and her steps were unsteady and her body felt outside of her control. A small hand found her arm and pulled her forward. A boy no more than six years old was leading her into the compound by the wrist.
The man who shook her awake the next morning spoke both English and Arabic in a voice almost too decorous to hear. He carried a cup of green tea in one hand and a plate of flatbread in the other and he watched her raptly as she ate and drank. He did not ask why she had crossed half the world to study at his dirt-floored madrasa, or whether she had found the room comfortable, or why she had slept in her clothes.
—The bread is to your liking? said the mullah in English.
—Thank you, mu’allim. It’s wonderful.
The room was bare and windowless and the sound of voices joined in recitation carried faintly through the wall. She had a memory of Decker sleeping beside her but Decker was nowhere in sight. The mullah wore bifocals and a yellow homespun shawl and a wine-colored birthmark ran from his left ear to the collar of his shirt. His lips moved as he watched her, as though in sympathy with the disembodied voices. A second pair of glasses hung from his neck by a loop of plastic fishing line. It occurred to her now that Decker had told her almost nothing about the man before her or about the school itself. She had trusted him blindly. She’d been told the mullah’s name and nothing more.
—I’ve allowed you to sleep through the first prayer, said the mullah. —For travelers an exception can be made.
She sipped her tea and gave a tight-lipped nod. Her voice seemed to have failed her.
—My name is Mufti Khizar Hayat Khan. You and your friend are welcome to this house. While you remain I am father and mother to you. He pointed at her. —Now you tell me your name.
She set her cup down circumspectly on the floor between her feet. —Aden Sawyer, she said.
—Yes. This is what I have been told. Is it your full and only name?
She shook her head. —My middle name is Grace.
—Ah! said the mullah. —And what does it mean?
Again her voice failed her. Her feet were bare and she was suddenly afraid that they might attract the mullah’s notice. They were slender and delicate, her most girlish feature, not yet ready to be seen. She felt herself flinch.
—You needn’t be afraid of me, child. We have no cause for fear inside this house. He brought his heavy hands together. —Outside is another matter.
She swallowed the last of the flatbread and found the word in Arabic that she’d been seeking. It rang strangely in her ears, deeper and angrier than she’d intended. She wondered whether all boys’ voices sounded harsh to them.
—Na’ama, the mullah repeated. —Na’ama is Grace.
—Yes, mu’allim.
—This is a common name in California?
—It was, mu’allim. In more religious times.
He nodded again. —And your father?
—What about him?
He tipped one hand upward. —His name. His vocation.
—Martin Isaiah Sawyer. She took in a breath. —He’s a professor.
—Of what?
—Of Islam. Of Islamic studies.
The mullah sat forward. —Ah! He leads a madrasa?
—No, mu’allim. The students he instructs are not believers.
—Not believers?
—They are not, mu’allim.
—Then why do they study the Book?
—My father would say— She hesitated.
—Yes?
—My father would say, because they find it interesting. —Interesting, said the mullah.
—Yes, mu’allim. Like visiting a foreign country.
He pursed his lips as though he’d eaten something sour. —And your father himself? Has he been rewarded with faith?
The voices in the next room had risen. The sura was one she knew well. Should you slip after clear signs have been revealed to you, be assured that God is Almighty, All-Wise.
—I don’t know the answer to that question, mu’allim.
His expression clouded further. —How do you not know?
Are they truly waiting for God to come to them in the shadowy folds of clouds, with His angels, when judgment is pronounced and all revert to God?
—Because he never told me.
—Does he not pray in your home?
For those who disbelieve, the present life has been made to appear attractive.
—My father and mother live in two different houses, mu’allim. I don’t see him much.
—Tell me about your mother.
—I’d rather not, mu’allim.
—Ah, he said. —And why not?
—Because she’s a drunk.
The mullah cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his beard. He seemed to be observing something just beneath her cot. He seemed to be considering its merits.
—I see now why you came to us.
—Yes, mu’allim.
—Let me ask you something more. Have you elder brothers?
She shook her head.
—You are the oldest in your house?
—I am, mu’allim.
—Then why do you not bear your father’s name?
—I don’t— She stopped herself. —I can’t say, mu’allim. I’ve never asked.
The mullah nodded thoughtfully. She kept straight-backed and solemn and watched him considering her answers. It was a sign of disrespect to stare but the mullah seemed indifferent to her rudeness. She tried to look away but could not do it.
—I see, he said a second time, taking the cup back from her and getting to his feet. —Perhaps it is well, given what you have told me, for Martin Isaiah Sawyer’s name to go no further.
—Yes, mu’allim.
—In this house you will be called by a new name. One of your own choosing. You will find this is best. He took her by the hand.
—I beg your pardon, mu’allim. I—
—Yes,
