American Dervish: A Novel (14 page)

“Not quite,” Sonny replied. “There are different kinds of Christians. Protestants are one kind.”

“They’re all the
wrong
kind,” Chatha offered, flatly.

Sonny looked over at him, as if wanting to respond. But he held his tongue.

Dawood continued in the pause, enthusiastically: “So you know about this Max Weber, Dr. Buledi?! The fellow is impressive. He really tells it like it is!” Dawood turned to the others. “You’d never find a Muslim like him, someone who could stand up against his own people and tell the truth behind all the lies.” Dawood gesticulated with glee. “Weber shows how Christians created capitalism! He shows you that capitalism is their
real
religion! He even says it! That it’s all a
conspiracy! Everything is an excuse to make money!”

“That’s stretching things, Dawood,” Sonny corrected. “It’s not really what he’s saying.”

“It’s what I read. And trust me: I was paying attention.”

“Be that as it may,” Sonny said with a shake of his head. Up until now, he, like everyone else, had been speaking the usual English-and-Urdu hybrid that most in our community spoke—but now he spoke only English, and his tone was cold, academic, with a hint of disdain: “Weber is talking about how a certain mind-set, a certain Protestant way of thinking and being, had the effect of making people invest their money instead of spend it.” He spoke slowly, as if uncertain those he was talking to would understand. “One of the differences between Protestants and Catholics, Weber says, is that Protestants just don’t give their money away to the Church the way the Catholics do. And they also don’t seem to want to spend money on themselves. So what ended up happening was that Protestants would make money and just continue to save it. And over time, they built larger and larger pools of money. Of
capital.
Which they had to put somewhere. So they would invest it. And this, Weber is saying, is how capitalism really started.”

Dawood was staring off with a troubled look, as if trying to square what Sonny was suggesting with his own understanding of what he, obviously, hadn’t read with nearly as much attention or comprehension. Dawood was about to speak when Chatha interrupted:

“Your Mr. Vebb is wrong.”

“Not Vebb. Weber,” Sonny corrected, then repeated for emphasis: “
Vay-bar.
”

“Whatever. I don’t care how many books he writes. He can’t change the truth: Capitalism has nothing to do with Christianity. Pools of accumulating money, you say? Where do you think those came from first?”

“I told you what Weber thinks,” Sonny said. “I’m not saying I agree or disagree. I was just clarifying his point.”

“I don’t care about him, Doctor-
sahib.
I care about you: Where do
you
think the first pools of accumulating money came from?”

“I don’t know what you’re driving at, Ghaleb. You obviously know what you want to say. So just say it.”

Chatha nodded, granting Sonny’s point. “From interest. That’s where.”

Sonny shrugged. “Okay. And?”

“Who started the idea of interest?”

“I don’t know.”

“Everyone knows—except you and your dear Mr. Vebb, apparently—that interest is a
Jewish
invention. They are the ones who started that sin.” Chatha’s tone was imperious, as if he expected his pronouncement to render further discussion unnecessary. Dawood was studying Chatha, considering the thought. Father shifted in place, clearly irritated.

“So Ghaleb… ,” Father started. “When you just bought that pharmacy in Birch Grove, did you pay cash?”

“Of course not,” Chatha answered.

“You took out a loan?”

“What do you think, Naveed?”

“And it’s an
interest
loan…?”

“The only kind you can get in this country, brother.”

“So let me get this right,” Father continued. “You’re benefiting from the
sin
of interest. Doesn’t that make you as much of a sinner as your so-called Jews?”

“You ask me the question like you think I never asked this myself.”

“So what’s your answer?”

“Those of us living here, among the
jahil
s, we have to live with their rules…”

“
Jahil
s?” Sonny muttered to himself. Even with as little as I knew about Islam at the time, I knew the word referred to those who didn’t believe.

“Sounds a bit easy…” Father went on: “Doesn’t it make you a hypocrite?” His relish in saying that word was clear.

“No need to get nasty, Naveed-
bhai.
”

“I’m just asking you a question,
maulvi-sahib.
”

Chatha snickered. “For us, here, we have to live with the rules…When there’s no other way to make your living, you do what you have to do. Family is first in our faith. You have to care for your family. That is what the Quran says. There is room for flexibility in our tradition.”

“Family is first for any sane human being, Ghaleb,” Father responded sharply. “Faith or not…And anyway, we’re not talking about that. Your family is taken care of. We’re talking about prosperity. That’s what you’re after. You don’t need to take the interest loan to take care of your family. You would do fine without the loan. Without the new pharmacies. You could save your money and wait until you have enough in the bank to buy a new location without the loan.” Father paused. “But that would mean being less aggressive than you want to be.”

“Or the tax advantages,” Chatha added. “The competition is fierce here. We will never succeed in changing the system if we don’t participate. But when we are established, and that day will come,
inshallah,
then we can talk about banks that offer no-interest loans.”

“Dance with the devil until then? Is that the plan?” Father asked.

Before Chatha had a chance to reply, Sonny started in: “So maybe we should be more grateful to the Jews,” he said. “After all, Chatha-
sahib,
your master plan seems to require their invention of interest.”

There was a long, tense pause.

Majid, who hadn’t said much yet, offered this apparent non sequitur with visible agitation: “I pray to Allah that damn Carter loses the election!” After another short pause, he continued: “Those Jews chewed him up and spit him out. And we’ve done nothing but pay the price! Can you believe that
idiot?
Promising us a few hundred million when those Jews are twisting his arm to pour billions into their defense? General Zia was right to call the offer peanuts. That’s what it is! Peanuts! And Carter and his fat brother can keep those peanuts for themselves as far as I’m concerned.”

“I don’t know why it would be any different with Reagan,” Dawood replied.

“It
has
to be different,” said Majid. “He’s a Republican. Nixon was a friend to Pakistan.”

“Maybe he’ll be a friend. Maybe he won’t,” Dawood said, looking over at Chatha again.

“Pakistan is one thing. Israel is another,” Chatha stated with finality.

“But they need Pakistan!” Majid added in an oddly pleading tone: “Without Pakistan, they lose Afghanistan to Russia. And then they lose Pakistan! And then Iran!” He was pointing now, emphatically. “And the Americans won’t like how the map looks after that!”

“Frankly,” Sonny began, “they would probably prefer Iran to be Russian than run by the Ayatollah.”

“I don’t care about Iran! I care about
our
people!” Majid exclaimed. “We have to take care of our own business first! Then we take care of the other business. Pakistan is going to fall to pieces if the Americans don’t help us. But those goddamn Jews don’t want them to help us!”

Sonny looked at him, confused. “Why are you attributing the lack of support for Pakistan to Jews?”

Majid glared at Sonny, disbelieving. “Because they hate us! That’s why! We’re like them. The only other religious country in the world. We were created for Muslims, just like they were created for Jews. But they want to be the
only
ones!”

“Pakistan will be fine,” Chatha responded confidently. “Pakistan is not the issue. The real problem is Israel. We will never have peace in this world as long as they’re living on that land. They bring difficulty for others everywhere they go—it’s their curse. But for that there’s only one solution. And we’ll have to wait another hundred years before anyone has the guts to try that again.”

“Try
what
again?” Sonny asked suspiciously.

“Killing them all,” Chatha replied, adding—after a pause—with the same matter-of-fact tone: “Like Hitler.”

“Hitler?” Sonny asked. He looked over at Father, appalled.

Father seemed less appalled than exasperated.

Just then—as if on cue—a delightful cataract of female laughter erupted in the kitchen, where the women were gathered.

“If you knew the words of your own holy book, Dr. Buledi,” Chatha began, “then you would know that Hitler was just doing what the Quran predicted and what Allah warned them about.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t act so offended.”

“Don’t act offended? I am offended.”

“Well… ,” Chatha said smugly as he rose from his armchair, “that’s a matter of your politics. It has nothing to do with the truth.” Chatha stepped to the bookshelf along the far wall, where he reached for a copy of the Quran sitting on the highest shelf. “
This
is what I am talking about,” he said as he kissed the cover and held up the book. “The
Truth.
” He opened the book, muttering an invocation as he searched its pages. “There it is,” he said, stepping to the couch. He handed Sonny the book, his index finger pointing at a block of text. “Read the underlined verses. Here”—he turned the page—“and here…”

Sonny took the book from him with a skeptical look. There was an uncomfortable silence as he started to read and as Chatha sat back down in his armchair. Another wave of women’s laughter washed in from the kitchen. And suddenly, there was a woman standing in the doorway.

Chatha looked over. “Yes, Najat?” he asked.

Najat was his wife. The woman I’d only ever met behind a face-covering veil, which she wasn’t wearing now.

“Can we interest you men in a little
kawa?
” she asked, playfully.

She had a sweet, round face, with a wide and appealing smile. But seeing her gave me an odd feeling, as if the unpermitted face now revealed was somehow unreal, and that the gray-black hanging canvas mask that showed nothing of the woman was, in fact, her true face.

All the men wanted
kawa,
some with milk, others with sugar as well; only Father requested it the way Kashmiris—inventors of the lightly astringent, green-tea-and-spice brew—served it: with a pinch of salt.

Orders taken, Mrs. Chatha disappeared into the kitchen.

Back at the couch, Sonny turned the page, still reading. He shook his head. “It doesn’t mean what you think it means,” he said confidently as he looked up and gave the book back to Chatha.

Chatha ignored the gesture, turning to Dawood. “Read it to us, brother.”

Dawood hesitated. He looked embarrassed.

“Go ahead,” Chatha encouraged. “Do us the honor. Take it. Read it.”

Dawood leaned forward and took the book from Sonny. “Which lines?” he asked.

“The underlined ones,” Chatha answered.

Dawood straightened in his chair. He cleared his throat and began to read:

Disgrace and humiliation were stamped on the children of Israel.

They earned the burden of God’s wrath.

And all because they denied what God revealed.

They killed His messengers. They rebelled.

They did what was wrong.

Dawood turned the page. Chatha was looking at Sonny. Sonny looked away, unable—or unwilling—to hold Chatha’s gray, unblinking gaze. Dawood continued:

Evil is the pride for which they sold their own souls,

And rejected what God has revealed,

Jealous of others whom God chooses to favor.

They have earned the burden of God’s wrath. Over and over.

Hearing these words, Chatha excitedly raised his hand, stopping Dawood. “‘They have earned the burden of God’s wrath. Over and over.’ That is what is written.
That
is the truth!” Chatha pointed at Sonny, putting exaggerated emphasis on certain words as he continued: “And
that
is the
curse
that has been
following
them
ever since.
It is
why
they were put in
ghettos.
Why
there was a
Holocaust.
And
why
they will
lose
their
pre
cious
Israel.
”

Majid grunted, like a farm animal anticipating feeding. Dawood was nodding.

“They are destined to suffer,” Chatha added with force.

I remembered the only Jewish friend I had ever had, Jason Blum. A wave of worry went through me.

“Why only those verses, Ghaleb?” Sonny challenged, removing his glasses with disdain, wiping at the lenses with a handkerchief he produced from his shirt pocket. “Why not have him read sixty-two as well?”

“Sixty-two?” Chatha asked, confused.

“Maybe it’s
you
who needs to know your own holy book a little better,” Sonny said, replacing the glasses on his face. “Dawood, please do us the honor of reading verse sixty-two.”

Father looked at Sonny, impressed.

“Dawood. Please. Verse sixty-two. It’s one that Chatha-
sahib
did
not
underline.” Sonny gave Chatha an icy look. Dawood glanced over at Chatha. “You don’t need his permission, Dawood,” Sonny said, abruptly. “You’re a grown man. Just read it.”

“Go ahead, Dawood,” Father said. “What’s it say?”

Dawood turned back the page, clearing his throat again:

It is true: The faithful, those who follow the Jewish faith, the Christians, the Sabians—all who believe in God and the Last Day and do right—these shall find reward with the Lord.