do not answer to Johnny, Billy, or Teddy, we’ll have difficulty accessing a computer without a password. We are not as backward as you may think.”
Dajaal says to Malik, “Give it to him and fear not what he might or might not do. We know how to deal with his kind.”
Malik sits racked with despair.
BigBeard says, “Dajaal and I—fancy bearing a satanic name and being proud of it!—have known each other for a very long time. He knows what I am capable of, this ally of the devil.”
As BigBeard walks away with the computer, leaving the four of them to exchange looks, none of them knowing what to say or do, Jeebleh remembers that, in Islamic mythology, Dajaal is the name for the Antichrist. Anyhow, he hopes that, as matters stand, the four of them will not blame one another for what has taken place. What BigBeard is doing seems to have less to do with protecting against breaches in the Islamic code of conduct than with the settling of old scores with Dajaal. Malik is already comparing this latest experience with a long chain of previous encounters with the abuse of authority, from his detention by an Afghan warlord keen on Malik’s companion, a female journalist, to the Congolese strongman who confiscated his car, cash, and an assortment of valuables.
Jeebleh calls, “Shall we wait?”
“I don’t know how long it’ll take,” replies BigBeard. “I suggest you go and take a look around the city, enjoy your lunch, have a shower.” Then, indicating Dajaal with his smug smile, he says to Jeebleh, “Send your driver and his sidekick to fetch your computer later.”
Again, no one can think of anything to say.
AS HE DRIVES AWAY, DAJAAL REMEMBERS BIGBEARD’S CHILDHOOD epithet, “the father of all lies, an uncle to deceit.” He drives fast, as though closing in on an elusive past in order to show the others what he has always seen. All he says, however, is this: “BigBeard is a man with more pseudonyms than anyone else I’ve ever known.”
Dajaal is a military man; he speaks sparingly and is not given to emotional outbursts. He is cautious, concerned that his actions do not harm either Malik or Jeebleh. He and BigBeard go back a long way. He knows BigBeard and his family members for what they are: a self-destructive lot, the less said about them, the better for all. He is relieved that Malik and Jeebleh do not press him to speak.
Jeebleh sits in back with Malik now, but Malik won’t respond to his solicitude. Jeebleh thinks how different people behave when their pride is hurt. Some sulk and withdraw into themselves, while others become jumpy, lose their cool. Where small sorrows make one incautious, Jeebleh reckons, big sorrows may render one tongue-tied. Malik is now entertaining a thoroughbred sullenness, neither looking in Jeebleh’s direction nor talking. He doesn’t even seem to be listening toGumaad, who, emboldened by the others’ silence, blabbers away so excitedly no one can follow what he is saying. Mercifully, Malik hasn’t said anything that he may later regret.
Unable to engage Malik, Jeebleh looks out of the window, sickened by the despoliation years of civil war have wrought on the city—as would be anyone who knew the metropolis in its “pearl of the Indian Ocean” days. The square mile of downtown, where at any one of five movie houses he watched Italian films in the original and other foreign films in their subtitled or dubbed versions, is utterly disfigured, and the historical districts are demolished. He thinks, There is no hurt worse than the hurt you cannot fully describe.
Malik, meanwhile, is replaying in his head a scene from David Lean’s
Lawrence of Arabia
, which he saw recently on DVD. He is recalling in particular the harrowed look on Peter O’Toole’s face when he emerges from the interrogation room, where he has undergone such suffering at the hands of his torturers. From then on, Lawrence is a changed man. Malik reminds himself that to be effective in his
Dajaal says to Malik, “Give it to him and fear not what he might or might not do. We know how to deal with his kind.”
Malik sits racked with despair.
BigBeard says, “Dajaal and I—fancy bearing a satanic name and being proud of it!—have known each other for a very long time. He knows what I am capable of, this ally of the devil.”
As BigBeard walks away with the computer, leaving the four of them to exchange looks, none of them knowing what to say or do, Jeebleh remembers that, in Islamic mythology, Dajaal is the name for the Antichrist. Anyhow, he hopes that, as matters stand, the four of them will not blame one another for what has taken place. What BigBeard is doing seems to have less to do with protecting against breaches in the Islamic code of conduct than with the settling of old scores with Dajaal. Malik is already comparing this latest experience with a long chain of previous encounters with the abuse of authority, from his detention by an Afghan warlord keen on Malik’s companion, a female journalist, to the Congolese strongman who confiscated his car, cash, and an assortment of valuables.
Jeebleh calls, “Shall we wait?”
“I don’t know how long it’ll take,” replies BigBeard. “I suggest you go and take a look around the city, enjoy your lunch, have a shower.” Then, indicating Dajaal with his smug smile, he says to Jeebleh, “Send your driver and his sidekick to fetch your computer later.”
Again, no one can think of anything to say.
AS HE DRIVES AWAY, DAJAAL REMEMBERS BIGBEARD’S CHILDHOOD epithet, “the father of all lies, an uncle to deceit.” He drives fast, as though closing in on an elusive past in order to show the others what he has always seen. All he says, however, is this: “BigBeard is a man with more pseudonyms than anyone else I’ve ever known.”
Dajaal is a military man; he speaks sparingly and is not given to emotional outbursts. He is cautious, concerned that his actions do not harm either Malik or Jeebleh. He and BigBeard go back a long way. He knows BigBeard and his family members for what they are: a self-destructive lot, the less said about them, the better for all. He is relieved that Malik and Jeebleh do not press him to speak.
Jeebleh sits in back with Malik now, but Malik won’t respond to his solicitude. Jeebleh thinks how different people behave when their pride is hurt. Some sulk and withdraw into themselves, while others become jumpy, lose their cool. Where small sorrows make one incautious, Jeebleh reckons, big sorrows may render one tongue-tied. Malik is now entertaining a thoroughbred sullenness, neither looking in Jeebleh’s direction nor talking. He doesn’t even seem to be listening toGumaad, who, emboldened by the others’ silence, blabbers away so excitedly no one can follow what he is saying. Mercifully, Malik hasn’t said anything that he may later regret.
Unable to engage Malik, Jeebleh looks out of the window, sickened by the despoliation years of civil war have wrought on the city—as would be anyone who knew the metropolis in its “pearl of the Indian Ocean” days. The square mile of downtown, where at any one of five movie houses he watched Italian films in the original and other foreign films in their subtitled or dubbed versions, is utterly disfigured, and the historical districts are demolished. He thinks, There is no hurt worse than the hurt you cannot fully describe.
Malik, meanwhile, is replaying in his head a scene from David Lean’s
Lawrence of Arabia
, which he saw recently on DVD. He is recalling in particular the harrowed look on Peter O’Toole’s face when he emerges from the interrogation room, where he has undergone such suffering at the hands of his torturers. From then on, Lawrence is a changed man. Malik reminds himself that to be effective in his
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