Endless Blind Passions - Chapter 4
Hmm, he’s cute, thinks Monty, imagining for an instant that the slim young Asian man walking along the dock toward his houseboat, carrying a tray holding coffee cups, is someone he’s hooked up with on Gaydar. Except he’s stopped fooling around altogether since he and Jamal became a couple. And besides, lumbering right behind the man is the stocky FBI agent from the day before.Monty has to give the bureau credit for evidently having tapped into his susceptibility to attractive younger guys, if that’s what they’ve done, substituting the new agent for the sinister lady from yesterday, the one with the pointy black shoes.
They’ve probably learned every damn thing about me, he figures as he leads the two agents once again to his love seat. All my secrets. Stuff I’ve never told anyone else. Anything they can use as leverage against me. Oh shit, I hope they don’t know that.
That being the fact he’d had sex with a few of the students he mentored in Zen meditation at the university. He’s been serving there as a chaplain of sorts, separate from his teaching American studies. It was about the worst transgression he could commit as a chaplain. If it got out, he’d be censured for sure, more likely fired outright for such a grave ethical breach.He’d convinced himself he was helping these guys. Helping them get over their sexual hang-ups, their fear of being gay and singled out. He liberated them in a way he wished he’d been when he was at college, opening up to sensuality, to this moment, to things just as they are. That is Zen, after all. Sex provided a kind of key to break through. Zen’s physical, not mental, he would tell his students. That’s what he told himself, too, downplaying that he took advantage of the power imbalance, that the guys were beddably cute, and that he was horny all the time, surrounded by so many tantalizing young men. Had he seduced them, or was it the other way around? It’s so easy to fool yourself.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. There was more—with a Brazilian exchange student who, after they had sex once, tried to keep up the intimacy. But Monty pulled back, telling him it wasn’t appropriate for a spiritual mentor. So why had he come on to the young man in the first place?
And then something gruesome happened. If the FBI knows that, shit, I don’t want to think about it.Of course, what happened might have had nothing to do with him, so he told himself. He kept going over in his mind all the interactions between the two of them, not only the sex, trying to figure out if he’d said or done anything else that might have exacerbated the situation. Whatever the circumstances were, Monty escaped suspicion the following semester after the Brazilian’s roommates found him dead, hanging nude in the morning from a beam above a toilet stall in their dorm bathroom, his tongue dangling loose and, as happens occasionally with hangings, his penis erect, semen dripping from the tip.
Monty never told his then-partner Jonathan or anyone else about his connection to the student. Presumably no one knew. It was horrible enough to admit to himself that he was as culpable as any of the countless other spiritual leaders who turned out to be moral hypocrites taking advantage of vulnerable, pliant followers. And with Buddhism of all things, the practice of compassion. What sort of compassion had Monty manifested?
He tried to put it all behind him, but the guilt hung over him like a heavy blanket you keep trying to kick off on a sultry night. He vowed he wouldn’t let it happen again, having sex with students. But it had only stopped for good when he and Jamal got together. Unlike Jonathan, Jamal wouldn’t put up with Monty’s infidelity. And besides, Monty no longer craved intimacy with anyone else.
“We need to ask you more about this friend of yours who you call Jamal,” says the heavyset agent, Wrankle, his tone more businesslike, as if Monty will have convinced himself it’s time to make a deal. And maybe it is.
“Has he contacted you?” asks Wrankle.
“No,” says Monty. “And I don’t know where he is. So why are you here again? And why don’t you let me know ahead of time when you’re coming? I’d like my lawyer to be present.”
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing to do with you,” says the younger agent—Gogetsu, according to his ID. “We’re not investigating you. Here, look, we brought you a latte from the café across the bridge. No sugar, right?”
How do they know these things? he wonders. Like that he prefers lattes, unsweetened and unflavored, and specifically from Torrefazione in Fremont. Yes, investigators will resort to bullying if they must, but they understand that if you’re relaxed, you’re more likely to recall past events. Too much anxiety and your brain gets jostled. You’ll clam up. Better for agents to appear friendly, with a hint of threat, while slyly cross-examining the hell out you.“So you said that Zahir, or Jamal if you want to use that name, stayed up after you went to bed last Monday, the night before the attack, right?” asks Wrankle.
“Yes.”
“But your neighbors report that they saw him leave your houseboat at around four in the afternoon,” says Wrankle. “And they didn’t see him return.”
“What, did you interrogate them too?”
“We’re confirming the facts, Montgomery. Just the facts.”
“Well, I don’t know what they saw, but I’m telling you what I remember.”
“Could your memory be off?” asks Gogetsu. “I mean, everyone’s in kind of a shock after what happened.”
“Look, I know my busybody neighbors watch every single thing that goes on. Okay, yes, I remember now that Jamal did go out earlier. But he returned.”
“Are you sure?” asks Wrankle. “Why didn’t you mention that yesterday?”
“I am sure. And I don’t know why I didn’t think of it yesterday.”
“Okay, if you say so. Do you know where he went?” asks Wrankle.
“When?”
“The first time, around four.”
“I’m not sure. Maybe to get a newspaper. What difference does it make?”
“Does he often go out for newspapers?” asks Gogetsu, looking up from his notes.
“I don’t monitor him. He’s my lover, not my servant.”
“But are you sure he came back?” asks Gogetsu. “Maybe you didn’t monitor that either.”
“What are you getting at? That I’m covering for him or something? That’s ridiculous.”
“Okay, okay,” says Wrankle. “But you knew his real name is Zahir. Right?”
Monty hesitates and looks away. “So?” he says, shifting in his chair.
“So, hiding that from us before, when we came the first time, is sort of like complicity. Telling the FBI something you know isn’t true is potentially a grave …”
“But we can overlook that, can’t we?” says the younger man, smiling sideways toward Monty. “I’m sure you must feel betrayed that this man faked his identity, that he fooled you, after you were so compassionate, taking him in as a refugee and then trusting him. So tell us what you know about him. We’re all ears.”
And Monty will talk, now that he’s been caught covering up for his lover, conveniently forgetting that Jamal had left earlier in the day on the tenth and hadn’t returned, and evading the fact also that he knew his real name. He inadvertently discovered it one morning early in their relationship. He’d been preparing Jamal’s favorite breakfast—waffles with maple syrup, though he didn’t much care for waffles himself—when he saw Jamal’s weathered leather wallet lying on the dining room table. Without thinking, he opened it up. Tucked behind Jamal’s Washington State driver’s license, he found another ID with his picture but with the name Zahir typed above the Arabic script.
When Jamal came downstairs from their attic bedroom and refilled Monty’s cup with coffee before pouring his own, Monty flicked the ID down on the table and asked, “Who the hell’s Zahir?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I should have explained before,” said his lover, with the slightest lilting intonation and sharpness to his r’s.
Having mastered English, Jamal has virtually perfect grammar and syntax. When speaking informally or relaxed with friends, there’s a hint remaining of a rolled r, more like a tap at the front of the upper palate, with less of the stress here and there typical of English. When he gets excited, his speech becomes a touch more melodic; if angered, rare though that is, his voice drops lower, harsh and guttural.
“When I was a boy, my friends used to tease me all the time because everyone thought I was so handsome. They’d follow me around, chanting ‘Zahir, Zahir is jamal. Zahir is jamal.’ Jamal means beautiful, but you know that already. And so, my nickname stuck, and everyone including my family began calling me Jamal. Back there legally I’m Zahir, but I use Jamal these days. I hope that’s not a problem,” he adds, lowering his head sheepishly and smiling in that endearing manner that melted Monty’s temper every time he got riled.
“That’s such a sweet story,” said Monty, giving Jamal a hug.
No, Jamal’s explanation for his name change didn’t seem to be a problem—not then. In fact Monty found it amusing that he’d fallen big time for someone whose name, his real name anyway, didn’t start with the letter J. There’d been Jonathan. And Jin Li, his Chinese friend. And way back, a boy named Jay. How alluring that letter J, with its dreamy opening sound, the tongue barely caressing the upper palate as the lips touch together lightly as if forming a kiss. Kissing Jamal.
But now that he thinks about it, Jamal’s explanation for his alias seems flimsy. I must be awfully gullible to have believed it for a second. And why didn’t the name Zahir show up in his refugee application? And why the hell didn’t he tell me about this before? What was he hiding? And what else is there I don’t know about Jamal, a.k.a. Zahir?Whatever it is the FBI knows about him, the agents aren’t revealing, not to Monty. Not yet.
“How long exactly have you been acquainted with this Zahir or Jamal?” asks Gogetsu.
“A little over four years,” Monty replies, “since he first arrived here as a refugee. Don’t you know that from your own sources?”
“Yes,” says Wrankle, “but we thought you might have known him earlier.”
“That’s impossible,” says Monty. “What are you insinuating?”
“Just checking,” says the younger agent. “And how long have you two been a …”
“A couple? Can’t say it, can you. Hah. Two years already, since I split up with my ex.”
“And does he belong to any organizations you know of?” asks Wrankle.
“I don’t think so, not that I know of. Eh … except …”
“Except what?” says Wrankle.
“Well, he does meet with a group of other Afghan refugees. Kind of a men’s group.”
“Oh,” says Gogetsu, glancing toward Wrankle, as if they’d already discovered that too. “And how often do they meet?”
“Every month, that is until …”
“Until what?” presses Wrankle.
“Eh, well, recently they’ve been meeting more often.”
“How often?” asks Wrankle.
“Oh, I guess every week or so. Maybe every few days.”
“That’s interesting,” says Gogetsu. “And have you ever met any of these other refugees, or has your friend told you their names or what they discuss in this group, or cell, or whatever it is?”
“No, I haven’t. And no, he hasn’t. He explained to me that what they say stays within the group. That’s how these men’s groups work, isn’t it?”
“You tell us,” says Wrankle.
After questioning Monty further about how he and Jamal/Zahir met, what he knows about his friend’s past, about his work, whether he belongs to any other groups, who his other friends and acquaintances are, and so on, they take their leave, saying they’ll be back.
“And remember this time to look over your friend’s things,” says the senior agent, still avoiding the word lover or partner. “We don’t want to be forced to get a search warrant. We’re counting on your cooperation.”
“Okay,” says Monty, avoiding Wrankle’s eyes.
When he sees the agents out, Monty notices his neighbors spying again through their venetian blinds, shutting them as soon as he looks their way.
Monty had in fact already gone through Jamal’s possessions, searching through his desk, all around his closet, and inside his drawers of their shared dresser. Nothing unusual. Then he remembered Jamal still had the worn leather suitcase he’d originally traveled with after his refugee application was approved. It was stored with other luggage in a crawl space next to their bedroom.
Inside the case Monty found some traditional Afghan clothes Jamal had brought with him, including a chapan, a long-sleeved coat he’d sometimes worn at university in Karachi, with flamboyant red and gold stripes and a bright chartreuse lining. Monty was about to close the suitcase back up when he felt something hard under the chapan.
“Holy fuck,” he cried aloud after uncovering a stack of Al-Qaeda pamphlets full of extremist propaganda. They were written side by side in Arabic and English, published, Monty guessed, to enlist foreign converts to jihad. Or something else equally insidious. The most inflammatory passages were highlighted with a yellow marker, the kind students use. “DEATH to America! DEATH to Israel! Avenge the TRUE FAITH! Victory for the RIGHTEOUS!”
Monty felt as if he’d been kicked in the groin or stabbed in his chest. He grabbed his chest and held on tight, fearing for a moment he was having a heart attack or a stroke.
Fuck, do I know Jamal at all? he thought when he recovered his senses. Maybe the FBI have valid grounds for investigating him. Could he have been using me all this time as a cover for what he’s been up to? Oh come on, it’s not possible. I love the guy. I believed everything he ever told me. Was it all a sham? Have I been duped? He brought one of the pamphlets to his nose and nearly gagged. Sour foreign spices mixed with feces—cumin, turmeric, camel dung? Maybe dried rotten apricots. And cheap, acrid-smelling paper.Drifting off for a moment, he recalled Jamal’s smell, so sui generis—a subtle, enigmatic scent of sandalwood from the soap and shaving lotion he used. Monty would lick Jamal’s neck where the scent was more intense and compelling, before continuing all over his body, craving every iota of him, finding all Jamal’s erogenous spots. And Jamal would reciprocate. Sometimes while they were making love, Monty would fantasize Jamal eating him up, eating him up entirely. And he wanted it. He wanted to be consumed by Jamal. He gave himself to Jamal as he’d never given himself to anyone in his whole life, not only in sex but emotionally, intellectually. Between them there was no barrier.
“I’ve told you every secret about me,” Monty had confided to Jamal once after they’d made love. “Things I never dared tell anyone else. There isn’t anything I’d hide from you.” Though he’d never even hinted about his having seduced students, let alone the Brazilian boy’s death.
“It’s the same for me,” said Jamal, his luminescent green-blue wolf’s eyes peering into Monty’s soul.
Damn, I believed him. I believed everything. I still want to believe everything.
Monty recalled the time he and Jamal almost made love, when they were camping at the coast, when Monty was still with Jonathan. He pictured vividly the moment they finally had sex, when Jamal abruptly stopped giving him a blow job and started lightly tickling his feet, as if, magically, he sensed this was the most intense physical pleasure Monty experienced as a child—when his mother would tickle his feet after clipping his toenails. How does Jamal know this trick? What, is he—some kind of psychic? Or demon? Yeah, a demon I could fall for. And did.
It was as if he and Jamal, though distinct selves with dissimilar personalities, were fused into one being—not only in the act of sex. Monty was amazed they could talk about it so freely—a touchy subject he and Jonathan had rarely broached. But he and Jamal shared their thoughts about life, culture, politics, emotions, everything—or so Monty thought—including his lifelong fear of death.
“You’re not the only one,” Jamal once said to him, reaching out to hold his hand. “Except for fanatics who trust they’ll go to heaven, I think everyone fears death.”
Despite Monty’s shock at discovering the pamphlets, he wasn’t ready yet to reveal to the agents what he’d found in the suitcase. His faith in Jamal was beginning to wilt, but he couldn’t trust the FBI either, not for a second. What if Jamal were innocent? In fact, what if the FBI got into the houseboat while Monty was away and planted the evidence in the suitcase to incriminate Jamal? It was possible. Anything was possible.
How did they figure out I knew Jamal’s real name? Did they spy on me? Is the houseboat bugged? Did they already have information about Jamal? And about me? And how could they be looking for him so soon after the attack? Was he on some kind of watch list? And why was he meeting so much more often with that men’s group before the attack? Something doesn’t add up. I wonder if the FBI are holding him already and interrogating him—or worse. I’ve got to be careful. It’s not just his life that’s at stake.
I’ve got to talk to someone about all this. Someone I can trust.
< Previous Chapter | Back to Index | Next Chapter >