are you going to do, Decker?
He shook his head tiredly.
—It won’t just be me that gets in trouble if someone finds out. We came here together.
—I could leave anytime.
—That doesn’t make what I just said less true.
The look he gave her brought her precious little comfort. It was less a look of cunning or resentment than one of calm indifference. It made no sense to her.
—Don’t turn on me, Decker. Don’t do it.
He looked away from her. —You’ve got things switched around again. You turned on me.
They chanted through the afternoon until the third call to prayer and when their prayers were done they chanted on till dusk. The declaimer’s reedy singsong never wavered. The Arabic of the others was colored by Pashto or by Urdu or by languages of which she had no knowledge. She sat in the midst of them and recited in a halting, breathless voice, so softly that not even she could hear. The talibs rocked in rapture to the verses. In the very best moments her own sight seemed to dim and she could feel the verses buzzing as they passed between her teeth and that was all she wanted or could ever want.
After the fourth call to prayer Decker appeared in the doorway and found a place for himself at the back of the hall. They had reached the two hundred and sixtieth verse of the sura and each voice seemed distinct and known to her. His California twang cut through sharpest of all: the voice of privilege and vanity and everything else she’d hoped to put behind her. Her own voice was just as grotesque, just as incongruous, subdued though it was. She did her best to ignore it. She pictured herself reciting as if from on high, a small still form in all that sway and tumult. She imagined herself and the others, bowing and rising and bowing again, rippling like a field of windswept grass.
When Saul set out with his soldiers he said: God is about to test you at a river. Whoever drinks from it is not my follower. Whoever drinks not is my follower, save one who scoops a scoop into his hand.
They drank from it, all but a few.
When he passed across the river, he and those who believed with him, they said: We have no might today against Goliath and his troops.
Those who believed they would meet God said: How often a small force has overcome a numerous force, by God’s leave. God is with those who stand fast.
After the fifth prayer they took their evening meal of flatbread and dhal in the courtyard and when she’d finished she was sent for by Hayat. She found him in a sunlit room at the school’s southwest corner, humming unmusically to himself, sitting on a leopard-spotted cushion in the middle of the floor. Apart from a tea set and a padlocked metal cabinet the little room was bare of ornament. A matching cushion faced him and he gestured toward it grandly.
When she was seated the mullah arranged the pot and cups between them. A small boy with a harelip came to serve the tea but Hayat waved him off. —I’m not too decrepit to pour my own tea, praise God, he told her in English. She nodded and gave him a tentative smile.
—I take buffalo’s milk with my tea, Hayat said as he poured. —The English prefer cow’s milk, I understand.
—Yes, mu’allim, she said. —But I’m not English.
—Of course! He let his head tilt forward in what might have been a bow. —And yet you do take cow’s milk with your tea.
—I don’t take anything.
The amusement that was never entirely gone from his countenance was conspicuous now as he sat and observed her. She found herself smiling to mask her discomfort. She was tired and unsure of herself and her throat was raw from chanting. She raised her teacup to her lips and drank.
—To your fine health, the mullah said, raising his cup.
She stopped in mid-sip and returned his good wishes. —Pardon my rudeness, mu’allim, she said in Arabic. —I have many things to learn.
—You know a great amount already, Suleyman. An astonishing amount. Are many American boys like you?
She took another sip. —I don’t think so, mu’allim.
—Your Arabic is better than that of most of these country blockheads God has given me to teach. Much better. It pleases my poor half-deaf ears to hear it.
—Thank you, mu’allim.
—It is formal, of course. Not the everyday way of speaking. And there are traces of the English, especially in the qaf and the ha. He smiled. —Which only reminds us of how far you’ve come.
She bobbed her head and said nothing.
—Never have we had a visitor from such a distance. California. He pronounced the word carefully. —You do us a great honor. You and Brother Ali.
—Yes, mu’allim. Who is that?
—Your companion, of course.
—My companion? I don’t—
—Ali is the name he selected.
She looked at him blankly. He took the cup from her and refilled it.
—I’m sorry, mu’allim. I guess I’d have expected him to tell me.
—You are bosom friends with Ali. Is this so? He beamed at her. —Friends of long standing?
—I’m not sure how to answer, mu’allim.
—You may answer directly. By saying the truth.
She hesitated. —Decker Yousafzai is the best friend I have in the world. Without him I wouldn’t be sitting here now.
—That is well, said Hayat. —It is well to have such a friend. But in this house his name is Ali Al-Faridi.
She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. —Yes, mu’allim. Of course.
—I’ve had Brother Ali with me here, in this room. While you were reciting. I asked him the question I’ve just asked of you.
She sat back on the cushion. —And what did he say?
—Why are you here, Suleyman?
Her scalp began to prickle. —To learn the Holy Qur’an, mu’allim. To memorize it. To learn it by heart.
—To learn it by heart, he repeated. He took in a breath. —Yes, that is what we practice in this house. You have not been misled.
—Excuse me, mu’allim?
—No one has misled you.
She was unsure what if anything he wanted her to answer. He seemed to want nothing. She drank from her teacup.
—Of course, this school of mine is not exceptional. We are believers but we can in no way—what is the word in English? He frowned. —We can in no way contend with the great madrasas. Ashraf-ul-Madaris in Karachi, for example, or Jamia
