keep the contagious ones away, but many arrive in advanced stages of chronic illness. Of course, we have to bury them and do all the paperwork. It’s quite a headache.”
“I need to locate this Indonesian man, Bambang Idris,” Henry said.
“When do you need him?” Colonel al-Shehri asked.
“As soon as possible.”
“It should be no problem,” the colonel said. “But now is impossible. Tonight the pilgrims are scattered, sleeping under the stars. They awaken soon, before dawn, and return to their tents after prayer. We will bring him to you.”
“So, it’s settled,” Majid said, as a servant unrolled a length of plastic. “Tonight we take our dinner, and tomorrow we find your man.” Two other servants set a roasted lamb and a large bowl of saffron rice on the floor, along with bread and hummus and dates and dishes that Henry didn’t recognize. Majid and the colonel sat cross-legged on the floor, but as Henry was about to join them, clumsily, someone brought him an old schoolroom chair with a folding tray arm. The servant made Henry a plate with too much food, and he followed the example of the other men, eating only with the fingers of his right hand.
They took tea at a camp table on a rocky promontory overlooking the city. By now night had fully occupied the sky, which was splattered with stars that seemed merely a few feet away.
“I can see why religions are born in the desert,” Henry said.
“Yes, we have this problem,” Majid said. “God is always on top of us.”
Exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed Henry. He had not stopped since he left Jakarta. There was nothing else he could do tonight, he realized gratefully, as a servant directed him to his own tent, with an actual bed, which he fell into as soon as the flap was closed. He thought about Jill, missing her, longing for her. Odd images raced through his mind as his neurons discharged the anxiety that now followed him everywhere. His dreams were a battlefield.
* * *
—
BAMBANG COULDN’T SLEEP. He had spent the day praying on a rock on Mount Arafat. Pilgrims were scattered among the boulders like a flock of pigeons, and Bambang had been lucky to locate a spot where he could be alone with his thoughts. He made the prayers that his family and friends had urged upon him. Each would have the force of a hundred thousand prayers outside of Mecca. Sometimes Bambang’s mind wandered, and he worried that—in this, the holiest spot on earth—his doubts would also be amplified thousands of times.
The sun had been brutal that afternoon. His skin was blistered and the ground was hard, but he accepted the pain and the ceaseless itching as a sacrifice, pushing his discomfort away to concentrate on his prayers. The counter he carried tallied 476 prayers that one day. He imagined how many that must be when multiplied by a hundred thousand. More than all the prayers of his lifetime. Of many lifetimes. He was certainly blessed.
He contemplated the experience of entering the Grand Mosque the day before. As he had walked through its towering arches into the octagonal courtyard he had felt himself an insignificant drop of consciousness in the great sea of humanity. There it was, the Kaaba, looming over the pilgrims, a great cube of rock draped in black and inscribed in gold. The pilgrims circled it, counterclockwise, seven times, and with each revolution Bambang edged closer, hoping to kiss the Black Stone, the mysterious relic embedded in the corner of the Kaaba, inside a silver portal. The pilgrims pointed to the stone with longing and reverence. People said that it was from the time of Adam and Eve, and that the Prophet himself had laid it in the cornerstone. In Bambang’s last rotation, men were jostling fiercely to claim their prize, and amazingly Bambang had done it, he had added his kiss to the holy of holies. Afterward, he had prayed from one of the highest terraces of the mosque. He could see millions of believers before him, pressed shoulder to shoulder, as tightly as threads woven together in a single garment. Bambang felt transported and redeemed, as close to being a pure spirit as he could ever hope to achieve.
And now he lay on the plain of Muzdalifah, staring into the face of creation. The stars rotated slowly in universal progression. Such majesty. Bambang felt insignificant but also swollen with joy. Then he turned to one side and vomited.