“OK.”
As Fadi began his prayers, I watched the cabbie watch Fadi from the rearview mirror. When Fadi bowed in prayer, his hands framing his face, the cabbie sat up, straining his eyes to understand what was happening in the backseat of his taxi.
“Hey,” he looked at me in the mirror; “what’s he doing?”
“He’s praying,” I said, leaning forward.
“No shit?”
“No shit,” I responded, looking to Fadi.
The cabbie continued to watch as I anticipated his next question.
“He’s Muslim,” I said and explained what had happened at the ferry that had kept him from praying.
“And your foot’s okay?” the cabbie asked, genuinely concerned.
“Yeah. Perfect. Can you believe it?”
“And he’s praying?”
“Yeah. He’s praying.”
“Get the fuck out,” he responded gleefully.
Fadi looked up, caught the cabbie’s eye in the mirror, and smiled.
“He’s fuckin praying in my fucking cab.”
“Finished,” Fadi said.
“I hope you said a fucking prayer for me,” the cabbie said good-naturedly.
“Al hamdulillah,” Fadi responded.
A minute or two later, the cabbie pulled up onto the sidewalk—literally up onto the sidewalk, not far from a group of al fresco diners. The diners seemed disinterested, however.
“Better make a run for it,” he said, looking at his watch and giving directions.
47