Meeting the imam

Although Imam Ibrahim al-Shakr lived in a very modest studio apartment in Kaimuki, one of his followers opened her oceanfront home to him once a month for a vegetarian potluck dinner, preaching and dancing.

It was, Fatima bin Laden thought as she entered, as fine a home as any of the royal Saudi palaces she knew as a child. The owner, a widow, Mrs. Yumi Fujita, greeted Fatima with a hug and fragrant yellow ginger lei. Each of the guests wore lei and the tropical aromas mixed with a briny sea breeze filled Fatima's head; breathing had never been such pleasure.

Many guests wore Western attire, some Muslim robes with a variety of head coverings. Fatima wore a black, ankle-length linen skirt, loose-fitting cream blouse and black beret. Baz, off duty, showed her a new look -- khaki trousers, green aloha shirt and black taqiyah, a sort of linen stocking cap.

As Baz explained on the drive from Kaneohe in his black Mustang, Hossam Ramzy on the CD -- again for the sake of her mission setting aside her usual virtue, this time riding alone with a man not of her family, though Baz was careful not to touch her in any way -- this was the young imam's one big event each month. He preferred smaller groups.

"But this is what Sufism is all about," Baz said. "It's easy when it's only Muslim Sufis, but when you expand it out, logically, if all gods are really just the one God, then you can worship with Jews, Christians, Buddhists, Hindus, Druids, you name it ... "

This was heresy from a young man who called himself a Muslim, and from outward appearances was a good Muslim. So good, she hoped to be his wife one day. "This is what you believe?"

"We must talk, Fatima, but first I want you to meet and hear Imam Ibrahim. He says it so much better."

The sun was making its last dive toward the horizon, the sky all oranges and golds, as she followed him outside to a spacious lanai and beyond to a coconut grove beside the sea. Where lawn met sand, a group of people congregated around a tall, thin young man with a neat brown beard. He wore a black robe gathered at the waist with a sash, and a black taqiyah.

As they drew near, Fatima thought she must be seeing a saint, for the young imam seemed to glow. His skin was unblemished, his eyes dark and clear, his smile without pretense or desires, his voice clear and harmonious as a dulcimer, the motion of his hands as he spoke a ballet of birds. So dazzled was she at first by his utterly holy physical appearance, his words were not registering.

And when he looked up and saw Baz and her approaching, Fatima had never seen a warmer, more welcoming smile, or a more humble bow.

She started listening.