“I have been studying.”
His father wagged a finger. “No. No! You must be prepared. You should meet with Imam Ali.”
“Baba—”
“I will speak to him.”
Ali was Imam to David’s father, his mentor from home. To argue would diminish his father’s pride. His father had forfeited his homeland and his self-respect to save his family. In bringing them from a Lebanese war zone to the peace and safety of Ohio, he had accepted the charity of Christians, a bitter pill for a proud Muslim to swallow.
The tiny town of Banquet proved ideal for David to clear his mind and prepare for the pilgrimage. He had never seen his baba so happy. They prayed together daily.
On his last evening at home, his father gave David the Ihram. Tears glistened in the old man’s eyes as he presented the precious garment: two unstitched sheets, laundered and folded, with a pair of simple, open-toed sandals perched on top.
“Dawud, come with me,” his father said, and led him to the front door.
Father and son walked in silence until they passed the town-limit sign, “Banquet, Population 723.” Only then, surrounded by fields, flat and empty after the corn harvest, did his father speak.
“When I was a young man, a few years younger than you are now, I lived with your grandparents in Sidon, in South Lebanon. One night a terrible noise and shaking woke me. The small dresser where I kept my clothes jumped from the ground, crashed to the floor, and splintered to matchwood.” Eyes closed, face screwed into a grimace, his father relived the moment.
“Was it the war, Baba?”
His father stopped walking and faced his son, but his gaze was far away. “I pulled on my pants and ran outside. Streaks of light blazed through the sky, so bright it became like day. Planes flew so low I thought they would crash. They roared overhead with the sound of a thousand thunderclaps. Come. Walk.”
His father waved him on as though David were the one who had stopped.
“I felt a searing pain in my arm, like being stabbed with a hot poker. My feet left the ground, and I flew through the air and landed, hard. When I next opened my eyes, it was light. I lay on top of a car. I knew I must be on our street. But it was unknown to me.”
“Were you concussed?”
A hand wave dismissed David’s suggestion. “The houses were all gone. The mosque was a shell of three walls. Tiles from its golden dome were scattered like garbage. Everywhere was fire and smoke. The air stunk of burning rubber. I slid off the car, and my arm dangled by my side; it would not move when I asked.” His father flexed his left arm. He had never been able to fully straighten the limb.
“I looked for a marker, something to lead me home through the dust and stone and rubble. Then, near the top of a pile of rocks, like a beacon, my mother’s orange and black headscarf flapped in the breeze. She always wore the same colors… orange and black.” He rubbed his thumb and fingers together, feeling the cloth.
“Many stones lay atop the material. I dragged at them with my one arm and threw them down. When her scarf came free I held it to my face and breathed in her scent. I shouted for them, ‘Mama. Baba’.”
His father stopped walking and bent over as though he might throw up. He snatched an inhaler from his pocket and took two rasping puffs.
David had never seen his father so weak, so sad. He didn’t know how to react. Tears welled in his eyes.
When the old man recovered, he stared into the distance. “All day I dragged at rocks. No one could help. Out of six hundred Muslims in our village, twenty survived. Weeks later, men came with machines. They dug pits and pushed the rubble in. I never saw their bodies.”
“Baba, why have you never spoken of this?”
He paused, then sighed. “It is not a memory I wish to recall.” After a long silence, he turned back to David, straightened his shoulders, and looked him in the eye. “But, Dawud, you are soon to be a Haji. Understand, when you complete the fifth pillar, when you finish your Hajj, Allah will expect you to shoulder your responsibility. I am from their seed and you from mine. Their deaths are yours to avenge.”
His father’s face was stone gray, his small fists balled. “My son, here in America we are shielded from the war against Islam. Imam Ali is near the battle. Listen to what he says. Only if each Muslim does his duty can the war be won. Each of us has a part to play. Allah guided me, and I brought you to America. I am old. Now my son must take up the fight. Go to Imam Ali. Trust in his wisdom. He will help you understand how your piece should be placed in Allah’s divine puzzle.”
Three weeks later, an Asian woman approached David as he left the Akron-Canton Airport express security gate, which was reserved for passengers on private planes. Her almond eyes were warm, and her black hair, pulled tight into a bun, was held with a carved ivory pin.
“David, I’m Keisha, Mr. Nazar’s personal assistant.” She shook his hand, and he blushed at the softness of her skin. She stood close, and he smelled her perfume as her hand pressed gently on the small of his back to guide him. “Over here.”
A sleek jet waited on the concrete. Inside, the pilot stood at the cockpit door. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Baker.”
David nodded and took one of six seats. So far, he was the only passenger.
“Would you care for a drink?” Keisha asked.
“Water, thank you.”
“Right away. I’ll serve a meal once we reach cruising altitude. Just sit back and relax, David. This is a great way to travel.” Nazar had promised a guide to accompany him and get him safely to his hotel, but David hadn’t expected a woman.
Once they were airborne, Keisha brought food. She leaned toward him to serve, and her white blouse stretched tightly across her breasts. David’s pulse raced. Sweat formed under his arms.
Later, as she cleared the dishes, she bent her knees so her face was close and level with his. Her tight black skirt rode up and showed the flesh of her thighs. David filled his mind with prayer to block out the temptation.
“It’s a twelve-hour flight. Just press the call button should you require anything, David.”
The words triggered more wrong thoughts. Would she really do anything he wished? After she left, he waited a few moments to be sure she wouldn’t return. Then, with shaking hands, he laid his prayer mat on the floor in front of the cabin seats, estimated the location of Mecca, and recited morning prayers. He needed to clear his mind. Sexual thoughts were unfitting for a pilgrim of the Hajj.
A few hours into the flight, David needed the bathroom. Not wanting to face the woman again, he opened the door at the rear. His mind reeled from the opulence: walls draped in silks, a huge bed, dozens of liquor bottles hanging from dispensers behind a bar.
Behind him, someone coughed, and he spun around. Keisha stood at the front of his cabin.
“That’s Mr. Eudon’s private accommodations. Can help you, David?” She smiled, but there was tension in her voice.
“I… I need the bathroom.”
She walked toward him. He pressed his back flat against the rear seat to give her room. As she turned sideways to pass, her left breast brushed his chest. She positioned herself in the doorway and pointed to the forward cabin. Her naked, tanned arm hung inches from his face. “Your bathroom is through there.”
He went quickly, blushing, his head bowed. Behind him, he heard her lock the door to Nazar’s room.
They landed in Jeddah at midday on October 10th. Keisha guided him through Passport Control. He could tell by the way the agents stared that they assumed she was his harlot.
Once out of the terminal, Keisha hailed a cab and slid into the back seat next to him. Her skirt rode up her legs; they were smooth and shapely and bare. He sat on his hands, body pressed hard against the car door, and stared out the window. He was a pilgrim. He should not be with her. Thankfully, she stayed silent until they reached the hotel. She paid the cab and left him to follow with his luggage while she handled his check-in.