Page 199 of Whisper

Dawood nodded. He glanced out the window, to the moon. “I need to pray,ya rouhi.” He kissed Kris’s nose and rose, striding out of bed and to the bathroom. Kris watched him, watched his naked body move, the long lines of his legs, the strength in his back.

Water turned on in his shower. Dawood stepped in, rinsed. He could hear him speaking softly, Arabic words, prayers.He’s doing his ablutions. After intercourse, after any bodily fluid had been spilled, a full washing was required.

Silently, Kris watched Dawood pad back out of the bathroom after the water turned off. Beads of water clung to his skin, the ends of his hair. He’d let it grow long and had brushed it back off his face. A towel wrapped around his waist, covering his hips and his thighs. Dawood lined up, facing east, and began his prayers. “Allahu Akbar.”

Kris sat up, the sheet pooling around his hips, their releases staining his skin, his bed, as his husband gave his prayers to Allah. Arabic whispered over his studio as Dawood bowed, kneeled, prostrated, and prayed. “Allahu Akbar.”

He finished with thetasleem. “As-salamu alaykum wa Rahmatullah wa barakatuhu.” Rising, he stretched, the moonlight carving around his body.

“I thought you believed Allah was dead.”

Dawood crawled into bed slowly. He lay beside Kris, one hand stroking Kris’s leg, his sheet-covered hip. “I believe Allah created you and me out of one soul. That we are meant to be together, before time and after time ends. If I believe that, how can I truly believe Allah is dead?”

“Your father?” Kris whispered.

Dawood blinked. He licked his lips. “I have tried to become a man my father would have been proud of. I try to do my part to make the world a better place.”

“There’s so much evil in the world. So much hatred. It seems to get worse every year, every day. Where is the justice?”

Dawood’s gaze skittered away. “Sometimes, justice is what we make ourselves.”

“And evil? How do we fight that?”

“If I have lived for Allah and lived like my baba, then evil will be fought.”

Kris lay back on the mattress. The pillows were long gone. His thoughts slid to Al Dakhil Al-Khorasani, the jihadi on hishegirafor war. Where was he going? What were his plans? Was he coming to America to slaughter Americans, blaming them for the evils of the world? Americans were complicit, or so the jihadist sayings went, in the actions of their government, thanks to democracy. He chewed on his lip. “There are many people who say they live for Allah and fight against evil. But everyone points the finger at each other, saying everyone else is the evil one. Where is the truth?”

“The truth is complicated,” Dawood whispered again. His eyes were lost in darkness, only the shadow of the moon reflecting in slivers off his dark irises. “But there are objective evils in the world. Death, before someone’s time. Murder. Torture. Oppression. Betrayal. Some things are justwrong. I put my faith in Allah to help me find my center, as my baba did.”

“What about this?” Kris hitched his naked leg over Dawood’s. “Us. Doesn’t the Quran have a few things to say about people like us?”

“Allah made me this way. He made me, and He is perfect. He does not make mistakes. And, in the Quran, the Prophet Lot was aghast by the cruel treatment of strangers by the inhabitants of Sodom.” Dawood kissed the back of Kris’s hand. “If you go into the texts, into the classical Arabic, the meaning is forced sodomy. Rape of men. Specifically, the inhabitants of Sodom attacked travelers, blocked their way, and raped them.” He rubbed his cheek, his beard, over Kris’s fingers. “The Quran is a book for all time, given by God to us for our learning. It is a book that renews itself, reveals itself deeper as we progress as human beings. How can we ever presume to understand His mind? Allah speaks in poetry, in science, in sunsets and sunrises and shooting stars, in planetary orbits and psychology. But He has made all things possible. If a line in the Quran seems to violate His world, His order, then that line is just more of His poetry. He made me.” Dawood kissed Kris’s fingers, the tips of his pads. “He made us. Made us out of one soul. He did not do that in error. Sometimes…” Dawood sighed. “I believe Islam has ossified under so many layers of human error. Of fatwas and rulings and dusty old men issuing their rulings. We have lost sight of the truth, and faith has become stagnant in our blood, in our souls. We, as Muslims, must go back to the beginning, to become closer to Allah.”

“Isn’t that what the fundamentalists say?” Kris whispered.

“Allah detests violence against the innocent. Wickedness. Why is so much of the world in collapse, now? Why has so much evil risen? Allah is trying to tell us something, but no one is listening.”

“Tell that to the jihadis. They think they have a straight line to Allah. Dedicated cell service.”

“Jihad comes in many forms. But,qitaf fi sabilillah. The holy war. That is only to be waged on the evildoers, the ones against God. Anything else is not allowed.”

Ten yearshadchanged Dawood. The dead weight of his past, the silent scream he’d carried inside of himself, was gone. Something else was in its place, something Kris couldn’t quite put his finger on yet. Certainty? Or something else?

“I’vemissedyou,” Kris breathed. He reached for Dawood’s hand as moonlight drenched their bed. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Dawood kissed his nose. Smiled. “I am here now.”

“Will you stay? We can figure this out. Go to the CIA, explain everything. You can be declared undead. Not-dead. Whatever it is.”

Dawood leaned forward again, kissing him softly. Like he’d kissed him the day they married and the day Kris had saidyes. Like they’d kissed the morning before the Hamid operation had broken everything apart.

“You didn’t finish your story.” Kris pulled back. “You were living on the mountain with Abu Adnan. And now you’re here. Fill in the blanks.” He settled back and took Dawood’s hand, kissed his palm.

Dawood looked away, a million miles away. “’Bu Adnan died.”

“Oh,shit. Jesus, Dav—Dawood.” He fumbled on Dawood’s name, the shape of it unfamiliar on his lips. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Two fathers in Dawood’s life, gone. “Was it… peaceful?”

Dawood shook his head.