American Taliban (10 page)

He paid for the halvah, leaned his crutches on the counter to slip off his backpack, but the man stopped him.

Not necessary, he said. He tucked the two packages into John’s backpack while it was still on his back, zipped it up snugly, and clapped his hands.

A good evening to you, young man, he said. With good appetite. Im’sh’allah.

————

NOOR OPENED THE DOOR
, and several feet behind her was her mother, looking him up and down, taking in his lime-green cast and crutches. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, but not, it turned out, in order to shake his hand because she didn’t offer it. She merely bowed her head to acknowledge the introduction. The rest of her remained quiet, unmoving.

Ta-shar-rahf-naa, John said, showing off what he’d practiced. Noor’s mother smiled. Only her lips moved. Her eyes, her head, her shoulders, and arms remained still. She moved only what was necessary, unlike Barbara. She moved, John decided, like a kung fu guru.

Marhaba, she said, and led the way in.

He followed them into a kind of living room, but an unusual one, with low velvet cushions and bolsters, a brass tray in the center holding a teapot and tiny glasses. John thought this might be an indoor version of a Bedouin majlis.

Noor’s mother spoke to Noor, in Arabic. Noor translated. My mom suggests unsweetened mint tea before dinner.

John seated himself with some difficulty, laying down first one crutch, then the other.

I’m sorry, Noor said. Can I help? She offered her arm, but John declined, and managed alone, clumsily.

This will be harder in reverse, he said.

You have a new cast, Noor said.

Yes, removable and lighter, but still clumsy, as you can see. The doctor promises to take it off entirely in two weeks.

Im’sh’allah, Noor said, palming her hands, looking very much like her beautiful mother. Her beauty, John reflected, wasn’t yet fully developed, but it would deepen with age. For him, though, for now, at least, these early hints were enough.

On her knees, Noor poured tea into two glasses and served first John, then herself. She sat with her legs tucked under her and held the glass cupped with both hands, warming herself as if she were cold.

Only two more weeks, she said. You should get it covered with signatures before it comes off. Here, I’ll start. She handed him her glass, sprang up, and went to get a marker. After which she sat, chewing on the plastic tip, thinking. Then abruptly uncapped the marker, and signed in Arabic with a calligraphic flourish.

John tried but couldn’t read it. He thought there was a my to start with, then was lost. I’ll have to decipher it when I get home, he said.

Noor nodded. Good practice, she said.

She sipped her tea. Before dinner the tea is unsweetened; after it’s sweet.

Speaking of sweets, John said, and reached for his backpack on the floor at his feet. He unzipped the bag and brought out the parcels, one at a time.

Noor sniffed. Mmmm, halvah. How’d you know?

My mom’s idea, John admitted.

It’s Ali’s favorite dessert, but he has to stop eating it, he’s getting fat. Here he comes now. He tends to announce himself with slammed doors.

A stocky little boy came in, stopped, and stared.

Go back into the hallway, take off your coat and shoes, come back, and I’ll introduce you, Noor instructed.

Ali stepped out, Noor and John could hear his clumsy movements in the hallway, the thud of a heavy book bag, the slam of a sliding door, then muffled steps.

John, this is my brother Ali. Ali, this is my friend John.

Pleased to meet you, John said, and pushing himself up with one arm, reached out with the other.

Ali’s small hand slipped into his. I understand, John said, that even without knowing you, I managed to bring your favorite dessert for dessert.

Halvah? Ali asked, then saw the wrapped parcels beside Noor. Chocolate?

Both, John said. Though I’m partial to chocolate, too.

Noor handed Ali the parcels. Take them directly to Oom, she said. Don’t even think of opening them.

He has his shoes on, Ali pointed out to Noor, and ambled out, swinging a parcel in each hand. Noor and John laughed.

He’s not fat, John said.

Pudgy, Noor said, like American kids.

Baby fat, John said. Which he’ll lose within a year, guaranteed.

I hope so. She stood. Let me help you up, she said.

Shouldn’t I take off my shoes, or shoe? I’m setting a bad example.

Nah, Noor said. It’s hard enough for you to get around as is.

She offered both her hands to help him up, but John pushed up
against the bolster with his arms, keeping most of his weight on his good leg.

Ali came in. Oom says to say dinner’s ready.

We’re on our way, Noor said. She handed John his crutches. Careful on the rugs, she said. They can slip.

Ali pulled out a chair for John, and he sat at a Western-style dining table with regular chairs: though they lounged like Bedouins, the Bint-Khans dined Western style.

Mrs. Bint-Khan put her palms together, bowed her head, recited, clapped her hands, and finished with an Im’sh’allah.

Noor lifted the heavy lid of the casserole and announced, Tajine of chicken with lemon and cracked green olives.

John inhaled. Lemon, olives, cinnamon, and ginger maybe.

Ty-yee-ba wehzh-ba, he wished the others, as his book advised.

It was a strange combination, but deliciously strange. The couscous infused with stew was awesome. Delicious, he said.

Andak kam sana? Noor’s mother asked him, then looked at Noor to translate, but John didn’t wait. He recognized the question from his workbook.

Andi ‘as-hara sana min tha-maa-nee-ya, he said, meaning, I’m ten years older than eight years.

Noor laughed. Her mother smiled and said in English, Good answer. Who learned you?

Taught, Mom, Ali corrected. Who taught you.

John responded. Ana hina lee dirasa al-r-ra-be-ya. Ana talib.

Mrs. Bint-Khan’s face crinkled. Hoo-wa ’aa-il? she asked Noor. Hoo-wa Kaatib eye-dahn?

He doesn’t know yet, Noor answered. But a journalist is a good idea. My mom thinks you could be a journalist, too, since you’re so good at languages. It does kind of suit you, I think.

John shrugged. For now, I’m a reader. He put another olive in his mouth. I love these.

FOR DESSERT
they returned to the living room. Noor poured sweet tea. Ali brought in the halvah on a platter, and Mrs. Bint-Khan came in with a tray of cups.

Mahalabiyya, Mrs. Bint-Khan said.

I love these, Noor said. I can eat three cups in three minutes. And proving it, she finished her first cup and reached for a second.

They heard the front door and Ali jumped up to greet his father, whom he led into the room moments later, as if pulling a pull toy.

John attempted to get up.

Sit, sit, Mr. Bint-Khan said, and lowered his hand toward John.

Noor stood on tiptoe to kiss her father. After which he settled on the cushion beside his wife and brought her hand to his lips.

Watching this intimate family scene, formally ritualistic but also private somehow, John was both enchanted and embarrassed. He should probably have left earlier. Perhaps there’d been a signal and he’d missed it.

Noor held out a small deep dish. Libb, she announced, and Mr. Bint-Khan reached in and came away with a handful of sunflower seeds.

Want to try them? she asked John. My father eats them as a kind of digestive.

Thanks, John said, declining, I really should go. Noor helped him up, handed him his crutches. I’ll get my coat and walk you, she said, and hurried out.

John thanked Mrs. Bint-Khan for having him as a guest in her home, for making him welcome, for a wonderful and beautiful dinner. He stopped, self-consciously, not accustomed to saying so much, having run out of things to say.

Noor’s father sprang up and walked John to the door. He was wiry, medium height, with dark skin and wavy steely hair. And he dressed part Arab, part Western. Like the Sharia’s maulana, he wore the white Arab tunic and floppy white pants, but with a Western pin-striped jacket thrown over it, and with the dash of a Hollywood movie star, which both attracted and intimidated John. Sharia students mixed it up, too—Khaled wore the tunic over jeans and sometimes the knitted cap—but not with so much style. Still, John decided, mixing it up was the way to wear these clothes. One or two items at a time.

In the hallway, Mr. Bint-Khan took John’s hand in both of his, as if to read it, and said, You are new to Brooklyn and new to the Arabic language and culture, both of which are old, laden with history and tradition. And you are no Muslim.

Noor reappeared, buttoning her coat, and Mr. Bint-Khan released John’s hand. Well, good night to you, he said, and withdrew.

John welcomed the cooling air on his face, on his red cheeks, which were aflame. It wasn’t his imagination. Mr. Bint-Khan thought him intrusive. But Noor was talking, and John tuned in to listen.

Did my dad say something to you? she finally asked. You shouldn’t
mind him. He thinks every new person, every new thing even, is a threat to the family. He’ll get used to you, but it’ll take him a while.

John couldn’t really disagree with Mr. Bint-Khan, and yet, he wanted to. I’m different, he wanted to argue, not an everyday American, not a mere tourist. But what, he asked himself, really made him different?

You’re quiet, Noor said.

You have a wonderful family, John said. And you’re very beautiful. And I, I feel as if I’ve stumbled into a fairy tale as a bumbling fool and emerged with a donkey’s head. Maybe it’s the food, the ginger and cardamom.

No, Noor said. You’ve just read too much of
Arabian Nights
.

John laughed.

At his door, she hesitated, then nodded, and came in.

For only a few minutes, she said. Or else—

Or else your father—she was right behind him, he could feel her warmth, and he didn’t want to move. They were just inside, in his long hallway entrance, the door still open.

He turned and found her lips with his, and kissed them ever so lightly, their second kiss, but this time his lips traveled to her nose and eyes and back to her lips and down to her throat.

Your coat, he said, and reached to help her out of it.

She shook her head. Better not, she said. And she put her chin on his shoulder.

Then we’ll stay right here. All night. Our Arabian night in Brooklyn. Or is it a Brooklyn night in Arabia.

Yes, she said. You’re jinned. Hair ah-la toos-beh-hoo-na. See you after class tomorrow.

I miss you already, he said.

She backed out through the still open door, blew him a kiss off her open palm, and hurried away.

Inside, John dropped onto his ah-ree-ka and stayed there. He touched his lips, remembering her chapped lips on his. She chewed them, he’d noted. Whenever she was the least bit anxious. He would have to remind her to coat her lips to protect them. That is, if he ever saw her again, if her father allowed it. He hoped to see her tomorrow. After class. She would wait for him on the steps after class. Or he would never see her again.

He stood at the mirror in his bathroom and looked at himself. You arrre no Moosleem, he quoted and, on crutches, stopped to press
PLAY
on his minidisk. He removed his cast, propped the leg up on the tah-wi-lah, leaned back, and listened.

For Ibn ’Arabi, for himself, and for Noor, love might be enough. Mr. Bint-Khan clearly felt otherwise. And Barbara, he was quite certain, would agree with Mr. Bint-Khan. He pulled his laptop into his lap.

FOR HIS FIRST THERAPY SESSION
at NYU Medical, John arrived early and unrealistically optimistic, though Barbara had warned him not to expect miracles, that healing takes time. Still, he hoped to walk out of the place without crutches, freed.

After a fifteen-minute wait, a girl named Sarah introduced herself as his therapist. She had a narrow face, long lank hair, a girl way too ordinary for miracles, John thought.

She looked at his chart. We will begin with mild exercise, she said in the singsong of routine. Your doctor doesn’t want you to put too much weight on the leg, which means we will be working in a seated position.

I feel more than ready to get on it, John protested.

She looked at him. She didn’t know how to smile, he decided. Next week, perhaps, we’ll do more. She led him to a reclining chair, and he heaved himself into it.

John pulled up the leg of his pants, and undid the Velcro holding his cast, which Sarah took from him, pausing to notice Noor’s squiggles, signs, and signature. Pretty, she said. What does it say?

Kaththar allah kheirkum, John said, then translated. May God increase your bounty.

She took a tube of Bengay from the taboret beside her, squeezed some onto his leg, and massaged. His skin tingled.

To warm up your muscles, she said. They’ve been fallow for so long, we want to stimulate them.

Now, she said, I’m going to push against your foot, and I want you to push back gently, but steadily, in other words keep a gentle but firm pressure on, nothing sudden. And keep your knee bent. In fact, here. She reached behind her and brought out a soft block. Place this under your knee.