Part 21 (2/2)

”G.o.d rest him.”

Baba said, ”Amal was very in love with him. Her ident.i.ty card was written in his name. He was in love with her, too, and when he died I brought her the ident.i.ty card and all the papers, and I told her he had pa.s.sed away, and then we began to talk and later I asked if she would like to marry me instead, and she accepted.”

I thought of Madame, who liked to skin good meat; who boiled milk, then chilled it to separate the cream, but wouldn't let anyone eat it, because it was fattening; who gathered all the children together to suck the marrow from the bones when she cooked them; who put one bone aside in a plastic bowl for Baba to suck, even though it was cold when he got home. I asked, ”Are you and Mama happy together, Baba?”

”We're happy. Amal saved my life. When I came back from jail, I had nothing, no one. She gave me something to set my heart on, to make me feel whole. We've created our own language together.” Their own language. I wondered what it was, how they came to decide on certain meanings.

Love: something to set your heart on.

Baba got up. ”Well, it's time for bed.” He picked up the tea gla.s.ses to leave in the kitchen.

I asked Baba, ”You know your interview-”

He looked at me. ”He's a donkey, Bea. Remember that. Police are all donkeys. Nisrine should, too, she should remember.”

I nodded.

He patted my arm, then sighed. ”It doesn't matter, it's nothing. I've been to jail.”

It was nothing. Today you were here, tomorrow you took a plane and it all became nothing. Except, Baba and Nisrine couldn't just decide to take a plane, only I could.

”Baba, did you sign the doc.u.ment?”

”Yes.”

Silence. After a while, he said, ”It's not the interview's fault, Bea. I was going to sign, anyway. I have to, to keep my honor.”

Honor, that word again. I had always loved Nisrine and Baba because they were brave, and stuck by their honor. But, I was beginning to realize the sacrifices behind bravery. Sometimes, honor isn't a blessing; sometimes, it comes between you and your family; or you, and all that you love.

”Bea, Bea, Bea,” Baba said. ”Did you know your name has a special meaning?”

”It does?” I knew my name as a preposition: on, or around, or in.

Baba nodded. ”In,” he said, ”as, In the name of G.o.d,' the first word in the Quran.” I was not particularly religious, but I respected religious books. Baba continued, ”The Quran is a circular text. That means it keeps returning over and over to the same important points. There are some scholars who say its whole philosophy can be summed up in its first word. Bea: in, inclusive. It evokes a presence with G.o.d and the world, a sense of togetherness.”

I stared at Baba. I loved Arabic for its meanings, but I had always thought my name was unimportant. Now, Baba had given it special significance like a new present, or a hidden world. Togetherness. I wanted to live up to my name in this house.

Baba asked, ”Have you heard of the poem A Garden Among the Flames,' Bea?”

I had. It was the last poem I had read with Imad, about a man's green heart.

He nodded.

”I'm not surprised, it's quite famous. I know this isn't the most popular way to look at that poem, but I always thought of the garden as a blessing, and a curse.”

”Why's that?”

”The man finds his heart is a garden, but you know he had to go through flames to get to it.”

I thought about Baba's flames: jail, his lost first family.

I asked, ”Do you have a garden, Baba?”

He looked around him. ”This is my garden.”

At Madame's, we rarely showed affection to men. I had made trouble, here; I had talked to a policeman, and it had led to a fight.

Now, I did what I could. I leaned over and gave Baba a big hug; I could feel the bones of his back through his stiff s.h.i.+rt.

He patted my shoulder. ”Thank you, Bea. That means a great deal to me.”

It was such a small thing, not even words of encouragement. But it did to me, too.

I remember the first week I lived at Madame's, Baba got his gallbladder removed. He left in the morning. Afterwards, he brought the gallbladder home in a plastic cup for Dounia to play with. It still had its wet blood.

Madame talked about how she wanted to have surgery on her leg next.

”If I did, I would make them put me to sleep. I couldn't do it watching like Ha.s.san did.”

After his gallbladder surgery, Baba kept pacing around. He did the dishes.

Madame said, ”Ha.s.san, must you tire yourself by pacing? Go lie down,” but he wouldn't.

Of course, Baba didn't need to be put to sleep. It is nothing to watch them remove your gallbladder when you have been tortured for ten years. I thought about what Baba once told me, that after jail he knew he could live through anything.

A half hour after coming home from surgery, he didn't need to rest; he paced around and did the dishes, his resiliency the blessing and curse of a man who could live through anything.

Of course. He was always going to sign the doc.u.ment.

I DIDN'T GO BACK TO BED with Lema. I sat up watching the window until Baba fell asleep, wondering how much trouble he was in, and if I should make a plan. Trying to think of one. I needed to talk to Nisrine.

Eventually, I took the cordless phone to the kitchen and, even though it was very late, I called Imad.

”Arabic Hair,” Imad said when he answered. This was becoming his nickname for me.

”Were you asleep?” I asked. ”Did I wake you?”

”Yes. It's OK, though, I'm glad it's you. For a moment I thought it might be Security.”

We both laughed. On the phone this late, his mistake seemed very funny.

Imad asked, ”What is it, Bea? You can't sleep?”

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