Chapter 4

HAUNTED

13th of Safar 1436

(December 6, 2014)

Khozem continued to live with his father and mother in the Meccan home. On this particular evening he met with Vasilla who had flown in from New York. Khozem had never met Vasilla on his own. He never had business to discuss with him, and Khozem remembered seeing him only a few times while growing up. He saw him with his father after tours.

He remembered this gargantuan figure smiling down at him, looming so large that he blocked the sun and cast a long shadow over him. Vasilla always smiled and rarely uttered a word. Khozem knew him only as his father’s bodyguard, and they were away quite often. Oddly enough, Vasilla seemed even larger to him. He remained the same in weight and bulk, as Khozem remained short and pudgy.

Khozem had a child-like fascination with this towering bodyguard. It seemed that his father spent more time with Vasilla than himself, and Khozem resented their relationship. But now that he was older and experienced in the ways of the faith, Khozem quietly understood his father’s obligations and the reasons for their close relationship.

On the tour of the Far East, Tariq had always mentioned Vasilla as his favorite, and Khozem mused that Vasilla must have consistently reaffirmed his father’s own beliefs and values, hence lacking a mind and individuality of his own, almost like remaining invisible. Likeable characters are usually invisible, he thought. His father told him that Vasilla would always remain loyal no matter how preposterous the request or instruction, and that such a loyalty could not be found in anyone else. Khozem appreciated Vasilla in this way, because he knew his mind simple. His actions were the result of orders, not inference.

Vasilla kissed Khozem’s hand upon entrance and bid him gentle salaams. He was dressed in a blue Italian suit, while Khozem wore a tan, cotton robe with matching turban.

“I see you’re living like a Westerner,” smiled Khozem, trying hard to appear the man in control, not the child with a dumbfounded fascination.

“I hope not to appear too Westernized, your holiness, but I just got off the plane,” said Vasilla sniffling with a cold.

“And how was your flight? It must have taken a long time.”

“Your holiness, the flight was good, and I am glad to be away from the unholy territory.”

“Tell me, then. How is it unholy?”

“People there drink and smoke, and the women don’t cover themselves. They listen to strange music with these electric guitars. No one says their prayers. There are no mosques, only a few.”

“You’ve been attending a mosque?”

“Yes, and there I see mostly Africans as they are the only men in the city who remain pure to the faith. Certainly I see men from Arabia, but those I see are driving taxis or working at kiosks, and some of them I meet in the mosques. I’m growing sick and tired of New York. Each time I fall asleep I dream of Mecca, its warmth and companionship.”

“Tell me, what have you been doing over there?”

“I see the Imam’s parents every month, and I give them the monies set up by your father. I go to the mosque every night, and the other night, before I left, I saw the Imam for the first time.”

“The Imam? I see. What does he look like? Did you meet him?”

“No. I only saw him in the crowd. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him,” said Vasilla, wiping his nose.

“I’d thought you’d be much closer to them.”

“I keep a good distance from them, because your father wanted him to learn the faith on his own.”

“I see, yes, you’ve done a good job. Obviously he’s found Allah now that you see him in the mosque.”

“However, there is one thing I’m worried about. When I saw him at the mosque in New York I overheard him talking to the amilsaab, and what I heard made me very upset, your holiness.”

“You heard him speak, did you? What did you say?” asked Khozem excitedly.

“Well, it’s not easy to express, because what he said went against the grain so to speak...”

“Nevermind. Out with it.”

“He said basically that we should embrace the Jews in the streets...”

“He said what?!”