Part 6 (2/2)

An hour later, the woman knocked on our door. She'd brought her son.

I hid in the bedroom.

”American?”

Even Nisrine was scandalized. ”Bea, mothers-in-law won't bring you love.”

In the hall, we could hear Madame. ”Shoo, get out. She doesn't want to marry you. Go on.”

After that, I wasn't allowed to tell people I lived at Madame's.

”They're nosey. They don't need to know. If they ask, tell them you're a governess.”

”A governess?”

”But you leave at night, you don't stay.”

”So, where do I live?”

Madame looked at me, exasperated. ”For G.o.d's sake, Bea. You're American. Tell them you live alone.”

There was a list of things I wasn't allowed to do: Go down to the garden with the children. I might come back married.

Do my own laundry; I mixed the whites with the colors and turned my sweater pink.

Stay out late.

Wear my shoes on the carpet.

Say the word ”G.o.d” in the bathroom.

Play with the children when they should go to bed.

Wear the traditional scarf for men.

Drink from Abudi's purple cup.

WHEN I FIRST CAME TO THIS CITY, it was all in color. The green points of the mosques at night, the bright seeds of the pomegranates that Nisrine split and peeled like rubies for me to eat. This city seemed to me like Arabic; how many words I learned, those were all the shades of color I could see.

After the colors, though, I began to see the dirt. It was wedged between my fingernails, gray and muted green.

I began to feel dirt, caught between my teeth with the pomegranate seeds.

In my American college, I had learned to be thoughtful and value good scholars.h.i.+p. I knew how to read a work of literature and isolate a theme, and I thought one way of becoming wise could be by reading books.

When I first arrived at Madame's, I had thought that my long days in the house would be temporary. I planned to gain a university and a tutor, and eventually to read the astonis.h.i.+ng text.

Of course, I was beginning to realize that what had seemed like simple goals were actually quite difficult. Even for citizens, this country did not work quickly. I thought of my friends in their college cla.s.ses, the meaningful discussions they must be having.

At Madame's, I began to sneak small freedoms: Extra paper in the bathroom. A sip, when Madame wasn't looking, from Abudi's purple cup.

Nisrine had said, It's good to love, it makes you feel a part of something.

I had wanted to be a part.

But, the poem had brought back the strangeness between us.

To make up for cutting Nisrine's hair, I went out and bought two bottles of perfume, one for Madame, one for Nisrine. Madame took both of them. They were both the same size.

”Don't worry, Bea, I'll find something you can give her.” And she rummaged in her closet for a cheaper gift to give me, to give Nisrine.

At the end of the month, there was a polite fight about paying rent.

”No no, I couldn't,” Madame said.

”You must, you must.”

”You're like family.”

”You must, you must. I insist!”

I wanted to pay. With Madame, paying was how I still felt free.

ONCE A MONTH, I took out money from the American emba.s.sy, and when I did, I was supposed to bring back a bottle of whiskey for Baba and a box of Virginia Slims for Madame, from the emba.s.sy store. But then one day, before I could give Baba his whiskey, Madame took it and gave it to Nisrine, who hid it, and this was how I knew things had changed. Another of Baba's friends was taken and beaten. Baba called often now to tell us not to wait on him for dinner, he wouldn't be home.

We lay widthwise across the bed, talking.

Nisrine said, ”I don't think Lema will ever marry. Husbands are too depressing.”

Madame looked at her. ”Nonsense, it's just my luck. Her luck will be better.”

I asked, ”Would you marry again, Nisrine?”

”I can't, I'm already married.”

I was still making up to Nisrine. ”Isn't he waiting for you?”

”Yes, he waits for me. He doesn't care for my child. My mama cares for my child.”

Madame said, ”That's just the way men are. They can't do the caring. They give you money.”

<script>