Refuge (33 page)

“Nineteen ninety-two, Miss,” Hila says.

“And why will it be nineteen ninety-two?”

“Because that’s how long since the Jesus was born.”

“Excellent. And what year is it in our calendar?”

Every hand goes up.

“Rashida?”

“Fourteen-twelve, Miss.”

“And how many years is that since?”

Noor points at Zilla, a prim, studious type near the back.

“The hijra. The year the Prophet, peace be upon him, journeyed to Medina from Mecca.”

Noor looks out at her students.

“I hope you know you’re the smartest class in school.”

The girls start clapping. Noor puts a finger to her lips.

“Shhh, that’s our secret, we don’t want the other girls to get jealous.”

The girls giggle. Noor glances at Kamila’s empty chair and feels a pang of sorrow. She wonders where Kamila is now; her husband’s hut most likely, being harangued by his first wife while she waits in terror for him to return.
She forces a smile.

“Now can anyone tell me what’s the difference between the Islamic and Christian calendars?”

A host of hands go up.

“Mariam?”

“Ours is better, Miss.”

“I was hoping for a more scientific answer. Hila?”

“They are not good Muslims, Miss.”

“Hila, they aren’t Muslims so they cannot be good or bad Muslims only good or bad Christians. Amina?”

“They celebrate their new year, Miss, and we don’t.”

“True but—”

“In New York City they set off fireworks and drop a glass ball and drink alcohol in the streets.”

“I told you, Miss, they are not good Muslims,” Hila says.

“I’m still looking for a scientific explanation. Anyone?”

“Our calendar is lunar and theirs is solar,” a voice says.

Noor turns and sees Kamila standing in the doorway. The girls scream in delight and rush over to her. Noor takes a moment to compose herself. She tells the girls to sit down, and slowly they drift back to their desks. Noor walks over and touches Kamila’s cheek.

You really are here.

Noor opens up her arms and hugs Kamila. She never wants to let her go. She does, however. She stares into Kamila’s sparkling eyes.

“How?”

“I was saved by a knight in shining armor,” Kamila says.

Noor dismisses the comment. Kamila’s always had an overactive imagination.

“Well that’s what knights are there for, aren’t they?”

“I’m sorry for what my mother did to you. I tried to stop them, but they held me back.”

“I survived.”

“And so did I.”

“Yes you did. Come, sit, we can talk more after class.”

Noor leads Kamila to her desk. Kamila leans back in her chair with the confidence of a Captain who’s returned to the bridge of his ship. Noor picks up her book and tries to remember where they were in the lesson.

“Do you think Allah sent my knight, Miss Noor?” Kamila says.

“I’m sure he did.”

“Even if he’s not a Muslim?”

Noor looks up, and the class leans forward as if they’re about to hear the most fantastical of tales.

“The man who played tag with us in the courtyard came the day of the wedding with a man in a wheelchair. He told my father if I stayed unmarried he’d pay him money for every year I attended school. Right after, the wedding was called off.”

Noor stands there, stunned.

Oh my Lord, he did this for me.

“Miss Noor, do you know this man?” Kamila says.

“No,” she says, recovering, “but I’ve heard of men like him. They travel the country doing this sort of thing.”

“Like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza?” Amina says.

“No, silly,” Kamila says, “they were idiots. He’s more like Saladin.”

“Or maybe Salman Khan,” Yasmeen says.

Noor allows the girls to squabble amongst themselves. She knows Charlie resembles none of these men, yet at this moment he’s not only Kamila’s hero, he’s hers too.

That afternoon he never leaves her thoughts. He stands at the back of the class, sits beside her on the bus making fun of her burqa, walks her home, and opens the front door for her. He lifts the burqa over her head, his face inches from hers—

Noor hears a crash come from the kitchen. She shoves the burqa into the bottom of her bag and heads to the kitchen. Mukhtar is on his knees picking up the remnants of a shattered dish.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Noor.”

“Don’t worry, I did the exact same thing not so long ago.”

Noor gets down and helps him.

“Where is everyone?” she says.

“Your father and Wali are at the hospital, and I believe your sister is washing some clothes.”

“And Mr. Matthews?”

“Mr. Matthews?”

Noor feels her face burn up and turns away.

“It’s of no concern,” she says. “I was just curious if you expected him home anytime soon.”

“I’m sorry, I have no idea.”

Noor walks over to the sink and pours herself a glass of water. Through the window she sees Rasul hobble towards the hut. She lets the water slip down her throat, and feels her complexion return to normal.

“I prepared mourgh for dinner,” Mukhtar says. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, you can go,” Noor says.

“Have a good night, Miss Noor.”

“You too, Mukhtar.”

Noor stands there a moment marveling at the absurdity of their final exchange.

When did I become a woman who dismisses servants.

She glances at the clock. It’s quarter to six. It’s time she went to Elma’s. She retrieves her study books from the sitting room, and walks towards the hall. Outside she hears the roar of Charlie’s motorcycle. She stands there unsure what to do. She hears the front door open, and Charlie fling his satchel down on the hall chair. He starts walking in her direction. Her breathing quickens. She looks around the room.

You can’t just be standing here.

She spies the leather reading chair and hurries to it. His footsteps get closer. She drops the books on the floor and then retrieves the one on top. She opens it to a chapter on the passive voice. She might as well be reading a book in Sanskrit. The door opens.

“You’re home,” Charlie says.

Noor looks up. His shirt is wrinkled, his leather boots caked with dust.

“I’m studying before I go over to Elma’s,” she says.

“I just saw her at the consulate barbecue.”

He spies the book in her hand. She has to remind herself to breathe.

“How’s that going?” he says.

“One day at a time.”

“Don’t get all humble on me, I bet you’re fluent by now.”

“Hardly.”

“Well say something then.”

She thinks.

“Dank u,” she says.

“Dank who?”

“It means thank you.”

“For what?”

“Voor het redden Kamila.”

“You got me on that one too.”

“For saving Kamila.”

Charlie smiles. He sits on the ottoman across from her. She can smell him from here; burnt charcoal, cigarettes, faint aftershave, the sweat that comes from having worked a full day under a relentless sun.

“Why did you save her?” she says.

He rubs the scar on his cheek.

“You want the fake reason or the real one?”

Don’t answer that question.

She tries to stand and finds it impossible. His eyes stay fixed on her, and she can’t help but look right back at him.

“To be fair the fake one’s not entirely fake. I did it because I wanted Kamila to have a better life than Ameena.”

Noor bites the inside of her lip.

“But the real reason?” she hears herself say.

His hands reach out and clasp the ends of her fingers.

“Because I’d do anything for you. Because I’ve fallen totally and utterly in love with you.”

Charlie leans in, and touches his lips against hers. It’s like no sensation she’s ever felt before.

It’s from heaven.

His lips part, and she finds hers parting also. Their tongues meet, and his hand reaches around her waist and pulls her closer. He runs his hand up her back and through her hair. Inexplicably, she reaches out her own and slips it under his shirt. His breathing becomes ragged. She runs her fingers along his smooth chest. His hand slips under her kameez and unclasps her bra so easily he might as well have designed it himself. He pulls the strap off her right shoulder and his hand caresses her breast. She moans and kisses him harder. She feels her groin moisten.

And then she hears a creak.

She pulls away, her hand ripping off one of his buttons as she extricates it. Bushra enters the room and looks their way.

No one says anything.

Noor breathes heavily; it’s impossible not to. She spies the button lying on the floor. It seems as incriminatory as a bloody knife at a murder scene.

“You’re getting better—” Charlie says.

She looks over. He’s holding her Dutch books in his hands.

“Think Elma’s going to be really impressed with the work you’ve done.”

Charlie gives her a reassuring smile. Noor nods, and he hands her the books. She totters out of the room, her bra hanging loose, her underwear damp. She feels Bushra’s eyes on her all the way. She stumbles outside and down the driveway. Once past the gate she leans back against the hedge. She is so lightheaded she thinks she might collapse. She draws her tongue over her lips; they no longer feel like hers but some appendage sown on. She hears the clip clop of an approaching donkey and opens her eyes. A teenage boy with the faintest of mustaches rides high on a cart stacked with tree branches. The boy stares down at her.

Does he know? Can he smell it on me?

She waits until the cart has moved on and fixes her bra. She starts walking the opposite direction.

“Oh Allah, what have I done?” she says.

She knows it was wrong. It went against everything she believes in. However when she closes her eyes her recriminations disappear, and all she wants to do is turn around and run back to Charlie.

Stop it. You’re not thinking clearly.

She picks up her pace. SUVs speed past her delivering the aid worker elite back to their homes. She thinks about what Charlie did for Kamila, the danger he must have put himself in, and knows that at his core he’s an honorable man.

He said he loved me, surely that means he wants to marry me
.

But would you want to marry him?
a voice asks.

She arrives at Elma’s driveway with her very belief system under threat.

I don’t need to answer that now.

She looks up the driveway and sees someone in the front seat of Elma’s SUV. She approaches the side window. Elma’s head is bent forward, her long hair covering her face. Noor leans in closer. Elma twists her face in Noor’s direction. It is so sudden that Noor screams. Elma’s make-up has run down her cheeks in dark rivulets, her eyes are hollow, her long hair all bedraggled. Noor opens the door.

“Elma? Are you okay?”

“It’s been a bad day, that’s all.”

“I can come back tomorrow, when you feel better.”

Elma takes a deep breath as if summoning all her willpower and steps out of the SUV.

“No, I could do with the company,” she says. “Come on, it’s cold out here.”

They head inside, and Elma leaves Noor on the couch in her sitting room while she freshens up. Noor wishes she’d had the presence of mind to do the same.

She closes her eyes and once again imagines Charlie’s lips on hers and his hand delving under her kameez. The foreign sensation she felt earlier returns, and her hand drifts towards her right breast. She hears Elma coming down the corridor and sits up straight. Elma enters the room. She has scrubbed her face clean and done her hair up in a simple ponytail.

“So how was your day?” Elma says.

Noor can’t help but blush.

“It was…”

Noor bites her lip. She can’t think of a suitable lie. Elma sits opposite Noor and gives her a curious look.

“I need to tell you something,” Noor says.

“Go on.”

“For the last two months I’ve been living at Charlie Matthews’ house.”

Elma nods as if Noor’s revelation comes as no surprise.

“He needed someone to look after his friend, Wali, and thought my father would be a good candidate. It meant naturally that our whole family had to move in.”

“I am sure that pleased him no end.”

“No, for a long time we didn’t even see him. He’s up early, home late, but the longer we’ve stayed the more I’ve come to know him, and I’m not afraid to say that alongside my father he’s the best man I know. He’s kind, brave, sensitive, more intelligent than I ever thought possible, and most of all he treats me as an equal. I don’t think it matters to him whether I’m a man or a woman.”

“Yet he’s not attracted to men, is he?”

Noor blushes. She imagines herself up on the scaffold like Hester Prynne, her sin there for the whole world to see.

“Has anything happened?” Elma says.

“We kissed, just now‌…‌more than kissed—”

“Did you have sex?”

“No! We were interrupted by my sister—”

“But you could have?”

“No, never.”

“You’re certain of that?”

Noor looks towards the fireplace.

“Noor,” Elma says, “Think back to that moment when you were kissing him. Imagine what would’ve happened if your sister hadn’t come in.”

Noor closes her eyes. She sees Charlie sweep her up in his arms, their mouths searching each others as they make their way up the stairs. He drops her on his bed, lifts her kameez over her head and—

Her eyes flash open. Elma sits down beside her, and takes Noor’s hands in hers. Noor feels compelled to look at her.

“When I was seventeen, I fell in love with my politics tutor. He was young, still in his twenties, passionate, he had a way of speaking that made you want to fight for every one of his causes. He was intelligent too, kind, sensitive, brave, he’d been arrested a number of times taking part in all sorts of protests, but it never deterred him even when the principal threatened to sack him. At first I thought there was no hope, that it would remain just some fevered fantasy of mine. He was married to a beautiful woman, had a young child, and in class he was no more attentive to me than he was to any of the other girls. And then one day I spoke passionately about nuclear disarmament. It must have caught his attention because after class he called me over, told me about a march in the Hague that weekend, I could even drive with him if I wanted.