The Garden of Last Days (52 page)

Ahmed al-Jizani, how angry he would be to find those. How hurt. When Bassam was still asleep in this world, he believed his father to be a true believer. He never hurried his ablutions or skipped any of the daily prayers. He prayed inside the mosque—the mosque he
built—not simply on the Day of Gathering but all the week long. He demanded his daughters be covered, even at home, that his sons never smoke or find music, that one day they make the pilgrimage to Makkah as he had.

But this is the same man who built housing for the kufar to live in while they attacked our brothers and sisters. This is the man who took so many dollars he converted to riyals, thinking the money was clean now, pure, as if he had not sinned against the Ruler and the Judge and his own people.

On the table beside Bassam’s empty cup is the notebook he bought yesterday afternoon in the books and supplies store crowded with the kufar. The pen, he purchased from Cliff at the fuel station store in Boynton Beach, a black Bic he pulls the cap from now.

“Bassam?”

“Mansoor.”

“Mansoor.” Tariq has been watching the young women, his feet tapping beneath the table, and he has smoked two cigarettes quite fast. Last evening, before the final prayer, he lay on the bed and pressed the remote button until the movies appeared: Family, Comedy, Drama—Adult; he held the remote control in the air, the sound off, his hand slightly shaking. In this land of the far enemy, there have been so many opportunities to see these films—through any video store, for sale behind shop shelves not far from the eyes of kufar children, and in hotels like this one, an expensive one they have not stayed in until now, and so this, their first real opportunity. Bassam’s heart had begun to beat more quickly.

“Tariq, don’t. We must prepare ourselves. Soon we have to wash and pray.”

“You went to that club, Bassam. You were there a long time.”

Bassam remained quiet. He did not want Tariq to go any further and he did want him to go further.

Then Imad’s knocking came and Tariq turned off the television and they prayed together in Imad’s room upon the carpet. He had brought incense and it burned sweetly though the room was nonsmoking and
Bassam was distracted in his prayers and hoped there was no alarm, no way of their knowing.

There is the sounding of a horn, the laughter of one of the young women in the light of the sun. Tariq drops his shortened cigarette into his teacup. “Mansoor, we should go to the gym with Imad. Where is it?”

“The hotel. The exercise room.”

“We should join him.”

It had been more than two weeks and Tariq is right, but with such little time left, Bassam cannot justify it. “I am as strong as I will ever be, Tariq. You go. I must write to my mother.”

Tariq looks at him. “Isn’t your will enough? Let our actions speak for themselves, Bassam.”

“Go see Imad, Tariq. I will try to join you later, Insha’Allah.”

“When is Amir coming?”

“Tonight, Allah willing. Tonight.”

A young black kafir walks by their table, her brown skin exposed between her shirt and jeans, a glittering jewel attached there. Tariq stands quickly and leaves and twice he looks back at the young woman as she enters the café. He is not troubled by his desires. Before sleep last night, he lay in bed reading the Book in the lamp’s light. Bassam was nearly asleep in the bed beside his, entering a dream where he sat on the pebbled ground of Mount Souda in the firelight. The whore April stood on the other side of the fire. She was fully dressed and her hair was long and shining and she was smiling at him, the moon full and high over her shoulder.

“You see, Bassam.” Tariq’s voice, Tariq leaning on one elbow to read something from the Qu’ran. “This is from the Al-Imran sura, Bassam: ‘Women are your fields: go, then, into your fields whence you please. Do good works and fear Allah.’ Brother, Insha’Allah, we are shuhada’. Do you think the Creator cares if we turn on this television and watch what other men do in the fields?”

“It is haram, Tariq. I know you know this.”

“The Holy One knows all. Why would He have this available in our room if He did not want us to see what awaits us?”

Bassam said nothing. Nor could he say anything, for he wished this to be true. And perhaps it was. They were not real women but only those on film far away who could not actually tempt them. But no, no. “We must rest, Tariq. Close the lamp. We will need our strength, Allah willing.”

There was the closing of the Book and darkness, then quiet. Autos drove by in the streets below. Far down the corridor, the soft ring of the elevator bell.

Go, then, into your fields whence you please
.

April who calls herself Spring, he can’t stop thinking of her. The coarse hair above her qus, the baby’s scar there. Her eyes as she sat beside him uncovered. Brown and warm. Her voice as she asked about Khalid. As if she truly wished to know.

Her screaming later in the parking area among the men. Her screams.

EARLY SUNDAY MORNING
, they sat on towels on the damp Adirondack chairs under the mango tree sipping hot coffee each of them had made in their own kitchens. Jean’s garden was a glistening profusion of green and white, of flaming red and orange. It smelled earth-sweet and fertile. She’d slept badly, Franny in her dreams, though she could remember only her presence there, nothing else.

April crossed her legs. She was barefoot, her toenails still coated in the polish of her work. She’d brushed her hair but had put on no makeup, and her eyelids looked swollen.

“I can’t stop thinking about tomorrow morning. What will they be inspecting anyway?”

“I don’t know—drugs, alcohol, a gun in the house.”

“I would never have a gun in my house.”

“Nor would I allow it.”

“Or drugs.”

“I didn’t say you do. Please, you’re getting defensive again.”

“I’m sorry.” April said it automatically and Jean didn’t believe her. She lowered her cup and rested it on the arm of her chair. “Why not tell them you’re going to quit?”

“I plan to.”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Going to quit that job?”

“Yes. In about six more months.”

“Why not now?”

“I don’t have enough yet.”

“Money?”

“Yes.”

“For a house?”

“At least one.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

April nodded. She sipped her coffee and squinted at the bougainvillea vine. A phone rang from inside, a muffled electronic ring coming down through the mango leaves. “It’s yours, April.” But she was already out of the Adirondack, running up the stairs in a way Jean never could.

It wasn’t Franny, it wasn’t the people watching her, it was Louis, his voice low and hoarse like he had drunk too much the night before and hadn’t slept. April was breathing hard, could feel her heart beating in her hand around the phone, his first words a language she couldn’t quite decipher.

“Really, Spring. How is she? She all right?”

“I don’t know. Why are you calling me?”

“New policy, hon. Sorry, but no more mothers. Come clean out your locker, Spring. I’m here till noon.”

April lowered the phone to its charger. She stood in her immaculate
childless home. It smelled of Pine-Sol and coffee and a new start. She felt kissed and she felt slapped. Of course he was knocking her off rotation and out of the building. He’d have to get rid of Retro now too, and Sadie, and that Chinese girl who had two kids and lived with her sister. No time for mothers. Time to purge himself of mothers. And how fucked to get fired by a man she
paid
. And what about tomorrow? Would this be good? Or would they expect her to have a job? She had fifty-two thousand dollars in her account, and there were a few thousand more from the foreigner. Yesterday she’d driven in the blowing rain by her bank but couldn’t deposit it. Not before Franny was back. It would feel like an exchange then.

But that much money would look good to them, wouldn’t it? Then she’d say she was through dancing and was looking for something else even if she couldn’t be, not yet. There was the Pink Pony in Venice. She could get in there, though it’d be harder. Wendy had talked about it. The porn playing on widescreens on the walls while you danced, and because of bitches like her the VIP rooms were full-contact and men expected hand jobs or blow jobs and got them for cheap.

She’d heard of a classier club up in Tampa, a national chain. Gold was in the name. Something Gold. The phone was ringing. April lifted it and pressed it carefully to her ear.

THE HUMIDITY WAS
back in the air. Yesterday’s rain had evaporated from the asphalt but the sandy dirt at the shoulders was darker and so was the green in the wire grass all the way out to the industrial park, the chain-link fence around it glistening silver in the sun. Just beyond it people were leaving the Methodist church. The men were in short sleeves and ironed pants, the women in bright skirts and dresses. One of them stood on the top step wearing a straw sun hat decorated with flowers. She was talking to the minister in his flowing robe. Lonnie wanted to ask April how she was doing. He wanted to reach over and rest his hand reassuringly on her knee. But he was surprised to find he felt awkward.

When he’d called she told him Louis had just 86ed her and she didn’t want to be alone with him in the club while she emptied her locker, would he go with her? He’d quickly showered and shaved, pulled on a T-shirt and cutoff jeans and his Tevas. She was waiting for
him in her driveway. Her hair was pulled back. She wore a maroon sleeveless blouse and khaki shorts and the only makeup was something on her eyelashes. She smiled at him. It was Spring’s smile, the one she’d give him after every shift when she pushed money into his hand, thankful. But this was the woman he’d driven to the hospital and back home where he’d pushed past newspeople for her to run inside, had sat with her and shared food with her—this was April. And as she climbed into his truck, she seemed like someone entirely new. He hoped he looked good to her sitting behind the wheel.

He pointed at the one-story church as they passed. “You ever go?”

“When I was little. You?”

“Never.” He laughed. “We’re a couple lost souls, aren’t we?”

She didn’t say anything.

His face heated up. “I’m quitting.”

“The club?”

He nodded.

“Right now?”

“Looks like it.” Rising up ahead on the other side of the boulevard was the yellow Puma sign, its black silhouettes of two naked women looking tawdry and pathetic under the sun.

The screen door was propped open by a cinder block but the exterior door was locked. Lonnie had to rap on the glass awhile. He and April stood in the Dumpster stench together and finally Louis came to the door and opened it. He stood under the fluorescent glare of the kitchen in a graying T-shirt. It hugged his gut and was wet in the center of his chest, his legs pink and freckled beneath baggy shorts. He was breathing hard.

“You two come together?”

“Yeah, I gave her a ride.”

“Good, you can help me clean this fucking dump.” He glanced at April. “I’ll be out front when you’re done.”

Lonnie followed him into the cooled air of the club, his adrenaline
kicking in low, like a pocket had opened and he was forced to rise and drift toward it and close it. The houselights were up. Louis had stacked all the tables and chairs against the stage and along the walls. In the middle of the worn carpet was a commercial rug cleaner, beside it a jug of something blue.

“This thing’s costing me by the fucking minute. I’ll get up on the stage and you hand me the tables first, then the chairs.”

“I can’t, Louis.”

“Yeah you can. On the clock. We’ll take the boat out after. Have some drinks.”

“I quit, Louis.” It was like throwing the punch they never saw coming, Louis’s stunned look, his freckled hands at his sides, useless.

“You’re shittin’ me, right?”

“No. I appreciate everything you did for me, Lou, but I need a change.”

“What? More money?”

“No, I just need to do something else.” He turned and walked past the rented rug cleaner and the dusty stage.

“You better not be going to the Pony, Lonnie. Tell me you’re not going to the fuckin’ Pink Pony.”