Free The Twelfth Imam by Joel C.Rosenberg Page B

know me. But the moment I asked you, you instantly thought of where you would like to go, true?”
    Najjar was embarrassed and confused. He nodded again.
    “Write it down,” the beggar said.
    “Where?”
    “On a piece of paper. Don’t let me see it. But I will tell you what you write.”
    “That’s impossible.”
    “Nothing is impossible.”
    Najjar didn’t have a piece of paper on him, much less a pen or pencil, but he turned back to the hustle and bustle of the bazaar and found a grocer nearby. From him, he secured a small pencil, then spotted an empty cigarette pack on the ground. Najjar ripped open the pack and scribbled down a location inside, carefully shielding it from the beggar and any other prying eyes that might be around. When he was finished, he stuffed the pack in his jeans pocket and stared back at the young man who now captivated his attention.
    “Bless you,” the beggar said.
    “Why do you say that?” Najjar asked.
    “Because you just wrote down the Jamkaran Mosque near Qom, Iran.”
    Najjar’s eyes went wide. “How did you do that?” he asked, his pulse pounding. “How did you know?”
    The beggar didn’t respond. His face revealed no expression whatsoever. Instead, he simply said, “Now write down the name of a world leader.”
    Unnerved, Najjar hesitated. “Living or dead?” he asked.
    “You choose,” the beggar said.
    Najjar pulled out the cigarette pack, scratched out Jamkaran Mosque , and wrote, Saddam Hussein . Then, realizing that would be too obvious, he thought for a few moments, crossed out Saddam , and wrote instead, Fulgencio Batista . Batista, Najjar had recently learned, had been the president of Cuba in the late 1950s. He crumpled up the cigarette pack and put it back into his pocket.
    “You have chosen well, my friend,” the beggar said.
    “How so?”
    “I am touched.”
    “Why?”
    “For you are truly a spiritual young man. Allah can do great things with one such as you.”
    Najjar had no idea what the man meant, but it was obvious he didn’t know what Najjar had written down. Then Najjar heard his aunt calling for him.
    “I have to go.”
    “But I have not given you the answer,” the beggar said.
    “I don’t think you know.”
    “But I do.”
    “Then whose name did I write down?”
    “Muhammad Ibn Hasan Ibn Ali,” the beggar said.
    “Ha!” Najjar said, somewhat disappointed but determined not to be perceived as nearly having fallen for this man’s trickery. “Not even close. You think that just because I’ve always wanted to visit the wishing well in Iran where the Twelfth Imam once appeared that I would actually be so stupid as to write down the name of the Mahdi, peace be upon him?”
    “Actually,” the beggar said, “first you wrote down Saddam Hussein’s name. Only then did you choose the Promised One.”
    Najjar again was stunned. The man was half right. But this, too, was strange. How could the beggar know that Najjar had written down Saddam’s name at first but not know that he had replaced it with Batista’s name? None of it made sense.
    Uneasy, Najjar decided it was time to go. His aunt was calling him again and sounded quite annoyed. He pulled the cigarette packet from his pocket and tossed it to the beggar.
    “See for yourself,” he said, then turned to his aunt and yelled, “I’m coming!”
    The beggar caught the rumpled pack but did not open it. Rather, he tossed it right back at Najjar, seeming to dare Najjar to reconsider. A bit annoyed himself now, Najjar walked over to the beggar, leaned down, opened the cigarette pack, and prepared to read the name Fulgencio Batista.
    But to his shock, the words were not there.
    Rather, next to the scratched-out name of Saddam Hussein was the name Muhammad Ibn Hasan Ibn Ali—in his own handwriting, no less.
    Dumbfounded, Najjar looked back at the beggar. He tried to say something, but no words formed.
    The young beggar spoke instead. “You will serve the Promised One when the time is