LITMIR.BIZ

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what?

      —It’s a religious school, said Decker. —Like a Catholic school, but for the study of the Holy Qur’an. It’s actually—

      —Just do what you’re going to do to us, said Aden.

      —Excuse me, Miss Sawyer? I’m not sure I heard you quite right.

      —There’s nothing illegal in those bags. You’ve searched them already so you ought to know.

      —I wouldn’t say nothing, Miss Sawyer. I wouldn’t say that. He lifted Decker’s duffel onto the counter. —Defense of the Muslim Lands, he said, bringing out a paperback without a cover. He brought out another. —Join the Caravan.

      —Those are religious texts, she said. —They’re for our course of study.

      —These books are on the State Department watchlist. They’re recruitment texts for militant jihad.

      —We bought them from the campus bookstore of the University of California at Berkeley. There’s nothing illegal about having those books.

      —Her father’s the dean of Middle Eastern studies, Decker cut in. —You know what a dean is?

      —Tell your Arab friend to shut his mouth, said the guard.

      This is what it means to live with open eyes, she thought. This place was here when I came with my father and we passed it by without even noticing. This same man sitting here at this same window. People stood where I’m standing but I never saw them. Where are those people now.

      Decker was shouting something about freedom of religion.

      —If you’re not going to give us our bags back, tell us, Aden said. —Tell us that and we’ll go.

      The guard’s drawn and bloodless face regarded her through the window, so leached of human feeling that it barely seemed a face. The waiting area smelled of exhaust and toner cartridges and sweat. The noise of traffic carried in from the outside. He hears this all day, Aden said to herself. All day long he hears these sounds and breathes this air. No one ends up here by choice. Not even him.

      —I never said you couldn’t have your bags, the guard said finally, shutting Aden’s passport with a shrug. —I don’t think you’ve heard a single word I told you.

      By some undeserved miracle they reached the gate at final boarding call and were rushed aboard the plane like VIPs. People glared at them but she was used to worse. As they made their way up the aisle, disheveled and short of breath, a rush of jubilation overtook her. They were headed to Dubai and after that to Karachi and more of the faithful surrounded her than she’d ever seen outside a mosque. The plane would soon be airborne, a sovereign state, accountable to no laws but its own. Her country had relinquished her without a hint of protest. She was gone.

      —I expected that to be rough, Decker whispered once they’d gotten to their seats. —The scanners and the pat-downs and the questions and all. But that was— He shook his head. —I don’t know what that was. Son of a bitch, Sawyer. They made me unbuckle my pants.

      —They do that to everybody.

      —It’s because we’re Muslim, isn’t it? They think I’m going to set my beard on fire.

      —I’m kind of hoping you will, to be honest.

      —Fuck you.

      —Might not be worth the trouble, though. I’m counting maybe fifteen hairs.

      —Better than you can do, Sawyer.

      —No argument there.

      —You look about six with that haircut. Like they had to shave your head at school to check for fleas.

      She smiled at him. —What was up with all that b.s. back there? My father isn’t dean of anything. You know that.

      He shrugged. —You told me that he used to be. Back before his, shall we say, romantic complications.

      —You were lying, she said. —You were bearing false witness.

      —Your virtue does you credit, pilgrim. But it would be a hell of a lot more convincing if you stopped grinning like a monkey.

      She closed her eyes and settled back into her seat. —I can’t believe we’re on this plane, she said.

      She came awake in the dark to the sound of her name. She was far from herself and returned only slowly. The voice she had heard was not her mother’s or her father’s, not exactly, but the same silvery thread of worry ran through it that her parents’ voices had. She waited with her eyes closed but it did not speak again.

      —You are traveling to the Emirates? said a man across the aisle.

      Blearily she turned to take his measure. He was portly and bearded and he blinked at her kindly. His voice was not the voice that had spoken her name but he seemed a remnant of her dream regardless. He wore a blue chalk-striped blazer over a shalwar kameez and a Qur’an lay open on his seatback table. She sat up and made an effort to seem boyish.

      —Just to change planes, she said. —We’re going to Karachi. My friend has family in Pakistan.

      —Ah, the man said. —Karachi.

      He pulled the Book toward him and asked no more questions. He sat spotlit and solemn, the only passenger in sight who wasn’t sleeping. His thin lips moved subtly. He seemed to be reciting from memory.

      —We’re traveling to Peshawar, she said. —To a madrasa there.

      —A madrasa! the man said. —That is very fine. He spoke a musical and British-sounding English. —Your intention is to memorize the suras? To learn them to heart?

      —Yes, sir. It is.

      He nodded gravely. —You are embarking on an honorable spree.

      —I am, she said, biting her lip to keep from smiling. Beside her Decker mumbled in his sleep.

      —But it is soon for you, I think, to leave your family. You can’t have many more than fourteen years.

      —My family can spare me, she said.

      The man inclined his head. —You do them credit.

      —Thank you, sir. I’m not sure they’d see it that way.

      He let this pass without comment. —Peshawar is an uncertain place. But in the madrasa you will have your security. They will see to your case.

      —To my case?

      The man smiled and said nothing.

      They sat for what seemed a great while without speaking, listening to the sighs and protestations of the plane. Underneath or behind the man’s amiable manner was a quality that set him apart from the passengers around him. Or so it seemed to her as she watched him in the artificial twilight of the cabin.

      —We hope to continue on from Peshawar, she said. —After we’ve finished our studies.

      The man nodded politely.

      —My friend says Pakistan is not an Islamic state. Not in the true sense of the word.

      He gave what might have been a laugh. —Ah! he said. —Of course. It’s very far from that.

      —We’re hoping to visit Afghanistan.

      —Yes?

      —Yes, sir. To cross into Nangarhar by the Torkham Gate.

      The man’s expression brightened. —But that is my own country! The Nangarhar province. We have a saying on the road when you arrive, a kind of advertisement: Nangarhar, House of Knowledge, Cradle of Peace. He nodded to himself. —It is warm in Nangarhar, and very green. Green all the year. We have another saying there: Forever Spring.

      Of course this man is an Afghan, Aden thought. Of course he is. She waited respectfully until he spoke again.

      —My

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