the way you mean.
—No? Maybe you should explain.
—I shouldn’t have to explain. Not to you. She shook her head. —I’m not going over there just to see the sights, Teacher.
—I’ve never liked it when you call me that.
—I know.
He nodded for a time. —You’re traveling to the Emirates to study, he said finally. —To improve your language skills, to broaden your perspective, to see for yourself what the fuss is about. I appreciate that. You’re a serious girl, Aden. An asker of questions. You always have been. He pressed his palms lightly together. —Or is there some other reason?
She stared down at the floor between her feet, at divots in the carpet where a less stately desk had once stood. She wondered whose office the room had been then. She could picture no one but her father in that space.
—Have you given any further thought to your plans for the future? he asked her. —To your education?
—This is my education.
—I’ve spoken again with Dean Lawford. He’s agreed, very generously, to permit a deferral—
—I know all about that.
—I’d like to speak frankly with you, Aden, if I may. He arranged his features into a smile. —This past year has been hard on all of us. I was distracted when you asked for my help with this adventure of yours, and I do regret that. But things have stabilized now, as you’re no doubt aware, and I hope that you’ll regard me as a resource. I have friends in Dubai: people you may find it good to know. I’ve prepared a list.
Her father pushed an index card across the desktop.
—There will be some adjustment required, needless to say. A great deal of adjustment. And in the matter of your return ticket—
—Don’t worry about that.
—Sweetheart. Look at me for a second. You’d do well to consider—
—How are things with Mrs. Al-Hadid?
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
