Free American Dervish: A Novel by Ayad Akhtar Page B

us in our lives with our thoughts—and, particularly, by what we chose to remember—I tried to change my memory of that night. I would lie in bed, imagining it all again: the sounds in the hall that had gotten my attention, but this time I didn’t get out of bed to check; or sometimes I did, but only to find Mina in the bathroom in her pajamas, brushing her teeth, looking up at me in the mirror with a smile. As the article explained, if I could only imagine a different ending, perhaps I would forget what had really happened.
    But it didn’t work. The image of her perfect form was never far from my mind, drifting into consciousness like smoke from a fire that just wouldn’t go out.
    So I tried something else. If it had been so wrong to see her private parts, I surmised, then I would stop looking at my own. It was conclusion based on a syllogism that occurred to me without effort, and brought me curious relief:
     
Seeing her nakedness was wrong. 
So nakedness was wrong. 
So my nakedness was wrong. 
    Now I went to the bathroom, careful not to look down while fulfilling my functions. I learned to perform my ritual ablutions without peeking. And even as I showered, I was sure never to look at what was between my legs.
    I redoubled my Quranic efforts. It was now that I began to strive, in earnest, to become a hafiz. It seemed the only surefire way to earn her love and attention once again. And I wasn’t wrong. My diligence in memorizing verses wore away at her resistance to me, and by that spring—some seven surah s and one hundred verses later—our regular study hour was restored. Once again, she was calling me “ kurban. ” It seemed to me she’d finally forgotten what happened that December night. But I hadn’t. I knew now I could lose her love. And I was prepared to do anything to make sure that it never happened again.
     
    Late that spring—just over a year since Mina and Imran had come to stay with us—we were all sitting around the kitchen table one Thursday evening. Father, Mother, and Mina drank tea as they read and exchanged sections of the evening newspaper. Imran and I sat before an array of broken crayons, coloring pictures. At some point, Mother looked up from the paper.
    “They’re saying it’s going to be seventy-five degrees and sunny on the weekend,” she said brightly. “First day of summer weather. They’re saying it’s a perfect day for a barbecue.”
    “Is that what they’re saying? ” Father mumbled, inching the business section higher to hide behind it.
    Mother turned to Mina. “We should make shaami kabab s and Lahori ginger marinade for the chicken. We should make it big. And invite lots and lots of people! To celebrate the change of seasons…What do you think, Naveed? Hmm? Saturday?”
    The question dangled in silence, unanswered.
    Father lowered the paper just enough to gaze over its edge. His expression was dim. “You’re the one who has to prepare the food. I just put it on the grill. You want a big barbecue? Be my guest.”
    “But then you have to invite some people, too.”
    “Fine,” he said, returning to his paper.
    Mother wasn’t convinced. “Naveed, look at me when I talk to you.”
    “What is it, Muneer?” Father asked, annoyed. “What do you want from me? Hmm? Why can’t you just drink your tea and enjoy your life for a change?”
    “Don’t be patronizing.”
    “I’m not.”
    “I was asking you a question. I want you to invite people, too.”
    “I said okay.”
    “Like who?”
    “I’ll invite Nathan.” Nathan Wolfsohn was Father’s colleague and research partner at the University Medical Center, and in many ways his best friend.
    “Good. Who else?”
    “Who else do you want me to invite?”
    “The Naqvis, the Khans, the Buledis…and why not the Chathas?”
    Mother was referring to the Pakistani families scattered throughout Greater Milwaukee, people we barely spent any time with because Father hated them. He called them sheep, claiming