The Garden of Last Days (60 page)

“I have not finished the instructions. You two go, Imad. What you need from me are speed and resolve, and these things I already have.”

Imad in his sweat suit they purchased at a Target in Boynton Beach, Tariq in his—they stood in the hotel corridor like two boys on their way to play a game in the streets. Imad nodded his acceptance, and now it is a joy to be alone. In the quiet of the room, still darkened by the drawn drapery and lighted only by the bedside lamp, Bassam feels the beckoning opportunity to study and to pray and to better prepare himself.

His mouth is dry, but he will not drink water. His hunger has returned, but he will not think of food. He sits back upon his bed and takes up the final instructions for the shuhada’, these words the only nourishment he needs.

Do not forget to take a bounty, even if it is a glass of water to quench your thirst or that of your brothers, if possible. When the hour of reality approaches, the zero hour, wholeheartedly welcome death for the sake of Allah. Always be remembering Allah. Either end your life while praying, seconds before the target, or make your last words: “There is no god but Allah, Muhammad is His messenger.”

Afterward, we will all meet in the highest heaven, Allah willing
.

Bassam can no longer lie still. He refolds the instructions and pushes them back into the envelope. He stands and walks back and forth between the beds and the television cabinet and minibar.

Do not forget to take a bounty
.

Tariq, could he have been correct? Was it allowed, even encouraged, for them to take this whore? And so they could do it again, could they not? Something to quench their thirst?

No,
no
, this is weakness. No, he must wait. This time tomorrow, Insha’Allah, he will have been in Jannah for hours.

So
close
. They are so close!

Upon the table beneath the curtained window are what Imad purchased this morning, the cans of cream for shaving, the two bags of disposable razors. Bassam should shave his body now, in the bath. He steps toward the table. But no, the instructions are for the last night and it is still day. He should have gone with Imad and Tariq to the gym. He could exercise lightly. No, he was right; this would only make his muscles sore and slow.

He steps to the window and parts the draping. Outside, sunlight upon the new brick walls of the hotel. Down below the courtyard, its trees full and green. He wants to go there. He wishes to be under this sun, walking, moving his body. But then he will be among the kufar. He will be among them and all their distractions.

No, Bassam. Calm yourself. Make an ablution and pick up the
Book and read from Al-Anfal and Al-Tawbah as instructed. Read the words of the Holy One.

And yes, it calms him. Yes, it fortifies him. But so early in the sura, Bassam reads it as if for the first time:

Your Lord bade you leave your home to fight for justice, but some of the faithful were reluctant. They argued with you about the truth that had been revealed, as though they were being led to certain death while they looked on
. These words refer to the Prophet, peace be upon him, and the victorious Battle of Badr, but Bassam also sees Karim, hears again his words defending the Zionist/Crusader alliance as if they truly are fellow People of the Book, as if they are not corrupting polytheists and unbelievers. And Ahmed al-Jizani, Bassam sees his father as he sat against the wall, his elbow upon his raised knee, his tea steaming in the clear glass he held, his eyes on his youngest son. “And if it comes to fighting, it is only for defense, Bassam. A fard kifaya.”

But jihad is
not
a collective duty, it is fard’ayn, a
personal
obligation. An
eternal
jihad against apostates near and far. And have they not read the words of Allah? Is it not clear whom He favors most? Those who stay home in comfort and make excuses, or those who leave and
fight
?

But this pride in himself is wrong, the heat of shame rolling upward through his face. All this is not for
him
, but for the Creator, for the Judge and the Ruler, for the All-Knowing and the Merciful. And Bassam must be more respectful to his own father. Yes, he may not be destined for the highest rooms with his son, Insha’Allah, but he is the builder of a sacred mosque, the father of fourteen children, the husband of Bassam’s dear mother, and is it not promised to the shahid that his sacrifice will erase the sins of seventy members of his family as well? Is it not? And yes, if Bassam is forced to slaughter, Allah willing, he must dedicate it to his father. He will dedicate the first spilled blood to Ahmed al-Jizani.

THEY WERE LATE
. Marina said one o’clock but it was already fourteen past. Three times cars had driven up Orchid, the sun reflecting off their hoods and windshields, blinding her just before they drove by.

April leaned against her Sable. The trunk was hot against her lower back, and her mouth was dry and her heart seemed to be pounding in her empty stomach. Jean had waited with her awhile, but then got a little faint under the sun and went inside for her straw hat. April was sweating and thirsty, but she didn’t move.

A dog barked. A door opened and shut. She was squinting and needed her sunglasses.

A white car turned onto Orchid, then a dark blue van. The sun hit the chrome and glass of both and April held her hand over her eyes. The first car was Marina DeFelipo, and she was alone and April was already out of the driveway and walking fast down the sidewalk to
the van pulling to the curb. It was new, its side windows tinted, and a woman sat behind the wheel, and as she put the gear in park, April was already at the rear passenger door jerking on the handle. There was a clicking noise, then a whimper, her eyes filling, the dark glass a smear. She kept jerking on the handle but only the front passenger window rolled down.

“Let go so I can unlock it.” A polite voice but firm, and April let go. She wiped her eyes and pressed her face to the glass. She cupped her hands to her temples, and there she was, locked in a car seat in a white dress, smiling at her and waving, her curly hair bouncing, her legs kicking, her feet in new white shoes.

JEAN SAT AT
the patio table, her cheeseburger untouched, the bricks warm beneath her feet. The mottled light of sundown lay over her garden, and in it sat Franny and April across from her, Franny in her mother’s lap talking about how there were good toys and a sand box and a little pool she swam in. Her hair was clean and curly, her face unmarked, her eyes as clear blue and lit with as much joy and curiosity as they’d ever been. How was it possible to feel any greater happiness than this?

Jean raised her glass and sipped her Cabernet. She’d wanted champagne but couldn’t tolerate the thought of leaving Franny for even that one errand. And how good it was to sit here behind these walls among the hibiscus and bougainvillea and frangipani, the gate latched, all officials gone, the three of them safe. Now Franny slid off her mother’s lap and walked around and climbed up onto Jean’s. A welling caught itself in her throat and she pulled her close, this strong
young body. This strong, unharmed, miraculous body. “Oh I’m so happy you’re
home
.”

“Yeah, I didn’t like that I couldn’t come home.”

“We didn’t either, honey.”

April said, “Remember what I told you, Franny? They wouldn’t let us see you. It’s because of what
I
did, honey. Not you.”

April looked as if she might cry again, one bare knee drawn up to her chest. Her hair was pulled back and she wore little makeup and she hadn’t eaten much of her food. Before, Jean would’ve felt uncomfortable holding Franny like this in front of her, as if she were stealing something. But not now. April was looking at them both like they went together, one essential to the other.

Franny was eating a tomato slice from Jean’s plate. Jean kissed her, could smell her hair. Some kind of floral shampoo. It’s not what April used, and it smelled wrong to Jean, as if Franny had been someplace so very far from them. Someplace foreign.

THE SUN HAS
set, and for their night meal they have ordered from the hotel’s room service: chicken and rice, yogurt, though it is sweetened, salad with extra cucumbers they will mix with the yogurt, bread and tea. And if they were not breaking their fast together in Imad’s room, would they keep the kafir server from entering as does Imad? Would they have been so pure?

But again, there is no resentment inside Bassam as he wonders this. He is grateful for Imad’s steadfastness. And when they are seated around the table, a third chair carried from their room by Tariq, they lower their heads and make the supplication for fast-breaking.
The thirst has gone and the veins are quenched, and reward is confirmed, if Allah wills
.

In the name of Allah
.

Bassam’s first bite is of the rice. It is too moist with butter and he wishes for saffron. But he must be grateful for this food, and he must
not think of himself or the pleasures found in the life of this world. They eat quietly. Tariq, as always, eats too quickly, pushing the bread into his mouth behind the rice. Imad ignores him. He regards Bassam across the small table. He smiles directly at him. It is the smile he gave when they said together their bayat so many months ago in Khamis Mushayt, a love for him borne from the greater love for the Creator.

“In the morning, Insha’Allah, you and I will fight like Ali and Ubaydah, Allah rest their souls.”

“Yes, Allah willing.” Bassam lowers his eyes out of respect, and again, the thrusting of his heart, the rising pride inside him that he has been called to fight like the heroic cousins of the Prophet, peace be upon him.

He bites into the chicken cooked by the kufar. Do they know whom they are feeding tonight?

Tariq reaches for his tea. “And I will fight like Hamza, Insha’Allah.”

“Yes.” Imad looks at him and he nods as if he sees already that this will be true. “Allah willing, yes.”

But it is as if Bassam’s blood has grown cooler by two or three degrees, the fear he begins to feel now. The inescapable fear before battle. But what is this fear? Surely it is not of death.

No, it is the fear of failing and remaining here in this life. That is this feeling. The fear of living.