Part 10 (2/2)

”I want to. I know people. Next time you need to make a long-distance call, Nisrine, just ask me.”

”Really, when I love I love from the heart.” Sometimes, though, she needed things.

”I know. You're a very good girl.”

They watched the cars streak past below them.

Adel asked, ”Want to know what I told my mama and baba about you?”

”What?”

”I said there's a girl, foreign. But I don't see her as foreign. I see her, better even than the Arabs. She doesn't go out naked, you know, you dress long like the Arabs do; when I look at you, I don't see parts of your skin.”

Nisrine laughed.

”Aiwa! Your laugh is my sun! Wink for me.”

”No, I can't.”

”Come on, just once. I want to see how your eyes close. Wink for me.”

”Adel!” But she was smiling.

”That's right, one little one.”

For Adel, things were all blond looks and clean sun. Here across from him was his woman. They were both prisoners to a small s.p.a.ce-she the kitchen, he the roof of the station. In this city, life happened on the ground level, in the streets and markets and doorways. High above in their lonely jobs, they were both happy to have company. It made even mundane tasks, like patrolling and sweeping, exciting.

I saw Nisrine keep her back graceful and straight when she swept, because she knew Adel was watching. She woke early to smooth her pajamas and her scarf so when he looked in, he would see how beautiful she was, with her graceful arms and her straight back, and he would think how well she held herself, even sweeping. (Someday, he might see her alone, close-up: the possibility of this kept their hearts beating.) Adel watched her as she cooked and cleaned and babied the children. He could not hear half of what she said, even when she spoke to him, because her accent was strong, and it was across a street, beside a garden. But, he understood her perfectly. He had a job on the roof, and Nisrine who never left him. Everything Adel wanted was here before him; he always knew where to find his woman.

GAS CANISTERS.

OVER THE NEXT WEEK, I watched while Nisrine forgot her Arabic. She no longer remembered the word for frying pan, she called it ”A Hot One.” She remembered all the words for romance. She called the teapot ”Sweet Whistler.” She called our gla.s.s cups ”Stars.”

Madame shook her head. ”It's like she's regressing. She has the vocabulary of a teenager.” She held up a white plate. ”Nisrine-h.e.l.lo, Nisrine! What's this?”

Nisrine couldn't remember. ”Is it A Full Moon'?”

Of course, I was jealous. I was still the one who liked him first.

I asked, What about her husband?

I asked, Did she love him? Did she care I'd liked him first?

Nisrine met me with kindness. She made it up to me with careful confessions.

She caught my eye across the table.

”I ask him, Why do you love me? Why me? There are a million women for you. And he says, Nisrine, because you cook and clean and I see you take care of the children so well. I tell him, Yes, I can cook and clean.” When I first arrived, Nisrine had told me she dreamed of a big house and a restaurant. She was soft for men who liked her cooking.

We like to be loved for the things we appreciate about ourselves. I liked words and meaning. I wanted to be loved for my calm, collected scholars.h.i.+p and despite my messy hair. Madame would want to be loved for her soft skin and her shapely arms.

Nisrine rarely left the apartment. She and I had once shared deodorant like perfume, and when there was a joke, she was the one who poked me: Laugh, Bea. They're only joking; laugh, Bea.

Now, she pointed out the window and asked, Why do you love me? And her policeman said, Because you cook and clean and take care of the children so well, and these compliments made her happy.

Her policeman.

I asked, What about her duties?

I told Dounia, Don't change in front of the window, you don't know who is watching.

I asked again, What about her husband?

Nisrine's hand went to her heart. ”I love him.”

I ignored Nisrine all during lunch, when she burned the bread motioning to me.

Nisrine sent me a note. On the front was her English. On the back was Adel's poem.

Bea, you are my friend here, you can help me please I want to use your hand phone because I want to talk to him this is very important for me if you want to help me you can give me the phone just one minute, please.

I loved Arabic for its flexibility. For the way it could be written on any surface-gla.s.s bowls, mosque tiles, grains of rice-and, unlike English, it didn't need a straight line to make meaning, or to look pretty. I knew all ninety-nine words for love in Arabic. I'd studied them, in case they came up in the astonis.h.i.+ng text. I knew the words for lisp and mistake. I knew the word khiyata, which meant sew, and khiyana, lover's envy.

I wanted to be flexible like Arabic, generous on every surface. But I couldn't help comparing Nisrine's policeman's poems to the notes I received: a reminder from Madame that rent was coming due; a note from Lema to ask if I'd seen her wooden brush; the note from Nisrine, Bea, you are my friend here, you can help me please.

I wrote her back: You're my friend, too. Do you love him? Do you care, I liked him first?

The streets these days are crazy.

I'll let you use my cell phone, but it's running out of battery.

THE GAS CAME in round metal canisters, painted white. There was a man with a donkey and a wagon, and in the winter he covered the canisters with a wool blanket to keep them warm. In the summer, he covered them with the same blanket so the sun didn't get to them. On the street, he would yell through a megaphone so we knew he was coming. I heard it early in the mornings, ”Bismillah alrahman, alrahim,” he said, as if, instead of selling gas, he was praying, and that was how Madame knew to get out all the used-up canisters, so she could send them down with Abudi for full ones.

At Madame's, the children and I didn't touch the stove. There was a safety valve you had to turn at the top of the canister, inside the cupboard, to let the gas out so you could cook. Madame showed me carefully when I first arrived. Meticulously, she turned it on and then off. I turned it on, and then off. But the children and I weren't allowed to touch the stove, only Madame or Baba or Nisrine.

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