277. Invitation

The “musketeer” wants to go in too. I tell him it may be possible if he does exactly like I do without question, but he is too slow.


I perform the ritual properly as I have been taught, washing my face, ears, hands and feet and rising my mouth out. Then I join the white-clad men trooping into the mosque. The soldier keeps the Frenchman out.


We pass into an inner room and the prayer begins. It proceeds a little differently from what I was taught but I do all right. It feels strange to be standing shoulder to shoulder with these gray old men in the dim light of the sanctuary, but it does not feel bad.


When the prayer is done, I leave quickly, lacing my boots on at the door. There is a growing crowd of more or less astonished Moslems who have never seen a “white” brother before. One man, who speaks a little English, invites me to stay with them in the town so that they can teach me more about Islam, but I tell them that I cannot. I can’t stand any more captivity.


My French companions are a little angry that I have been allowed to enter the mosque while they were kept out. They ask if I made the prayers as a joke. Not really. I wanted to join in the prayer and that’s all—maybe it does me good. That’s all.

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