through the crowds, sometimes killing thousands at a time. Bambang had heard about pilgrims being swallowed up in the sand as they slept. And, of course, diseases arrived from all parts of the globe, creating a vast international bazaar of infection. It was suggested that Bambang purchase some small green lemons that would guarantee immunity.
Arrival in Jeddah was thrilling. Planes were coming from so many other countries, with Muslims dressed in identical white garments. Already Bambang felt that he was part of a great procession, stripped of race, class, nationality, ethnicity, any trace of individuality—a snowflake, perhaps, something he had never seen, but the blizzard of white garments conjured the image. His heart was singing. These were his brothers and sisters in the faith. They were all, he thought, like him, pure of soul, ready to meet Allah. Their faces—surely like his—were filled with excitement and expectation, even when they were herded into a vast holding pen and told to wait for the buses that would take them to Mecca.
Bambang waited. Night came. There was no food except for the predatory vendors selling dates and candy bars and bottled water for unconscionable sums. He lay on the concrete, exhausted, but also upset about dirtying his pristine garments. He was in a confused, suspended state—exhilarated and disappointed and angry and clinging to the hope that he would soon be spiritually transformed.
A wiry young man sat beside him, full of nervous energy. Bambang greeted him in his primitive Arabic.
“I don’t speak that stuff,” the young man said. “It’s English or nothing.”
“You are British?” Bambang asked.
“Right you are,” he said. “Manchester.”
His name was Tariq. They talked for a moment about football, because Bambang followed Manchester United.
Tariq reached into his suitcase and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to Bambang.
“It is forbidden,” Bambang said, although he wanted a cigarette more than he could say.
“Hey, mate, we’re not in Mecca yet. Officially, we haven’t really begun the journey, have we? We’re just sitting on our bums going nowhere. I’ll give up me Regals when I get to the mosque.”
The disrespect was as welcome as the cigarette. Bambang felt himself descending back into real life—scandalized, but also amused and grateful.
“What did you think about the brothers’ action in Rome?” Tariq asked.
Bambang didn’t follow the news.
“You didn’t hear? They slaughtered six hundred disbelievers,” Tariq said. “In Rome!”
From the young man’s tone, Bambang sensed that Rome was a special place, uniquely hostile to Islam. Terrorism confused him. He considered Islam a religion of peace, but young Indonesians that he knew had been drawn to ISIS. His nephew had been caught in a dragnet of suspected cell members who were planning to attack election rallies. Many other families had similar stories. Bambang was shocked at the casual endorsement that Tariq offered for whatever it was that happened in Rome. Six hundred people—how do you kill six hundred people? And why?
“The press, you’d think the only ones killed was them bleeding horses! These trick horses,” the young man suddenly explained, remembering that Bambang didn’t know what he was talking about. “All dressed up in costumes, like. For some Christian ceremony, it being Rome.”
Bambang was quiet. It occurred to him that this young man might not be who he claimed to be. Perhaps he was an intelligence agent sent to trap Bambang in some careless remark. Perhaps he knew about his radical nephew. This was dangerous ground.
“It was a miracle,” Tariq was saying. “It is only the beginning. Many more miracles to come. You will not believe them. All praise to Allah.”
Tariq ground the butt of his cigarette into the concrete and lay down. He fell instantly asleep.
Bambang was also asleep when the buses arrived just before sunrise. He awakened stiff and sore and cold from the pavement. He hung back a bit until Tariq boarded, and then chose another bus.
The highway to Mecca was crowded with pilgrims in buses, private cars, some in limousines, with practically no traffic in the opposite direction. Bambang had never seen a desert before. It was darkly orange, rumpled and treeless, but blue mountains were emerging with the dawn, casting long shadows across the sand, and a few stars lingered in the cloudless sky.
They passed under the Mecca Gate, the monumental arch that marks the entry to the holy region, where only Muslims were allowed to enter. Atop the gate was the representation of an open Qur’an, presenting itself to the heavens. The pilgrims embraced each other. Bambang did not even feel the