Part 16 (1/2)

But, I had no lover. I was a young woman, alone, with love all around me; with Nisrine, and Baba's family for company. They did this. They had grown this.

”Try, Nisrine. Try a little more. We'll try together.” Her hand on my heart. ”This is where you are,” I said.

TROUBLE.

OVER THE NEXT WEEK, we at Madame's, and Adel through the window, all watched while Nisrine forgot her Arabic. Before, she had been distracted by love, and so called the frying pan ”A Hot One.” Now, she was distracted by her situation, by the trouble of trying hard in a home where she wasn't wanted. She simply forgot the word for frying pan, she called it nothing. She couldn't remember the word for cold. Nisrine, whose policeman loved her for her cooking, got sloppy with the dishes. She leaned against the sink and let the water soak her waist.

She forgot things, not only language. Madame found the milk boiled, and Nisrine nowhere. She left her hair bands in the bathroom. She left the freezer door open and last summer's strawberries spoiled.

Madame said, ”I taught her cooking, cleaning, everything she knows is from me. And for this I pay her. Haram,” and she forbade Nisrine from going out.

Nisrine had rarely been out.

Madame took all the dripping strawberries out of the freezer and dumped them in the wastebasket. ”People come here from all over the world to study because here we have religion right. Not like in Indonesia. But I'm very nice, I can't beat her.”

Madame forbade Nisrine from speaking English, and from touching the children, but then Dounia's hair was always undone, so she asked Nisrine to braid it.

Nisrine repacked her just-unpacked bag, and stood before Baba. ”Return me. I don't stay where I'm not wanted.”

In part, she was bluffing. She needed us still, she needed this job.

Baba looked at her. ”We want you, Nisrine. I want you.” And we did, we did! We needed her like she needed us. We followed her around, picking up her lost hair bands.

Nisrine had once told a story about a woman who loved the rainbow, so she turned into a bird and flew away. She started looking more and more out the window, as if she were seeing a rainbow. I whispered, Try, Nisrine, try. Because, I wanted her. It repeated itself like a song inside me.

She watched the V's of the mosque's doves.

But we had other things, too, to worry about.

There were rallies every Friday now, and in response, sandbag blockades went up all across the city. They sat plump and secure like fat ladies and the police hid their weapons behind them.

We heard about an international investigation, and secret protests. There was a new list of things from the government we could not do: Speak on our cell phones on Fridays; we might be inciting unrest.

Gather in groups at night; it might lead to a protest.

Forward any political e-mails; the government was watching, our friends would block us.

Go down to any protests; these were for young men, they were using live ammunition.

In this city, there were two sides now, with the president or against the president, and you must choose which side you were on.

Of course, Baba was against the president. He had written a secret free elections doc.u.ment. We felt more and more how police watched him.

One day, Baba came home to announce the doc.u.ment was done. Now, all that remained was for each man to sign.

At Madame's, we panicked. We had thought the men would take longer to create it; we had thought we'd have more time to convince Baba not to.

Madame said, ”You haven't signed it yet, have you, Ha.s.san?”

He hadn't. He wouldn't, he mustn't.

Baba said, ”Amal, we can't live in fear. We must work for better.”

”What about your children?”

”Amal.”

”What about them?”

Baba was torn. He knew Madame had a point. Outside, politics were becoming more and more dangerous.

Over and over, we heard the same late-night discussions.

”Don't, Ha.s.san.”

”I would have already, but I worry for you.”

I agreed with Madame. I admired Baba for his bravery, but between jail and not signing, I would rather not signing. So would the rest of the family; Baba was the only one for whom this presented any dilemma.

We waited while he carefully weighed politics against family; bravery, against his love for us.

THE DEATH NOTICES were long sheets of paper, posted quickly after a death, but then rarely taken down, so they filled the city's walls right at eye level. One was even posted on the corner stop sign. It was spring now, almost summer, but it had been there since December. It hung across the red sign's paint, smoothed flat with glue. The air bubble in the middle obstructed the age of the deceased but not his name, not the large print announcing, as the cars slowed down, that he was Brother and Son, and now he was gone.

On our building, a new notice went up.

It was the death of our neighbor. He was on the side of the president.

His daughter, who was Lema's age, ran out into the hall, screaming. She tore her veil from her head, there in the hall, crying, and Lema went out to comfort her and began crying, too, in sympathy, even though they'd never gotten along.

After his death, our neighbor's family made food for everyone in the building. The guests poured in to be served coffee and sweets. Madame, who even before the unrest never liked the neighbors, accepted flaky pastries at the door from the same daughter who was crying in the hall, and lent them her teaspoons.

The daughter stood waiting while we hunted for them.

”Is this all?”

”Those are all the clean ones.”

”I can wash them.”