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 work is in fabrics. I reside in Karachi. I have not seen Nangarhar in quite some years.
—I would like to see it, Aden said. —I’m excited to see it.
—You must see it.
—It’s safer now, I think. My friend tells me it’s safer. The warlords have all been pushed back to the north.
The man made a gesture she couldn’t interpret.
—Isn’t that true?
—The animals of the north have been given a kick, he said, repeating the same cutting movement.
—Yes.
—By other animals. By other beasts.
—By students, she said. —By the devout. By a learned coalition.
—Young man, he said slowly. —Where have you heard of this?
She held her breath and counted down from ten. It was hard to speak calmly. —My friend told me about it. He gave me a book.
—A book? said the man. —Not the Qur’an, I think.
—They’re talibs, sir. Students. They’re fighting to bring faith back to the country. They’re fighting against the godless, like the mujahideen did against the Russians. Am I wrong about that?
—I will ask you a question.
—Please.
—Why do you care to pass over the border?
—I told you already, sir. I— She hesitated. —I just want to see it. A place ruled by believers. A country full of people living by the word of God.
—Your friend fancies himself
