Part 30 (1/2)

Imagine, if you will, this first time, how important it feels. Put yourself in Adel's place-you swung on a rope and knocked in a door to get to her; you want to do well for her, to use this time well. But so far in your life, you've loved only three ways: with words, gestures, and poems. You have never touched.

Just the other day, you made your first foray into fighting for her.

Now, before you stretch a few short hours. And Nisrine, like a new world.

You hold out your hand, shyly. She takes it. This alone sends s.h.i.+vers down your spine.

Once long ago, Adel dreamed of Nisrine, and in the dream she was imperfect and wore a red sari.

Now, in the children's bedroom, the first discovery Adel made was that Nisrine really did have many of the imperfections he'd once dreamed. She had: a sore eye, a bruised toenail. From the birth of her son, he found white lines like lace across her hips and b.r.e.a.s.t.s; when he kissed these, they gave like sand.

And so, in these small ways, she proved to him that life can be beautiful as a dream; that a body can live up to what is imagined. He took her in his arms, feeling her soft skin. She opened for him.

Adel was not experienced in love, and he showed his youth. There were only two years between them, but she had lived in another country, borne a child, already married and fallen in love. These experiences gave her knowledge that he had never dreamed of and so, while she quickly led him to a place of full limbs and thick breathing, he ran his hands over her belly, unsure how to proceed. She touched his thigh, and the world gave up in him. He wanted to make her feel that. He traced the map of lines on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and with every moment his chest grew tighter until he thought he might cry out, but she still hadn't. He stopped, stepped back.

”Nisrine, teach me.”

She was also new-not to touch, but to him. She had just spent hours in a room locked up, something she could not submit to again (though, she would). She shook her head, watched for birds out the window.

”It's all right. I'm just glad to be with you.”

And she was, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to make her forget this room, these small pencils, to make her feel for a moment what he felt, free.

”No, I want to learn.”

”You do?”

He nodded.

He would soon write his last poem: In Love and Feeling, she is the best teacher.

And so she rose up, his teacher, her hair loosed like smoke. A long time ago, he had taught her to write Arabic, watched while she leaned over in concentration and traced his letter, ayn.

Now, she took his hands in hers; it was her turn to watch over him, guide him the way he had once guided her. And out of their effort together came a new kind of writing. Their hands clasped, he felt curves like soft letters; she led him along them.

Adel thought, Making love is just like a poem.

The sweet flow of words, like water.

He thought, In love, I want to be a great scholar.