American Taliban (20 page)

So I’m right, Yusef said. Your problem isn’t sex, just submission. American men aren’t used to that, but they can learn. They’ll have to. Bismillah. You may not even know exactly why you’re here, therefore I’ll tell you that you’ve come to Islam in order to learn the grace and pleasure of submission.

I know, John said, that Islam doesn’t approve of same-sex sex.

Actually, the Qur’an is silent on homosexual love, so it isn’t haram. Our classical poetry is full of it. And most boys grow up doing it.

Yusef made submission more desirable with every uttered word, but John remained where he was, on his side of the blanket. Sex in America, at least with a woman, had never weighed so meaningfully, never seemed so political. With Yusef, or maybe this was true in all of Pakistan, nothing was casual. Pakistanis were blithe about nothing.

For the trip home, Yusef invited John to sit up front and steer, and with Yusef behind him, with insistent desire rumbling unashamedly against him all the way into Peshawar, the ride was both torment and delight, disabling, threatening, humiliating, and delicious.

When Yusef finally parked the bike in the narrow, dark alleyway of the tea shop on Qissa Khwani, John found he couldn’t walk. And
though his warning mind persisted, he found he could no longer hold back. He leaned his feverish forehead against the cool stone wall and untied his pants. Yusef’s hand cupped and held his penis, and snugged his own penis between John’s cheeks, and John dissolved. He was no longer John, he was something other that belonged to Yusef, who penetrated and fucked him, and it hurt and oh and but.

John finished first, and then Yusef came, touching off something somewhere deep, a chord, a resonance, and John discovered that he was bawling. Yusef remained with him against the wall, holding him up, and John came again.

SEATED AT A DARK SMALL TABLE
, with a pot of cardamom tea between them, John felt weakened, vanquished, but also relieved.

Why? Yusef was amazed. This was your first time ever. You were a virgin.

No. John shook his head. I’ve had girlfriends.

What are you feeling then?

I don’t know, John said. Weak. Confused. But not bad. You might call it submission, but this was not how I felt when I submitted to Islam.

Yusef touched John’s brow with the tips of his fingers. Salty, he said, tasting it. Like the water of Kallar Kahar, a lake that was once sweet. According to legend. One day Baba Fariduddin asked the local women for a drink, but the women put him off claiming the water was salty. If you say so, so be it! replied the saint and went away. The water has been salty ever since.

Thirst. The theme of Pakistan, John said.

And love, Yusef said. Love makes life worth living. But—he sighed, and recited:

Whose is it? John asked.

Faiz Ahmed Faiz, a poet born in the Punjab, not far from here.

But John wanted that love again. They were in the alleyway, getting ready to leave, and Yusef turned away at first, held back, tormented, then satisfied him.

————

THE NEXT AFTERNOON
, grinding on wheels across campus, feeling strong again, John saw Khaled on Yusef’s bike, seated in front of Yusef, comfortably familiar in front of Yusef, and understood that he wasn’t the only one.

They waved, but he turned away, refused to acknowledge them, refused really to accept what he felt. Furious, jealous, hating, and hateful, he ground down a set of concrete steps and kickflipped onto curbs, anger sharpening his skill, whittling it into pure form. What, he asked himself with fury, had gotten into him? Why had he submitted to gay sex? Why did his body ache for it? He wasn’t a fag. He liked girls. His best friends were girls. Noor, Katie, Jilly, Sylvie. And Khaled had Samina. Even Yusef mentioned a girlfriend. Was everyone here bisexual?

He turned up Khyber Road, toward the bazaar, and traveled the back way to busy Qissa Khwani. He looked in the alleyway. The bike was there. He found them at the table in the back.

They made room for him, and the waiter brought another glass. Yusef poured.

Khaled quoted someone, John wasn’t certain who, he wasn’t concentrating well, something about the tree of life as not really a tree, but the best of man, his best virtues, his piety, his only chance at immortality.

Man is mortal, only mind can achieve immortality, Yusef countered.

No, John corrected. Nothing’s immortal, but you can make yourself worthy of immortality. But still you die. Every day, every hour, every minute, you die a little, but if you make yourself unworthy, you can die a lot in one day.

You look alive enough to me, Khaled said.

John felt the pressure of Yusef’s hand on his thigh and paused. It was possible he’d misread things. It was possible they were just friends who attended the same classes, drank tea after classes, as he did, as they all did. Jealousy and guilt might be misleading him.

Khaled was looking at him, with his one-sided smile. You should relax, he said. My mom has an expression about newcomers to Islam. She says they burn too hot and soon burn out. Muslims born into the fold understand that aspiring to an ideal is enough.

I’ve tried to tell him, Yusef said. He needs to slow down, respect the heat. His face is a ripe tomato.

Pour me some of that tea and shut up, John said.

Yusef and Khaled laughed and ordered a second pot of tea. John relaxed and sipped. They talked about the recent Hindu atrocities.

I read, John said, that this time the Kashmiri rebels incited the Hindus.

Of course they did, Yusef said. They’re living under Hindu rule. History shows that wherever there’s oppression, there’s rebellion. In the end, the people always win. And the oppressor always knows this, fears it, but still he oppresses, stupidly trying to hold back what’s coming anyway. During World War Two, prisoner workers sabotaged the Nazis by making faulty bombs. One such bomb fell into a home in London and never exploded. When the family unraveled it, they found a note: Dear English, Don’t worry. We’re with you. The Polish.

Good story, Khaled said.

Yusef looked at his watch. Y’allah. I must escort my sister home.

John perked up. He had been meaning to ask Yusef about this sister.

He has a date with his sister, Khaled teased.

Yeah, he keeps his women well hidden, John said. As everyone around here must because I never see any girls.

But Yusef remained unruffled. In Pakistan, he said, we protect the honor of our women.

THE REGULARS AT THE INTERNET CAFÉ
greeted him when he came in, and after several repetitions of the handshake-hug-handshake greeting, John went to get himself a gaziz. He had to wait briefly for a computer to free up, chatted with Muhammed at the counter, then settled in.

He signed in. He had twelve messages. An urgent one from Barbara. News from Noor. Nothing from the girls. A p.s. from Barbara. A sale notice from Al-ma-Ha-laat.com. A note from Josiah. And, of course, spam, Hotmail’s middle name. He opened Noor’s e-mail first: She was working on the school newspaper, getting experience. They’d sent her to cover a film opening, and she asked Claire Danes to name the title of her favorite book of all time, and it was
Pride and Prejudice
. About the women in Pakistan, Noor wrote: They lead significant lives, I’m sure, but not in public, with the exception of a few, like Benazir Bhutto. As a male, and especially a foreign male, you probably won’t be allowed anywhere near them. The women have contact only with male relatives. I’m sure, Noor wrote, if you stop at the fruit and vegetable bazaars late afternoon, you’ll see women purchasing fresh produce for dinner, but they will be older, the married ones with families.

Noor sent love from Ali, who was beginning to jump curbs. He mentions you every day, Noor wrote. It’s like you’re his guru, and I think it’s starting to annoy my dad. John smiled. And made a mental note to send Ali step-by-step instructions for a grind, but he had to consider which one. He opened Barbara’s e-mail.

HE LOST HIS CONCENTRATION
. The July heat was getting to him. In classes, stuffy and smelly with too many bodies, he grew irritable. And he wasn’t sleeping well. Not asleep, he found himself in Jilly’s head, thinking Jilly’s last thoughts, experiencing the line and flow of her last wave, a warbly one, considering how to take it, at what speed, whether to ride or rip it, drop into the tunnel or stay on top. He wondered what she’d thought in her final moments, knowing she wouldn’t make it. Was the experience worth the risk? Would she take that wave again? Finally asleep, he found himself pinned to the ocean floor, and he awoke drowning in his sheets. After which he lay awake under the fan, watching the fan, afraid to sleep. Awake, he listened to Zaadiq’s even breathing and Ishmael’s free snoring. They slept well because they weren’t afraid to die. They’d confronted death and they’d lived. Therefore they were free. Which was what he needed. But it was dark and the world slept, so he counted sheep, counted backward, counted the hours and minutes to daylight.