“Hallo! You look like a size four,” a big man wearing forehead jewelry says, peering around the rack. “I have pink. You like pink?”
He holds up a sheer skirt with gold coins hanging off the waist, with even spaces between them. He gives it a shake and the coins jingle. Then he gives it additional shakes, at rhythmic intervals, and begins an Arabic song, swaying his hips.
I’m being serenaded by a belly-dance-clothing salesman.
I look around and see Muhammad in front of the refreshments table. Someone is tapping him on the shoulder and pointing at me. A couple of guys beside him are laughing.
He strides over to stand on the other side of the clothing rack, hidden from the big vendor.
“What are you doing?” he says.
“I’m on assignment, for Amu,” I say.
“He told you to come over to this dude’s table?” he says, leaning in to whisper. “The guy is not even Muslim.”
“So?” I say. “I’m taking pictures of the open house. When we open the doors to the community? Ever heard of the concept?”
“The guy pretends to be Muslim,” Muhammad says. “He comes here every year to sell us stereotypical stuff. Notice the camel bridles?”
I glance at the end of the booth and see hookah sets, golden swords, and blown-up black-and-white harem pictures from some previous era propped against, yes, camel bridles. The salesman leans in to see who I’m talking to, getting so close he bumps into my camera.
“Ah, this is your husband?” he asks, looking at my brother.
Muhammad grabs my arm like some backward, uncouth man and tugs me.
“I’m a photographer,” I say. “This is my brother.”
“Come on, we need help with refreshments,” Muhammad says, indicating the yellow sign across from us that says DRINKS!
There’s a whole crowd of Muhammad’s friends hanging out there, guys with fledgling beards and girls with poufy hijabs, supposedly gender separated but, really, getting chatty with one another. The halal way.
I make a face at Muhammad and see Farooq hovering across from us, pretending to look at Islamic books.
A burly man wearing jingles on his forehead is a welcome sight at such times.
“I’m going to take some close-ups of this guy’s table,” I whisper to Muhammad.
He looks back at the refreshment stand. Saint Sarah has arrived to bless the place it seems, from the way she’s waving her clipboard around.
“It’s for this thing I’m doing for my photography portfolio,” I say. “This series called Real Fake. Stuff that is crazy ironic.”
Either Muhammad is easily swayed by art mumbo jumbo or he wants to get back to schmoozing, because he begins backing up.
“Wait,” I say. “Can you tell Fizz’s cousin over there that she needs help at her table? Thanks.”
He nods and whispers, “Be on guard,” before turning away.
I accept the pink skirt from the belly-dance guy and hold it up. Through it, I see Muhammad sending Farooq on his way to Fizz’s jewelry stand. The monster looks over once more before he turns down the aisle, but I shield myself with the gauzy fabric.
“No, that is not for your face,” the belly-dance vendor says. “You wear this on your face.”
He hands me a mock veil. I jingle it and he laughs. I vow to stay at the real fake booth and help out. You know, to educate the man on real Islam, while protecting myself from a scary Muslim dude roaming these parts.
It’s a good thing that only I know about Farooq, because that only leaves one person, me, to ponder the irony of the situation.
? ? ?
The belly-dance vendor, Mr. Khoury, is a Christian from the Middle East. “Okay, yes, I’m not Muslim. But I like this open house. And you like the stuff I sell?”
I nod and click pictures of his table. The truth is people do stop to buy his wares. Embroidered fabric wall hangings mostly. They’re actually nice—dark colors entwined in geometric patterns.
Those and the battery-powered plastic swords. Little kids are going crazy for them.
“Do you have any kufis, sir?”
I look up at the familiar voice. It’s Nuah, formerly the Shazam! dude, holding books and wearing a T-shirt that says HI, MY NAME IS RANDOMLY SELECTED under an airport symbol.
“Kufis? I don’t know—do I?” says Mr. Khoury, spreading his arms open over his tables. “I’ve got lots of things, so maybe I’ll have kufis, too?”
“Kufis, caps for your head?” Nuah circles his curly hair with one hand and, with the other, waves at me in acknowledgment. “The traditional kind?”
“Now that’s funny.” The vendor puts his hands on his hips. “How do we get a cap on that hair? It will be like squeezing small socks on a bear.”
He pantomimes the action with both hands, grunting to animate it further. Muhammad glances from across the aisle, where he’s handing out lemonades to three girls wearing identical outfits. He queries me with a series of head tilts. Everything okay? he mouths. The girls turn to look at me.
Nuah laughs. “The kufi is for my little brother. He has a buzz cut, not hair like mine.” He tufts his Afro.
“Ah, I see. Then I think I may have some in my van. It’s like a warehouse in there.” Mr. Khoury looks at me. “Will you watch my table for me, my assistant?”
“Now, that’s nice of you,” Nuah says after Mr. Khoury leaves. “Assisting this merchant gentleman here.”
“Actually, I’m taking pictures for the mosque website.”
“Some would say that’s even nicer.”
“. . . aaaand I get paid to do it. It’s part of maintaining my uncle’s website.” I pause my picture taking to see his reaction.
“So if my calculations are right, you’re pretty loaded. This gig and Mr. Ram, you must be raking in the big bucks.”
“Those are not even part-time jobs. You’re the one with the real job.”
“Correct.” Nuah puts his books on the table to pick up one of the popular plastic swords. “Also correct is that I head to college in one more year. You know the tortoise and the hare? I’m the tortoise, and the racetrack’s my bank account. I’ve been saving for years.”
“Where do you want to go?” I lower my camera. This topic always excites me. I’ve been dreaming of college since middle school.
“Ah, you mean my finish line? Caltech, engineering.” He swings the sword in the air like a lightsaber, both hands on the hilt. It responds by lighting up and making a clanging sound. When he slashes the opposite way, the sound changes slightly. “Pretty nifty toy.”
“Yeah, those are bestsellers.” I glance at his books. The Content of Character by Shaykh Al-Amin Mazrui and The Study Quran.
“Hope you didn’t take pictures of that, kids walking around with swords in front of the mosque. That’s all we need, more images of ‘violent Muslims.’?”
Mr. Khoury returns, holding a bin. He opens it to reveal flattened caps arranged in neat rows. He takes one out and pulls it open. It’s a red fez, high and tapered at the top with a hanging tassel.
He motions for Nuah to come closer and places the fez on top of his head. I lift the camera and snap a picture.
Muhammad is by the table. “What’re you guys up to?”