Irony dominates 'The Bad Muslim Discount'

One of life’s ironies is that even when we do what’s right and what’s expected of us, our actions can still unintentionally result in tragedy. In his debut novel for adult audiences “The Bad Muslim Discount,” due out Feb. 2, author Syed Masood tells an irony-rich story through two powerful voices, Anvar and Azza.

Anvar, a Pakistani teen, migrates to California with his family when his father becomes fed up with the growing religious fundamentalism in 1995 Karachi. Something of the family’s bad apple, Anvar is smart, sassy, and somewhat lazy. His brother Aamir is the sober, adult-pleasing “good Muslim” of the family, if only while someone is looking so he can get credit for it.

The story’s other narrator, Azza, is a Bagdad teen whose mother dies of cancer and father is disappeared and tortured by the Americans. Eventually, her father returns, with the physical and psychological scars of his ordeal. Azza makes a secret deal with neighbor Qais—and pays a price for it—who obtains forged passports for the three of them and they migrate to California.

Now adults, Anvar and Azza cross paths. A disillusioned lawyer, and still a bad Muslim, Anvar tries to help Azza, who endures physical abuse and the threat of sexual abuse.

The action in the novel is fast paced, from the war-torn Middle East where the characters’ lives are threatened, to post-9/11 San Francisco, where the characters face racism and Islamophobia. The characters are realistic and endearing. Even Aamir, the goody-goody, has the reader’s sympathy when he becomes engaged to a woman whom he doesn’t know is his brother’s ex-lover.

The story is full of entertaining secondary characters like Anvar’s grandmother, who teaches him about checkers and about life; Anvar’s pious and dictatorial mother; his father, who loves music and punishes Anvar’s misdeeds my making him eat bubble gum ice cream, his least favorite flavor; and Hafeez Bhatti, his paan-chewing landlord, who gives Anvar the good Muslim discount on a shabby apartment.

The prose is compelling and lyrical at times, such as the description of Anvar’s hometown:

Karachi, the city that spat me out into this world, is perpetually under siege by its own climate. The Indian Ocean does not sit placidly at the edge of the massive metropolitan port. It invades. It pours in through the air. It conspires with the dense smog of modern life and collective breath of fifteen million souls to oppress you. Under the gaze of an indifferent sun you sweat and the world sweats with you (page 5).

The author’s insight about religion and geopolitical issues is both spot on and witty. To prepare the reader for a rather disturbing description of the sacrifice of a goat to celebrate Eid, Masood says, “Yes, Islam has a marketing problem” (page 3). And later, Anvar observes, “That radical Islamists and ‘America First’ nationalists had essentially the same worldview and the same desire to recapture a nostalgia-gilded past glory was proof, in my opinion, that God’s sense of irony was simply divine” (pages 181-182).

It’s the irony that dominates this novel. Aamir, the good Muslim, who attends mosque, prays five times a day, doesn’t drink or smoke, and becomes engaged to the woman his parents choose for him, inadvertently causes a man’s death, even though he only did what a good Muslim would. Anvar, the bad Muslim, does what he wants, drinks, smokes, sleeps with women, and never prays. When he finally does follow an ethical code—for attorneys, not for Muslims—the result is more pain for his friends.

I enjoyed the novel and found it a rewarding read that reminded me of other excellent recent works, such as Fatima Farheen Mirza’s “A Place for Us” and “The House of Broken Angels” by Luis Alberto Urrea.

The characters are complex and sympathetic. The story includes tense moments and the serious portrayal of the violence the characters endure, but also humorous passages about human flaws and the small tensions that occur in families.

The book’s one flaw is that the author’s theme statements are a bit ham-fisted and seem more appropriate for a Young Adult novel. However, this blemish does not diminish the reader’s enjoyment of this rich and complex story.

In 'The Searcher,' French finally offers a somewhat happy ending

Perhaps Irish-American author Tana French’s nihilism is softening with age, but the main character of The Searcher, which launched in October, is less tortured and ends up less troubled than any of the detectives in her Dublin Murder Squad series or her first stand-alone novel, The Witch Elm.

American ex-cop Cal Hooper buys a run-down farm in a tiny Irish village in an attempt to escape the trauma of his former job and his failed marriage. A North Carolina country boy, Cal is damaged by what he sees on the job with the Chicago police force. He wants nothing more than to fish, shoot a few rabbits, visit the pub occasionally, and have little to do with other people.

That plan is shattered when a local kid asks for his help. Trey’s brother has been missing six months, and Trey first asks then pressures Cal to help. Cal reluctantly agrees, but he’s no longer a cop, so his only resource is his own wits. Cal starts asking questions, and that’s when trouble finds him.

Cal discovers that his seemingly idyllic village is not as it appears, and his neighbors have secrets he never would have guessed. He also discovers that he must re-examine his own moral code and perhaps make some adjustments. He learns that he can’t be the person he was in Chicago and still be happy.

Typically a French novel concludes with the protagonist destroying his or her career, life, or both. In some there is no clear resolution, which leaves the reader unsatisfied and anxious. In fact, in French’s previous novel, The Witch Elm, the main character ruins his life because of his own self-doubt.

However, The Searcher leaves the reader feeling more satisfied than French’s other novels. Cal comes to realize he can’t “fix” every wrong, but he can help Trey, and himself, find some closure and some peace. Most of French’s protagonists destroy what they were hoping to build. Refreshingly, Cal finds a way to salvage his dream.

As always, French’s prose is spellbinding and lyrical:

At first the river feels like what he needs. It’s narrow enough that the massive old trees touch across it, rocky enough to make the water swirl and whiten; the banks are speckled orange-gold with fallen leaves. Cal finds himself a clear stretch and a big mossy beech tree, and takes his time picking a lure. Birds flip and sass each other between branches, paying no attention to him and the smell of the water is so strong and sweet he can feel it against his skin (p 89).

The beautiful imagery combined with the dialect of the earthly, witty characters creates an appealing atmosphere that engages the reader even when the action slows down.

When Cal expresses concern about him and his neighbor angering the bar owner after a particularly long and raucous visit to the pub, his neighbor reassures him: “’Barty?’ Mart says with magnificent scorn. ‘Sure, that pub’s not even rightly his. He only got his hands on it because Sean Og’s son fancied himself sitting in an aul’ office, the big jessie. He can put up with us having a wee carouse every now and again’” (p 216).

Additionally, the third person limited point of view keeps the focus entirely on Cal, his struggle adjusting to his new life, and his methodical investigative process.

Not what anyone would call fast-paced, The Searcher still holds the reader’s attention with tense, sometimes violent confrontations, one shootout, and the conversations of the hilarious old men in the pub. However, it is not nearly as slow at The Witch Elm, French’s previous title, which is only slightly longer, but offers no narrative hook or inciting incident until about 150 pages into the book.

‘The End of October’ accurately predicts pandemic

I was a bit nervous about reading Lawrence Wright’s “The End of October,” a novel about a flu pandemic, during a pandemic. However, I was intrigued about this book, released in June, that predicted 2020 so well.

Wright began his career as a journalist. He has written for Texas Monthly and Rolling Stone and is currently a staff writer at The New Yorker. His prose is definitely that of a reporter: clear, concise, and engaging.

In fact, I finished the book in just three sittings despite its nearly 400 pages. I could have finished it in just two, but I had to make myself put the book down around midnight. This is not bedtime reading.

The main character is Henry Parsons, an infectious diseases expert with the CDC. He goes to Indonesia to investigate a particularly strange outbreak at a refugee camp. Other experts have concluded that the outbreak is shigella, a type of bacteria. However, what Henry finds at the camp is shocking, and he begins his months-long search to identify the virus and a treatment.

However, it is too late for Henry to prevent a pandemic. He has to use his wits to return home after he is trapped in Saudi Arabia and hitches a ride back to the U.S. aboard a nuclear submarine.

Wright accurately predicts not only the spread of a novel virus and the reactions of individuals and nations, he also predicts an outbreak at the White House, and that the U.S.’s adversaries use the opportunity to launch attacks on America.

Some readers have complained that the first half of the book contains too much scientific information. However, I regard that as one of the book’s strengths. Through Henry’s investigation, the reader learns about the different types of influenza viruses and what their names mean, about important scientists in the fight against viruses that have plagued humanity, and about famous accidents in that research.

Wright’s book is a very compelling thriller. The characters are interesting, and the plot is believable for the most part. Wright does jump the shark with the “mad scientist” character who has learned to regenerate extinct species.

Although I did have a couple of nightmares after reading “The End of October,” I still enjoyed it tremendously, and I’m glad I read it, if only because we have not suffered the millions of deaths and the complete failure of society as did the people in the story.

Yet.

Reading often has side effects

Any reader can list the many important benefits of reading: a broader perspective, wider general knowledge, improved critical thinking, larger vocabulary, and, of course, enjoyment. But heavy readers, committed readers—addicted readers—can also list the adverse effects of reading.

A few of reading’s adverse effects are nearly inconsequential: a messy house, unwashed laundry, and a lack of sleep. Other side effects can be emotionally devastating.

For instance, the book hangover can leave its victims like zombies: the body functions, but the mind is absent. Well, not absent; just not present in the real world. A book hangover happens when a reader finishes reading a book but cannot let go of the story. The reader walks around, going through the motions of life, but her mind is still in the story.

Fantasy, science fiction, gothic tales, and period novels are the genres that most often produce a hangover, especially if the book is particularly long. I experienced one of my earliest book hangovers after I finished “The Mists of Avalon” by Marion Zimmer Bradley, a monumental retelling of the King Arthur legend from the perspectives of Morgan Le Fay and Guenevere. At nearly 1000 pages, and filled with love, magic, betrayal, and death, Bradley’s book easily takes possession of the reader.

I was only casually interested in the Arthur legend before reading “Mists.” Afterward, I was obsessed. I couldn’t let go of the story, so I sought it in other books, primarily “Le Morte d’Arthur” by Thomas Mallory and “The History of the Kings of Britain” by Geoffrey of Monmouth. I must have been desperate, because neither Mallory nor Monmouth would be considered “gifted writers” by any estimation.

Luckily, when I was teaching high school sophomores, the curriculum included a unit on the Arthur tales. There were three heavily edited tales included in the textbook. Fortunately, I had a wealth of materials, and enthusiasm, to supplement with. You can imagine my students’ reaction to my attempts to imbue my Arthur passion in them. I can still hear the eyes rolling.

A more debilitating side effect of reading is story grief. The greater the quality of the book, the greater the risk of grief once the reader is finished. Book grief is an overwhelming sadness and sense of loss after finishing a particularly powerful story. Sure, you can reread the book, and a second, or third or fourth, reading can give the reader greater insight into the plot or characters. However, first reading is special, when the reader falls in love with the characters, the setting, the themes, and the events.

Book grief sadness results from believing that you’ve just read the best story in the entire world and will never find another story that you like as well. My most recent experience of book grief was just a few weeks ago when I finished “Miracle at St. Anna” by James McBride.

“Miracle,” based on actual events, is the story of a group of four Buffalo soldiers fighting in Italy in WWII. They get lost in the mountains while trying to avoid the German troops massing not far away and planning a huge assault on the American forces. It’s primarily the story of Sam Train and the small Italian boy he rescues from a fire fight. The characters are earthy and endearing, the dialog is realistic, and the events are heartbreaking. This story, which includes magical elements, is one of both devastating loss and redemption.

A book hangover can be treated by reading more books on the same topic or with the same characters. For instance, after reading “Jane Eyre” many times, and each time feeling hungover, I turned to “The Wide Sargasso Sea” by Jean Rhys, and “Mr. Rochester” by Sarah Shoemaker. “Sargasso” is Bertha’s (the crazy wife in the attic) story, “Mr. Rochester” is Edward’s life story. Both offer new perspectives on the classic tale and allow the reader to ease herself back into the real world.

However, book grief cannot be so easily cured. Like any other kind of grief, the reader must allow herself to grieve. I find it hard to start a new book for several days until the book grief subsides. Moreover, I am wary of what I pick up next. I don’t want to ruin a perfectly good book by comparing it to the impossible standard of the book I am grieving.

So I’ve found it useful to go back to a guilty pleasure, like true crime, Nordic Noir, or sci-fi. Although I enjoy these genres, I don’t have the same expectations of them as I do with literary fiction.

You may have noticed that the cures for both adverse side effects is more reading. Naturally.

Substantial and fun titles fill a summer of lockdown and recovery

Like so many people at high risk (due to age and infirmities) because of the ongoing emergency, I am stuck at home. However, I had begun not just to get used to lockdown, but really to enjoy it. I was cooking like crazy, even making three different breads in one day, I adopted a kitten, and I was plowing through that to-be-read pile on my nightstand.

However, shoulder surgery has put a kink in my fun. I can’t cook, even with the help of a somewhat reluctant sous-chef (the roommate). I can’t exercise. It’s too hot to take a walk. All that’s left for me is reading. I am not crying.

Last week’s reads

When we used to go out into the world, we liked to visit the used book store, piling up ambitions to be fulfilled later. Sometimes titles get pushed to the bottom of the pile repeatedly for more intriguing finds. For me, one of those was “The Partly Cloudy Patriot,” a collection of essays by Sarah Vowell, an author, journalist, essayist, actress, and contributor to “This American Life.” I selected the book because I had heard a review of a more recent title, “The Wordy Shipmates” on NPR.

Vowell calls herself a history buff, and the essays in “Patriot” include topics such as presidential libraries, historical maps showing California as an island, a letter to her deceased congressman, and the founding of the Canadian Mounties. Although some of the essays are dated, bemoaning the election and inauguration of George W. Bush, (which seems quaint now) they are still entertaining.

Vowell addresses her topics with insight and humor. On a “pilgrimage to Gettysburg,” Vowell writes, “Fact is, I think about the Civil War all the time, every day. I can’t even use a cotton ball to remove my eye makeup without spacing out about slavery’s favorite cash crop” juxtaposed with Lincoln’s own words, that “it may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces.”

Vowell also argues that Tom Landry was her first entrée into existentialism because he introduced her to “dread: nagging, doubting, gnawing fear. And I’m not even referring to the ’79 Super Bowl.” Rather, she refers to her Tom Landry Christian comic book, which was meant to inspire with tales of redemption, but instead “clued me in to the horrors of the world.” I will definitely be reading more from Vowell.

For one of my book clubs I read “Where’d You Go, Bernadette” (2012) by Maria Semple. It is a great, fun summer read. Talented, troubled, and quirky Seattle housewife Bernadette goes missing from her own home as her husband tries to have her committed to a mental hospital. But Bernadette is merely a misunderstood misanthrope. Her daughter, Bee, sets out to find her, following her to the literal ends of the Earth, Antarctica.

2013 Alex Award recipient Semple is an alumnus of the writers’ rooms of “Mad About You,” “Arrested Development,” “Saturday Night Live,” and “Suddenly Susan,” among other television shows. And “Bernadette” is in the same vein: hilarious situations, unbelievable coincidences, characters that change in an instant, and a very happy ending. Not a substantial read, “Bernadette” was fun and worth the time I spent on it.

This week’s read

I am in the middle of “Deacon King Kong,” by author, journalist, and musician James McBride. I put the book down only to write this column.

I taught McBride’s first book, a memoir, “The Color of Water,” for many years to my Advanced Placement juniors. To a person, they loved it. “The Color of Water” was a best seller and is considered a masterpiece.

Using two narratives decades apart in chronology, McBride relates his life growing up with 11 siblings in New York City, and his mother’s life as a Polish-born Jew who grew up in Suffolk, Virginia. McBride’s lyrical style and the book’s masterful structure make it a tremendously touching and a rewarding read.

“Deacon King Kong,” set in 1969 in a Brooklyn housing project, is a novel that gives us earthy, gentle, hilarious characters such as Sportcoat, Hot Sausage, and the Elephant. The novel opens with 50ish handyman and hard-drinking Sportcoat walking out to the project plaza, shooting baseball-phenom-turned-drug dealer, Deems, in the ear, and then not remembering any of it.

Drug ring enforcer, Earl, is then out to punish Sportcoat, but repeatedly suffers the same fate as the would-be burglars in “Home Alone.” Who knew that slapstick comedy could work so well on the printed page?

Sportcoat’s main concern is locating the church Christmas fund that his wife oversaw before she died by walking into the harbor. Where did she hide it? Where did she keep the records? Side plots include love stories: married cop Potts falls for the preacher’s wife and Tomaso “the Elephant” Elefante becomes infatuated with an Irish girl. And there are other mysteries. I can’t wait to get back to this one.

What’s next

On my TBR list are “Mexican Gothic,” “The End of October,” and “A Covert Affair.” The first two I chose for my book clubs. I love a good gothic tale. My favorites are “Wuthering Heights” and “Frankenstein,” and “Mexican Gothic” is in that tradition.

“The End of October” is a weirdly prescient and disturbing novel about a devastating viral pandemic that begins in Asia. I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. I could just watch the news.

“Covert Affair” concerns one of my strange obsessions, Julia Child. It is an exhaustive account of the time that Julia and Paul Child spent in the OSS, the precursor to the CIA. I’ve read many articles that describe the Childs as spies, but they were not. Julia was a keeper of secrets. She kept and catalogued secrets that the spies discovered, and then doled out information to other spies as they needed. She called herself a glorified file clerk. Paul, the artist, created maps and graphs before the days of desktop publishing. He was also a very skilled photographer, so happily for us, he left a treasure trove of photos of their life across the globe.

As you can see, no matter how many hours I devote to reading, the pile on my nightstand does not get any smaller.

Cooking with Julia

Like so many others, I have spent a great deal of time the last three months cooking at home. I think I’ve cooked more dinners in the last three months than in the last 20 years. As a public school teacher, I was probably putting in about 60 hours a week working, so I never felt inclined to stand on my feet another couple of hours cooking and cleaning up. My other half did nearly all the cooking for the last 30 years.

However, that has all changed. I fell in love with cooking after falling in love with eating on a trip to France in 2015. Naturally, any American who wants to learn to cook French cuisine is going to turn to Julia Child.

All I knew of Child was from the film “Julie and Julia,” so not much. I received “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” for Christmas that year. Child and her co-authors wrote the cookbook specifically for American home cooks who know nothing about French cooking. However, it is not for kitchen novices. Most of the recipes have many ingredients and many steps.

For instance, coq au vin (one of my favorite dishes) requires 16 ingredients and 11 steps, including pouring in cognac, “averting your face,” and igniting it. Very intimidating.

The next year I received “Julia’s Kitchen Wisdom,” which has become my cookbook of choice. This is the one I consult first when planning a menu or looking for a particular recipe. In a mere 135 pages, this book offers a full range of recipes from soup to dessert.

In the introduction, Child explains that this book began as her “loose-leaf kitchen reference…corrected as I’ve cooked my way through the years,” emphasizing technique. It doesn’t replace the gargantuan detailed, all-purpose cookbook like “Mastering.” Rather, it is a “mini aide-memoire for general home cookery.”

Because it is such a thin volume, the information is very dense. Child presents instructions for steaming, boiling, and sautéing vegetables in a series of charts. As in “Mastering,” recipes are grouped with the master recipe listed first, and then the variations.

Happily, many of the recipes are simplified. Coq au vin and beef bourguignon are grouped together because they are essentially the same recipe with different proteins. The recipe is shorter with slightly fewer ingredients than the ones in “Mastering.” And the coq au vin/beef bourguignon recipe doesn’t require igniting anything.

Another Child cookbook that I love looks like a coffee table book: it’s huge, thick, has glossy pages and stunning photography. However, don’t be fooled. The recipes and techniques in “Julia and Jacques Cooking at Home” produce delicious dishes.

Child collaborated for decades with Jacques Pepin. Reading the recipes and the commentary from each chef, one can easily imagine these two good friends in a kitchen, cooking and laughing (and drinking wine).

Many recipes are presented side by side, with Julia’s version and commentary on the left page and Jacques’ on the right page. And this is the book for both the serious, experienced cook and the beginner. The authors fill 11 pages just on artichokes, but also provide several sections on technique, including photos for each step.

Each chef provides a great deal of commentary on each section and each recipe. Julia prefers white pepper and Jacques prefers black, and they both prefer kosher salt because it is easier to pick up with the fingers. The size and weight of the book notwithstanding, this is an excellent book to curl up with and read in addition to being a useful tool in the kitchen.

With so much time these last months, I’ve been able to explore new recipes that have been successful enough that my other half takes seconds or requests a particular dish. I haven’t dined in a restaurant since March, but we have been eating well. And that helps make staying at home bearable.

A happy ending is good therapy

I’ve never been one to back away from books about difficult topics, including true crime, dystopian societies, ghosts and monsters, wars, abusive childhoods. I’ve enjoyed books about all of these. However, I’ve recently craved some happy endings. Maybe I’ve been reading and watching too much news lately, or maybe I’ve been confined to my house for three months. Or maybe both.

Last week I read “Hag-Seed” by Margaret Atwood. It made me smile, laugh, and feel a little bit better for a while.

If all you know of Margaret Atwood is “The Handmaid’s Tale,” this is nothing like it. “Hag-Seed” is a modern retelling of Shakespeare’s comedy “The Tempest.”

Washed up and half-mad theater director Felix Phillips, alias Mr. Duke, takes a job working with convicts in a medium-security prison. Each winter he selects a group of inmates to produce one of Shakespeare’s works, usually one with lots of battles or swordfights and few women’s roles.

However, when he learns that his nemesis (and usurper) and other corrupt government officials will attend his next production, he quickly chooses “The Tempest” and uses it to exact revenge on his tormentors and regain his job as artistic director of a small-town theater.

There is plenty of physical comedy and irony in this clever adaptation, including Ariel (a spirit) and Caliban (a monster). Readers do not have to be familiar with Shakespeare’s play in order to enjoy and appreciate “Hag-Seed.” However, for those who are interested, Atwood includes a detailed summary of “The Tempest” at the back of the book.

The novel is also layered. In addition to being comical and histrionic, Felix also evokes our pity at the loss of his young wife and then his three-year-old daughter, aptly named Miranda. In his grief he imagines Miranda with him at whatever age she would have been had she lived. He talks to her at home and even imagines her accompanying him to the prison to rehearse the play. His imagination is so vivid, he nearly conjures her into being.

And Felix, like most teachers, quickly establishes trust and rapport with his students, their criminal backgrounds notwithstanding. He allows the cast to rewrite lines they find troubling and add their own rap songs to the script. He rewards their successes with cigarettes he smuggles into the prison.

“Hag-Seed” is a fun story in which the good-hearted are rewarded and the black-hearted are punished. It was just what I needed.