Exile: a novel by Richard North Patterson Page B

returned his calls. With a glow of excitement, he walked quickly to his bedroom.
    She stood with her back to him, her head bowed. Though she must have heard his footsteps, she did not turn.
    “Hana...,” he began.
    Facing east, Hana was lost in the Muslim ritual of prayer. In that moment, more profoundly than when she gave voice to it in words, David felt the distance that divided them, even when they were skin to skin.
    For minutes he stood behind her. Then, without turning, she raised her head, and began to silently undress.
    When she had finished, she faced him. They did not speak. She made no sound until, lying beneath him, she cried out—whether in pleasure or anguish, David could not tell.

    Palm cradling her face, David spoke first. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
    “Yes. I thought so too.”
    “And so?”
    Hana spoke softly, almost sadly, as though she had looked into her soul and seen its weakness and desire. “At first, you were an indulgence—an attractive man from a different place. My own small rebellion. But now you are inside me.
    “I imagined you—how I would feel—how you must feel. Like I had rejected you for Saeb. It’s so much more complex than that, and I had no way to tell you, except to be with you.” Hana touched his face. “And, yes, I wanted you. We have so little time—just as Saeb said. Though I pray he never knows how precious that time is to me.”
    Though her last words disheartened him, David tried to smile. “You make it sound like I’m about to be executed, and this is your last conjugal visit.”
    She did not return his smile. “When you’re obtuse like this, I know we are from different places. You have no idea of my world—how complicated it is, even among ourselves—”
    “You’re talking about politics,” David cut in. “That’s not about us.”
    Briefly Hana shook her head, regarding him with melancholy fondness. “You are so American, David. At times much more American than Jewish. An Israeli would not say that to me. But to Americans, the world is America. If you have fantasies about a life together, it is an American life, where I leave the messy past behind and realize my full potential as a woman.” A corner of her mouth turned up. “In America, of course. Where else are such things possible?”
    This stung him. “I’m not that simpleminded, Hana. I’m just not blind. I watched you at lunch—you’re different with Saeb than with me. You didn’t choose him—your parents, and his tragedies, chose you. I may have started as a ‘small rebellion,’ some sort of emotional jailbreak. But the reasons for that are not so small.”
    Hana turned on her back, gazing at the ceiling. “I don’t need you as my psychiatrist. I know what my resentments are, even what my fears are— that, as a woman, I may not achieve all I wish. But that is all the more reason for women to try within our own culture, not someone else’s. Our people have so many challenges, and they need all of us—”
    “But what about you ? What about your days and nights? Maybe you can give Saeb what he wants—as a wounded man who needs to heal, or an Arab man who needs more adoration than I do. But who do you want to wake up with?” David felt his anger and frustration break loose. “Who? Look at me, dammit.”
    Slowly, Hana turned her face on the pillow and looked into his eyes.
    “I see you as a woman,” David said more evenly. “And as a Palestinian. But I don’t see you as an emotional prop. You listen to me; I listen to you. We respect each other. And we sure as hell want each other—more than either of us has wanted anyone. We can overcome the things that divide us, because they aren’t about us as people. But I don’t think you can ever overcome being with the wrong person—”
    “How can you know what is right?” she answered with quiet vehemence. “How can you know so much without living my life, knowing how that feels. We’ve had three