know why I had missed them before.

I crossed the metro tracks and walked past the M & T building where outside loitered a pack of attractive, professionally-dressed young women smoking cigarettes. They were lovely but looked spent. You could have seen on the stiff faces that their romantic vehicles had sputtered out. Then I passed the bronze soldier
with tilted hat and gun resting slack on his right arm, dedicated to veterans of the Spanish War and Philippine Insurrection. I could have seen Amazing Ayyub looking up at him like hey bro, what if a hundred years from now there’s a statue of
me
on this street? And how could you reply but “that’d be fucked up, Ayyub.”