Part 5 (2/2)
”We don't let children play with straws here,” he said, ”they're dirty.”
Adel stood at the bench looking down, very close to me. The only time we'd been closer was when Nisrine and I gave him apples. His leather jacket was open to a vest with bra.s.s stars. Underneath, he wore a white T-s.h.i.+rt, like the ones Abudi wore at night to sleep. A single blond curl peeked out from the s.h.i.+rt's neck.
He was looking at my book, which was still open in my lap.
”Where are you from?” he asked. ”America?”
”Yes, America.”
The children clumped to one side of the sandbox to watch us. They sat with their bodies facing the street and their mouths open.
Adel said, ”I have a cousin in Wisconsin. You know Wisconsin?”
We weren't supposed to talk to anyone. I was trying hard not to talk to him, but everything he said made me want to agree. Like he had just asked me out to a movie, or Friday night coffee- ”Yes, Wisconsin,” I said, trying to look serious for the children.
”You might be neighbors.”
I had never been to Wisconsin.
”Yes, we might!” I agreed.
The policeman smiled down at me. He had little dimples in his cheeks, like stars.
”What's your name?”
”Bea.”
”You write Arabic, Bea? I've never met an American who writes Arabic.”
In their box, the children ran their fingers through the sand, bunching it up, letting it fall from their fists like rain.
Adel sat down on the bench beside me.
”I write, too,” he said. ”I write poetry.”
”You do?”
He took my book, turned the page, and wrote a word down in the margin.
”This is what I write for the girl I love, do you know it?”
Later, I would know this word. I would know that it was often used in poems in the Middle Ages, and it comes from the root ayn-sheen-qaf, which means the deepest feeling.
I didn't know it then.
Adel told me, ”It means a poet's love.”
I couldn't believe my luck. Here I was, trying to mind Madame's children, and suddenly I was talking about love with the blond policeman. I thought of Nisrine, whose husband had loved her with a look. I tried to look at Adel; his face was wide and sunny, it burned a hole right through my chest. So, I looked instead at the word he'd written. Its letters lined up soft and full by the printed page. They curved close to one another, like an embrace.
I didn't know where to look after that thought.
I said, ”Your writing is very pretty.”
”It's pretty? Your eyes are the pretty. The Arabic language is very deep, there are ninty-nine words for love alone in Arabic, did you know that?”
I felt my red cheeks.
Adel didn't seem to notice. He wrote another word in the margin, then he took out a piece of paper from his pocket. On it was a verse of poetry.
”Can you read it?” he asked.
Carefully, I took the paper from him.
To My Flower, the Jasmine, it read. Peace to the one with hair like dusk falling. Even her Sweat smells Sweet.
”Can you guess who it's about?” Adel asked.
There was a strange feeling in my throat.
”A girl with dark hair?”
I had light hair- But before Adel could answer, we heard a shout from above.
”Bea! Abudi!” It was Madame. She had seen the children playing with straws, and she had seen me talking to the policeman.
I stood up. ”I have to go.”
Adel stood up, too. ”It was nice to meet you, Bea.” He held out his hand and for a moment our fingers touched, and then the children and I were running away across the street.
In the elevator on the way up, the children and I were giddy. We shared our recklessness in talking to a policeman and sucking on used straws, two great secrets. Abudi said, ”Bea, Dounia used to be scared to go up the elevator alone. She used to be too small to reach the b.u.t.tons.”
There was sand everywhere, on all of us, and I was trying to brush it off. I turned Dounia around to brush her backside. I ran my fingers through my hair and the pages of my book, and the paper with the policeman's poem fell out.
Abudi stopped me.
”What's that?”
I picked it up. In my rush, I'd forgotten to give it back to him. For a moment, my finger lingered over the letters.
This is what I write for the girl I love.
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