Verse (18 page)

Chapter 80

She’s not in the first bomb shelter.

We head for the second.

We jog for it and I can see it up ahead.

Some men across the street are looking at me and speaking Arabic.

You’re paranoid. Schlomo’s right.

They’re shouting now. Can’t make out what they’re saying.

Keep jogging, it’s nothing.

Just want to rest.

Is that—?

Iris up ahead, walking toward the shelter, I can see her.

Now running as hard as I can.

“Iris!”

Their shouts are louder.

Iris sees me and stops and turns. Smiles, walks toward me.

I shout, “Iris! We need to—”

Gunshot.

I turn, duck.

Iris screams.

Those men are running toward me.

Schlomo catches my shoulder and I look at him and he’s pointing and there’s a gunshot and he sags against me, falls to the ground. They’re coming across the street for me, running.

Blood on my jacket, on my hands.

Iris screaming, “Manuel!”

Schlomo is screaming at me in Hebrew, can’t translate, just babble and my name, “Manuel!” and babble and my name.

I’m running, running as fast as I can, away from Iris, down the street and the men are yelling at me, more babble and, “Manuel!” and more babble and my name.

And I’m running harder than I ever have but I can’t feel it, just air pumping in and out of my throat, and my legs pumping, my knees moving and—

I hit the end of the crosswalk and a car zooms by, nearly hits me, and I skid and they’re on me, tackling me, wrestling me and I’m on the ground, wind knocked out of me.

And they’re babbling at each other and they flip me over, I gasp for air, one of them holding my arms, one on my legs, and I’m looking up at another one holding a knife.

He kneels down toward me with the knife pointed down, straight at me and I’m thrashing and thrashing and gasping but it’s no good.

And he gets closer and puts the knife right up to my face and I stop thrashing, slow my breathing, I’m perfectly still, just craning my neck, pulling away from the knife.

And Iris is there, one of them has her, holding her arm, gun at her back.

They talk to each other.

He pulls the trigger and Iris’s blood and brains are all over me.

“No,” I say.

And the one with the knife turns back to me, puts the knife back up to my face. I pull away.

I say, “Please. No.”

And he slides it into my right eye.

Chapter 81

I’ve never been in this much pain before in my life. I can almost step back from it and appreciate it intellectually. Not like when I got shot. No painkillers. No merciful unconsciousness.

There’s nothing dulling the searing, screaming, violating pain cutting through the right side of my face.

It’s just there, consuming everything else. Can’t think about anything else.

Like the hood over my head. And my hands cuffed behind my back. And Iris.

And the way I’m constantly being shoved to walk and then shoved to stop. And then shoved forward again. And then shoved to sit. And then pulled up again and shoved to walk again. And Iris.

I don’t know where I am. Just the pain.

And then I’m shoved against some barrier at my waste and then down into it. My knees crammed up into my chest, my arms contorted behind me. And my face screaming.

The trunk is closed on me and the car starts up and I don’t know how long the drive lasts. Two days? A week? Five minutes? A year?

The car stops.

But then starts up again and then stops and starts again.

And then stops and the trunk is opened and I’m pulled out, falling over the side onto the pavement, and my arms are relieving and my legs are tingling, waking up, and my the right side of my head is—

I’m pulled to my feet and I stumble and am shoved and I’m pulled back up and marched somewhere, I don’t know, inside.

Up an elevator and down a hall and my face and onto my knees. And they’re talking in Arabic.

And the hood is pulled off and the light is blinding. On the left side.

Just the left side. The right is dark.

My eye doesn’t adjust. I can see figures. But it’s too bright.

Film lights, hot and bright like the sun. There’s a camera. In two dimensions. I can only see it in two dimensions.

And a man is next to me is talking in Arabic.

I crane my neck. Three or four men with guns behind me, one of them hits me in the face. My face. And I bow down low, trying to let it subside. Please subside. Please.

He’s still speaking, and he switches to English, “He is the mahdi ad-dajjal. The false messiah. The one-eyed devil, blind in the right eye, he destroyed God’s mosque, he is not a servant of God as he claims, he is Satan. He is another example of American pride and folly. The Jews revere him for his sexual deviance and his hatred of Muslims.”

He raises a book and reads from it.

Allah's Apostle said, "Shall I not tell you about the Dajjal, a story of which no prophet told his nation? The Dajjal is one-eyed and will bring with him what will resemble Hell and Paradise, and what he will call Paradise will be actually Hell; so I warn you as Noah warned his nation against him."

And then they put the shroud back over my head and pull me to my feet and I’m shoved out of the room and down the hall and down the elevator and my face and outside and into another car trunk.

We stop and start and stop and start and I’m pulled out and inside and my head and my wrists and whole body and my face and into a dark room and the door shuts and I collapse and—

Chapter 82

Please God. Please. I’ll do anything. I know I’ve failed you. I know I’ve doubted. Disbelieved. But I believe. You’re real. I believe in you. I need you. Save me. Please, save me.

I’ll do anything for you. I’ll be your servant forever. Believe forever. Do anything you ask.

Just let the pain stop. Help me get out of this. Help me live. Just let it stop.

Just let me die. Let it end. Help. Help me. Please. God. Please. Anything. I’ll do anything.

The door clangs and footsteps. How long have I been here? How long was I awake? Maybe I was asleep.

I’m picked up. Walked. Doors open and shut. Shoved. Pushed. Stopped. Pushed forward.

Another car, this time in a seat.

They take off the shroud and I blink in the harsh, bright (two dimensional) daylight. My eye socket burns. My head throbs.

I’m in the backseat of a car, on the left side. We’re driving down a desert road. The man next to me, the one who removed my shroud, has a Kalashnikov pointed at me.

In the front passenger seat is the man from the broadcast. I can see him better now. Maybe 40? Handsome, very tan. He looks familiar.

The man next to me sniffs, then sniffs closer to me then pulls back in disgust, saying something and laughing. The driver curses angrily and the man sitting shotgun laughs. He turns to look at me and I keep (one) eye contact.

He says, “Do you know who I am?”

I shake my head.

“My name is Khaled Urdunn.”

The terrorist.

“Ah, you do know me. What do you know about me?”

I shake my head.

“You can say.”

I say, “Ter—” and sputter out a dry gurgle.

He grabs a water bottle from the cup holder, twists it open, puts it to my lips.

I suck on it, drinking, I cough, spurt some out, keep drinking, drinking, all of it, like a baby, not enough, just sucking air.

He takes it away and I cough and cough and sputter. He opens his window and throws the bottle out.

He says, “Well?”

I say, “Terrorist.”

He says, “I’m the terrorist? You blew up the Qubbat As-Sakhrah.”

“I didn’t.”

“Your men claimed credit.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“So your own men are lying!”

I shake my head.

He says, “That’s all? No response?”

“A man I work with did it. I told him not to. It was my idea, but I didn’t want— I didn’t want it, he didn’t listen to me.”

“So you’re just a weak leader instead of an evil one. Maybe it’s worse.”

I nod. “Maybe.”

“And now, because of your idea, because of your weakness, there will be war. How many will die? Thousands? Hundreds of thousands? Millions? All their deaths on your head.”

I nod. “You’re right.”

He says, “You call me a terrorist. I killed a few people, for freedom for my people. I killed a few oppressors. You? You’ve killed countless innocent civilians.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all? You’re sorry?”

I shrug and shake my head.

He says, “Why your men do this? Why they want to blow up the masjid, the mosque?”

“They want the war. And for the Temple. It’s one of the prophecies, the messiah must rebuild the Temple.”

“Ah, so you did want them to do it. You’re just passing the blame.”

“No. I didn’t want it. I’m the messiah for all people. Muslims too. The mosque is my holy site as well. I’m not the dajjal. Not Satan. The mahdi.”

He laughs and says something in Arabic and the others laugh. He says, “Okay then, Mahdi.” He turns on the radio and Arabian music, whatever it’s called, plays. He says, “Allah will judge you and you’ll get what you deserve. Either way.”

Chapter 83

I look around at the countryside we’re driving through. “Where are we?” I say.

“Syria,” Urdunn says.

“How did we get across the border?”

“They thought it was only heroin in our trunk.”

I lean back in my seat and stare out the window.

We approach a small, run-down town and head into it. We stop in between bombed-out buildings.

The man next to me gets out and comes around to my side and pulls me out of the car. Urdunn gets out too and I’m shoved down the old dusty, ruined street.

We turn a corner and a few blocks ahead is a huge gathering of people in the town center.

“Where are we?” I say.

Urdunn says, “Palestinian refugee camp.”

We reach the crowd and enter. Thousands of people, yelling at me, jeering, shoving, and grabbing at me.

I stumble to my knees, gouging them on rocks, and the man with the gun grabs me by the armpit and pulls me to my feet and keeps dragging me.

Ahead is a wall, pocked and ragged. Graffiti all over it. Chains hanging from it. Bolted to the wall recently, it looks like.

He pulls me through the crowd and to the wall. He turns me around, uncuffs me, and he and Urdunn chain me up by my wrists to the wall. Too weak to struggle.

There are video cameras set up at the front of the crowd.

Urdunn holds his hands up, quieting everyone. One of the camera crew puts a boom mic above Urdunn’s head. He yells something in Arabic. The crowd cheers.

He yells some more.

People pick up rocks.

He points at me and yells something else.

He and the man with the gun walk toward the crowd.

A rock comes flying and just misses my head, smashing against the wall.

Urdunn yells, “Intazer!” and holds his hands up for them to wait. Once they reach the crowd, I’m dead.

“Allahuakbar!” I scream. Urdunn stops. “Allahuakbar!” He turns. “Allahuakbar!” As long as he’s standing there, I’m safe.

He says something in Arabic.

“I’m not the dajjal. Please…” I don’t know Arabic. Even if I did, what would I say? I knew some, why didn’t I practice? Say something, remember something.

Urdunn walks into the crowd. It’s just me.

“Please. No. Please.” They understand, but it doesn’t matter.

Please God. Please.

“Allahuakbar.”

One guy throws a rock but it misses.

A seconD HIts.

Oh God.

PlEASE.

Another hITS.

Please.

I only pray when there’s nO OTHther hope LEft.

It mEAns I’m alrEAdy dead.

Hnnnnnhhh. Can’t breathe. Stomach. Breathe. Breathe.

I gASp. Gasp.

One of them flings a rock at my heAD—

I surrender. GOD, please. I suRREnder.

I yell, “La ilaha ila Allah, Muhammad rasulu Allah!”

A murmur rises.

A stone flies past my head.

Urdunn holds up his hands.

Another rocK HIts me.

“Intazer!” he yells. “Intazer, intazer!”

No more stones come.

He walks back to me and bends down, putting his face next to mine, “You wish to be Muslim?”

“Yes,” I gasp.

“Or are you a jackal, chewing its own leg, to escape a trap?”

“No. Yes, I’m a jackal, but please forgive me. Allah forgive me.”

“You admit your responsibility for destroying the Qubbat As-Sakhrah?”

“Yes! Yes, it was my fault, yes.”

“And you ask forgiveness.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

“And you admit all your sins against us? You renounce your wicked ways. You will change? You will fight for us, not against us?”

“Yes. Please, yes. Yes, yes. Please forgive me.”

“Allah does forgive you.” He stands and puts a hand on my shoulder. “And yes, we too forgive you. We are your brothers now.” He turns to the crowd and shouts something in Arabic.

There’s a murmur and loud boos.

He shouts something else and the crowd starts to disperse.

He says something to the men with guns and they come unshackle me.

Chapter 84

The shower streams down on me, the best shower I’ve ever had.

I open my mouth for a sip, no, I’d have diarrhea for a month, I spit it out.

I pee. I rub my hair and my body. Blood and grime mix with the urine and flow into the drain.

I soap up and shampoo and rinse and just soak.

My fingers are getting wrinkly, so I get out.

I take the penicillin and oxycodone from the packages on the sink, get dressed, including an eye patch, and go out.

Urdunn and the man with the gun, now with a pistol in a holster instead of the machine-gun, are waiting for me in the living room on a couch. “Salaam alaykum,” Urdunn says. “Please sit.”

“Alaykum salaam,” I say and sit across from them on a cushy chair.

A woman comes from the kitchen and brings me tea. “Shukran,” I say and she disappears back into the kitchen.

“How did you sleep?” Urdunn says.

I nod. “Good.”

“Is there anything we can do for you?”

I say to the other man, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

“Awadi.”

Urdunn says, “This is my bodyguard, yes, you haven’t been properly introduced.”

I say, “Well, I’m fine, thanks.”

Urdunn says, “Good. I’ve been receiving a lot of criticism for not letting you die. I hope my gamble that you will be more valuable to us when they see you working for our side than as a martyr for theirs is true. I hope you won’t disappoint me.”

I nod.

He says, “Do you want to take a walk?”

“Sure.”

We leave and as we walk down the road, I look back at the house we came from, a small home with a chicken coop. I say, “Is that your home?”

Urdunn and Awadi exchange amused smiles. Urdunn says, “No, I don’t live here. Just a family friend.”

It’s a small, bleak town. The streets are covered in rubble, with rundown houses and storefronts.

I say, “We’re in a refugee camp?”

“Yes. If you can call a town that has existed for fifty years a camp. You see how the Israelis subjugate these people.”

I nod.

He says, “I think that perhaps, despite your claim of reversion, your heart still belongs with Israel?”

“When I said I was the messiah, do you know what that means?”

“Yes, masih or mahdi. Or perhaps Isa. Jesus.”

“It means I declared myself king. I’ve been against the Israeli government since the day I arrived there. As long as I’ve been there, I’ve been a revolutionary, the same as you.”

“Very well, but are you with us?”

“For me, the messiah isn’t just the ruler of Israel. The messiah is the king of all the world, and the Palestinians and all Muslims and all people are my people. I want to protect them and liberate them, the same as everyone.”

“Understand that we are not backing your claims of being the mahdi. Only yesterday we called you the dajjal, the mahdi’s opponent.”

“The devil.”

“Yes, the devil. Of course you have repented, though it will be to Allah to judge your sin… sin… your heart, how do you say?”

“Judge my sins?”

“No, a different word, begins with ‘sin’, like your heart.”

“Oh, sincerity?”

“Yes, sincerity. Allah will judge your sincerity. For us, we can’t know. But we will give you the… um…”

“The benefit of the doubt?”

“Yes, this.”

I say, “Islam means surrender, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I have surrendered to God. Unconditionally. I am sincere.”

He’s looking me in the eye and he says, “I believe you.”

The static-filled call to prayer comes from the loudspeakers on the mosque.

Allahuakbar! Allahuakbar! Allahuakbar!

He says, “The azan, will you pray with us?”

I nod. “Yes.”

A mosque is just up ahead and we wash in front and go inside. It’s a domed room with a red carpet and we go to the front and kneel. Urdunn shows me how to do the stages of salat.

I surrender to you, God, I do. I am sincere.

I’m just a vessel for your will.

I don’t exist, only you do.

He finishes showing me and then he begins his own prayers and I watch him.

Awadi’s phone rings and he answers it, “Alo,” and he leaves.

I could kill Urdunn right now. Strangle him to death. I look around at the other seven, no, eight men in the mosque. No time for strangling. Maybe I could bash his head in. Am I strong enough? Can’t be sure. They’d probably be on me before I could hit him enough times. I need a weapon, anything. A knife at least. Cut his throat so deep he’d bleed out before they could staunch it.

He finishes and stands and leads us to the side where we sit on a bench. He says, “I think you blame me for your woman’s death, no?”

I look away.

“Yes. I didn’t order them, I hope you know this. Some of my men, they are only boys, they get excited, out of control.”

“Okay.”

“You heart is still hard to hear this. It will be the same for anybody. We will discipline these boys when the fighting ends. And we will speak again. Okay?” He puts his hand out for me to shake.

I shake it. I could pull him in and just claw out his Adam’s apple. Maybe bite it out. Gouge into his eyes with my thumbs till I was digging in his brain.

But what about the actual killers?

He’s right, he didn’t do it, he’s just the boss. If I kill him, they’ll kill me. How will I kill them?

I let his hand go.

Awadi approaches from outside. Urdunn and he walk away a few feet and murmur too each other. Arabic, too soft and fast for me to understand anything. Why didn’t I study harder?

I’m gonna find out who the killers are. Kill them. And then kill Urdunn.

Urdunn looks at me and says, “You asked about my home, do you want to see it?”