The Garden of Last Days (58 page)

The bath door opens. There is steam and the smell of soap and from it Tariq appears. He is fully dressed, his polo shirt tucked tightly into his pants.

“Tariq. You must read this. You must read it, and no more fighting, brother. No more arguing. You must read this, and then we pray Fajr with Imad.”

Imad answers the door. His room smells of incense.

“Sa’bah al-khair, Imad.”

“Sa’bah al-khair.”

“Imad, let us say Fajr together.”

“I have, Bassam. It is nearly sunrise.”

“Have you read the letter?”

“Yes. Have you?”

“Nearly half, yes.”

Imad regards him. Tall, large Imad. His shaven face. His deep eyes which no longer hold anger but something else. The eyes of Karim when he first felt the change, standing in the street in his kufar clothing, looking from Imad to Tariq to Bassam, their thin, pure bodies, their full beards—his eyes like Imad’s now, saddened at this new distance between them. To these eyes, Bassam says: “The time for play is over, Imad. I know this, brother. Tariq knows this as well.”

Hot tea and sugar and a baked good with berries and nuts. Bassam ate this just before the sky lightened outside the hotel window and the sun made the brick buildings a reddish brown, the color of the dust he would sweep from the shop of Ali al-Fahd. That other life. It is like one he heard in a story, a boy with no future in this world or the next.
You should feel complete tranquillity, because the time between you and your marriage in heaven is very short. Afterward begins the happy life
. Together he and Tariq had prayed. Now Tariq reads the letter in
the chair near the window, his lips moving, his tea steaming. Bassam sits on the bed. The kafir girl who brought their food was young. She wore the hotel uniform of black pants and white shirt, and as Bassam signed for their meal, she spoke of the weather, the beautiful day.

“Yes,” he had said, “it
is
beautiful.” And he smiled at this kafir who did not even know she was in the presence of two who would be in Jannah, Allah willing, in less than thirty hours.

Yes, it
is
beautiful.

And Tariq said to her thank you as well in his poor English and he stared at her backside as she left. But Bassam did not. He did not. Today is the last full day and it will be, Insha’Allah, a day of prayer and fasting. He does not even wish to leave this room, but he must if his mother is to receive his letter. And was it enough? Is there anything more he should say?

No. Let his fate say everything. Let what he has done, Insha’Allah, be delivered to them as the good news that it is.

“Tariq?”

He holds the pages closely to his face.

“Tariq, is it about the Last Night?”

“Yes.” Tariq’s voice is as before racing, as before the whore.

“Are you well?”

“I wish we were going now, Bassam. I cannot wait one more day.”

“Yes, but you must. Read the words of the Creator: ‘And be patient, for Allah is with the patient.’”

“But, Bassam?”

“Yes?”

“Are we strong enough?”

“For patience?”

“No, for what we must do. What if they are stronger?”

“Allah willing, they will not be, Tariq. They do not have belief in the Holy One so they will fail. Read number 10.” Bassam unfolds his letter, his eyes reading from right to left, the ancient way, the only
way. “Remember the words of Almighty Allah: ‘You were looking to the battle before you engaged in it, and now you see it with your own two eyes.’ Remember: ‘How many small groups beat big groups by the will of Allah.’ And his words: ‘If Allah gives you victory, no one can beat you. And if He betrays you, who can give you victory without Him? So the faithful put their trust in Allah.

Do you, Tariq, put your trust in Al-Qudoos?”

“Yes.”

“Then, Allah willing, we will have victory. It is not for you to fear or not to fear. It is out of your hands.”

Tariq stares at Bassam a moment longer, his eyes on the future perhaps. Perhaps that. Bassam leans back against the bed’s headboard, Tariq’s, the noise it made last evening. Again, a bad dream receding. He continues to read:

Check your weapon before you leave and long before you leave. (You must make your knife sharp and you must not discomfort your animal during the slaughter.)
The artery. How Bassam must immediately find it. The blood draining so quckly from the unbelieving brain, Insha’Allah. How little the kafir will feel then anyway, how his resistance will diminish as well. Bassam’s heart is beating more forcefully now. Yes, give me strength, Al-Aziz. Please, give me resolve.

Bassam rises and from the closet shelf removes the Book.
In the name of Allah
. It is worn, a paper copy purchased by Amir in Pakistan. A simple black. Inside it, everything.
Everything
. Bassam places it beside him, presses his hand to its cover.

In the room, there is only the slow turning of pages, the cooling air from the vents, this rising readiness inside him. Their emir advises them now in which supplications to utter upon leaving this room, upon entering the taxi, upon entering the matar. With each word, Bassam can feel his soul become cleaner, with each word he feels it turn more directly to the Holy One, to the Compassionate and the Merciful, the Mighty and the Loving. How
blessed
is Bassam!

There is more to read, but he does not wish for these instructions to be completed so soon. Now is the time for movement. His body can no longer lie still. He will mail the letter home to his mother. He will ask the concierge where is the postal office and, Allah willing, he will mail his letter home.

APRIL HAD BEEN
standing at her bedroom window so long she went to the kitchen for a chair and carried it down the hall and sat where she could see the street. It was early September on the Gulf Coast, but the morning air looked smoky, the way August did up north. Her apartment had never been so clean and her hair was dry from the shower she’d taken at seven. She’d dressed and undressed three times, finally settling on what she would normally wear—shorts and sandals and a cotton top.

Since coming south, she’d never been up this early. She watched two of her neighbors in shirts and ties get in their cars and drive past. A little later she watched a young mother in a business suit and running shoes lead two kids into a van, buckle them in, and turn in the opposite direction. Three teenage boys pedaled by on bikes. None of them wore a helmet and all three had backpacks strapped on. Not long after, an old man walked a dog down the sidewalk. The dog was
small and had a short tail and it stopped at the palm tree and sniffed the trunk, then lifted its leg and pissed on it. In the sunlit haze, the palm fronds looked blue.

April may have seen some of these people on a day off, but if she had, she didn’t remember it; how different the street looked to her now. These past months she’d been on it mainly when people were inside, at dinnertime when she’d climb into her car for the club, then at three in the morning when she’d pull into the driveway, her feet aching, her eyes burning from all the smoke, cash in her pocket. It was like seeing the neighborhood for the first time and she felt hopeful because from here it looked affluent and clean and full of tax-paying contributors to society.

And that’s what she was, wasn’t she? Wouldn’t the inspectors see that too? She imagined her daughter drawing in a sunlit kitchen with a heavy, warm woman who wanted nothing to do but take care of this young girl in her house, a house that looked just like Jean’s; that’s who she was with, somebody as loving and alone as Jean Hanson.

AS A BOY
many times Bassam had a dream that always was the same. Ramadan was over and the entire family was celebrating the Eid al-Fitr. His mother and aunts served baby camel in a pot of cracked wheat covered with cinnamon, cardamom, and saffron, and in the courtyard his father and uncles danced to the beating mirwas, tablah, and daff. Earlier the children were given gifts: silver Bedouin jewelry to be worn modestly by his two sisters; for his thirteen brothers were knives and swords carved from wood, a fine carpet for Adil, a shining brass mabkhara for Rashad. Bassam received nothing, yet in this dream he did not care.

In his dream, he was apart from and above his family and their celebration. He was with them yet he was somehow not with them. He ate the food but he did not taste it. He saw the laughter but he did not hear it. His mother embraced him but he did not feel it. No, there was instead the feeling they were celebrating
him
, not simply himself, but
him through the Sustainer. That he, shy Bassam, had done something to bring them all closer to Allah, that there were no gifts for him because he
was
a gift. To his family. To his clan. To his kingdom.

Still a boy, he would wake from this dream early for Fajr and feel like a fool, for he was ashamed of his lack of humility,
him
who had never done anything special, who had trouble with his studies, who never concentrated during prayer and who only wanted to kick a ball to his friends. Who was
he
to have this dream?

Remember that you will return to Allah and remember that anything that happens to you could never be avoided, and what did not happen to you could never have happened to you
. These words inside him as he walks under the sun among the kufar. Such a comfort is fate, his own blessedly foretold to him. For that is what that dream was, Bassam, a foretelling.

He nearly feels pity for these people. Look at them walking so quickly on a mid-morning Monday, these men in neckties with their cell phones pushed to their ears, these women out in the streets, talking so importantly with one another like the two before him. Look at them speak as they cross the busy street, closed containers of coffee in their hands. So many of these people rushing and rushing. Would they rush so if they knew what awaited them?

He, too, waits for traffic and crosses, walking slowly, taking all the time necessary. A van of workers passes close by, the driver from his open window shouting at him. Bassam regards them as they go. On the van’s roof, a ladder, a red kerchief tied at its end and flapping wildly. There is the feeling he cannot be harmed. There is the feeling he is firmly aboard a large craft that cannot be stopped. He feels a supreme peace and from this feeling he would like to do something good.
Shouldn’t we take advantage of these last hours to offer good deeds and obedience?
Today there is very little anger toward these people. They have no iman so they will fail. And this mission, Insha’Allah, will be the first victory among many.

A young woman stands at the bottom of the stone steps of the postal office. She is small, her hair short, and Bassam disciplines himself
not to look at her backside in her tight pants. Before her is a baby’s carriage. She regards the six or seven steps. She regards her carriage, a deep blue, its frame silver and bright under the sun.

Bassam pushes the letter into his rear pocket. He approaches her just as she bends forward to grasp the carriage and lift, her nuhood visible in her brassiere, the gold chain and cross of Mary’s son. “Miss? Allow me to help please.” And he smiles into her face, which appears startled. But what does she see? She sees a young man, clean and shaved, his clothes ironed by himself before leaving the fine hotel where he is staying, an expression upon his face of pity and a desire to do only good. She too smiles and thanks him and together they carry the baby’s carriage up the stone steps, Bassam grasping the front wheels and walking backward, the woman holding the handle, and look at the baby, Bassam. Look at him look at you. No fear in his eyes. Just a question, or does he even question? Is he so new, he has yet no questions?

“Thank you very much.”

“Yes.” He lowers the carriage and pulls open the glass door and now he does look at her backside as she enters.
O Lord, I ask You for the best of this place, and ask You to protect me from its evils
. He follows her and her baby into the postal area. There is a long line of kufar. Men and women. A television in the upper corner, this CNN Amir would often watch in their many motel rooms here. The story now of a fire in the West, trees and homes burning in the smoking winds. And he sees above the postal windows this country’s flag. It hangs behind a glass frame, the very flag flown on the military base of Khamis Mushayt, the very flag hanging from the tall post above the buildings built by Ahmed al-Jizani. How is it possible that the flag of the kufar has come to hang in the land of two holy places? And though he has not seen it, it surely hangs in the American compound in Riyadh among the executives who come for their oil. It hangs from the tanks in the desert where they killed hundreds of thousands of Iraqis. It hangs in the hearts of the Zionists in Palestine. It hangs here in every school where children like this baby before him are taught to hate the believers.
And why did it not hang in Bosnia? Why did the kufar do nothing as thousands and thousands of their Muslim brothers were lined up and shot or were held down to have their throats cut while their mothers and sisters and daughters were violated, their sacred mosques burned to ashes? Where was this kufar flag then? Surely it was folded tightly in the pocket of Milosevic himself, for where there is an enemy of Allah, is it not clear there too is this flag behind its glass on painted walls above the heads of government bureaucrats? And now Bassam does not wish to give them his money. Why should he pay them to deliver this important letter back to the birthplace of the Prophet they have occupied?