Chapter 18

Islam followed right behind, hardly a year later. I was fifteen years old and I was exploring my hometown. The Muslim quarter wasn't far from the zoo. A small, quiet neighbourhood with Arabic writing and crescent moons inscribed on the facades of the houses.

I came to Mullah Street. I had a peek at the Jamia Masjid, the Great Mosque, being careful to stay on the outside, of course. Islam had a reputation worse than Christianity's - fewer gods, greater violence, and I had never heard anyone say good things about Muslim schools - so I wasn't about to step in, empty though the place was. The building, clean and white except for various edges painted green, was an open construction unfolding around an empty central room. Long straw mats covered the floor everywhere. Above, two slim, fluted minarets rose in the air before a background of soaring coconut trees. There was nothing evidently religious or, for that matter, interesting about the place, but it was pleasant and quiet.

I moved on. Just beyond the mosque was a series of attached single-storey dwellings with small shaded porches. They were rundown and poor, their stucco walls a faded green. One of the dwellings was a small shop. I noticed a rack of dusty bottles of Thums Up and four transparent plastic jars half-full of candies. But the main ware was something else, something flat, roundish and white. I got close. It seemed to be some sort of unleavened bread. I poked at one. It flipped up stiffly. They looked like three-day-old nans. Who would eat these, I wondered. I picked one up and wagged it to see if it would break.

A voice said, "Would you like to taste one?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin. It's happened to all of us: there's sunlight and shade, spots and patterns of colour, your mind is elsewhere - so you don't make out what is right in front of you.

Not four feet away, sitting cross-legged before his breads, was a man. I was so startled my hands flew up and the bread went sailing halfway across the street. It landed on a pat of fresh cow dung.

"I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't see you!" I burst out. I was just about ready to run away.

"Don't worry," he said calmly. "It will feed a cow. Have another one."

He tore one in two. We ate it together. It was tough and rubbery, real work for the teeth, but filling. I calmed down.

"So you make these," I said, to make conversation.

"Yes. Here, let me show you how." He got off his platform and waved me into his house.

It was a two-room hovel. The larger room, dominated by an oven, was the bakery, and the other, separated by a flimsy curtain, was his bedroom. The bottom of the oven was covered with smooth pebbles. He was explaining to me how the bread baked on these heated pebbles when the nasal call of the muezzin wafted through the air from the mosque. I knew it was the call to prayer, but I didn't know what it entailed. I imagined it beckoned the Muslim faithful to the Mosque, much like bells summoned us Christians to church. Not so. The baker interrupted himself mid-sentence and said, "Excuse me." He ducked into the next room for a minute and returned with a rolled-up carpet, which he unfurled on the floor of his bakery, throwing up a small storm of flour. And right there before me, in the midst of his workplace, he prayed. It was incongruous, but it was I who felt out of place. Luckily, he prayed with his eyes closed.

He stood straight. He muttered in Arabic. He brought his hands next to his ears, thumbs touching the lobes, looking as if he were straining to hear Allah replying. He bent forward. He stood straight again. He fell to his knees and brought his hands and forehead to the floor. He sat up. He fell forward again. He stood. He started the whole thing again.

Why, Islam is nothing but an easy sort of exercise, I thought. Hot-weather yoga for the Bedouins. Asanas without sweat, heaven without strain.

He went through the cycle four times, muttering throughout. When he had finished - with a right-left turning of the head and a short bout of meditation - he opened his eyes, smiled, stepped off his carpet and rolled it up with a flick of the hand that spoke of old habit. He returned it to its spot in the next room. He came back to me. "What was I saying?" he asked.

So it went the first time I saw a Muslim pray - quick, necessary, physical, muttered, striking. Next time I was praying in church - on my knees, immobile, silent before Christ on the Cross - the image of this callisthenic communion with God in the middle of bags of flour kept coming to my mind.

第十八章

    紧接着我又信了伊斯兰教，在不到一年的时候。那时我15岁，正在探索自己的家乡。穆斯林居住区离动物园不远。那是一个小小的安静的地段，房子临街一面写着阿拉伯文，画着新月。

    我来到毛拉街。我偷偷张望了一下那座大清真寺，当然，我小心地待在外面。伊斯兰教的名声比基督教的名声更糟，神更少，暴力更多，而且我从没有听任何人说过 穆斯林学校的好话，因此我不会进去，尽管那里没有人。这是一座干净的白色建筑，只有各个边缘处漆成了绿色，开放型的结构围绕着中间一间空荡荡的房间伸展开 来。地上到处都铺着长长的草席。上面，两座细长的有凹槽的光塔直伸向空中，背后是参天的椰子树。这个地方没有什么具有明显宗教性的东西，或者就此而言，有 趣的东西，但是这里很舒适、很安静。

    我继续向前走。就在清真寺前面有一排连在一起的一层楼的住宅，前面有阴凉的门廊。这些房子年久失修，破败不堪，绿色的灰泥墙已经退了色。其中一间房子是一 家小商店。我看到满满一架落满了灰尘的瓶子，里面装着可乐，还有四个透明垫料罐子，装了半罐子糖果。但是主要的货物是别的东西，是一种扁平的的圆圆的白色 的东西。我走近了。看上去像一种无酵饼。我戳了戳其中一只。它硬邦邦地弹了起来。这些东西看上去像放了三天的印度式面包。谁会吃这些啊，我想。我拿起一 只，摇了摇，看看它会不会碎。

    一个声音说：“想尝尝吗？”

    我吓得差点儿灵魂出窍。我们有过这样的经历：四周有阳光和树阴，有斑斑点点的色彩，而你的心思在别的地方，因此辨认不出就在面前的东西。

    在离我不到四英尺的地方，盘腿坐在饼上面的，是一个人。我大吃一惊，手猛地向上一扬，饼飞到了路中间，落在了一堆新鲜牛粪上。

    “对不起，先生。我没看见你！”我脱口而出。我正准备要逃走。

    “别担心，”他平静地说，“那块饼可以喂牛。再拿一块吧。"

    他把一块饼掰成两半。我们一起吃了。饼又硬又有弹性，咬起来很费劲，但容易填饱肚子。我平静了下来。

    “这些饼都是你做的哕。”我没话找话地说。

    “是的。到这儿来，我来告诉你是怎么做的。"他从台子上下来，招手让我进了他家。

    那是一座有两间房间的茅舍。被一只烤炉占据了的大一些的房间是面包房，另一间用一块薄帘子隔开的房间是他的卧室。烤炉底部覆盖着光滑的卵石。他正在向我解 释饼是怎样在这些加热了的卵石上烘烤的，这时穆安津带鼻音的呼唤从清真寺随风传来。我知道那是呼唤信徒去祷告，但是我不知道它意味着什么。我猜想这声音是 召唤忠实的穆斯林去清真寺．很像钟声‘召集我们基督教徒去教堂。事实并非如此。面包师说了一半停住了，说：“对不起。"他弯腰走进隔壁房间，一分钟后拿着 一块卷起来的毯子回来了。他把毯子打开，放在面包房的地上，扬起的面粉像刮起一场小小的风暴。就在我面前，在他工作的地方，他开始祷告起来。他的举止并不 妥当，但是感到格格不入的却是我。幸运的是，他是闭着眼睛祷告的。

    他站直了身体。他用阿拉伯文低声咕哝着。他把双手放在耳朵旁边，两个大拇指碰到耳垂，看上去好像在扯着耳朵听安拉的回答。

    他向前鞠了一躬。然后又站直身体。他双膝跪下，双手和额头触地。他坐了起来。又向前趴下。又站了起来。他把整个动作又重来了一遍。

    嗨，伊斯兰教只是一种简单的锻炼，我想。贝都因人在炎热的气候中做的瑜伽。不出汗的正坐，不需费力即可进入的极乐之乡。

    他把这一套动作重复了四遍，同时一直不停地咕哝着。做完以后——最后头向左右转动一次，冥想了一会儿——他睁开眼睛，微微一笑，从毯子上下来，三下两下就把毯子卷了起来，看得出这是他的老习惯了。把他毯子放回隔壁房间原来的地方。然后回到我这里。

    “刚才我说到哪儿了？”他问。

    这就是我第一次看见一个穆斯林做祷告——身体运动，动作迅速，出于必要，低声咕哝，引人注目。下一次我在教堂里做祷告的时候——跪在十字架上的耶稣面前，一动不动，沉默不语——在一袋袋面粉中间像做健美操一样与上帝交流的画面不断出现在我脑海里。