Blessed is his Name

Yalla, you dogs! Why are they always drunk? Why are there always five? All carry plastic bags full of things only drunken people might buy. Stumbling through the Bab Al-Bahrain at four in the afternoon, it is a disgrace. At least there are no women. Always the most drunk comes to the window.

'Salaam aleikum. M'sai anoor,' the moon-faced gibbon slurs through the window.

A man cannot help but recoil, both from the cruelties inflicted on the beauty of the language and from the breath that would fell a camel. It must be done, the courtesy observed;

'M'sai albulbul, sadiqi!' The eyes widen in the face of this dolt who is no friend of mine. He has no idea I have wished him an afternoon of nightingales.

'Rugby Club.'

Already they are trying to enter. I have used the central-locking. Always I use it when on the rank.

I point to the sign on the dashboard. The English is above the beauteous curves of the script.

'Maximum: 4 Passages and Driver'

'Go on, we will pay extra.'

Why is it they think that will make a difference? Am I corrupt, a law-breaker? Is that the meaning of my beard?

'No, two must go in the taxi behind.'

'Special price?'

Am I hawking plastic minaret clocks in the bazaar on the other side of the Bab?

'Bismillah, ya akhi,' he says, and though I wish the words would turn to stones in his mouth, I agree the price - as I must.

It is the custom, the infidel has invoked the name of Allah, but I will never be his brother.