The Last Man in Paradise

Chapter One

2011

The taste of forbidden apples changed my life.

No, I am not Adam and I am not Eve. None of this happened at the dawn of time, and I was not then—nor am I ever likely to be—in the Garden.

The scene was a dark car park behind a dilapidated office building in Redding, California, which is not at all my idea of Paradise, though at that moment it did feel a little like heaven must.

Because I wasn’t alone there, in that deepening night, a few feet away from where my father—Imam Saqlain Saifi—was holding an interfaith outreach event. The town didn’t have a mosque, so he was forced to rent a unit in a business complex to fill that role, always hoping to one day raise the funds necessary to build a proper place of worship for his flock.

But I wasn’t thinking about him or his religion just then. Perhaps I should’ve been. It might have made me more prudent, and maybe the course of my life would’ve been different.

Well, it’s no use talking about roads not taken.

Let’s talk instead about what form my dreaming always takes.

Let’s talk about them apples.

I was with Madison Porter, which wasn’t unusual. We spent most of our days in each other’s company. We had since we’d been thrown together by our school’s drama class in the ninth grade, four years ago, when she’d been cast as Juliet and I as Romeo.

We were rarely together at night. Her godparents—who’d unexpectedly become her foster parents last year—liked having her home before sunset.

The novelty of being with her in the moonlight was not what made that moment special.

It was special because of what we were doing.

We were kissing, sort of for the very first time, because all our kisses before had been fake, staged for the benefit of other people. These were just for us, and they were so real and surreal. They were also increasingly French and involved a sour lip gloss, the flavor and smell of which called to mind the cause of the Fall.

We’d snuck out of my father’s event because it was unbearably, if predictably, boring. Leaning against her car, where we could barely hear the droning religious speeches being delivered inside, I’d asked her, So what do you want to do?

Madi had turned to face me, stood on her tiptoes, grabbed the front of my T-shirt, and pulled my mouth down to hers.

Just like that the die had been cast.

To those who would judge me for being simultaneously Muslim, in the shadow of a mosque, and in a frenzied make-out session with a girl, all I can say is that I was not the one who cast it.

That isn’t to say I wouldn’t have, if I’d dared risk our friendship. I had been in love with Mads for a while by then, and I knew she liked me too. I’d just always been scared to ask her how much because I’d been afraid she’d say not enough. In retrospect, it’s possible I may have failed to pick up on a hint or two about the nature of our relationship.

When I finally broke away from her, she was pressed up against me and pinned against the passenger-side door, flushed, a little out of breath, one of my hands in her short, straight hair, somehow black and shining at the same time, the other at the small of her back. I could feel heat radiating through the soft, thin fabric of her top.

She was prettier, in my opinion, than everything and everyone, with these amazing blue-gray eyes that were like . . . like . . . well, I don’t know. Like the sky prophesizing the coming of a mighty storm, maybe?

That sounds stupid.

That’s what they were though, eyes that could make a man stupid, a condition to which I—being just a seventeen-year-old boy then—was naturally inclined.

Madison put a hand on my chest and looked up at me, biting her lower lip, a gesture that always drove me to distraction. In a quiet, uncertain voice she said, Say something.

I cleared my throat. This is . . . it’s the best interfaith outreach I’ve ever been part of.

Madi laughed.

As for kissing you, that was a lot fruitier than I imagined it’d be.

She raised her eyebrows. So, kissing me is something you’ve thought about?

Yeah. I ran a thumb over her clavicle. Kind of a lot.

What were you waiting for?

You.

She smiled and looked away. Sorry about the apple lip gloss. I’m, like, addicted to it or something.

It’s okay. I liked it.

Yeah?

I mean, I think so. I’d have to try it again to be sure.

She shook her head but obliged, and our lips met again.

It was delicious.

Until it wasn’t.

Until my name, in my father’s deep, booming voice, echoed around us like a dangerous, shallow quake close to the surface of the earth.

Azaan!

I jumped away from Madison and spun around and saw my father storming toward us, and the look on his hard, lined, awfully familiar face made it clear that my existence was at an end.

He hit me.

I’m not sure when that started, the hitting, I mean. I realize not everything has a beginning that can be identified, that some things just are, like the sky and the sea. But in this case, there had to have been a first time. I don’t remember it, which is strange. You’d think it was the kind of thing that’d leave a mark.

Mom told me once that the reason my father beat me was his father. I was just experiencing the aftershocks of something that had happened already, in another place, in other lives to which I happened to be connected.

It was a grand inheritance.

It seemed like a strange thing that this man whose name I didn’t even know—everyone just called him Baba—could have such a profound effect on my life.

I’d met Baba only once, when I was nine and we visited Pakistan. Even back then, it had been clear that Dad had very little regard for him and vice versa. Their exchanges had been formal and cold—well, my father was always cold, but on that trip what freezings I felt, to borrow a phrase from the Bard.

Years later, my mother explained that Baba was someone who liked to break things. Growing up, my father had watched him break promises, hearts, contracts, vows, laws, and bones. The man was a grifter, a scoundrel, a hustler, a liar, a lecher, a cheat, and an alcoholic haunted by demons and, worse, by creditors.

He had driven Saqlain Saifi to religion by being the exact opposite of what a decent Muslim ought to be, and he’d seen his son’s choice of profession as the personal rebuke that it absolutely was.

This was apparently why my father was so hard on me. He was determined to make sure no part of Baba would live on in my person. He would whip it out of me if he had to, and he’d decided, some time ago, that he did indeed have to.

It was, in my mom’s opinion, proof that he loved me, in his way. He was doing it for my own good. He wouldn’t bother if he did not care.

Besides, I gave him plenty of cause.

Life would have hurt less if I had prayed five times a day, eaten only halal food, kept my distance from Madison, and stayed away from drink and drugs—not anything serious, mind you. I’d tried pot a couple of times, which was really my parents’ fault for raising me in California.

Islam shouldn’t have been difficult. It didn’t appear to be for other people. Some of the boys around my age were really into it. They fasted and shunned parties and averted their gazes when they saw women. Some of them had even sworn off music. They didn’t seem to feel deprived or constrained or suffocated by any of it. Instead, they appeared happy and rather pleased with themselves.

If they could do it, there was no logical reason I couldn’t.

And yet, inexplicably, I couldn’t.

My father said that this was because the devil assigned to tempt my soul was strong and had to be broken. The fact that he hadn’t managed it yet hadn’t dented his determination to try, and on that night, I had for sure given him a reason to try again. By flouting the rules of his religion publicly and kissing Madi in sight, if only accidentally, of his congregants, I had crossed a line that I’d never crossed before.

As a result, he did something he hadn’t ever done before either. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, don’t you know. It’s a basic tenet of Newtonian parenting.

He struck me right there, in front of other people.

It shouldn’t have been as bad as usual. There were no sticks or coat hangers or belts. It was just slap after slap after slap. But they were vicious blows, and it occurred to me that almost always, in the past, Saqlain Saifi had been holding back.

Madison shrieked. A couple of people shouted, protesting, and then finally, as I staggered back, Tiger Uncle, my father’s best friend, ran to pull him away from me.

I shook my head and blinked tears away. My face stung, my ears were hot, my world unsteady. Instinctively, I wiped at my nose with the back of my hand, and it came away with streaks of blood on it.

There wasn’t a lot. Nothing was broken. The skin around my nostrils had ruptured. I was fine. I would heal.

Mads started to step closer to me, but my father yelled out, Stay away from him.

So she did.

I was glad. I didn’t want her to see my face. I hated that she was witnessing my humiliation in the presence of all these people. Being punished in front of her was somehow worse than the worst I’d endured before.

My father looked like he was going to try to push past Tiger and strike me again. He didn’t. He just spoke. And you, Azaan, you will never see her again. Do you understand?

That would have been a good time to say yes.

Unfortunately, I had a bad habit of speaking the truth.

I’ll see her whenever I want.

I saw my father’s fists close, but Tiger whispered something to him, after which he snarled, stared me down, turned, and left.

Tiger Uncle started to follow him, then hesitated, looked back at me, and asked, Are you okay?

I nodded.

He considered this for a moment and seemed not to believe it. Go inside. I will be there in a moment to take a look at you.

I’m good, I protested.

Just listen, Jaaneman? Let me talk to Saqi and call your mother.

She won’t care, I told him.

Tiger Uncle grimaced. You’re probably right about that.

Tiger Heart—who had been born Sher Dil and had, at some point, decided to translate his name into English—brought a glass of water to the so-called mosque’s administrative office, where I was waiting for him.

It was a small space, little more than a supply closet my father had squeezed a desk and a couple of chairs into, and Tiger’s presence in it was instantly overwhelming. His cologne was heavy on musk, and he’d put on a reckless amount of it. He was a lot visually too, with his trademark drooping mustache, garish yellow sateen shirt, tight-fitting pants, and mottled snakeskin shoes. All of it together would have been enough to give me a headache if I didn’t already have one.

He watched me take a sip, then said, I spoke to your mother.

Yeah?

She wanted to know if you needed medical attention. I told her you didn’t, so she’s—

Staying at the hospital, I guessed.

Both your parents are very dedicated to their professions.

Yeah.

He folded his arms across his chest. What are you dedicated to?

I frowned. Sorry?

Bhai, I’m asking, what are your goals? What are your plans? I heard from your father that you have some crazy dreams, that you want to become an actor. Hollywood. Bollywood. Lollywood. Tollywood. All these names tell you that it’s a line in which there’s a high chance of getting shafted, no?

Not sure what to say or why he was suddenly playing at being a career counselor, I just shrugged.

Tiger studied me. You’re good looking enough. Almost as good looking as me. I could have been a star, you know.

Uh . . . sure, I guess.

I didn’t want fame, though. Do you know what I wanted more than anything? Women. And you know what I got? Tell me, Sitamgar, do you know my story? You must know the legend.

I did.

Much of the local Muslim community, especially its female population, didn’t like Tiger Heart much. They spoke disapprovingly about the failed lawyer turned entrepreneur who lived in their midst. They looked down upon his personal life.

Specifically, they didn’t appreciate how many times he’d been married.

Muslim men are allowed four wives at a time, not four wives in total. In other words, it is theoretically possible for them to have as many weddings—and wedding nights—as they want, so long as they divorce one of their spouses before they acquire a new one.

This isn’t usually practical. Convincing people to marry you isn’t an easy task, even in the best of circumstances, and there is a pervasive stigma against the old, fading practice of polygamy.

American law poses a challenge as well. Not only does it forbid multiple marriages, it also demands expensive court proceedings. It’s not like the Sharia. You can’t just say, I divorce you three times and move on. Legal fees and spousal support make being a forever groom a financially crippling prospect.

Despite all this, Tiger Uncle had tied around twelve knots in his life and he’d undone them all. He’d managed this by being a good capitalist and seeking market efficiencies, which he’d found offshore.

Not only is divorce quicker and easier in some Muslim countries, but women aren’t entitled to alimony. Instead, they get mehr, a sum of money agreed to by both parties at the inception of a wedding contract. It is owed to the bride whether the relationship lasts or not. It’s a system Tiger Uncle could exploit given the strength of the dollar.

Many thought that what he did was little more than green-washed sex tourism. They felt he was making a mockery of a sacred institution and treating marriage as little more than prostitution as his nuptials often involved young women from poor, sometimes desperate, backgrounds who couldn’t afford to turn down the mehr he offered.

Even so, Tiger Uncle remained a prominent figure in the community because of his wealth and his willingness to share it. The mosque, such as it was, ran primarily on his contributions.

I got everything I wanted, he said, but no one has ever seen me violate God’s law.

What does that have to do with me?

You should learn from my example, Shareek-e-Ghum. Do whatever you want but find a way to justify your actions. And if you can’t, then at least hide them. Like tonight. You got your hooks into a beautiful girl. Very good. But why make a public show of kissing her? When it comes to sins, you should be like a cat. Because a cat, after taking a shit, buries it. It doesn’t leave its business out in the open like a dog. Muslims, you know, many of us, we don’t like dogs very much.

You want me to—

Be cunning, Tiger Uncle urged. Show a little discretion. You want to be an actor? Make your life a role you play. Pretend to be one of the pious. It’ll make everyone happy. Then, when no one is looking, enjoy life.

I frowned. You’re saying I should lie?

What’s wrong with that? Listen, your father says you have only one good quality. You don’t speak false. Why is that? Don’t you realize that honesty is the worst virtue? Let me give you an example. Tell me, what happens when your father asks you if you prayed?

I tell him I didn’t, I said.

And then he yells and screams and punishes you. What are you really paying the price for? For not doing what you’re supposed to do or for not pretending that you might? Telling the truth is the hardest thing in the world. You keep doing it and you keep wondering why your life is difficult. Just stop. Deception makes living easier. Try it. You’ll see.

It just . . . doesn’t feel right.

How does getting beat feel? Tiger Uncle countered. Do you know what your father said to me as he was leaving? He said he’s done with you. You’re out of the house.

What?!

Yes. You’re on your own. You can sleep on the street as far as he’s concerned. That’s what being honest has gotten you. You’re homeless and, to be frank, you have no viable plan to make money. Okay. Calm down, calm down. Breathe. I have come up with a scheme. It requires a few . . . misdirections, but it will work. I’ll fix everything for you. Trust me. Put your life in my hands and nothing will go wrong.

Chapter Two

2022

I really don’t want to be a terrorist, I said, giving voice to what ought to have been an entirely unobjectionable thought but which somehow wasn’t. It’s impossible to get people to agree on anything these days.

Come on, Azaan. It’s a great opportunity. This could be your chance to blow up. Look, I know you have moral objections, but if you don’t do it, someone else will. There’s no shortage of willing and able Muslim lads around, is there?

All of that was true. However, being just another brown guy with a bomb strapped to his chest wasn’t the career I’d imagined for myself when I’d dreamt of becoming an actor. If I auditioned for this role, as my friend, landlord, and agent, Brayden Hall, was trying to convince me to, I’d be walking a path I’d never wanted to tread.

On the other hand, I was already almost thirty and hadn’t landed any significant work in film. This was a chance to try out for a big budget action flick with glitzy, hot stars. It’d capture eyes. It was possible that some of those would land on me, even if I were just a mindless henchman with only a few lines and limited screen time.

Maybe I was past the age when I got to choose what road I took. Maybe all that was left was doing what I had to do, serving the dictates of necessity, which may or may not be the mother of invention but is most definitely a bitch.

The iron’s hot, Brayden said. Everyone’s talking about how bloody brilliant you were as Mercutio at Regent’s Park. You can’t afford to pass on this.

There was no need for him to tell me that. I knew my financial situation was grim. We were, at that moment, in my room, which was just the living area of the small, run-down apartment I shared with five other people, all fellow thespians with Brayden’s talent agency. It was the opposite of luxury and yet, in typical London fashion, it still wasn’t cheap.

Brayden wasn’t exactly set himself. He’d left his draconian father’s big-time talent agency to strike out on his own, taking some low-level, neglected clients like me with him. The results, so far, had been mostly terrible.

And honestly, he went on, following me into the kitchen as I went to get my morning coffee, I don’t get why it bothers you so much. So the script makes Islam look . . . not great. But why do you care? You don’t even practice.

It doesn’t offend me as a Muslim. It offends me as an artist. It’s just so . . . cliché, you know?

Are you an artist if no one ever sees your work?

I paused in the act of reaching for a mug, trying to think of a good response to that, but I couldn’t come up with one.

Brayden leapt on my hesitation. Aha. I win. You’re going. Sonya will go with you.

Really? Sonya, one of my flatmates, was a sweet girl, always willing to inconvenience herself to help people. Even so, having her chaperone me to make sure I did what I was told seemed like a colossal waste of her time. She doesn’t have anything better to do?

She’s trying out too. It took a lot less convincing to get her on board, by the way.

I thought the call was for male actors.

I had words with the casting director and told them they needed to be more inclusive. There is no reason Muslim women can’t be terrorists too, is there?

I took out my French press and put water on to boil. I guess not.

Don’t be a wet blanket for Sonya, okay? She’s very excited to do this. Wouldn’t shut up about the importance of representation and all that.

Really? I asked.

It was something about how little brown girls need to see themselves on screen more so they’ll know they can be anything they want to be when they grow up. I kind of tuned her out, to be honest. Just hold your tongue, will you?

Fine.

What are you doing, by the way?

I blinked. Talking to you.

No. I mean, your breakfast. Don’t drink coffee on an empty stomach. It’s not good for you.

I do this every day.

Brayden frowned. That’s worse. Is this part of that whole one-meal-a-day thing? I can’t believe you’re still doing that. It’s been . . . what? Like two years? It’s not healthy.

Of course it isn’t healthy. It’s show business.

Look, mate, I get that you’ve got to stay fit, but you don’t have to starve yourself. Don’t shake your head at me. I’m saying this for your own good.

Could you sound more like my parents?

As if you know what they sound like, he said.

I raised my eyebrows.

Brayden held up his hands. Sorry. That’s a yellow card for me. It’s just . . . unfair that I have to have dinner with my family every week, while you haven’t talked to yours in years.

That wasn’t true. I called my mother every other month or so, and recently she’d started reaching out too.

As for my father . . . well, Imam Saifi and I did not speak often, though we did speak routinely.

Every year, I rang him on his birthday, and he sometimes remembered to wish me on mine. We also felt compelled to check in with each other on both Eids. I’m not sure why. It just seemed like the thing to do. Humanity appeared to have reached a consensus—regardless of religion, race, culture, or creed—that we were obligated to ruin at least some portion of our holidays by spending them with our families. Given that all of us agree on so little, it felt churlish not to honor this collective commitment our species had made to be miserable.

When was the last time you even saw them? Brayden asked.

Eleven years ago.

Lucky bastard.

I chuckled.

I’m seeing mine tomorrow. It’s going to be hours of my father taking shots at our agency and hinting that I’d be better off just giving up.

Sounds awful.

Always is, Brayden told me. It would be nice to be able to tell him either you or Sonya got a gig. So will you please, for the love of God, break a leg?

Sonya Barelvi was cute, fond of pink, Ray-Bans, and loud music. She was the Energizer Bunny brought to life—happy, irrepressible, and inexhaustible. I liked her very much in tiny doses and had lived under the same roof as her for two years.

As a result, I often found myself seeking to escape her presence, mostly because of her inability to be still or silent for more than five minutes at a time.

Despite this, I’d gotten to know her pretty well. We were kindred spirits in that we were both Muslims in name only. We wouldn’t have gotten along otherwise. My upbringing had left me with an aversion for devout people.

I was more than a little surprised, therefore, when she emerged from her room that day wearing a hijab. She blushed when I did a double take and looked everywhere but at me.

It seemed improbable that she’d found God overnight, so she was wearing the headscarf as a costume, her interpretation—or Brayden’s—of the look that was most likely to land her this role, which was mildly awful.

I thought about what to say, then decided to let it go and asked, Ready to go?

Yup. Not sure why I’m bothering, though. You’re going to land this. You were born to do it.

I was born to play a terrorist?

I was there when Brayden was talking to the casting director. He told them that you’ve got the background for it, that your dad is a crazy-strict fundamentalist imam who forced you to attend some jihadi madrassa and you ran away and made your way to freedom. Azaan, that’s such a wild story. How come you never told me?

It wasn’t as dramatic as all that, I said, which was true.

When I’d been kicked out of the house at seventeen, Tiger Uncle had intervened. He had brokered a deal between me and my parents. My father agreed not to throw me out immediately or cut me off financially. In exchange, I promised to clean up my act and dedicate myself to Islam. I pledged that I would abandon all dreams of being something as useless as a creative and, instead, apply to Al-Azhar University in Egypt to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a holy man.

It was the perfect solution. My father could be sure I’d stay on the straight and narrow while still being rid of me. I, on the other hand, got the chance to escape him and live my life.

I had flown to Cairo, but I’d gotten on the next plane out to London without ever seeing the city. Tiger’s plan was never for me to follow through on my oaths. It was to give my family the illusion that I was still under their control.

He’d been right. Lying does make life easier.

At least as easy as it could get for an aspiring young actor of limited means in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Luckily, I’d had the funds that were supposed to be my tuition to help me get started.

As far as my parents knew, I’d graduated from a prestigious institution that had been around since 975 CE and was employed now as