Tallis knocked on the door. Sarosh Pahlavi lived in the poor section of Tippany, just on the outskirts of the spaceport. His father was poor, but proud and had raised Tallis to believe in himself. A difficult task considering how his mother had died. You could not mistake Aingeal Flannigan for anything else but Irish catholic. Sarosh and Aingeal met at a diplomatic mission and fell in love. After a long time she decided to convert to Islam and a few years later were married.
The concrete was weathered and painted over in a harsh white. An arch was recessed and a large door painted dark brown offset the white.
Tallis knocked again, louder this time.
“Just a minute, “ came a flustered answer from the other side.
He smiled at that. Tallis knew his father was trying to tidy up a bit before he let his only son in. Yes, dad was very proud.
The door creaked open and Sarosh stood in the bright light of Tippany. Five foot four of him, and as customary for an older muslim man, his beard, which had whitened with age.
“Come in Tallis, insha'Allah you will not burn up out there in the sun. We will have a cold lemonade. I went to the market yesterday and bought some fresh lemons. I think I have enough yogurt for Mast-o khiar, luckily the vegetable vendor had plenty of cucumbers. I had to substitue almonds for the walnuts.
Sarosh went into the kitchen as Tallis looked around the room. A picture, the only one in the room was of Agneis and him in her arms as a baby. What life must have been for his father when he sent him to boarding school at that early age.
“Do you need help father?”
“No no sit down.” came the reply as he reappeared with two large glasses of lemonade and the Mast-o khiar in two bowls on a tray.
Tallis sat down on an old covered chair as his father sat in the other one opposite him. He put the tray down on a small table, his eyes scanning his son as if to burn the memory into his mind.
After a long silence of eating and drinking he looked again at his father. He had not known how thirsty he had become and the Mast-o khiar was refreshingly good. His mother made it often enough. Pangs of sorrow at losing her welled up inside him.
“My son, soon you will leave this place where you were raised.”
“Father, don’t...”
‘Do not interupt my son, insha'Allah you will do well where ever you go and Allah, blessed be His name shall bestow his blessing upon you. Remember my son, you are of Persian descent, a proud if misunderstood people. Your mother would have been upset if I did not share the little time we have before you depart.”
Yes, Tallis could see his mother’s Irish eyes flaring as her red hair went wild with anger and frustration at the “men” in her life. For all that, she had a deep pool of love to give. Another pang hit him. Guilt?
He looked at his father, somehow looking older than he had ever seen him. His back was stooped over and his face sunken in. Even with all of that he had a radiance about him. His faith sustained him. He filed that away for future reference.
“My son, I have something for you.”
He got up, and limped toward an old foot locker. Ancient was not the word for it. Deep cherry wood with bindings of oak with leather fittings all around it. The inlay had Morrish markings. The lock was large. He took out a large old skeleton key and turned the lock. He brought out a prayer rug and beads and a kufi skull cap.
“My son, some have said it is forbidden to use beads, that you must use your right hand. Allah, blessed be His name has been my staff and my strength all these years. He Whom I worship has not turned his back upon me all these years. These belonged to my fathers father and then to my father. I am now passing them down to you.”
“Oh no father I cannot take these.”
“You can and you will as the last order I give as your father to his son. Remember to use them faithfully. On board the ship the size you will go to, there will be times that will test you. But Allah, blessed be His name shall give you strength. Do not betray the covenant between you and Him. Be kind to the sick and help those who cannot help theselves. Be generous to those who have nothing, give alms to show Allah, blessed be His name, that you are His servant and my son, of whom I am very proud.”
He paused, looking down at the worn tattered carpet, his eyes sad.
“I shall not stay here on Tippany. I will return to Saladin and insha'Allah I will live out my life praising Allah, blessed be His name.”
“Father no! Not after what they did to my mother and your wife!”
Anger rose within Tallis, his face now red with rage as he thought back to his child hood and the muttawa, the religious police of Paladin whose officers arrested his mother and later the next day, she was stoned to death.
“Salam my son. Do not let anger enter you heart. Instead be joyous that she has given you life and me, as an old man, pleasures of companionship. Remember her for her actions.”
“I beg forgiveness father. I spoke in anger and not as a physician or a servant of Allah, blessed be his name.”
He knew his father did not have much time left. His father tried to hide the shaking of his left hand and the dimness in his eyes. He knew for sure bis father would die on Palladin and join his beloved wife. He would have to make discreet inquiries to prepare for the day he would not be there for his fathers funeral. Perhaps a call to a local Mosque on Paladin.
“That is better my son. Put the prayer rug, the prayer beads and the cap in your kit. Do not put on airs my son. Pray in private when you pray. Now, you need to be at Tippany Immigration Departures in twenty minutes. Go now, do not look back my son, insha'Allah I shall be with you in spirit and Allah, blessed be his name shall be with us both.”
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