He was awake when the voice of the muezzin sang out its sweet melody, calling the faithful to dawn prayers. For the first time he realised how beautiful the voice of a muezzin could be, though the voice of their muezzin was usually hoarse and unpleasant. He was in a great mood – his thumping headache and that awful feeling of nausea had gone – although now and then his conscience still stabbed him. He went to the bathroom and took a cold shower, watching the cold water mingle with soap and run off his body on its way to the drain, as if he were seeing the foul residue of his evil deed leave his soul, never to return.
At the mosque he prayed as he had never prayed before, and stayed on long after prayers were over. He needed to talk to someone, but not just anyone. Taking a copy of the Qur’an, Hisham leaned back against the wall and prepared to open the holy book just as his uncle was finishing his prayers (including extra devotions and invocations) and preparing to leave the mosque. When he saw Hisham holding the Qur’an, he gave a broad, contented smile (something he’d seldom seen before on his uncle’s face), and left without addressing him, though Hisham heard him murmur, ‘God bless you, my son. God bless you, my son.’ Hisham opened the Qur’an and began to read: By the star when it sets, your friend has not strayed or fallen into error, nor does he speak from desire …
When he got back from the mosque, Moudhi had made breakfast. She looked pleased when she saw that Hisham was in the best of health. But Hisham knew, as he sat at the table, that she would spit on him had she any idea what he had done. They all sat and ate, in silence, the small plates of beans with warm, dry, Afghan bread, and drank their milky tea. Hisham’s uncle ate contentedly, looking at him with a generous smile that never left his face. Before getting up, he looked at his sons. ‘I wish you were more like Hisham,’ he said, ‘a young man like no other.’ Then he got up and looked at Hisham, saying, ‘God bless you, my son, and may He make many like you.’ He left for his room, murmuring some of his favourite prayers. As usual, a silent Muhammad followed immediately after him.
Abd al-Rahman looked at Hisham and smiled, stuffing more food into his mouth. Hamad got up and leaned against the wall with a glass in his hand, asking quietly, ‘What’s up? What’s all this flirting between you and father?’
‘It’s very strange,’ said Ahmad. ‘Father rarely praises anyone. What have you been up to?’ Eyes stared at him from every side; Hisham was mortified.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing at all. He just spotted me as he left the mosque … reading the Qur’an. That’s all.’
‘Does anyone stay in the mosque after father?’ asked Ahmad, open-mouthed. ‘This is indeed a true miracle.’
‘Yes. What is going on in Hisham’s soul?’ asked Hamad. ‘Since when has he been addicted to the mosque?’ He drank the rest of his milky tea and poured another. ‘Anyway,’ he said, laughing. ‘It’s a good thing. Now we can sit chatting in the evening in your room without arousing anyone’s suspicions. Congratulations, my friend, you have become one of God’s trusty saints, and now you can come to no harm.’
Hisham was excruciatingly embarrassed by his cousins’ comments, and was suffering fresh pangs of conscience and stomach cramps, but still they showed no sign of stopping. Hamad went on in the same sarcastic vein: ‘I had no idea you could be so cunning. Anyone would think you were a weak and innocent dove, but it seems there’s a snake lurking in the grass.’ When he had finished, he gave a loud laugh, but Abd al-Rahman stopped him.
‘You’re being unfair to Hisham, my friends,’ he said. ‘He’s not guilty of your charges. He really is just an innocent lamb.’
As Abd al-Rahman spoke he glanced at Hisham from the corner of his eye, winking and smirking as if to say, ‘There you are, I’ve testified for you, and made you an example in this house. No one will have any suspicions about us after today.’ This was exactly what Hamad had been implying, though in a different way.
Everyone left; Abd al-Rahman to go to school, and the others to work. Hisham stayed where he was, thinking, while Moudhi and Said collected the leftovers and cleaned up. Moudhi was muttering angrily to herself. He had no idea what she was saying, but he could be pretty sure that she was cursing her brother Muhammad’s wife, Anoud – or poor Said, who was often the butt of Moudhi’s wrath. Hisham ignored them and reflected on his current situation. Why didn’t his cousins believe that what he had done in the mosque was no hypocrisy or blasphemous trick, but a real genuine feeling? He smiled as he thought of his uncle; such a good man, just deceived by appearances like most people. When he really had been innocent, his uncle hadn’t praised him at all, and now that he had faltered, he praised him excessively. But he couldn’t be blamed; he had nothing to go on except appearances. He saw Hisham praying and judged him to be virtuous, although the worst of God’s creatures prayed along with everyone else.
Moudhi’s voice woke him from his reverie. She had stopped cleaning. ‘Aren’t you going to the mosque today?’ she asked. He smiled at her. Then he got up, still meditating, though his thumping headache and violent nausea had vanished.