A few days later there was a fund-raiser for the library campaign. Parvaiz had been involved with the campaign through his adolescence, ever since the council had announced that the local library, to which his mother had taken him and Aneeka after school at least once a week, would have to close. He’d handed out leaflets, written letters to the local newspaper, attended meetings with Gladys where strategies were discussed; when it became clear the council was going to go ahead with the closure he’d seamlessly moved into the next stage of the campaign, to set up and keep going a volunteer-run library. He’d sung carols outside the tube station to raise money, helped transport books local residents donated, volunteered at the library every Sunday. But as the day of the fund-raiser drew closer, he became increasingly worried that one of the Us Thugz boys might see him at the cake stall with Gladys, selling Aneeka’s chocolate brownies, Aunty Naseem’s Victoria sponge, and Nat’s apple pie, and report back to Farooq that with the world ablaze with injustice Parvaiz Pasha thought the cause to which he should devote his time was a local library. The only way to limit the damage was to break the news himself.
He found Farooq ironing in his underpants, the windows of the flat thrown open to allow in the sunshine of the unseasonably warm day and the chicken-grease-scented air. A pile of freshly laundered clothes lay in a basket near his feet. Squares of sunlight fell like epaulets on his chiseled shoulders. He was in a boisterous mood, instructing Parvaiz how to roll up the ironed clothes, asking him if he knew that was the best way to keep them from creasing, and deriding the “idiots” who chose to fold instead. Parvaiz found himself imagining Farooq working with Isma at the dry-cleaning store, swapping tips about stain removal.
Tentatively, Parvaiz mentioned the library campaign, which he described as a “habit” carried over from adolescence. Farooq upended the iron and pointed to a spot in the center of the ironing board.
“Put your hand there. Palm up. I’m going to press this iron on it.”
Parvaiz looked from the hissing iron to Farooq’s face, but there was no hint of a joke. Just a watchfulness, a judgment waiting to be made. He stepped forward, placed both palms on the ironing board, forced himself into stillness as Farooq lifted the iron, feinted, smiled when Parvaiz didn’t flinch, then lightly touched the wedge-shaped weapon to Parvaiz’s palms. It was hot but not unbearable.
“Uses steam pressure more than heat. It won’t burn even the flimsiest silk,” Farooq said, with the air of a salesman. He caught Parvaiz by the back of the neck and kissed his forehead. “My faithful warrior.” He resumed his ironing, and Parvaiz jammed his hands into his pockets.
“The library,” Farooq said. “Of course it matters. Same as what they’re doing to the NHS, welfare benefits, all the rest of it. You know this country used to be great.”
“When was that?”
“Not so long ago. When it understood that a welfare state was something you built up instead of tearing down, when it saw migrants as people to be welcomed not turned away. Imagine what it would be like to live in such a nation. No, don’t just smile. I’m asking you to do something: imagine it.”
Parvaiz shook his head uncertainly, not sure what he was being asked.
“There is a place like that we can go to now. A place where migrants coming in to join are treated like kings, given more in benefits than the locals to acknowledge all they’ve given up to reach there. A place where skin color doesn’t matter. Where schools and hospitals are free, and rich and poor have the same facilities. Where men are men. Where no one has to enter haram gambling shops to earn a living, but can provide for his family with dignity. Where someone like you would find himself working in a state-of-the-art studio, living like a prince. Your own villa, your own car. Where you could speak openly about your father, with pride, not shame.”
Parvaiz laughed. He’d never seen Farooq so light, so playful. “So what are we still doing here? Let’s follow the yellow brick road, or is it the White Rabbit who takes us there?”
“What rabbit? What are you talking about rabbits for when I’m trying to tell you something serious.”
“Sorry. You’re talking about a real place?”
“You know where I’m talking about. The caliphate.”
Parvaiz raised his hands defensively. “Come on, boss. Don’t mess with me.”
Farooq switched off the iron, stepped into cargo pants, pulled on his T-shirt. “I’ve been there. I’d just come back from there when we met. Who are you going to believe about what it’s really like? The same people who said Iraq had weapons of mass destruction, the ones who tortured your father in the name of freedom, or me?”
Parvaiz’s heart seemed to have taken up his entire chest cavity, hammering so furiously he was surprised his shirt wasn’t moving. Farooq’s expression became gentle.
“Believe the evidence of your eyes. Wait.” He went into the kitchen area and came out a little while later with a tablet. “Don’t worry, no one will know you’re looking at this—it’s all offline. I’m going to finish ironing. You have any questions, ask.”
Parvaiz sat down on the piled-up mattresses, rested the tablet on his knee. Farooq had pulled up the photo browser to show him the image of the black-and-white flag he’d first seen only a few months ago and that he’d learned to glance quickly away from in newspapers on the tube so no one would think the Muslim boy looked too interested. He looked up at Farooq, who made a swiping gesture with his finger. Parvaiz flicked forward through the images. Men fishing together against the backdrop of a beautiful sunrise; children on swings in a playground; a man riding through a city on the back of a beautiful stallion, carts of fresh vegetables lining the street; an elderly but powerful-looking man beneath a canopy of green grapes, reaching up to pluck a bunch; young men of different ethnicities sitting together on a carpet laid out in a field; standing men pointing their guns at the heads of kneeling men; an aerial nighttime view of a street thrumming with life, car headlamps and electric lights blazing; men and boys in a large swimming pool; boys and girls lined up outside a bouncy castle at an amusement park; a blood-donation clinic; smiling men sweeping an already clean street; a bird sanctuary; the bloodied corpse of a child.
Parvaiz didn’t know he’d said anything in response to the last, but he must have, because Farooq asked, “What?” and came to see what he was looking at. “The Kurds, those heroes of the West, did that. Her name was Laila, three years old.”
“And the men about to be executed in the other picture?”
“The men who did that to her, or those just like them.”
“These other images, are they real?”
“Of course they’re real. Look!” He cycled back to the fishing image, and Parvaiz saw that one of the men—the one whose large muscles were straining with the weight of the catch he was trying to reel in—was Farooq.
“Okay, there’s a little bit of a lie in there. That giant fish you think I’ve hooked—it was a waterlogged jacket. This is the Euphrates we’re fishing in. You want to come and fish in the Euphrates with me? And with your other brothers? That’s Abu Omar, that’s Ilyas al-Russ, and this one is my sweet Abu Bakr, who was martyred by the FSA.”
“So it’s not true then? About all the violence? Only if they’re enemy soldiers, is that what you’re saying?”