Part 11 (1/2)

Nisrine had Adel's poem. She stood by the stove, and I stood beside her, bent over it, quietly reading.

Abudi was a big boy. He poured tea into a gla.s.s by himself, without asking.

Abudi said, ”Oh, the tea!”

Nisrine said, ”Abudi, you naughty boy! You think your fingers're tough like mine? Water's all over now, you always make work for me.”

Abudi ran. Nisrine grabbed him.

”When you need something, ask me.”

”Mop it up, Indonese.”

But Nisrine pointed out the window, at the police station.

”You see that man? He knows what you do. That man loves me. He knows if you're a bad boy with me, he's watching you.”

Abudi wriggled.

Madame came in. She said, ”Nisrine, you're scaring him.”

Abudi was wriggling and wriggling. He kept wriggling until he wriggled all the way out of his s.h.i.+rt, and as he did, he knocked against Nisrine and me, and the poem flew out from between us onto the floor, and Abudi left us alone with Madame in the kitchen: his s.h.i.+rt, Nisrine, the poem, and me.

Madame came over and picked up the poem where it had landed. There was tea on one side of it; she wiped it off. From her angle, she couldn't see which of us had dropped it.

”Is this yours, Bea?”

”No-yes.”

It was Nisrine's. I wasn't going to betray her.

”It's for my studies.”

Madame raised an eyebrow. The poem was faceup. Across the front was written, To My Flower, the Jasmine.

”Are you writing love poetry for your studies, Bea?”

I glanced at Nisrine.

”To practice vocabulary.”

”Oh! To practice vocabulary.” Madame looked between us. She handed me the poem, and watched while I carefully put it in the binder I took to my lessons, between my grammar exercises.

Madame said, ”You know, that's an old trick, to practice Arabic with love poetry, your tutor's not the first. Men are always saying about how there are ninety-nine names for love in Arabic. Don't believe them. Those names are love for G.o.d, Allah. There are ninety-nine names for Allah, and his name means love. That's different than romance.”

While we were still in the kitchen, Lema came in. She was on the phone with her friend who loved a Christian boy. Her friend got in the car alone with him. She'd dyed her hair for him, which meant he'd seen her without a veil. When Lema got off the phone, she tried to decide if she should tell her friend's mother about the Christian.

I said to Lema, ”I don't think you should. She trusted you, love is something secret.”

Madame said, ”This is a girl who needs to be stopped.”

I said, ”Maybe she'll learn on her own to stop loving him. It does no good to tell her mother.”

Nisrine said, ”Her mother will lock her in the house.”

”No, she won't.” Madame gave her a hard look. Then, she gave me a hard look. She turned to Lema. ”Why don't you let me talk to her? Bring her over here and let me tell her what she's doing is wrong.”

”No, you stay out of it,” Lema told her mother, but Madame could not stay out of it, she had to be the center of everything.

In the evening, we all sat around the living room drinking tea, and Madame flirted with Baba. When he asked for sugar, she gave him her pinky.

”Bea's writing poetry in her cla.s.s,” Madame said, looking at Nisrine.

Baba raised an eyebrow. ”You remember the story of Qais and Leila, Bea?”

Of course I remembered it.

Baba reminded me anyway. ”Qais was exiled to the desert because he wrote his love poetry.”

I said, ”It's for cla.s.s. To practice vocabulary.”

Abudi quoted, ”To my flower, the jasmine.'”

Baba said, ”Careful, Bea. Tutors are like ex-prisoners. They talk to the police.”

Nisrine responded to Madame's suspicion with worry. Her brow furrowed. ”Do you think Mama suspects?” she asked.

I was unsure.

”Do you think Mama won't want me anymore?”

I was still feeling jealous; even so, I couldn't imagine anyone not wanting Nisrine. But Nisrine shook her head, still worried. ”I can't stay here if Mama doesn't want me. I have to make her want me.”

”She wants you.”

Just as I couldn't imagine not wanting Nisrine, I couldn't imagine Madame's without her. She was a part of this place to me, the way Baba's books and the sky were part of it: integral, close to my heart. A policeman didn't change that.

And Nisrine had so many reasons to stay: her family, whom she sent money to, her house, her contract.

Anyway, it had just been one poem.

Nisrine said, ”My father works for other people. In my family, we all work for other people. But it is a point of honor with us, we only work where we are wanted. We are good, we are always wanted. I have to try harder.”

”She wants you.” But it was true that Madame had begun to watch us.

I felt a deep affection for Nisrine, who was so good, and had so much honor. I decided to try harder, too, like her.