Chapter 22

THE TELEGRAM

23rd of Rajab 1417

(December 5, 1996)

Tariq arose early the next morning. The house was quiet. Samira was in the bathroom. The night guard slid an orange envelope undern the door. The telegram from Lahore read: MOST GRACIOUS SIR, I HAVE FOUND THE PROSTITUTE. CALL THE LAHORE MARRIOT ROOM 233. VASILLA.

Tariq telephoned immediately. Vasilla’s slow, husky voice was refreshing over the static ridden line. Before Vasilla finished, however, Tariq ordered him to stay put.

“Samira,” yelled Tariq.

He could hear the water running. He knocked frantically. He had never doubted Allah’s plan. There was so much to be done. ‘Such an important child at the hands of a prostitute,’ he moped. He removed two heavy suitcases from the closet. Samira came from the bathroom, wiping her face with a hand towel.

Stumbling over one of the suitcases, she threw the damp towel to the floor. She threw the kurtas and skull caps into the suitcases. It was time Tariq return to the rest of the world.

He strung up the blinds. The sun blared through the room. Samira kept packing, rhythmically moving from bureau to suitcase.

Tariq scouted the Kaa’bah. He gazed at the station of Abraham who built this house of stone, the meteorite from the heavens providing the last piece to this overwhelming puzzle.

Allah had empowered him to bring the faith to the West. Tariq shivered at the thought. He despised the West and its cursed lands, which bedeviled Allah’s will. He remembered Imam Shabbir and his dying words. He remembered a slogan on a wall in Lahore: CRUSH ISRAEL, HATE AMERICA, LOVE ISLAM.

Tariq explained coolly to his wife he was to perform the burial rites and that she could not attend. The burial was subject to restrictions. Traveling was meant for Tariq himself. He was not about to share this with his wife. He had been accustomed to being without her. Religious business was not meant for her, only that she should pray the required times per day and fear her husband.

Samira made up her face in the mirror, gobbing on skin cream. Her face would never be shown. Tariq never objected to her imported cosmetics, but he preferred she not use them. The woman was man’s tragic weakness. To see her on the street with heavy mascara might be too tempting for other men. She rubbed her thick cheeks. She applied lipstick to her full lips, a color that enhanced the shade of her skin. She kept her natural look, which pleased him.

“Tell Khozem he should leave for the university before I return.”

“And if he doesn’t?” asked Samira, closing her beauty jars.

“Then I’ll have to deal with him when I come back, but you will press him onwards.”

“And if he goes to Iran?”

“Then push him in that direction. The difference between Mashad and Al Karim is minimal. They are both the best.”

“Khozem should decide on his own what he should do. You push too much. You meddle too much in his affairs. How will he grow if he can’t decide for himself?”

“I merely pushed him in the direction of the All Mighty. It was meant for him. He has been selected. He will have plenty of decisions to make. He shall develop through one path, not through many different ones. There are reasons why Allah provided us with a male child.”

“And did Imam Shabbir (may peace be upon him) leave us with a male child?”

“That’s none of your concern. Stay focused on Khozem.”

The Qu’ranic archway marked the end of the city. The pleasure of freedom returned. The headlines of his newspaper failed to interest him, with the exception of Egypt under siege by radicals. The Organization sponsored some activity. The Iranian government had matched those funds, and citizens for a pure Islamic state gained more control. And when the Imam in the West gathers the believers, Egypt would submit to its calling and prostrate towards Mecca instead of London or Washington D.C., hung up on their lofty commands, arrogance, and false Gods. Tariq was sure Egypt was the next to be delivered by the All Mighty.

He threw the paper to the floor, and from the window he saw the city devolve. They passed Jeddah with its undeveloped land fixed between low buildings and residential compounds. A mile of white awnings, the landmark of the airport. For Allah’s plan to work, self sacrifice beyond basic obligations needed to be met.

‘Beyond basic obligations,’ thought Tariq. For now the move was to build a network within the West. This network would expand and undercut the roots of the unbelievers. As the Imam grows, so would his followers, hungry to punish those who interfered, while embracing those who understood the ultimate beauty of Allah, Muhammad his prophet, and in all ways, Ali, the rightful successor. Tariq sensed that Allah himself put thoughts in his mind, falling from the sky, absorbed into one clear message: to push Islam further into time. ‘Glory be to the heavens, for the leader, my son, and glory be to the Imam who will break the horse and gallop through the West which shall part for him.’ He pulled his tuzbee beads and counted his worries.