Read Good Muslim Boy for Free Online

freezing, not that I feel much of it. I look
at the time.
    The detective gets out near a block of old apartments. He tells the driver I’ll take
care of the fare. He looks at me to confirm. I’m over it, too tired. I nod, and thank
him for all his overtime.
    The driver pulls out. He tries to talk about Australia. I want to humour him, but
I don’t have the energy. He doesn’t know what’s happened. He pulls out his phone
and tries to show me a video clip of a monkey taking a peeled banana then squirting
its contents back in the person’s face. I’m not really in the mood for this, but
I try to be polite.
    At the hotel, the driver goes on his taarof rant—in Persian culture, it’s customary
to decline any offer up to three times before accepting it—‘No, I don’t want the
money! You’re a guest.’ I can’t be bothered with this either, so I pay him too much
and leave.
    The concierge offers me a fresh room. I accept it. But first of all, I have to take
care of Dad’s things. I see his turban—still ready to wear from our outing yesterday
morning. I don’t want it to crumble and lose its shape, so I place it carefully on
top of everything else in my backpack and avoid zipping the top.
    I call my wife from my new room. I tell her Dad’s died, over and over again, insisting
that it’s true. I try to calm her, but I really can’t. She’s crying; I am too. But
my mind is busy about the task ahead, so I contain my tears. I hate myself for doing
this. I’ve become a Westerner. If anyone from the Middle East saw my gentle tears,
they’d think I was happy my father was dead.
    We talk until my credit runs out. I stare at the dead phone. I shower in the foetal
position and stay there a long time.

A MERCILESS MAGIC
    Abadan City, Iran, 1988

Drunk Russian
    It was the height of winter and Moe Greene and I were slowly going out of our minds,
waiting for the next air-raid siren to sound. My tough-as-nails Uncle Adnan—that
lover of illegal television—devised a game to keep us occupied. He called the game
Drunk Russian because one needed to be drunk to enjoy it. We were sober.
    One needed to be drunk because participants were required to stand in the snow, barefoot,
stripping one layer each minute. We were allowed to begin with a maximum of ten layers
of clothing, so by the time we were down to underwear, we’d endured a good ten minutes
in temperatures of six below zero. My toddler brother, who was too young for such
tortures, watched from the apartment, clapping and cheering.
    I did not know what the word ‘drunk’ meant, but I did know drink was prohibited and
punishment ranged from lashings to imprisonment. The promise of punishment made the
game all the more appealing. What was this magical potion, and what might cause Iran
to ban it? Why did adults only discuss it in a hushed, delicious manner?
    I had more pressing problems. I was down to my singlet.
    Moe Greene was down to his underwear, and declared himself the winner. He started
jumping up and down while doing a shimmy.
    ‘I’m the winner, I’m a sinner! You’re a snoozer, you’re a loser!’ Whenever Moe said
he was a sinner, I got nervous—it meant he was about to do something naughty. And
there it was: he took off his underwear, revealing his bare butt.
    He started shaking himself back and forth in a victorious slashing motion, a very
unpious manoeuvre that swung his genitals like a pendulum.
    ‘Check out my cherries dangling!’ he yelled. ‘Have you seen cherries grow in snow?
In your face, jerkface! I’m the Russian drunk! Woot woot!’
    Mum would have to chase after him with a broom. It was procedure. He didn’t care.
He loved the attention—especially from all our girl cousins, who watched his antics,
looked away, then watched some more, in increasing horror.
    We loved Drunk Russian simply because we wanted to replicate Uncle Adnan’s valour
and temerity, which were legendary in his ancient home city of Bakhtaran. He’d shot
himself