American Taliban by Pearl Abraham Page A

the menu.
    John was torn. He wanted a taste of the cooked dishes, but he also couldn’t pass up sushi rolls. Not here, in sushi heaven.
    Order two starters, one cold and one hot, and then a sushi roll, Bill recommended. He ordered sake, the ceviche Nobu style as an appetizer, and the broiled black cod with miso as his entrée.
    After considering the fish and chips Nobu style, the sashimi tacos, the lobster tempura, John finally settled on the salmon skin salad, the eggplant with miso, and the bigeye and bluefin toro scallion roll.
    Bill asked about classes and Sharia students. Have they been welcoming?
    Some, John said. Others are wary and critical. I’m told it’s because I’m not Muslim.
    I can understand that, Bill said. You’re taking on their texts without adhering to their tenets.
    I think it’s also a sort of territorial thing—
    The first course arrived, and for the next five minutes they gave alltheir attention to the compositions in front of them, drops and dabs and garnishes placed with the precision of an ink painting.
    Weird but good, John said, tasting the salmon skin. He offered Bill a taste.
    As an American, he continued, I think I threaten them when I enter their school, the one place they can think of as totally theirs. Does that make sense?
    Sure, Bill said. Especially since you also bring with you American-style freedom.
    John nodded. With his chopsticks, he reached for another mouthful of his salad, but paused midair.
    Um—Dad. De Niro just walked in.
    Well, he owns the place, Bill said.
    John waited.
    De Niro nodded greeting and moved toward the bar lined with illuminated sake bottles. The bartender poured him a cup, and he sipped, and the liquid, John thought, somehow expanded the man, and he filled the entire space. Sake cup in hand, he was suddenly at their table, asking how’s everything. He shook Bill’s hand.
    Truly excellent, Bill said.
    Awesome, John said.
    Good, good. Enjoy, De Niro said, and moved to another table.
    John returned to his salmon salad; Bill to his ceviche and sake.
    What else are you reading, Bill asked.
    Sufi poetry. Sufi books. One by Idries Shah. He mentions this wine allegory from the thirteenth century by a Sufi poet, Suhrawardi. It goes something like this:
    The seed of Sufism was sown in the time of Adam, germed in the time of Noah, budded in the time of Abraham, began to develop in the time of Moses, reached maturity in the time of Jesus, and produced pure wine in the time of Muhammed. It’s cool because it connects everything. Prophets, humans, religions, time.
    The entrées arrived with a flourish. Bill tried his black cod with miso and leaned back to savor it.
    John tasted. It’s the miso. It’s awesome.
    You’re interested in thinkers and thinking, Bill said. You might want to try philosophy at Brown.

 
     
    JOHN WAS PLEASED to find Khaled in his usual pose, leaning on the stair railing and smoking, exuding his particular not-quite-American nonchalance, which revealed itself in the way he held his cigarette between thumb and index finger, as if he were smoking a joint; in the way his shoulders hunched around his cigarette; the way he stretched his words out, which didn’t quite go with the way he stood a little too close, with no sense of the airspace Americans allow each other.
    When Khaled saw John, he stopped short, and John felt himself taken in, his lime-green cast, his new white shalwar kameez, his old navy peacoat worn casually unbuttoned over them, the Black Watch tartan scarf hanging from his neck, and his favorite checkered Van sneaker on one foot. He’d dressed for effect, and it wasn’t going unnoticed.
    Khaled smiled, appreciatively. Salaam, he said. Islam looks good on you.
    Aleikum a salaam, John responded.
    I printed the brochure for you, Khaled said, reaching into his pocket.
    What brochure? John asked, trying to recall a conversation about a brochure.
    Of Islamia College, Khaled reminded him. So you can apply for the summer