The Last Man in Paradise E-Book

Syed M. Masood

• Herausgeber: 8th Note Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 457

Beschreibung

A darkly humorous and emotional homecoming story about a young man reconciling with his estranged family and finding the way back to love, from the author of The Bad Muslim Discount.   A decade ago, Azaan, a rebellious teenager with dreams of becoming an actor, was exiled from Redding, California to a religious academy in Egypt by his imam father. His crime? Getting caught kissing Madison, the girlfriend he wasn't supposed to have.   But while letting his family believe he is studying to become a preacher, Azaan ditched school and embarked on an acting career. Given that he has minimal contact and nonexistent plans to return home, he figured no one would ever know.   Now, however, Azaan's grandfather has a dying wish: he wants to see his grandson one last time. In order to maintain the story he's told his family for years, Azaan decides to become a fake imam. Playing at being a religious leader, he finds a community in Redding on the brink of a scandal involving his family. It'll be the most challenging role of his life.   Navigating his new identity and old relationships, Azaan reunites with Madison, connects with old friends, and uncovers a shocking truth about his family history that threatens to expose his father as a fraud. It turns out, Azaan isn't the only one pretending to be something he isn't.   Before he can finish weighing the consequences of exposing his father or protecting him, an untimely death shakes Azaan's priorities. He is forced to grapple with his religion, future, and family in a way that is sure to break hearts, but might heal a few along the way.

Leseprobe

The Last Man In Paradise

Syed M Masood

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

ChapterOne

2011

The taste of forbidden apples changed my life.

No, I am not Adam and I am not Eve. None of this happened at the dawn of time, and I was not then—nor am I ever likely to be—in the Garden.

The scene was a dark car park behind a dilapidated office building in Redding, California, which is not at all my idea of Paradise, though at that moment it did feel a little like heaven must.

Because I wasn’t alone there, in that deepening night, a few feet away from where my father—Imam Saqlain Saifi—was holding an interfaith outreach event. The town didn’t have a mosque, so he was forced to rent a unit in a business complex to fill that role, always hoping to one day raise the funds necessary to build a proper place of worship for his flock.

But I wasn’t thinking about him or his religion just then. Perhaps I should’ve been. It might have made me more prudent, and maybe the course of my life would’ve been different.

Well, it’s no use talking about roads not taken.

Let’s talk instead about what form my dreaming always takes.

Let’s talk about them apples.

I was with Madison Porter, which wasn’t unusual. We spent most of our days in each other’s company. We had since we’d been thrown together by our school’s drama class in the ninth grade, four years ago, when she’d been cast as Juliet and I as Romeo.

We were rarely together at night. Her godparents—who’d unexpectedly become her foster parents last year—liked having her home before sunset.

The novelty of being with her in the moonlight was not what made that moment special.

It was special because of what we were doing.

We were kissing, sort of for the very first time, because all our kisses before had been fake, staged for the benefit of other people. These were just for us, and they were so real and surreal. They were also increasingly French and involved a sour lip gloss, the flavor and smell of which called to mind the cause of the Fall.

We’d snuck out of my father’s event because it was unbearably, if predictably, boring. Leaning against her car, where we could barely hear the droning religious speeches being delivered inside, I’d asked her, “So what do you want to do?”

Madi had turned to face me, stood on her tiptoes, grabbed the front of my T-shirt, and pulled my mouth down to hers.

Just like that the die had been cast.

To those who would judge me for being simultaneously Muslim, in the shadow of a mosque, and in a frenzied make-out session with a girl, all I can say is that I was not the one who cast it.

That isn’t to say I wouldn’t have, if I’d dared risk our friendship. I had been in love with Mads for a while by then, and I knew she liked me too. I’d just always been scared to ask her how much because I’d been afraid she’d say not enough. In retrospect, it’s possible I may have failed to pick up on a hint or two about the nature of our relationship.

When I finally broke away from her, she was pressed up against me and pinned against the passenger-side door, flushed, a little out of breath, one of my hands in her short, straight hair, somehow black and shining at the same time, the other at the small of her back. I could feel heat radiating through the soft, thin fabric of her top.

She was prettier, in my opinion, than everything and everyone, with these amazing blue-gray eyes that were like . . . like . . . well, I don’t know. Like the sky prophesizing the coming of a mighty storm, maybe?

That sounds stupid.

That’s what they were though, eyes that could make a man stupid, a condition to which I—being just a seventeen-year-old boy then—was naturally inclined.

Madison put a hand on my chest and looked up at me, biting her lower lip, a gesture that always drove me to distraction. In a quiet, uncertain voice she said, “Say something.”

I cleared my throat. “This is . . . it’s the best interfaith outreach I’ve ever been part of.”

Madi laughed.

“As for kissing you, that was a lot fruitier than I imagined it’d be.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So, kissing me is something you’ve thought about?”

“Yeah.” I ran a thumb over her clavicle. “Kind of a lot.”

“What were you waiting for?”

“You.”

She smiled and looked away. “Sorry about the apple lip gloss. I’m, like, addicted to it or something.”

“It’s okay. I liked it.”

“Yeah?”

“I mean, I think so. I’d have to try it again to be sure.”

She shook her head but obliged, and our lips met again.

It was delicious.

Until it wasn’t.

Until my name, in my father’s deep, booming voice, echoed around us like a dangerous, shallow quake close to the surface of the earth.

“Azaan!”

I jumped away from Madison and spun around and saw my father storming toward us, and the look on his hard, lined, awfully familiar face made it clear that my existence was at an end.

* * *

He hit me.

I’m not sure when that started, the hitting, I mean. I realize not everything has a beginning that can be identified, that some things just are, like the sky and the sea. But in this case, there had to have been a first time. I don’t remember it, which is strange. You’d think it was the kind of thing that’d leave a mark.

Mom told me once that the reason my father beat me was his father. I was just experiencing the aftershocks of something that had happened already, in another place, in other lives to which I happened to be connected.

It was a grand inheritance.

It seemed like a strange thing that this man whose name I didn’t even know—everyone just called him Baba—could have such a profound effect on my life.

I’d met Baba only once, when I was nine and we visited Pakistan. Even back then, it had been clear that Dad had very little regard for him and vice versa. Their exchanges had been formal and cold—well, my father was always cold, but on that trip what freezings I felt, to borrow a phrase from the Bard.

Years later, my mother explained that Baba was someone who liked to break things. Growing up, my father had watched him break promises, hearts, contracts, vows, laws, and bones. The man was a grifter, a scoundrel, a hustler, a liar, a lecher, a cheat, and an alcoholic haunted by demons and, worse, by creditors.

He had driven Saqlain Saifi to religion by being the exact opposite of what a decent Muslim ought to be, and he’d seen his son’s choice of profession as the personal rebuke that it absolutely was.

This was apparently why my father was so hard on me. He was determined to make sure no part of Baba would live on in my person. He would whip it out of me if he had to, and he’d decided, some time ago, that he did indeed have to.

It was, in my mom’s opinion, proof that he loved me, in his way. He was doing it for my own good. He wouldn’t bother if he did not care.

Besides, I gave him plenty of cause.

Life would have hurt less if I had prayed five times a day, eaten only halal food, kept my distance from Madison, and stayed away from drink and drugs—not anything serious, mind you. I’d tried pot a couple of times, which was really my parents’ fault for raising me in California.

Islam shouldn’t have been difficult. It didn’t appear to be for other people. Some of the boys around my age were really into it. They fasted and shunned parties and averted their gazes when they saw women. Some of them had even sworn off music. They didn’t seem to feel deprived or constrained or suffocated by any of it. Instead, they appeared happy and rather pleased with themselves.

If they could do it, there was no logical reason I couldn’t.

And yet, inexplicably, I couldn’t.

My father said that this was because the devil assigned to tempt my soul was strong and had to be broken. The fact that he hadn’t managed it yet hadn’t dented his determination to try, and on that night, I had for sure given him a reason to try again. By flouting the rules of his religion publicly and kissing Madi in sight, if only accidentally, of his congregants, I had crossed a line that I’d never crossed before.

As a result, he did something he hadn’t ever done before either. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, don’t you know. It’s a basic tenet of Newtonian parenting.

He struck me right there, in front of other people.

It shouldn’t have been as bad as usual. There were no sticks or coat hangers or belts. It was just slap after slap after slap. But they were vicious blows, and it occurred to me that almost always, in the past, Saqlain Saifi had been holding back.

Madison shrieked. A couple of people shouted, protesting, and then finally, as I staggered back, Tiger Uncle, my father’s best friend, ran to pull him away from me.

I shook my head and blinked tears away. My face stung, my ears were hot, my world unsteady. Instinctively, I wiped at my nose with the back of my hand, and it came away with streaks of blood on it.

There wasn’t a lot. Nothing was broken. The skin around my nostrils had ruptured. I was fine. I would heal.

Mads started to step closer to me, but my father yelled out, “Stay away from him.”

So she did.

I was glad. I didn’t want her to see my face. I hated that she was witnessing my humiliation in the presence of all these people. Being punished in front of her was somehow worse than the worst I’d endured before.

My father looked like he was going to try to push past Tiger and strike me again. He didn’t. He just spoke. “And you, Azaan, you will never see her again. Do you understand?”

That would have been a good time to say yes.

Unfortunately, I had a bad habit of speaking the truth.

“I’ll see her whenever I want.”

I saw my father’s fists close, but Tiger whispered something to him, after which he snarled, stared me down, turned, and left.

Tiger Uncle started to follow him, then hesitated, looked back at me, and asked, “Are you okay?”

I nodded.

He considered this for a moment and seemed not to believe it. “Go inside. I will be there in a moment to take a look at you.”

“I’m good,” I protested.

“Just listen, Jaaneman? Let me talk to Saqi and call your mother.”

“She won’t care,” I told him.

Tiger Uncle grimaced. “You’re probably right about that.”

* * *

Tiger Heart—who had been born Sher Dil and had, at some point, decided to translate his name into English—brought a glass of water to the so-called mosque’s administrative office, where I was waiting for him.

It was a small space, little more than a supply closet my father had squeezed a desk and a couple of chairs into, and Tiger’s presence in it was instantly overwhelming. His cologne was heavy on musk, and he’d put on a reckless amount of it. He was a lot visually too, with his trademark drooping mustache, garish yellow sateen shirt, tight-fitting pants, and mottled snakeskin shoes. All of it together would have been enough to give me a headache if I didn’t already have one.

He watched me take a sip, then said, “I spoke to your mother.”

“Yeah?”

“She wanted to know if you needed medical attention. I told her you didn’t, so she’s—”

“Staying at the hospital,” I guessed.

“Both your parents are very dedicated to their professions.”

“Yeah.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “What are you dedicated to?”

I frowned. “Sorry?”

“Bhai, I’m asking, what are your goals? What are your plans? I heard from your father that you have some crazy dreams, that you want to become an actor. Hollywood. Bollywood. Lollywood. Tollywood. All these names tell you that it’s a line in which there’s a high chance of getting shafted, no?”

Not sure what to say or why he was suddenly playing at being a career counselor, I just shrugged.

Tiger studied me. “You’re good looking enough. Almost as good looking as me. I could have been a star, you know.”

“Uh . . . sure, I guess.”

“I didn’t want fame, though. Do you know what I wanted more than anything? Women. And you know what I got? Tell me, Sitamgar, do you know my story? You must know the legend.”

I did.

Much of the local Muslim community, especially its female population, didn’t like Tiger Heart much. They spoke disapprovingly about the failed lawyer turned entrepreneur who lived in their midst. They looked down upon his personal life.

Specifically, they didn’t appreciate how many times he’d been married.

Muslim men are allowed four wives at a time, not four wives in total. In other words, it is theoretically possible for them to have as many weddings—and wedding nights—as they want, so long as they divorce one of their spouses before they acquire a new one.

This isn’t usually practical. Convincing people to marry you isn’t an easy task, even in the best of circumstances, and there is a pervasive stigma against the old, fading practice of polygamy.

American law poses a challenge as well. Not only does it forbid multiple marriages, it also demands expensive court proceedings. It’s not like the Sharia. You can’t just say, “I divorce you” three times and move on. Legal fees and spousal support make being a forever groom a financially crippling prospect.

Despite all this, Tiger Uncle had tied around twelve knots in his life and he’d undone them all. He’d managed this by being a good capitalist and seeking market efficiencies, which he’d found offshore.

Not only is divorce quicker and easier in some Muslim countries, but women aren’t entitled to alimony. Instead, they get mehr, a sum of money agreed to by both parties at the inception of a wedding contract. It is owed to the bride whether the relationship lasts or not. It’s a system Tiger Uncle could exploit given the strength of the dollar.

Many thought that what he did was little more than green-washed sex tourism. They felt he was making a mockery of a sacred institution and treating marriage as little more than prostitution as his nuptials often involved young women from poor, sometimes desperate, backgrounds who couldn’t afford to turn down the mehr he offered.

Even so, Tiger Uncle remained a prominent figure in the community because of his wealth and his willingness to share it. The mosque, such as it was, ran primarily on his contributions.

“I got everything I wanted,” he said, “but no one has ever seen me violate God’s law.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“You should learn from my example, Shareek-e-Ghum. Do whatever you want but find a way to justify your actions. And if you can’t, then at least hide them. Like tonight. You got your hooks into a beautiful girl. Very good. But why make a public show of kissing her? When it comes to sins, you should be like a cat. Because a cat, after taking a shit, buries it. It doesn’t leave its business out in the open like a dog. Muslims, you know, many of us, we don’t like dogs very much.”

“You want me to—”

“Be cunning,” Tiger Uncle urged. “Show a little discretion. You want to be an actor? Make your life a role you play. Pretend to be one of the pious. It’ll make everyone happy. Then, when no one is looking, enjoy life.”

I frowned. “You’re saying I should lie?”

“What’s wrong with that? Listen, your father says you have only one good quality. You don’t speak false. Why is that? Don’t you realize that honesty is the worst virtue? Let me give you an example. Tell me, what happens when your father asks you if you prayed?”

“I tell him I didn’t,” I said.

“And then he yells and screams and punishes you. What are you really paying the price for? For not doing what you’re supposed to do or for not pretending that you might? Telling the truth is the hardest thing in the world. You keep doing it and you keep wondering why your life is difficult. Just stop. Deception makes living easier. Try it. You’ll see.”

“It just . . . doesn’t feel right.”

“How does getting beat feel?” Tiger Uncle countered. “Do you know what your father said to me as he was leaving? He said he’s done with you. You’re out of the house.”

“What?!”

“Yes. You’re on your own. You can sleep on the street as far as he’s concerned. That’s what being honest has gotten you. You’re homeless and, to be frank, you have no viable plan to make money. Okay. Calm down, calm down. Breathe. I have come up with a scheme. It requires a few . . . misdirections, but it will work. I’ll fix everything for you. Trust me. Put your life in my hands and nothing will go wrong.”

ChapterTwo

2022

“I really don’t want to be a terrorist,” I said, giving voice to what ought to have been an entirely unobjectionable thought but which somehow wasn’t. It’s impossible to get people to agree on anything these days.

“Come on, Azaan. It’s a great opportunity. This could be your chance to blow up. Look, I know you have moral objections, but if you don’t do it, someone else will. There’s no shortage of willing and able Muslim lads around, is there?”

All of that was true. However, being just another brown guy with a bomb strapped to his chest wasn’t the career I’d imagined for myself when I’d dreamt of becoming an actor. If I auditioned for this role, as my friend, landlord, and agent, Brayden Hall, was trying to convince me to, I’d be walking a path I’d never wanted to tread.

On the other hand, I was already almost thirty and hadn’t landed any significant work in film. This was a chance to try out for a big budget action flick with glitzy, hot stars. It’d capture eyes. It was possible that some of those would land on me, even if I were just a mindless henchman with only a few lines and limited screen time.

Maybe I was past the age when I got to choose what road I took. Maybe all that was left was doing what I had to do, serving the dictates of necessity, which may or may not be the mother of invention but is most definitely a bitch.

“The iron’s hot,” Brayden said. “Everyone’s talking about how bloody brilliant you were as Mercutio at Regent’s Park. You can’t afford to pass on this.”

There was no need for him to tell me that. I knew my financial situation was grim. We were, at that moment, in my “room,” which was just the living area of the small, run-down apartment I shared with five other people, all fellow thespians with Brayden’s talent agency. It was the opposite of luxury and yet, in typical London fashion, it still wasn’t cheap.

Brayden wasn’t exactly set himself. He’d left his draconian father’s big-time talent agency to strike out on his own, taking some low-level, neglected clients like me with him. The results, so far, had been mostly terrible.

“And honestly,” he went on, following me into the kitchen as I went to get my morning coffee, “I don’t get why it bothers you so much. So the script makes Islam look . . . not great. But why do you care? You don’t even practice.”

“It doesn’t offend me as a Muslim. It offends me as an artist. It’s just so . . . cliché, you know?”

“Are you an artist if no one ever sees your work?”

I paused in the act of reaching for a mug, trying to think of a good response to that, but I couldn’t come up with one.

Brayden leapt on my hesitation. “Aha. I win. You’re going. Sonya will go with you.”

“Really?” Sonya, one of my flatmates, was a sweet girl, always willing to inconvenience herself to help people. Even so, having her chaperone me to make sure I did what I was told seemed like a colossal waste of her time. “She doesn’t have anything better to do?”

“She’s trying out too. It took a lot less convincing to get her on board, by the way.”

“I thought the call was for male actors.”

“I had words with the casting director and told them they needed to be more inclusive. There is no reason Muslim women can’t be terrorists too, is there?”

I took out my French press and put water on to boil. “I guess not.”

“Don’t be a wet blanket for Sonya, okay? She’s very excited to do this. Wouldn’t shut up about the importance of representation and all that.”

“Really?” I asked.

“It was something about how little brown girls need to see themselves on screen more so they’ll know they can be anything they want to be when they grow up. I kind of tuned her out, to be honest. Just hold your tongue, will you?”

“Fine.”

“What are you doing, by the way?”

I blinked. “Talking to you.”

“No. I mean, your breakfast. Don’t drink coffee on an empty stomach. It’s not good for you.”

“I do this every day.”

Brayden frowned. “That’s worse. Is this part of that whole one-meal-a-day thing? I can’t believe you’re still doing that. It’s been . . . what? Like two years? It’s not healthy.”

“Of course it isn’t healthy. It’s show business.”

“Look, mate, I get that you’ve got to stay fit, but you don’t have to starve yourself. Don’t shake your head at me. I’m saying this for your own good.”

“Could you sound more like my parents?”

“As if you know what they sound like,” he said.

I raised my eyebrows.

Brayden held up his hands. “Sorry. That’s a yellow card for me. It’s just . . . unfair that I have to have dinner with my family every week, while you haven’t talked to yours in years.”

That wasn’t true. I called my mother every other month or so, and recently she’d started reaching out too.

As for my father . . . well, Imam Saifi and I did not speak often, though we did speak routinely.

Every year, I rang him on his birthday, and he sometimes remembered to wish me on mine. We also felt compelled to check in with each other on both Eids. I’m not sure why. It just seemed like the thing to do. Humanity appeared to have reached a consensus—regardless of religion, race, culture, or creed—that we were obligated to ruin at least some portion of our holidays by spending them with our families. Given that all of us agree on so little, it felt churlish not to honor this collective commitment our species had made to be miserable.

“When was the last time you even saw them?” Brayden asked.

“Eleven years ago.”

“Lucky bastard.”

I chuckled.

“I’m seeing mine tomorrow. It’s going to be hours of my father taking shots at our agency and hinting that I’d be better off just giving up.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Always is,” Brayden told me. “It would be nice to be able to tell him either you or Sonya got a gig. So will you please, for the love of God, break a leg?”

* * *

Sonya Barelvi was cute, fond of pink, Ray-Bans, and loud music. She was the Energizer Bunny brought to life—happy, irrepressible, and inexhaustible. I liked her very much in tiny doses and had lived under the same roof as her for two years.

As a result, I often found myself seeking to escape her presence, mostly because of her inability to be still or silent for more than five minutes at a time.

Despite this, I’d gotten to know her pretty well. We were kindred spirits in that we were both Muslims in name only. We wouldn’t have gotten along otherwise. My upbringing had left me with an aversion for devout people.

I was more than a little surprised, therefore, when she emerged from her room that day wearing a hijab. She blushed when I did a double take and looked everywhere but at me.

It seemed improbable that she’d found God overnight, so she was wearing the headscarf as a costume, her interpretation—or Brayden’s—of the look that was most likely to land her this role, which was mildly awful.

I thought about what to say, then decided to let it go and asked, “Ready to go?”

“Yup. Not sure why I’m bothering, though. You’re going to land this. You were born to do it.”

“I was born to play a terrorist?”

“I was there when Brayden was talking to the casting director. He told them that you’ve got the background for it, that your dad is a crazy-strict fundamentalist imam who forced you to attend some jihadi madrassa and you ran away and made your way to freedom. Azaan, that’s such a wild story. How come you never told me?”

“It wasn’t as dramatic as all that,” I said, which was true.

When I’d been kicked out of the house at seventeen, Tiger Uncle had intervened. He had brokered a deal between me and my parents. My father agreed not to throw me out immediately or cut me off financially. In exchange, I promised to clean up my act and dedicate myself to Islam. I pledged that I would abandon all dreams of being something as useless as a creative and, instead, apply to Al-Azhar University in Egypt to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a holy man.

It was the perfect solution. My father could be sure I’d stay on the straight and narrow while still being rid of me. I, on the other hand, got the chance to escape him and live my life.

I had flown to Cairo, but I’d gotten on the next plane out to London without ever seeing the city. Tiger’s plan was never for me to follow through on my oaths. It was to give my family the illusion that I was still under their control.

He’d been right. Lying does make life easier.

At least as easy as it could get for an aspiring young actor of limited means in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Luckily, I’d had the funds that were supposed to be my tuition to help me get started.

As far as my parents knew, I’d graduated from a prestigious institution that had been around since 975 CE and was employed now as an imam by a small mosque in Dover.

Tiger Uncle had made my world my stage.

“Whatever. I know you. You keep everything buried. I swear that if anything like that had happened to me, I wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“I know.”

“Seriously. I’d tell everyone willing to listen. I’d, like, write a book about it.”

I smiled. “Yeah, well, no one is writing a book about my life. Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

* * *

The room where the audition was being held—a brightly lit, slightly cold, generic office—was full of desi and Arab actors. Sonya and I knew some of them. We’d congregated like this before, in other places, crossing our fingers together, but only for ourselves.

No one seemed interested in exchanging pleasantries or engaging in small talk. Whether that was because the stakes were high, due to this being a big budget production, or because they also had reservations about portraying yet another Muslim villain on the silver screen was impossible to say.

Even Sonya went quiet for around ten minutes, which was probably a personal record for her. Eventually, however, she broke the silence by asking, “Do you have anything else lined up?”

“Maybe. Tim Atherton is trying to put a production of Arms and the Man together. He said he wants me to play Sergius.”

“What is that?” Sonya asked. “A Bernard Shaw play?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a comedy, right? You don’t go in much for those, do you? Which is . . .”

She fell silent when my cell buzzed in my pocket. With a quick, murmured apology, I pulled it out, saw the caller ID, and said, “Shit.”

“What is it?”

“Bad news,” I told her.

My father was calling.

“I have to take this.” I got to my feet. “If they ask for me, tell them I stepped out to deal with a family emergency.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Probably not.”

With that, I rose, hurried out of the waiting room, and answered the phone.

“What’s going on, Dad?”

“Waʿalaykum salam.”

I rolled my eyes, something I almost never did when I wasn’t in contact with the people who had pushed me—kicking and screaming—into this darkening world. But I gave him what he wanted. “As-salamu alaykum.”

“Better.”

“So who died?”

It was meant to be a joke, of course, but my father’s reply was serious. “Baba.”

I winced.

“He is not gone yet. But his doctors say there isn’t much time.”

I didn’t know what to say. In some ways, it was like hearing a stranger was about to pass. I’d never gotten to know my grandfather. At the same time, however, it seemed like a significant event, given how Baba’s relationship with his son had shaped my relationship with my father.

“I’m . . .” I threw my free hand up, abandoning my search for the right words. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“It is Allah’s will. Every soul has to taste death.”

“Yeah.”

There was a short silence, then my father said, “He wants you to come home.”

“Baba wants me to go to Pakistan?”

“No. He’s here. He says—”

“Wait. Baba is in California?” I asked.

“I flew him over a few years ago so I could take care of him.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Did you need to know?” Imam Saifi asked.

“I guess not. But why? I mean, given . . . everything.”

“Because he wouldn’t do it for me.”

I scratched the back of my head. Mercy motivated by spite. I hadn’t known that existed.

“Anyway, I’m calling because he wanted me to. He says he wants to see you. It’s his last wish.”

“But—”

“I know it’s silly,” my father cut in.

“Right? I mean, he doesn’t even know me.”

“He is being emotional,” Dad said. “The shadow of death makes people who aren’t ready to face it lose their minds a little.”

“Is anyone ever really ready to face it?”

“I hope to be.”

“Okay. Well . . .” The door behind me opened and Sonya poked her head out, gesturing for me to make my way back in. “I’ve got to go. I’ll think about it.”

“He doesn’t have long.”

“I’ll let you know,” I promised.

“Azaan . . . you should come if you can. It would not be such a bad thing to see your face again.”

That was the closest thing to a hug I had gotten from my father since I’d been seven.

I let out a deep breath. It limped out of me, struggling to escape my chest, like it was tripping over the Gordian knot there I hadn’t ever attempted to untangle. “Yeah,” I managed to say. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

I’ve never been able to properly explain that knot to anyone. It lives just below where my ribs meet. I know it isn’t a real, tangible thing, but it feels like it sits inside me like a stone, like the black meteorite that is set into the wall of the Great Mosque in Mecca. I know others have it too. I’ve read about the tightening people have in their breast when they’re experiencing grief or loss or shock.

But for me it’s like it’s always there, though sometimes it is so light that I almost forget about it. Other times it’s incredibly heavy, a mass of roiling emotions seeking to break out of me.

I asked my mother about it once, and she had one of her colleagues, a cardiologist, run all kinds of tests on me. They came back negative. There is nothing wrong with my heart.

The problem lies elsewhere.

The brain stem, according to Mom, controls emotions, and there is something in it—the anterior cingulate cortex—that becomes active under stress. This agitates the vagus nerve, which is connected to the chest, causing a physical manifestation of what we are feeling there.

Her theory is that either this part of me is more sensitive and active than usual or that I’m imagining the whole thing. Either way, it’s all in my head.

Every girlfriend I’ve ever had has complained about it. They say I’m closed off and stoic to a fault. They believe they never really get to know me because I can’t express how I feel.

Sooner or later, they all want me to touch the knot.

That’s when all of my relationships end.

I can’t do it.

Well, that’s not true.

I can. I just don’t like to.

It’s mostly made up of pain, I think, because when I probe it, my chest constricts and it becomes difficult to breathe and my eyes well up and I feel that I’ll start crying. I’m afraid that if I start, I won’t ever be able to stop. It is easier to leave it alone.

It’s growing, though. It’s getting more complex, more layered as I get older. I hope that will change, that it won’t continue to accumulate power, but I fear that it will.

It was worse than ever then, standing in that hallway, after speaking to my dad.

I had to take a few moments to stay still, inhale, hold air within me, then exhale, like Atlas adjusting to the weight of the world after lifting it for the first time.

I was lucky I was about to act. That would help ease the knot a little. Because even if, according to all the reviews that were in, it made me a terrible romantic partner, it also made me a gifted dramatic actor. I could reach for the knot when I needed to channel anxiety, sorrow, grief, or pain. Doing so hurt less when I was pretending to be someone else. It never seemed like I would unravel on camera or on stage.

Ultimately, I don’t really understand it myself. I do know that Sonya was right, though. I don’t go in much for comedies.

* * *

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Sonya asked for what was, by my count, the third time. We were in the Tube, barreling through the belly of the earth, past Headstone Lane Station, and we hadn’t been able to find seats next to each other. She was across from me and having to raise her voice a little to be heard.

The devil sat on her right, the recently deceased Queen Elizabeth on her left. Neither one of them seemed particularly interested in my well-being.

Did I mention it was Halloween?

I was next to a nurse—a real one—who looked like she hadn’t slept in a long while and a distraught older gentleman in a business suit carrying a heavy, overstuffed legal file in his lap. They studied me a little warily, probably wondering whether Sonya’s question was about my physical or mental health.

The world was recovering from a global pandemic. There was no such thing as a mild cold or a harmless cough anymore. Every minor ailment was regarded with caution and suspicion, and no one wanted to be anywhere near someone under the weather.

“I’m fine,” I called back.

“Are you sure? You’ve been super quiet. Did the audition not go well?”

My neighbors both relaxed a little.

“It was great,” I told her.

“I’m sure it was. You’re brilliant.”

“I hope you get it, though.”

“No,” Sonya said. “I hope you do.”

She was lying and so was I, mostly, which was fine. It was the convention in these circumstances.

My cell rang again. I looked at it, hoping it wasn’t my father.

It was Tiger Uncle instead. I got to my feet.

“What’s going on?” Sonya asked.

“I’m going to get off.”

“This isn’t our stop,” she pointed out.

“I’ve got something I have to do. I’ll see you at home.”

Her eyes found the phone in my hand. The incoming call was visible on the screen. “I hope things are okay.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Brayden is going to want to know what happened. I’ll tell him it went well, yeah?”

“Sure. Tell him I was the bomb.”

* * *

“Hello? Azaan Beta? Can you hear me?” Tiger Uncle screamed over a clear line. I’d learned quickly after leaving the States that he had little faith in the remarkable technology that allowed people to communicate through the ether, over oceans and continents, and which we all now took for granted.

When making international calls, Tiger Heart thought he absolutely had to shout to be heard, as if his voice was what was doing the heavy lifting. I’d told him often that he could speak normally, but he kept yelling throughout our conversations. Apparently, this was something they’d had to do when he was young. It was a habit he could not shake.

“I hear you just fine.”

“Good. Good. How are you, Gul-e-Chaman?”

“I’m fine, Uncle. What about—”

“Your father called you?” he asked.

“Yeah. I spoke to him earlier. He wants me to come home.”

“You should. That’s why I’m calling. To tell you that I think it’s a good idea.”

“To see my grandfather? I—”

“Forget about that Baba of yours. It would do Saqi good to have you around.”

I snorted.

“I know you and your father have had your differences, but you are needed here now.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, Tiger asked questions of his own. “Haven’t I always been on your side? I did what I could to help you, no?”

“Yeah. And I’m—”

“Do you remember what I asked you to do all those years ago when you had no place to go?”

“You said to trust you.”

“I am saying the same thing again. Saqi is in a bad place. It will do him good to have you here. It will do you good too, I think. Look, I’ve already wired you money for a ticket. You might as well book a flight.”

I frowned as the first droplets of a light drizzle started giving me cold kisses. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It is only money,” he said, giving voice to a sentiment I’d never had the luxury to have in my life. “Use it, don’t use it, that is up to you.”

“What’s this about? Is Dad sick too?”

“Saqlain’s health is fine. You don’t worry about that. The issue is . . . other things are happening.”

I looked around for shelter just in case the rain picked up. I didn’t have an umbrella with me. It had been overcast when we’d left, but Sonya had said that the threat of rain wouldn’t materialize. There was supposed to be sunlight later. The clouds were supposed to clear. That wasn’t happening. One never knows with such things, even if everyone speaks of them with confidence, relaying information they’ve read on websites or heard on the news.

To Tiger, I said, “What things?”

It took a moment, but eventually he answered, “As you know, Saqi’s dream mosque is nearing completion.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Haan. But some problems are arising with it. There’s been a bit of vandalism.”

I blinked. “Really?”

“Minor things, nothing to worry about too much, but you know how worked up Saqi gets. It’s just a few broken windows and lights, things like that. The newspaper here thinks it’s skinheads, which makes sense.”

“Yeah.”

“The bigger issue is that the community has elected a board of directors to run the new facility. The treasurer who is in charge now says some of the money donated to the project is missing. He wants answers. Saqi is under a lot of stress.”

“What do you mean there are funds missing? Where’d they go?”

“I am sure it is just an accounting error, beta,” he told me. “The investigation is in its early stages still—”

Spotting a bus stop nearby, I made my way toward it. “There’s an investigation? As in, they’re accusing Dad of doing something wrong? He would never—”

“Relax. So far it is only one guy with a splinter in his bum. We don’t even know how much is unaccounted for yet. It is probably not much. But, again, you know your father. He is worried about what people will say if this gets out, how it will impact his image and that of the mosque. Making one headline is quite enough for him.”

“Right.”

“So come make it easy, okay?” he said. “He is proud of his mosque. He would like it if you were there when it opens. More important, he is proud of you.”

I laughed, ducking under the plastic ceiling of the bus stop just as the heavens began to open up in earnest.

“He is. Saqi always tells people about how he snatched you away from the devil’s grip. He’ll enjoy parading you around. It will be a nice distraction for him.”

“I’ve got better things to do with my time than be his show pony, Uncle.”

“Acha. Fine. Listen, I don’t want to argue anymore, Pardesiya. Don’t come back for him. Come back as a favor to me. You owe me.”

I sighed. I did. That was undeniable.

Tiger didn’t wait for me to respond, or maybe he just took my silence for assent. “Then I will see you soon, okay? Have a good flight.”

ChapterThree

2005

My father laughed as we ran through the rain. He was carrying a cardboard box with a few umbrellas in it, and I had a backpack in my arms. I was grinning too. At eleven years old, I couldn’t define irony, but I could sometimes spot it when I saw it.

It was a big day. My parents—well, my mom, mostly—had bought a home and it was our first day there. She’d wanted to hire movers, but Saqlain Saifi hated paying others to do things he could do himself. That was, in his opinion, something only lazy people did.

As a result, our move was being handled with the help of a couple of men from the community and a U-Haul truck. They were all soaked and wondering if my father had checked the forecast. He claimed he had, but that it had been, as it was prone to be, inaccurate.

The box with the umbrellas he was carrying had been buried at the very back of our stuff and would have, in any case, been useless as we’d all needed our hands.

When we got inside, Dad dropped it next to the combination safe he usually kept in his closet and ruffled my wet hair. “Good job today. Why don’t you go take a hot shower? It’ll warm you up. After I make some tea for the others, I’ll bring your suitcase up for you. Have you picked which room you want?”

“I’m taking the one with the poster,” I told him.

“A poster of what?”

“Some guy with long hair,” I said. “Come see.”

Whoever had lived there before had left behind a picture of a man in a leather jacket with a cap on his head on one of the walls. He was sitting on a motorcycle, and below him a caption in bold, white letters declared: Image is Everything.

“That’s Andre Agassi,” Dad said. “He is a tennis player. A legend.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want me to take it down for you?”

“No,” I said. “I like it.”

My father looked confused. “But if you don’t know him—”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s cool. Also, it just seems . . . true.”

He frowned at me, then seemed to register the words I was talking about. “‘Image is Everything’? That’s a very anti-Sufi message.”

I didn’t really understand what that meant. I wasn’t familiar with the tradition of religious asceticism he was referring to, why it was controversial, or even why it was important. I did know that I’d only ever heard my father use that word in a negative context. Whoever these Sufis were, my father did not approve of them. He thought they were deviants. I suppose I’d grow up to have that in common with them.

“You’re very anti-Sufi too,” I countered.

He smiled. “Not always. It is undeniable that purifying one’s heart is a part of Islam. It is just that some of them reject outward expressions of religion and focus only on their inward states, which is not right. That makes them dangerous.”

“But I can keep the poster, right?”

My father regarded the slogan again, then looked down at my hopeful face, and sighed. “Yes, fine, if you want. Just remember, Azaan, that things are not always what they seem. Mr. Andre is wrong. If you are searching for the truth, you need to look beyond appearances. That is the Sufi way. They try to look at the nature of things, at ultimate causes, instead of what is on the surface. They focus on intent rather than ritual. There is some merit in what they say, but you don’t understand or care about any of that, do you?”

I shook my head.

“When you are older, inshallah, I am sure you will.”

* * *

It’s hard to properly value money when you’re a child. Ten dollars seems like a fortune, a hundred bucks the kind of wealth only Qaroon or Mansa Musa or Elon Musk could realistically have. Every forgotten quarter rescued from between couch cushions or spotted on the ground in the wild is a blessing.

The adults around you smile when you tell them about the forty or so dollars you’ve managed to save up in your piggy bank, and they act like what you’ve accomplished is an impressive feat. But they’re liars. Because they know that what you have is basically nothing and, most probably, even after a lifetime of work and toil, what you manage to accumulate will never feel like enough.

I learned this truth earlier than most people because my father was obsessed with acquiring wealth.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying Imam Saqlain Saifi, with his long, mustacheless beard and his habit of wearing thobes in the largely White city of Redding was a fraud. He was only interested in the material world for the sake of God.

Part of his job was to ensure the day-to-day running of the mosque he was in charge of. This required funds. The space we prayed in may have just been a small unit in an old business park previously occupied by a succession of failed startup companies, but possession of it still required the payment of rent and bills. The board of directors, of which Tiger Heart was the only other member, covered some of this, but my dad still had to get up in front of his congregation every Friday to ask for their generosity.

He was also working on a side project for which he needed several million dollars.

I didn’t know my father well. We spent a lot of time apart, even when we were living in the same place. I’m sure he, like everyone else, had many hopes and aspirations, but he only spoke to me about one of his dreams, which was to build a proper place of worship for his flock.

The problem was that he didn’t have the means to construct it, and the Muslim community in town didn’t either, given that they were a small, if growing, number.

In order to answer what he felt was his calling, Imam Saifi needed cash. To get it, he’d go on fundraising trips across the country, visiting mosques in major cities, hat in hand, begging in the name of the Almighty.

A while before we moved into the home I’d eventually be kicked out of, Tiger Uncle decided that my father ought to take his tour international, so the two of them started traveling to Muslim countries in Africa, the Middle East, and Asia, where they’d try to get help for Dad’s cause.

Over the years, these trips became longer and longer, lasting weeks and then months. I asked Mom once if she missed him while he was gone.

I remember Dr. Iqra Saifi looking up from the romance novel she was reading, raising her eyebrows, and saying, “Of course not, dear. No one likes having reminders of their mistakes around.”

* * *

With my dad gone for long periods of time and Mom busy at work, I was often in the care of my babysitter. This was Clarissa Pavlides, a woman of around forty, a model turned actress, who claimed to have performed on Broadway, which was technically true. She simply failed to mention that she meant Broadway Sacramento, formerly known as the California Musical Theatre.

When Claire, as she liked to be called, got cast in a production of Chekhov’s The Seagull, I had no choice but to accompany her to her troupe’s rehearsals of the play.

I was certain I was going to be bored out of my mind. After all, I had no interest in birds.

But I was wrong.

It was incredible.

The transformation the actors underwent when they took the stage was almost magical. The way they spoke and the things they did all changed, and they became entirely different people.

Claire, as the casually callous Arkadina, was amazing. The cold inflection of her tone, the mild, self-absorbed disdain with which she looked at the other characters, the haughty way she carried herself—so completely opposite to her usual sweet manner—was a sight to behold.

What really got me was her son, Treplev, who felt that his mother didn’t like him. She didn’t want him around. She wanted to live a different life than she could because he existed. He wished she were an ordinary woman and knew that this was selfish. I didn’t get all of what he said. The knot in my chest tightened, however, and made me want to cry because I felt, for the first time, I think, that someone understood me and was speaking a truth I never could.

“Oh my God,” Claire said the first time she came to check on me. “You’re literally bored to tears.”

I shook my head. “No. It was nice.”

She tilted her head a little. “Really? What’d you enjoy about it?”

I shrugged, not sure how to articulate what I was feeling and not wanting to do so either. A heart has rooms and it has basements, and some emotions that are shoved below are hard to bring up.

“It’s just . . . ,” I managed to say, “I liked that it seemed . . . real.”

She smiled. “Chekhov would be thrilled to hear that, I’m sure.”

“Who’s that?”

“The man who wrote the play.”

“Oh. Is he here?”

She chuckled. “No. He died over a hundred years ago.”

“That’s so cool.”

Claire raised her eyebrows.

“Not that he’s dead. Just that . . .” I gestured vaguely at the stage she’d been on moments ago. “It doesn’t matter. I mean, it does, but—”

“No, you’re right. There is some measure of immortality in art.”

“My dad says everyone dies, that people only live forever in heaven or in hell.”

“Well, there is a bit of those in art too. It’s the closest some people will ever get to feeling connected to something greater than themselves.”

I frowned at that, not because I disagreed with her, but because I was trying to understand what she meant.

“We’re all looking for more than ourselves, right? We want to belong to a place, to a person, to . . .” She waved her arms around, to encompass the theater we were in. “Well, to whatever we love, I suppose.”

I think now that what she said was profound.

I know now that she was right.

But back then I was still young, and like my dad once said, some things you just have to be older to understand.

“I’m not looking for anything.”

“Just wait,” Claire told me. “Someday you will.”

ChapterFour

2022

“So you blew everyone away at the audition?” Brayden asked as he joined me at the dining table, where I was reading as I had dinner. His eyes, covetous, drifted to my plate. When he saw that it was a salad with a small, admittedly overcooked piece of salmon on the side, however, they moved away, uninterested and despairing. He reached, instead, for a bowl of fruit nearby.

“I thought it went really well,” I told him. “Have you heard from the casting director?”

“No. She’s not answering my calls.”

“Well, that’s a good sign.”

Brayden snorted, picked up a green apple, bit into it, and grimaced. “I forgot these are always sour here. Why is that?”

“I’m the one who buys them.”

My agent frowned. “How is that an explanation?”

“It’s my favorite flavor.”

“You’re a freak.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

Brayden grunted in a way that told me he agreed. “I guess you’ve always been a few sandwiches short of a picnic. By the way, do you ever wonder what the apple Adam ate was like?”

“What?”