heading for the kitchen, but as I passed their chairs, Mina reached out, pulling me to her. I felt her legs close in and hold me in place. She lifted her lips to my cheek for a kiss. “He’s like my second son…,” she purred, radiant. Her dupatta scarf was draped loosely around her head, its translucent silk gleaming in the late afternoon sun. “And if I have my way he’ll end up a bibliophile just like the two of us.”
“Already on his way—aren’t you, Hayat?” Nathan asked with a lazy smile. He had a dazed, goofy look I found almost as unsettling as Mina’s newly arresting beauty. “With a little luck, you’ll keep the tradition going and end up as a thorn in your dad’s side,” Nathan added with a laugh. Mina laughed, too.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it?” Nathan continued. “If anyone can get him to read a book someday, it’ll be his own son. Don’t you think?”
“I doubt that, ” Mina said, her eyes sparkling.
Something was happening, but I couldn’t tell what it was. There was a charge in the air, like a cloud of whirling gnats between them.
Mina went on: about how smart I was; how I’d begun to memorize the Quran; what a good surrogate brother I’d been for Imran. Not only was she talking about me, but I was standing locked between her legs, her arms about my waist…and yet she seemed more separate from me than ever. “I have to go to the bathroom, Auntie,” I finally said, pulling myself free.
“Okay, kurban, ” she said.
I went through the patio door, making a point of slamming it shut behind me. But when I looked back through the window, neither of them seemed to notice.
They were already laughing about something else.
6
The Dervish
T hat week, the phone rang every night about half an hour after dinner. Mother would come bounding into the kitchen to grab it. “Hi, Dr. Wolfsohn…,” she would coo, “sorry, I meant… Nathan… I’m fine, Nathan. How are you?…Of course. I’ll get her…” Then Mother would put her palm over the mouthpiece and yell out: “Meen! For you! Dr. Wolfsohn!” And soon enough, Mina would appear at her side, hovering on her tiptoes as she took the phone and chirped into the receiver: “Hi, Nathan.” But before the conversation went any further, she would turn to me—I was usually still doing the dishes—and inquire, always tenderly: “ Behta, is it okay if I use the phone for a little while…alone?”
I would nod and head off to my room.
More than once that week, I emerged an hour or so later—after homework and some verses—hoping to bypass any unfinished dishes in the sink on my way down to the family room for some television. Invariably, I’d find Mother perched at the stairs, barring the way. And over her shoulder, down on the couch at the family room’s far end, I would see Mina curled up on the corner cushion, the phone cradled lovingly against her face.
“Don’t be nosy,” Mother would scold.
“I’m not.”
“Go finish the dishes.”
“Fine,” I would say.
There was no need to be nosy. Mina’s peals of joyous laughter—easy to hear, even over the sound of running water as I finished up at the sink—and her dreamy gait as she came up the stairs after her calls were over left no doubt about what was happening:
She was smitten.
On Thursday night, as I sat at my desk, I heard Mina screaming at someone downstairs. I came to my doorway and saw her crying as she stormed into her room and slammed the door shut. Mother would later tell me Mina’s parents had called. They’d learned of a divorced Pakistani, a dentist in South Carolina, who was looking for a wife. Without mentioning it to their daughter, the Alis had sent the man Mina’s picture. Now he wanted to meet her.
Mina lost it. She told her parents that not only was she not interested, but there was no chance she would ever even consider another arranged marriage after what had happened with Hamed.
Her father started
“Already on his way—aren’t you, Hayat?” Nathan asked with a lazy smile. He had a dazed, goofy look I found almost as unsettling as Mina’s newly arresting beauty. “With a little luck, you’ll keep the tradition going and end up as a thorn in your dad’s side,” Nathan added with a laugh. Mina laughed, too.
“Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, would it?” Nathan continued. “If anyone can get him to read a book someday, it’ll be his own son. Don’t you think?”
“I doubt that, ” Mina said, her eyes sparkling.
Something was happening, but I couldn’t tell what it was. There was a charge in the air, like a cloud of whirling gnats between them.
Mina went on: about how smart I was; how I’d begun to memorize the Quran; what a good surrogate brother I’d been for Imran. Not only was she talking about me, but I was standing locked between her legs, her arms about my waist…and yet she seemed more separate from me than ever. “I have to go to the bathroom, Auntie,” I finally said, pulling myself free.
“Okay, kurban, ” she said.
I went through the patio door, making a point of slamming it shut behind me. But when I looked back through the window, neither of them seemed to notice.
They were already laughing about something else.
6
The Dervish
T hat week, the phone rang every night about half an hour after dinner. Mother would come bounding into the kitchen to grab it. “Hi, Dr. Wolfsohn…,” she would coo, “sorry, I meant… Nathan… I’m fine, Nathan. How are you?…Of course. I’ll get her…” Then Mother would put her palm over the mouthpiece and yell out: “Meen! For you! Dr. Wolfsohn!” And soon enough, Mina would appear at her side, hovering on her tiptoes as she took the phone and chirped into the receiver: “Hi, Nathan.” But before the conversation went any further, she would turn to me—I was usually still doing the dishes—and inquire, always tenderly: “ Behta, is it okay if I use the phone for a little while…alone?”
I would nod and head off to my room.
More than once that week, I emerged an hour or so later—after homework and some verses—hoping to bypass any unfinished dishes in the sink on my way down to the family room for some television. Invariably, I’d find Mother perched at the stairs, barring the way. And over her shoulder, down on the couch at the family room’s far end, I would see Mina curled up on the corner cushion, the phone cradled lovingly against her face.
“Don’t be nosy,” Mother would scold.
“I’m not.”
“Go finish the dishes.”
“Fine,” I would say.
There was no need to be nosy. Mina’s peals of joyous laughter—easy to hear, even over the sound of running water as I finished up at the sink—and her dreamy gait as she came up the stairs after her calls were over left no doubt about what was happening:
She was smitten.
On Thursday night, as I sat at my desk, I heard Mina screaming at someone downstairs. I came to my doorway and saw her crying as she stormed into her room and slammed the door shut. Mother would later tell me Mina’s parents had called. They’d learned of a divorced Pakistani, a dentist in South Carolina, who was looking for a wife. Without mentioning it to their daughter, the Alis had sent the man Mina’s picture. Now he wanted to meet her.
Mina lost it. She told her parents that not only was she not interested, but there was no chance she would ever even consider another arranged marriage after what had happened with Hamed.
Her father started
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