Good Muslim Boy by Osamah Sami Read Free Book Online Page A

taken yesterday by the burglary detective
who was so ‘out of his depth’.
    ‘So you didn’t hit your father?’ the chief says.
    I’m stunned. ‘What?’
    ‘Says here you were hitting your father.’
    ‘Oh, no, no,’ I say. ‘That was a reaction. I wanted to wake him up, you see.’
    ‘Have you had physical altercations with your father before?’
    ‘No!’ I say. ‘I hit him because he was dead and I didn’t want him to be dead.’
    He opens his drawer, takes out a stamp and stamps the statement. He scribbles a
note on the paper.
    ‘Take this to the coroner’s,’ he says. ‘This is not your release yet. Since you’re
a foreigner and your father was an important man abroad, I’m taking extra caution.
I need an official cause of death. If the cause of death is consistent with your
statement, I will sign the release to the morgue so they can give you a burial permit.
Then you can take it from there.’
    I thank him and rush out. I hail a cab outside the Kalantari. It stops for me. Good
news: I just have to shout ‘coroner’ and the driver flings open the door.
    There’s a long line at the coroner’s. I line up behind everyone else. Forty minutes
later, a man behind the counter takes the paper the chief gave me and goes out to
search for my file. He comes back with the death certificate and tells me to take
it back to the Kalantari.
    I run out and find a taxi. It’s way past my checkout time. I call information, get
the hotel’s number and talk to the receptionist. He tells me the people who have
booked the room are on their way.
    Could he take my belongings out? I ask him.
    He consults with a supervisor, then confirms: this, they can do.
    I hang up and read the cause of death. Cardiac arrest. The last paragraph catches
my eye: ‘The tall male was of excellent hygiene.’ Why would they include that? It’s
tattooed on my mind.
    Back at the Kalantari, it only takes the chief another thirty-eight minutes to open
his office door. He stamps the paper and wishes me well. ‘I could tell you are not
the kind who would kill his father, but my instinct has been off since my divorce.’
He hopes there are no hard feelings.
    Back to the coroner’s again.
    Official closing time is 4 pm. It’s after three by now. My flight’s at seven-fifty.
I can’t focus on that right now.
    At the coroner’s, the guard tells me to come back in the morning. I explain my situation
as rapidly as I can. He goes inside and talks to the man who found the death certificate.
The man recognises me, and nods his head. I sit down in the hall. A lot of people
are waiting. I hear causes of death called. Every one is drug-related, no matter
how old people are.
    Finally, I hear my name. I head to the counter.
    ‘Where are the court papers?’ the man says, clapping once and showing me his palms.
    ‘What court papers?’ I ask.
    ‘These are the police papers. Isn’t your father a foreign national?’
    ‘Yes, but no one told me—’
    ‘Didn’t I tell you to take the death certificate to the courts? I think I told you.’
    ‘No, sir, you did not.’
    ‘Well. You have to take the chief’s paper and get it released through the court.’
    ‘I have a visa expiring on Saturday.’
    ‘Don’t get rowdy, just do as I say.’
    ‘They’ll be shut today.’
    ‘So do it tomorrow. Don’t complicate things.’
    ‘I have to fly back to Qom tonight, I haven’t got a place to stay—’
    ‘You think you’re the only one with problems?’
    I can’t think. I just take the chief’s stamped statement and take a taxi back to
the hotel. More than a day has passed and I still haven’t told Mum. I want to be
sure what’s happening first, but the pressure’s mounting.
    The hotel manager apologises for being unable to accommodate me tonight; the religious
festival means the whole city’s booked out. I take Dad’s suitcase and walking stick,
and head out in search of a room for the night.
    It’s just after 7 pm and my body’s shutting