Chapter 1

12th of Safar 1436

(December 5, 2014)

If madness could be captured, then let it be defined and captured. Those mysterious coincidences must be followed through and investigated regardless of the toil and sweat and brain damage. See the signs and thus investigate each sign until it leads eventually to some higher knowledge, for this is exactly what the Imam did in Boston.

He did not wait to search out these special coincidences. He traced them at his own risk and peril, and although his mind grew warped while wandering the streets in search of some strange knowledge brought down from the heavens, straight into his brain, he nevertheless aimed for a knowledge he never rightly possessed. He saw special significance in the cars which passed him, in the people who smiled in the darkness, in the women who seemed to flirt without uttering a single word.

He walked down Boylston Street, and at their passing his heart pounded. His desire for a woman was widespread. Nothing is more gratifying than encountering a beautiful woman, for all women in their own right are beautiful creatures, and these women seemed to be looking at him, talking to him without words, without expression, only walking casually, head straight, so quiet, dazzling, and mesmerizing. Could they have been looking at Mustafa? Mustafa thought so.

He pounded the pavement, his heart aching at the sights of these glorious creatures, and in his mind’s eye he imagined dancing with them, arm around the waist, hands together, feet moving back and forth rhythmically, like rowing a boat towards the breadth of shore. How badly he wanted one, not to touch or to argue, but simply to walk down the street and gain their attention, any woman, and when he encountered one of them glossing him over with eyes of blue or brown, he filled his heart of stored desires and lost opportunities, only to move on to the next woman and then the next one, because they all had something to offer him: their divine beauty, the hair which cascades above the forehead like sun-drenched waves, the eyes which look preoccupied, the tender lips which whisper without ever opening or closing, and that seductive figure crushing him with each step. He saw significance in every woman’s face.

A conspiracy, thought he. Yes, it must be some terrible conspiracy, as women have had their clandestine networks even before the beginning of time. Perhaps they were sizing him up. He so badly needed to hold one, right there in the street and break the barrier of wasted time, wasted years spent in seclusion and extreme loneliness. He believed only a woman could lead him to salvation, because his longing for a woman plunged him into deep despair.

‘Oh woman, why won’t you talk to me?’ asked Mustafa. ‘Is it the way I look? Is it my foreign name? Perhaps the color of my skin or the size of my waist? Or is it because I don’t have a home? Why so coy on this wintry day?’

For Mustafa it was maddening to see so many women walking upon the snow, for he longed for each and every one of them, and yet his tongue would only yield an avoidance and shyness.

His head pounded with each thought. His mind roamed and wandered as it found significance in every example of creation, from the trees which whistled as the wind swept through the branches to the particles of snow which fell at varying angles. But with each thought his head throbbed, and quite suddenly the women were missing from the slush-heavy street corners, and the lights along the street shut off as though the time had come to face the chill.

He wandered the streets for some hours, and it seemed like the whole world had gone on holiday, a boat that left without him. Where did all the women go? Were they hiding somewhere, not necessarily under a rock but in the arms of other men? He heard his feet rubbing in the tender snow, and as the brain rotated in circular thought, he figured he needed help, because he knew not where he was.

He had been awake for two straight days occupied in thought, as though each second carried a profound weight. The women, like strangers, had left him. The cars had gone to sleep along the side of the street. The wind died and the snow stopped. He had little idea where to sleep, for he had completely lost his way, and oblivion followed him like an invisible stalker. He crossed the Boston Commons. The blackness beyond his immediate path beckoned him to move forward, an oblivion which made little sense while submerged in significance at the same time. His breath grew short, and his legs hung from his torso like wet noodles. He cut through the heart of the Commons and found himself treading upon the red bricks of Charles Street, the colonial shop signs swaying somberly above him. He walked slowly, not a single person on the street, not even the strangers he knew. He followed signs for the nearest hospital as home would somehow be found among the robots walking on a psychiatric ward. He had been off his medication ever since he broke from his weird imaginings, and his head burned and churned with every conceivable thought as though some higher creature cracked his skull with the sharp end of a hammer, pulling it apart as though loosening nails on weathered boards. He found meaning and no meaning at all. The strangers along the street had disappeared, and if he so happened to find one holding out for loose change he would have given his last dime, not only to be conscience-clear, but to be saved from the beasts squeezing and pressing his brain, hacking away at his gray flesh.

The conspiratorial women had left him at the wrong time, because everything had a purpose, and he was at the center of it. Angels moved from Allah’s heaven, and they guided him, almost pushing him along to that point where nothing matters. All of the synapses connected, neuron to neuron, the brain transforming into a pinnacle of thought both happy and sad, up and then down like riding some sinister amusement park ride at the age of eighty, at the point where senility and unbridled youth intersect, free yet confined, sober but drunk, ice on his toes and heat sizzling his brain.