In the Land of Kan’an Dima Alzayat (bio) Hayya ‘ala s-salah. Hayya ‘ala ‘l-falah. Farid answers the call. Stands between two men that connect him to a row of two dozen others, to fourteen centuries of millions more. All facing al-Baytu l-‘Atīq: The Primordial House, home of the Black Stone. A stone whiter than milk when it fell from Paradise only to be turned as dark as night by the sons of Adam and their sins. He stares down past hands folded one over the other on his rounded belly. Eyes trace blue lines that intertwine to form the octagons and hexagons and other–agons woven through the crimson wool beneath his bare feet. Allahu-akbar. Forward he leans. Palms on knees, back forming a ninety-degree angle with bent legs, stiff joints. The recitations turn and tumble in his mind like old acquaintances. Glory to my Lord, the Most Magnificent. Repeat and repeat. Allahu-akbar. Up for a moment and then back down. All the way down this time. The carpet is rough against his forehead, its scent heavy and stale. He fills his lungs. Glory to my Lord, the Most High, the Most Praiseworthy. Inhales again and drinks the sweet mustiness like a newborn takes its mother’s milk, all-filling, all-fulfilling. When he exhales, he can feel the breath leave his lungs, exit his mouth, but it does not blend into the air around him. Just lifts and hovers above his head, waiting to be reclaimed at the door. Allahu-akbar. And up and down again and two more times until he is sitting, staring at the feet of the Pakistani man in front of him. The soles of the feet yellowed. The skin dry, cracked. That night, you lie on your bed and stare at the ceiling. Listen to Amina’s heavy breathing. You kick off the quilt, leave only the sheet. Pull both up. Kick both off. Amina mumbles and turns toward you, her lids closed. On [End Page 132] her face a clear gel mask has cooled and dried. You reach out and let your fingers graze its hard smooth surface. She opens an eye. “What are you doing?” “I can’t sleep.” “Say Bismallah. Bismallah.” She turns over and pulls the quilt up to her chin. You wait for the first soft snore before you grab the khakis and navy sweater off the armchair and head downstairs. The moonlight cuts into the living room in streaks and you dress in a strip of darkness. It’s almost midnight and the street is silent. House and lawn connect to house and lawn. Glowing jack-o’-lanterns stare from their porches and stoops. Witches laugh and goblins glare as you get in your car. Your hands steer you north on San Vicente, turn you right onto Santa Monica. Neon lights in purple, red, and green. Fiesta Cantina, Rage, the Abbey. Lines wrap around street corners. Small groups walk from bar to club. Thin boys in bright tight t-shirts and stonewashed jeans tucked into leather high-tops. Men with silver hair don blazers over white v-necks that plunge deep toward sculpted chests. Broad shoulders in sequin dresses and bright blonde wigs; strappy sandals lift frames of statuesque proportions. You roll down the window, and the beat washes over you, cracking the car’s silence with drums and cymbals. Uhn tiss uhn tiss uhn tiss. The pulse of voices and music floods the car. You stop at a red light. As people cross, their conversations fill your ears. You pretend they’re speaking to you. Let’s go to Fubar. No, long lines. Let’s go to Akbar. No, too far. Besides, everyone there has a beard. I don’t want my dick scratched up by some lumberjack. Laughter. A young woman walks in impossibly high heels. She’s flanked by two tall men whose arms link through hers, helping her balance on spikes of leather and plastic. One of the men is thirty, thirty-five. He has a trimmed mustache, wide shoulders, and a narrow waist. The muscles of his thighs push against tight blue jeans. You...
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Jan 1, 2017
Brian R Silliman + 2
Open Access