A Word For Love Part 22

"No." I wanted to forget about Baba, forget about what happened, for a moment.

"Imad, tell me more about the astonis.h.i.+ng text. What was it like when you saw it?"

"Beautiful like you, haha."

"Haha, right."

I sat with the phone close against my ear, feeling the warmth of Imad's voice trickle down into my cheeks. I liked his little jokes, they helped me to forget. I liked that he complimented me.

I pretended not to. "Come on! What was the text like? Do you think I'll cry when I see it?"

"I don't know, Bea. That depends on you. It has gold vines around the edges."

"It does?" Gold seemed beautiful.

"And flowers in the center that are perfectly symmetrical, like a pretty face."

I let the phone lie. There was a warm, sleepy feeling coming over me, through my thighs and toes and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I ran a finger through my hair, which curled like Leila's hair.

"What else?" I said into the phone.

"What else, what else . . ."

I could hear Imad thinking.

"How would you kiss Leila?" I asked him.

"How would I kiss Leila? I don't know, in her hair and ears and mouth, I guess."

"And then?"

Pause. "Am I alone with Leila?"

I looked around at the empty kitchen.

"Yes, pretend you're alone with Leila."

"Down her neck and her chest, and below her chest, then."

"And how would she move?"

"With her breath first. I would feel her breath catch."

"Would she like it?"

"I don't know, Bea, would she like it?"

There was a light airiness inside of me, like Imad's breath.

"Yes. And then?"

"I would run my hands along her lap, and put my head on her thighs."

"And then?"

"She would breathe like you're breathing."

"And then?"

It was growing and growing.

"She would feel what you're feeling."

I liked what I was feeling.

"My Arabic girl," Imad said, over and over. "My Arabic Hair. Do you like your hair, Bea? You should."

I didn't always like my hair. I liked what I was feeling.

"Where else would you kiss her?"

"All over, Bea. All over."

"Until she cried out?"

"Until she cried out."

Afterwards, I ran my fingers through my hair like Imad might, and touched my warm cheeks. We stayed on the phone in silence, listening to our breathing.

Imad said, "You'll see, Bea. It's a beautiful text. No matter what you expect, it surprises you."

"In a good way?"

"Sometimes in a good way."

How did I want to be surprised? I thought I might not care, as long as it made me cry. All this time at Madame's, I'd tried not to cry; I'd been saving my tears for that text.

"Imad, has there ever been a person who you loved, and worried about?"

"Of course, all the time. What's the matter? Is someone in trouble?"

I thought of all the people I cared for and worried about, including Imad now, with his interview. And Baba, and Nisrine. What would happen to us?

Imad said, "It's late, we should go to bed. Good night, Bea, don't worry, it'll be OK. I'm glad I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Imad, I'm glad, too."

I hung up, thinking of gardens among flames, but not Baba's cursed part, only the green beauty. Imad was becoming one of my gardens. I went to him when I felt sad or worried, and he made it right. We had studied so many words for love in Arabic, he and I, across our cla.s.sical poetry. Shouldn't I then love him, too?

I put the cordless phone back in its place, then tiptoed quietly to the children's room, where, sure enough, Nisrine was wide awake in the dark. She rose when she saw me; the two of us moved like light back to the kitchen.

Nisrine spoke first. "I talked to him, Bea." Her voice was clear and full; she was no longer distracted, no longer forgetting Arabic. "He did something for me. He fought, because he loved me." I felt a familiar cold. He had fought, and we had done nothing.

But, he had fought Baba.

I asked, "What will you do?"

All night in my head, I had been making plans: to talk to him, tell him how he must help Baba. Or better, not to talk. Never to talk again- "He wants me to leave," Nisrine said.

There was a moment of silence.

"He says if I run away, he'll find me a new house to work in, so I can send my child money."

He was a young policeman.

He had fought for the woman he loved; it seemed now, he could do anything.

I had come to the kitchen to make a plan with Nisrine that involved not talking to Adel, not leaving with him.

"What about your child?"

"I'll be in a new house. I'll send him money."

Her eyes were so bright. In her voice was so much clarity. All it took was someone who stood up for her to bring it back. For so long, I had been trying for Nisrine to stay.

She said, "Don't you have your lesson tomorrow? I'll slip out with you, when you go to your lesson."

"Tomorrow?" It seemed so soon, tomorrow. Couldn't she wait a bit? Then I thought, It's not soon, if Baba's in trouble.

"He said tomorrow you should meet him?"

"He'll wait for me on the corner."

"He'll find you a new house?" She had her contract, her hidden pa.s.sport.

"He'll find a new house."

"He won't bother Baba again?"

Why would he? She would be gone, he would know where she went. She could ask him to intercede, if Baba got in more trouble, she could talk to him.

What would Madame say if Nisrine left? But, Madame wanted Nisrine less now than ever. Baba and I both wanted her. The children wanted her.

Nisrine said, "I'll slip out just after you. We won't go together, so you don't get in trouble."

Despite myself, I was beginning to believe in this plan, even though it was sudden. Already, I missed her.

Adel had done something. The wrong thing, but still. If I helped her, would that mean I had done something for her, too?

"Make him help Baba, you have to."

She nodded.

We needed a solution.

She had talked to Adel, fixed things. I had been wanting to fix things.

"OK," I said, feeling the craziness of it all, the dark night, "tomorrow."

It was only after we'd hugged, said good night, and I'd slipped back into bed beside Lema that I remembered: Madame with my bag in the hallway.

You don't have to do that. I'm in charge of her. I can buy her a big bag.

My bag, with Nisrine's clothes, stashed high up in our closet where she couldn't get to it, placed there by Madame, who had complained for so long, but now didn't want Nisrine to leave.

LOCKED IN.

THE NEXT MORNING after she found my bag, Madame was not talking to me. She locked the door even though we were all at home, and hid the key to keep us in and strangers out. She blamed it on Baba's revolution. "He angered a policeman," she said, not mentioning Nisrine. "There's no telling what will happen."

I was supposed to meet Imad in the afternoon, before his interview with Security, and Nisrine was supposed to run away to Adel, so we both woke early to prepare. I tried to take the garbage down to the street, but the door was locked.

I waited, holding the garbage, while Madame hunted and hunted for the key, not talking to me. Finally, she said, "Put it back, Bea. It doesn't stink. It can wait."

"Put it back?"

"Or throw it off the balcony, someone will pick it up."

"It'll land in the street."

"Someone will pick it up."

"I could just take it down to the corner."

Madame sighed. "Leave it, Bea. Eat your breakfast. We'll take it when I find the key."