Part 2 (1/2)

I said, ”I've come to study.”

There were no computers in the library, only a card catalogue. Students and scholars weren't allowed around the books. The woman gave me a note card to fill out, with my name, my purpose, and the t.i.tles I would need. I put down the t.i.tle of the text I'd come to this country for. When I was done, the librarian took my purse from me, and led me empty-handed to a small open room in the center of the stacks with wooden slats like a cage all around. This was where I would wait for my book.

Inside the cage were five scholars with long beards. None of them had books. None of them acknowledged me.

I sat down at an empty wooden desk to wait. I could see my purse hanging on a hook beside the librarian's head.

The scholars pa.s.sed the time by reciting poetry, and verses of the Quran. They held their hands palm up, toward G.o.d, the way Madame's children held their palms when they were asking for something.

After an hour of waiting, I went to the front of the wooden cage and waved at the librarian.

She didn't seem to notice.

”Excuse me?” My voice echoed across the empty stacks.

”Yes?”

I said, ”I'm waiting for a book. Has it arrived?”

The librarian told me that when it arrived, she would call me.

So, I sat down to wait again.

I waited and waited.

When it was time for the library to close, the librarian opened the door of the cage and let the scholars and me out. None of us had our books. I went up to the librarian to ask about mine again.

She said, ”Come back tomorrow, we'll get it for you.”

”I waited all day. I was hoping for it today.”

The librarian looked annoyed. ”Good things take patience. Didn't they teach you that when they taught you to read?”

BUT DESPITE THE LACK OF BOOKS, or the strange jokes, or, like Nisrine said, feeling lonely, what I remember most about those days is their beauty.

In the mornings, sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows, refracting sharply off gla.s.ses of milk as if it could break them. Nisrine boiled the milk and skimmed off the skin. In each cup, she stirred one teaspoon of Milo, and the children wanted more, but they had no time because there was a rush to dress for school. We took Dounia's hair in our hands to braid it, and Nisrine was the fastest. She gathered the short hairs underneath and wet a brush to remove the tangles before braiding, in a hurry, exhilarated, while I kneeled beneath Dounia and tied her shoes.

Baths at Madame's were an adventure. They happened once a week. Baba was the head of the house, so he bathed first, even though he was the most dirty, and made the tub dirty. Madame sent Nisrine in afterwards with soap and a rag to clean it, quickly, so the rest of us could bathe, youngest to oldest because the youngest went to bed first. Afterwards, we lounged in our bath scarves, talking. Madame was the only one allowed to take the scarves off. She slipped a cold finger under the side to feel my hair.

”Not yet,” and even though I was twenty-one, paying rent, I was consigned to keep playing with the children in the living room, with the radiator on even on warm days, so we would not catch a cold.

Nisrine had too much hair. Hers was the most beautiful and the straightest, but also the thickest.

She was the maid, so she bathed last, and last time, she'd used too much water on her hair, it took too long, so Madame told me to cut it.

She brought me the scissors and held Nisrine's hair in two handfuls, which made it uneven.

I didn't want to. I said to Madame, ”I don't think I'm good at this.”

Madame wasn't listening. She watched the open bathroom door to make sure Dounia didn't make a mess of the tub.

We were used to doing what Madame asked, without complaining; to taking our turns standing before her, while she tied white scarves like snowflakes on our just-washed heads.

I looked down at Nisrine to see if all of us were joking.

”OK, here we go!” I joked. ”It's a salon, who's up next? Chop chop.”

Nisrine sat very still beneath me. She reached up to brush away a loose strand, then brought her hand back down.

I said again to Madame, ”You do it, Mama. I don't think I'm good at this.”

Madame just handed me Nisrine's hair in two ponytails. Its weight surprised me.

”Nisrine, do you mind?”

Nisrine had been my first guide here. We had been in the process, she and I, of becoming close.

She sat very still. After a moment, she cleared her throat. ”No.”

Madame said, ”Come on, Bea, someone has to do it.”

So, I took each handful of hair and cut it at the nape of the neck, just where Madame showed me.

When it was done, Nisrine went to the bathroom to look, and came out wearing her veil. She and Madame and I gathered up her hair and threw it off the balcony. It floated down like smoke in the night to our garden, where it caught in the bushes.

Madame said, ”It's OK, Bea. I'll take her to the stylist when I take the girls.”

The next morning I made the bed and did the dishes, which made everyone uncomfortable. Nisrine took my bed apart and made it up again.

”Let me do it, Bea. You don't know how to do it.”

I said, ”It's OK, no problem.”

Madame came in. ”It's OK, Bea. Nisrine will do it. Don't you have to study?”

”It's OK, no problem.”

When Nisrine was young, her hair had been short; she'd told me her parents cut it often, because they believed that way, when it grew, it would grow back thicker. That had been when she was young.

Nisrine said, ”Yes. Don't you have to study, Bea? You don't know how to do it. Leave it for me.”

AT MADAME'S there were certain things we talked about, and certain things we knew to leave.

Madame was always asking about my mother. She wanted to know all about how my mother became a veterinarian, and my lack of siblings, and my favorite foods to eat. My mother called up from America once every other week, and when she did, Madame invited her and invited me, even though I was already here.