The Girl in the Tangerine Scarf (24 page)

Tentative hands went up: "Retreat. Spiritual retreat."

"Is it-dhikr? Where the person says the name of God a number of times, like a mantra?"

"Concerts, like, um, sema ceremonies."

Mantras, concerts, ceremonies other than regular prayer? Khadra checked up on all this bizarre business with Uncle Kuldip.

"Beti, the only way to know God is to obey his Law," he assured her. "But Westerners are obsessed with figures who went outside this way, such as Rumi. Rumi, Hallaj, Ibn al-Arabi-who was a pantheist, be careful. That goes against monotheism," he said to Khadra over his desk. "Westerners like to focus on the heretics and deviants in Islam." Behind him, shelves were lined to the ceiling with books. Maulana Nadvi's Taf ir, Politics and the Islamic State, Fatima is Fatima by Ali Shariati, Muhammad Iqbal, The Caravan's Call.

"Was he a heretic, then? Rumi?"

"Borderline," Uncle Kuldip said. "You see, Westerners are fascinated with Sufism because they cannot stomach the activist Islam that seeks to redress injustices committed against Muslim lands. You find endless Orientalist studies of the crazy heretic Hallaj, for example, who is completely useless and empty, while the real achievements of Islam are ignored."

There were moments during Professor Eschenbach's class in which Khadra felt as if she were standing atop two earth plates grinding as they moved in different directions. The one directly under her was the view of Islam she'd grown up knowing. The other was what she was catching glimpses of. A rift occasionally opened beneath her feet, but she steadied herself against it. Otherwise, suddenly, what she'd always thought was right appeared wrong, and what she'd always known was bad seemed, for an eye-blink moment, good. It was terrifying.

Community life was bracing. There was no dearth of henna parties, baby aqiqas, and "Building God-Consciousness" seminars. And, of course, there was activism. Social justice, to right wrongs, to alleviate the condition of the wretched of the earth, these shining projects stretched before her, so she didn't have to think about the rift within her self.

"Faith is work, not obscure metaphysics," the CMC speaker said. He was there "to counter Sufistic myths," the flyer advertised-and he was none other than the Dawah Center's Wajdy Shamy, Khadra's own father. True, his degree was in business management, but he was very well read in Islam, not to mention his life experience with Islamic work. "Faith requires political, social, and economic actualization," he explained. These in turn require the implementation of shariah, which requires the establishment of an Islamic state-which has been absent since the collapse of the Ottoman Caliphate in 1924. Thus, the way to truly manifest faith was to support the Islamic movements in the struggle to reconstitute a rightly guided caliphate, or if that was out of reach, to form Islamic nation-states in as many Muslim lands as possible. In a kuffar land, it meant developing ways to help Muslims live by shariah while being good citizens.

"It is service," Wajdy said. "Others may see it as politicizing religion, but we see Islamic activisim simply as service. Service of humanity, to please God."

Professor Eschenbach turned the attention of the class to an Ibn alArabi text on the levels of the self. "Chittock's analysis suggests that the move from the lower ego to the self-examining ego can be a traumatic one," she began. "But that is a first step toward cultivating the higher-ego soul, the `soul at peace' referred to in Sum-"

Khadra raised her hand. "Isn't all this attention to the self selfish? Isn't it just a lot of Western individualism? Islam is focusing on God, not ourselves." She tucked a few stray hairs under her cotton scarf.

"Have you ever heard the saying, He who knows himself, knows his Lord?"

Khadra shook her head. "Who said that, Plato? Descartes?"

"The Prophet," Professor Eschenbach said.

Was this the right farmhouse? The black Capri with Juma's glassbead tasbeeha hanging from the rearview mirror crunched up the ice-crusted driveway. She'd persuaded Juma to let her drive it rather than the Gremlin because she needed the extra power over the ice-patched road. "Can you imagine if I suddenly came face to face with a deer in my headlights? In the Gremlin, we'd both be dead." Driving out of town, alone, in the darkness of night was something Khadra Shamy would rather have avoided altogether. But Juma was busy and so was Eyad; no one had time to come with her during crazy finals week. Her term paper was late and Dr. Eschenbach had granted her the extension on the condition that she deliver it to her home out here in Nashville. Not even Nashville, but turn right after the head shop on the corner and find the rural route and venture out into the snow-thickened rolling farmlands. Out into the John Cougar Mellencamp back roads. And she'd meant to come in the daylight but the typewriter ribbon jammed-of course, it would-at the last minute and it took her forever to install new ribbon and finish typing the darn thing.

If the farmhouse at the end of the gravel drive wasn't Professor Eschenbach's house, Khadra would "have some 'splaining to do" to some irate Hoosier farmer on this dark cold night in December. Not a comforting prospect. I seek refuge in the Merciful, and ah distinctly, I remember, it was in the bleak December. Khadra found herself reciting Poe along with prayer as she picked a path over the uneven gravel. The night seemed Poe-ish.

The house was unlit. This made Khadra doubt. When she got closer, she saw that there was a faint light flickering. Closer, it revealed itself to be a lantern in a niche of the porch ledge, giving off a soft glow.

She was late, too late. Professor Eschenbach must have gone out. Maybe she was away on one of her conference trips. Should she leave the paper on the porch? As if in answer, snowflakes began to fall, tiny at first, then fluffier. Khadra looked around the porch for some safe dry spot to leave the manila envelope. She heard a sound, hoo-hoo-hoo-an owl? No, it was voices in unison, as of a choir-so the radio was on, or a record-and so the professor must be home.

No doorbell in sight. She opened the screen door gingerly and tried the knocker. No answer. Twice, no answer. The music-of course. The knock wouldn't be heard over the music.

Irresolute, Khadra decided to tap on the living room picture window-but not to peer in or violate the privacy of the house. No answer on the glass, either. Unable to resist a peek, she peered through the pane-and drew back quickly, frightened-the shadowy figure of a hooded person was standing across the room looking right back at her. Oh! it was just a mirror. A mirror on a mantle and Khadra inside it, her paisley wool scarf, her big parka hood over it, everything the same, only murkier.

Back on the front porch, she paused, then tried the doorknob. It opened. Quietly, feeling like a trespasser, she laid the manila envelope atop a stack of papers on a hall table. A little poem hanging on the wall over the table caught her eye, even though she was anxious to slip out quickly:

His Scales of Mercy love the beautiful weight of sin

The beautiful weight of sin? That was crazy. What the Sam Hill did that mean?

She was halfway back to the car when another doubt hit her. What if Professor Eschenbach overlooked the paper? She'd call her as soon as she got home to tell her where it was. But wouldn't it be too late then? Or she could turn around while she was still here, and try again to make contact, not give up. She ought to thank her in person for the extension and apologize for slipping into her house without permission to lay the paper down-yes, that was definitely more courteous.

Maybe try knocking on the back door, then? Enter houses from the front, the Quran admonished, seeking permission. But she wasn't going to enter, was she?

As she tramped around the house toward the back porch, she saw light thrown from a casement window low to the ground. The music seemed to be coming from there. Deep powerful drumming, like an army marching, Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom!

God, this is so surreal. The thick gray sky above, the snow falling into my eyes and mouth, me out in the boonies in the dark. What am I doing here? Go home, Khadra.

She stooped at the window, but stayed behind a juniper, unsure if she wanted to be seen. If she caught sight of the professor, she'dwhat? Point to the front door and quickly meet her there and apologize for this. Apologize profusely for the intrusion.

Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom! It wasn't a recording-it was live. The lit basement was full of people. Five, ten, more. She could see the tops of heads, men, women, scarves, hair, caps, braids, locks. How odd! They were swaying in time to the rhythm of words weirdly familiar: All-lahh, All-ahh, All-lahh, All-ahh, went the chorus. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom, beat the drums.

Then a solo-soprano-in perfect Arabic began: La ilaha illa allah, laa . . . and continued in some other language while the chorus went on with All-lahh, All-ahh like an undertow.

She didn't know the language but could pick out words: rahma, rahman, ya ibni Adam. And then a whole Quranic verse: And He is with you wherever you Be. Then the chanting changed and the pace speeded up: Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey ... and then Khadra realized: not "hey" but "Hayy-Alive."

Was that Professor Eschenbach, her head wrapped in a white prayer scarf like the one folded into the prayer rug at home? The clashing earth plates shifted under Khadra. She steadied herself with one hand against the siding of the house. Hayys Hayys Hayys Hayys Hayy-the chorus was getting hoarse, you could pick out the raspier voices, pushing themselves to the last chord, harder, faster, Hayys Hayy Hayy the solo no longer separate Hayy! Hayy! Hayy! Hayy! Hayy! choppier now Hayy! and swifter Hayy! swifter the swaying Hayy! Hayy! Hayy! Hayy! HAY Y. like a SHOUT from the EARTH right under her FEET-Khadra jumped and fell backward into the snow by the juniper.

She fled home, the car wheels slipping and sliding on the country road. Home. Bed. Edgar Allen Poe dreams, a brick cavity inside a house. A niche, a manger. Snow, a green branch in the white. Brick by brick. Mantle. Dismantle. A lamp in the niche, walled up. Oil lamp, yes, or maybe child. Flailing. Flail whale belly of a wail. She would pluck the child out of the wall and save the one who was "Alive." Tracks in the snow like a gazelle. Hold the lamp up highrun! Smoke and mirrors, a monster on the other side. But the child. Let the child be walled or pluck the child out? Smoke and mirrors, snow angels falling landing softly. Lamp child juniper: all evergreen.

I came to see the damage that was done and the treasures that prevail

-Adrienne Rich, "Diving into the Wreck"

"What's for dinner?" Juma asked. The first time it was cute. Then it got annoying. Finally it made steam come out of Khadra's ears. Like when she'd spent so many hours working on her Western Civ paper that she didn't even know what time it was, what day. She'd left out two whole paragraphs at the beginning of the essay and was frustratedly retyping all eight pages. Then Juma came in, to the papers and books strewn all around, the pencil in her hair, and the wild-eyed look with which she was regarding the blank page in the electric typewriter. "What's for dinner?"

"I don't know. Why're you asking me? Like I'm the one who's supposed to know?" Khadra groused.

"Well, uh," Juma looked around, "let's see: who's the wife in this picture?" Was he trying to be funny? Khadra wasn't sure.

"The Prophet never asked his wives to do anything in the house for him," Khadra snapped. What was the use? It took a Dawah Center man to appreciate that sort of thing. A reg'lar Muslim from the Old Country like Juma wouldn't get it. Seeking knowledge was more important than traditional feminine tasks. She resented the Dawah Center for raising her with false expectations about typical religious Muslims.

"The Prophet wasn't a graduate student. He wasn't studying engineering," Juma retorted.

"Well, I have work-study on top of classes. You don't." Her voice was getting shrill, but she didn't care.

"I'm not a woman-I don't know HOW to cook!" Juma shouted.

"Well, it didn't come with my BOOBS!" Khadra shouted back. "You can LEARN it! Here, I'll show you!" She stomped into the kitchen and slammed an aluminum pan on the counter. She flung open the freezer door, grabbed a package of chicken, and threw itwhole, still wrapped-down in the pan. "Put chicken in pan. Put pan in oven. It's that simple. Okay? Now LEAVE me ALONE!"

Every time she went out in a campus demonstration, Juma complained.

"Does it have you be you?" he asked. "Let somebody else demonstrate. There's no shortage of people. Does it have to be my wife?"

At one rally, he stepped right in front of her. Jim from Student Government had come up to Khadra at a brisk clip, holding a wooden sign upside down.

"Hey, Khadra-it's Khadra, right? I was going to ask if you-" and then Juma stepped between them, putting his wife behind him and facing Jim.

"Excuse me-" Khadra said over Juma's shoulder, standing on tiptoe. She stepped sideways out from behind him. "Excuse me, Juma, I was talking to Jim."

"What did you do that for?" she said that evening, in a fight-picking tone, right after they salam'd from praying isha.

"What did he want with you?" Juma demanded. A man rushing up to his wife carrying a stick-of course he'd reacted.

"He wanted me to circulate the petition to the Muslim women. We'd talked about it at the planning meeting." Khadra was CMC recording secretary this year. "Anyway, it's none of your business what he wanted-he wanted to speak to me, not you."

"It's always my business what anyone wants from you," Juma shouted. "What the hell do you mean, none of my business? You're my wife."

He went to Terre Haute again. This time he stayed away five whole days.

"I just-I don't know if I can stay married to him, Eyad. I feel like I can't go on in this marriage without killing off the `me' that I am," Khadra said to her brother.

Pop psychology phrases like "the `me' that I am" turned Eyad off "Do you really want to be a twenty-one-year-old divorcee?" he asked. He picked up the big orange snow shovel his sister had propped against the back bumper and started clearing tracks in front of her tires. They were in the parking lot outside her apartment.