LITMIR.BIZ

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      He hesitated. —Ayah is well, Aden. Thank you for asking.

      —Ed Aycker ever give her any trouble?

      —I wonder how your Arabic is coming, said her father.

      —It’s coming just fine.

      —I wonder if you can read the verses on the wall behind me. In the little brass frame.

      —In the name of God, she said. —Merciful to all. Compassionate to each.

      —Those are good words to remember. Especially where you’re going. Her father coughed and shifted in his chair. —Merciful to all, he repeated. —Compassionate to each.

      She could hear students in the hallway outside, at least half a dozen, making high-pitched theatrical chatter. A hand was pressed against the glass as if in greeting. She gave her father the nod he expected.

      —Good words to remember, he said. —There’s a reason they’re the first words of the Book.

      —I know more words than that.

      —I don’t doubt you do.

      —The woman and man found guilty of adultery. Flog each of them a hundred—

      —Shut your mouth, said her father. He spoke in a lighthearted voice, as if amused. —I was a student of sharia before you existed as a thought in your poor benighted mother’s mind or in the All Creator’s either. What you understand about scripture could fit in a tub of eyeliner. Go to the Emirates with that attitude and God have mercy on your soul.

      She leaned back on her stool and studied him.

      —What are you grinning at?

      —Eyeliner doesn’t come in tubs, she said. —It comes in sticks.

      —I see. He bobbed his head. —This is a joke to you.

      She watched him and said nothing.

      —What about that boyfriend of yours? Does he have the slightest idea what he’s getting himself into?

      —Decker isn’t my boyfriend.

      He flapped a hand impatiently, a quick dismissive gesture, the same one her mother had made not an hour before. —What do his parents say?

      —They’re proud of him, actually. Supportive, I mean. They’ve got family there.

      —I was told the Yousafzais were Pakistani.

      —They’re Pashtuns, she said. —From near the Afghan border.

      —I see. He watched her. —They emigrated to Dubai at some point, I’m assuming. Looking for work.

      When she said nothing he sat back stiffly in his chair. Again his palms came nervously together.

      —Your hair was so lovely. So curly and dark. You were terribly vain about it when you were small. He looked down at his hands. —Do you have any recollection of that?

      —None at all.

      —Are you doing this to hurt us, Aden? To punish us? Your mother and myself?

      She gazed up at the scroll above the desk, letting her sight go dim and out of focus, watching the letters writhe and curl together. Those fluid voluptuous letters. No language on earth was more beautiful to look at, more beautiful to speak. She knew it and her father knew it. The difference was he saw the beauty only. She herself saw the grief and forbearance and hope behind the brushwork, the suffering brought to bear on every calligraph. But beauty was its first attribute and the most dangerous by far. The beauty of austerity. The beauty of no quarter. She felt its pull and saw no earthly end to it.

      —You think everything comes down to you, she said at last. —That everything’s on account of you, or thanks to you, or coming back off something bad you’ve done.

      —Aden, I—

      —But you’re wrong. I don’t think about you much at all.

      The students were louder now and more numerous but if anything the room seemed more sequestered than before. It seemed airless and dank. Her father’s eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. His chest rose and fell. When he spoke again she had to strain to hear him.

      —I apologize, sweetheart. I’m trying very hard to understand.

      —That’s all right. I forgive you. The first part of my jihad—

      —For God’s sake, Aden, don’t call it that.

      —Jihad means struggle, that’s all. Any kind of a struggle. You taught me that yourself. Don’t you remember?

      —It’s a new century now. A new world. He interlaced his fingers. —Things are taking a turn.

      —I don’t know what that means.

      —It means you need to be aware of the rest of the world, not just Claire and myself. Are you listening to me? You need to take its fear and its prejudice into account. You need to consider other people’s ignorance, Aden. He let out a breath. —You need to consider your own.

      —I’ll leave that to the experts. I’ll leave that to you.

      —You’re still not hearing me, apparently. I’m endeavoring to explain—

      —If they want to pass judgment they can go right ahead. They do it all the time anyway. At school and everywhere else. Even in my own house. But you wouldn’t know about that.

      —Aden—

      —Try and stop me if that’s what you want.

      —I don’t want to stop you, her father said tightly. —That’s not my position at all.

      —Don’t talk down to me, then. It doesn’t suit you.

      Before he could answer she took up her pack. An army surplus model, sun-bleached and tattered, with squares of darker cloth where the insignia had been. She’d found it in the attic of her father’s house the day before Thanksgiving, the day she’d decided to take up her jihad. She sat up and cleared her throat and raised the pack so he could see it, thinking even now to ask his blessing. But her father’s eyes were dull and flat and blind.

      —The religion I’ve spent my life studying teaches deference to one’s elders, he said slowly. —It teaches the child to venerate the teachings of the father.

      —Not if the father is an apostate.

      —Aden, do you fully understand what that word means?

      She got to her feet. He shook his head at that, regretfully and stiffly, as though forbidding her to take another step.

      —I’m sure you’re aware that I could put a stop to this adventure with a phone call. And the more I hear you talk, sweetheart, the more inclined I am to do so.

      —You did this yourself when you were my age. You’ve been talking about it my whole life. It’s the only thing you’ve ever talked about.

      —I’d just turned twenty-two when I went to Kandahar. Twenty-two, Aden, not barely eighteen. And there’s a more significant issue than your age.

      —I don’t know what you mean.

      —You’re being childish again. The possibilities for a woman in that part of the world are limited, as you know very well. You have disappointments in store, I’m afraid.

      —Well Teacher you’re wrong about that.

      —We’re fighting again. Let’s both just take a moment—

      —I’m going to get to places that you’ve never been. All kinds of places. I’m going to see things that you couldn’t even dream of.

      She met Decker on the airport bus at noon. He was dressed in a tracksuit and a Giants cap and his sneakers sat beside him on the seat across the aisle. His duffel was black and his high-tops were

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