mu’allim.
—Yet you chose to come here. To my village madrasa of fewer than forty heads. Truly, we feel ourselves blessed.
She found herself nodding.
—Does it not say in scripture: Whoso emigrates in the cause of God shall find on earth many places of emigration and abundance? And elsewhere: You will surely find that the nearest in amity toward the believers are those who say: ‘We are Christians,’ and that is because they do not grow proud? He raised both arms toward her. —How true are those words, Suleyman, in this case!
—Thank you, mu’allim.
—Is it perhaps also true that you came to my school because it is close to the border?
—Excuse me, mu’allim? I don’t—
—Perhaps you are not aware that we are situated a day’s march from the border here, well within the tribal regions. Many young men pass through this district, and in fact through this village, on their way to the camps of the mujahideen. Was this fact known to you?
She shook her head stiffly.
—But you have seen their advertisements in Peshawar, I am sure. Their slogans of recruitment.
—I’ve seen them.
—I would advise you kindly, Suleyman, against this course of action.
As in every other room of that thin-walled house the sound of muffled voices carried to her. Behind or below them she heard other sounds: a motor backfiring, the laughter of children. It occurred to her for the first time, as she sat straight-backed before the mullah and struggled to reply, that there might be children in the village with no interest in the school.
—May I ask a question, mu’allim?
—You may.
—Why are you telling me this? About the mujahideen?
—I have been engaged in the instruction of young men for nigh on thirty years, Suleyman, and my eyes have been made keen, all thanks to God, to certain signs. He cupped his palm and tipped it upward, as she’d seen him do before. —You have a restlessness, child, although you take pains to keep yourself still. Your feeling for scripture is— He paused. —Your feeling for scripture is a desperate one, he said finally. —And such feeling can tip easily toward violence. I have seen this often. I have grown attentive to it.
—I came to you to learn, she said. —That’s all. To get nearer to God.
—I can have no objection to jihad, he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. —The Prophet himself tells us: Fighting has been prescribed for you, although it is a matter hateful to you.
He sat forward and lifted his teacup and drank.
—But the jihad of the Kalashnikov may be the least useful, Suleyman, both to us and to God. Many young men have departed this house for the camps. No small number of them left in the dead of night, leaving everything behind—even the Book they had come here to study. As though it had outlived its usefulness. Few of them have graced this house again.
He took her cup and refilled it. She had been threatened before in the guise of advice—her father had done so many times, especially since her conversion—but she had no sense of what the mullah’s threat entailed. The threat had not been expressed in words or even by his voice but it hung in the air between them like a wisp of colored smoke.
—You may sleep here, Suleyman Al-Na’ama. You will do me that honor.
—Here, mu’allim? But this is your—
—We are not so fine as the schools in Lahore but you will find that you are treated with respect. You have perhaps seen the rooms—the dormitories, yes? Is this the term?—where the men have their beds. You have passed by these rooms?
—I have, mu’allim.
—Then you’ve seen that they differ from what you are used to. This room is more suitable. The cushions can be joined to make a bed.
—May I speak, mu’allim?
—You may.
—I’d like to sleep in the dorms if that’s all right. With the others. I don’t want anything the rest don’t have. I don’t want anyone to think of me as strange.
Hayat was watching her closely. —And yet you are strange, Suleyman. Even to me.
—But not forever, mu’allim. Not if God wills it. I can get to be as normal to you as this pot of tea.
The mullah ran his fingers through his beard. He smiled at her and nodded. —You will sleep in this room, Suleyman, he said.
She slept fully dressed and when the call to prayer sounded she awoke to find a bowl of water and a washcloth on the floor beside her feet. She listened for a moment, holding her breath, then got up quietly and barred the door. She opened her pack and found its inner pocket and brought out a handkerchief neatly folded to the size and thickness of a deck of cards. The cloth lay cool and dry against her palm. She unfolded it and drew out a silver wheel of pills in its envelope of foil and tore it open. The brittle sound it made was somehow pleasing. She laid the first of the pills on her tongue and packed the handkerchief away and knelt down to perform her dawn ablutions. She performed them with care because her presence in that house was a pollution and an outrage. She was a liar and dissembler and she’d never been so happy in her life. The pill had no taste at all. She ran down the corridor to join the others in the freezing unlit courtyard, placing her mat in the last row so no one would see her. But the mullah nodded to her all the same.
At midday she found Decker where he’d been the day before. He sat slouched in the mulberry’s dappled shade and watched her blankly as she crossed the yard. Again she tried and failed to grasp the change in him. The same two men sat beside him and this time they remained. She greeted them both and they smiled in return. She had no memory of seeing them in recitation or at prayer.
—These here are my cousins, said Decker. —Altaf and Yaqub. Altaf used to be a talib at this school.
She shifted from one foot to the other, unsure what to do next. —I’m honored to know you, she murmured in Arabic. They nodded and touched their right palms to their chests.
—My brother has no Arabic, the one called Altaf said.
—That’s all right. She smiled at him. —I have no Urdu.
—Urdu is a dirty language. You are better for not having it. It is the language of the ignorant. Of vagrants.
Decker gave a laugh she hadn’t heard before. He’s laughing in Urdu, she thought. Or in Pashto. The man called Yaqub nodded again and laughed uncomprehendingly, looking at each of them in turn. His features were the gentlest of the three.
—I’m sure that’s not the case, she said. —Please tell your brother that.
—Your Arabic is beautiful, the man said, ignoring her comment. —You speak it very sweetly. As if reading from a poem.
As he said this a question or a doubt crossed her mind and she glanced at Decker, hoping for some sign, but Decker’s face and
