Part 23 (2/2)

When I couldn't think of where else to look, I poured a gla.s.s of juice and sat before Nisrine's door in the hallway to call Imad and tell him I wasn't coming.

On the phone, Imad was disappointed.

”I was counting on seeing you today.”

”I know, I'm sorry.”

”I thought you wanted to go to the library together. I thought you wanted to read the astonis.h.i.+ng text.”

”I do, I'm sorry. I'm locked in.”

”What do you mean, you're locked in? What about the father?”

”I can't reach him. He's at the Journalists' Club.”

Silence.

I said, ”I know, it's crazy. I'm sorry.”

On the other end, Imad sighed deeply.

”Bea, you're a paying guest. Get a key.”

I sat before the door on one side, and Nisrine sat on the other, and we watched light glint off all the buildings outside that were beyond our reach. Every now and then, I could hear her s.h.i.+ft.

She said about Imad, ”He'll come around. Don't worry. He's short with you because he wanted to see you.”

The children's room door was thin. I tried again at the handle. ”You push from the other side,” but it was no use.

Silence. It had been a silly plan, anyway. How could she leave without a pa.s.sport?

But, we had both been counting on it. I hadn't realized until now how much I, too, had begun to count on our plan, any plan.

Through the door Nisrine said, ”I miss my child. You know when he was born, he cried and cried, and the only thing that stopped him was my pinky? He liked to suck on it.”

Her child. What would become of him, if she left? Would she find a family and still send money like Adel promised? I thought of her, locked on the other side of the door. What would become of them if she stayed?

”Do you want a child, Bea?”

I wanted a child. Not now; now, I wanted a key.

”I miss my mother,” I told her.

”I miss my mother. I miss my husband, and my nice life in Indonesia.”

”I miss winter.”

”I miss mangoes.”

”I miss my warm house. In winter there's nothing better than a nice warm house.”

”I miss sunsets, and sweet coffee.”

”I miss drip American coffee, and my books.”

”I miss Adel.”

Pause. I told her, ”Don't worry, you're going to see Adel.”

”But not now. I was supposed to be with him now. He didn't mean to hurt Baba, Bea. You must know he didn't mean it. I miss touching him. He's never really touched me, only once, for a moment. I want him to run his hands up and down my shoulders.”

Is it possible to miss something you've never felt?

I said, ”I miss Imad's hands.”

”Does he have nice hands?”

I thought of my own hands, and his voice last night through the phone. ”He has nice hands,” I said. ”I miss the astonis.h.i.+ng text.”

”You've never read that text.”

”But it's like you with Adel, I still miss it.”

Through the door, I could hear Nisrine breathing. I closed my eyes and imagined the way she would sit: b.u.t.t out, feet crossed. There are many kinds of intimacy. I knew all about Nisrine's small routines, the curl of her dark hair on our white porcelain sink. That hair had been an ache in so many ways, deep in my heart; but if she left, I would miss it, too.

”New plan,” I joked, ”cut a hole in the wall. Walk out when they get home. Tell Madame you have a date!”

Nisrine laughed. ”I miss you, Bea.”

And even though she was right here, only a door between us, I knew exactly what she meant. ”I miss you, too.”

For a moment, we were silent. Then she said, ”Let Imad love you, Bea, it teaches you more than any text.”

I thought about this, about how I had been trying to learn from a text for so long. I closed my eyes and tried to remember what I'd learned, but all I could think of was Nisrine's warm presence and then, unbidden, Imad's kisses.

And it occurred to me that Qais and Leila had never kissed; that the text I wanted to read, which was supposed to tell me all about love, was a text without kisses. Suddenly, I felt a great sadness for those ancient lovers, and all they had missed out on. I had always thought Nisrine and Adel were like Qais and Leila; of necessity, they lived with a faraway love. Before, this had seemed romantic, but now, locked here, I saw how it was a liability; how it limits love to rely only on words, poetry; for a moment, I saw all their love's imperfections.

”Nisrine, do you think you're like Leila?”

On the other side of the door, she was quiet, thinking. ”I don't know,” she said at last. ”You know in that story I always wanted to be the shepherd?”

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