A Word For Love Part 30

Imagine, if you will, this first time, how important it feels. Put yourself in Adel's place-you swung on a rope and knocked in a door to get to her; you want to do well for her, to use this time well. But so far in your life, you've loved only three ways: with words, gestures, and poems. You have never touched.

Just the other day, you made your first foray into fighting for her.

Now, before you stretch a few short hours. And Nisrine, like a new world.

You hold out your hand, shyly. She takes it. This alone sends s.h.i.+vers down your spine.

Once long ago, Adel dreamed of Nisrine, and in the dream she was imperfect and wore a red sari.

Now, in the children's bedroom, the first discovery Adel made was that Nisrine really did have many of the imperfections he'd once dreamed. She had: a sore eye, a bruised toenail. From the birth of her son, he found white lines like lace across her hips and b.r.e.a.s.t.s; when he kissed these, they gave like sand.

And so, in these small ways, she proved to him that life can be beautiful as a dream; that a body can live up to what is imagined. He took her in his arms, feeling her soft skin. She opened for him.

Adel was not experienced in love, and he showed his youth. There were only two years between them, but she had lived in another country, borne a child, already married and fallen in love. These experiences gave her knowledge that he had never dreamed of and so, while she quickly led him to a place of full limbs and thick breathing, he ran his hands over her belly, unsure how to proceed. She touched his thigh, and the world gave up in him. He wanted to make her feel that. He traced the map of lines on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and with every moment his chest grew tighter until he thought he might cry out, but she still hadn't. He stopped, stepped back.

"Nisrine, teach me."

She was also new-not to touch, but to him. She had just spent hours in a room locked up, something she could not submit to again (though, she would). She shook her head, watched for birds out the window.

"It's all right. I'm just glad to be with you."

And she was, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to make her forget this room, these small pencils, to make her feel for a moment what he felt, free.

"No, I want to learn."

"You do?"

He nodded.

He would soon write his last poem: In Love and Feeling, she is the best teacher.

And so she rose up, his teacher, her hair loosed like smoke. A long time ago, he had taught her to write Arabic, watched while she leaned over in concentration and traced his letter, ayn.

Now, she took his hands in hers; it was her turn to watch over him, guide him the way he had once guided her. And out of their effort together came a new kind of writing. Their hands clasped, he felt curves like soft letters; she led him along them.

Adel thought, Making love is just like a poem.

The sweet flow of words, like water.

He thought, In love, I want to be a great scholar.

So, he sluffed off her hands-now he had learned, he wanted to practice. Just as the great scholars, with soft insistence he studied these new letters, wrote and rewrote them over and over until finally she cried out, one sweet sound like a perfect word.

So, words can be a form of love. They can be felt.

WHEN I THINK BACK ON NISRINE, I don't remember everything she said, but I remember her. She is as vivid to me as the sky at sunset, all red-gold, pulsing; or, as the most beautiful book. She touches every part of me, still.

For Adel, it is the same. When he talks of her now, he rarely talks of her notes, but rather, a feeling-one glimpse of a dark hip, the way it lay on his palm like a love knot, the hard center of the world.

He will never forget that hip, how can he? It is seared in his memory, through his eyes, across his lips, a language of love and missing he will always return to, always seek to understand.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

My deepest debt is to the residents of Damascus, who shared their city with me, and who taught me it is possible to love a language and a city, even when it is not your own. My heart is with them, and Syria.

Thank you to the Mussareh family and the Jabri family, for making a home for me, and sticking with me all these years. Thank you to wonderful teachers Isam Eidoo, Barbara Romaine, Farha Ghannam, and Tariq Al-Jamil, and to Steven Piker, who first suggested an anthropology student could, if she wanted, also be a writer.

Thank you to Swarthmore College and the Fulbright Program for sending me abroad in the first place, and to Maya Kadmani and her family, Nada Mubarat and her family, Eyad Houssami, Shayna Silverstein, Stephanie Hartgrove, and Katherine Sydenham, for support and dear friends.h.i.+p in Syria during research.

On the writing end: My agent, Cynthia Cannell, wisely and patiently shepherded me through the process of revising and publis.h.i.+ng this book.

My editor, Sarah McGrath, first imagined what this book could be; her edits opened up its world and made it, and me, so much richer. Thank you to Riverhead, for publis.h.i.+ng so many books I love! And to all those who worked on this book, especially Claire McGinnis and Al Guillen, two amazing publicists; Danya Kukafka, who provided thoughtful edits; Amy Ryan; Claire Sullivan; and Helen Yentus and her team for a beautiful design.

Was.h.i.+ngton University in St. Louis provided a vibrant community of writers, many of whom commented on early sections of this book. I am indebted to all of them, especially Marshall Klimasewiski for his encouragement, and Kathryn Davis for reading so many drafts! Thank you to Katya Apekina, Anton DiSclafani, and Zachary Lazar. Thank you to Larry Ypil, for a conversation about community and home that made its way into this book.

For time, s.p.a.ce, and community, thank you, too, to the Ragdale Foundation, Maumau, the Hambidge Center for Creative Arts and Sciences, and the Vermont Studio Center; also, thank you to the Chicago Department of Cultural Affairs & Special Events, and the Illinois Arts Council for a grant that got me there.

There might not be a book without Sri Pakuwati, Nasria, and Noor, and certainly without them, I would be a different person. Dr. Ahmed Khader has been a true friend for many years; his poetry inspired much of my poetry. The poetic lines on pages 91-92 are a loose translation of an Arabic dedication that he wrote.

My parents gave me the courage to write, and my cousin Rachel led me to study Arabic. I am lucky to have the kind of family that grows together; in adulthood, like in childhood, my parents, along with my aunts and uncles, remain my best examples. I am grateful to them for this, and so much else.

Finally, thank you to my husband, Arthur: first reader, true partner, for sharing this life.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Emily Robbins has lived and worked across the Middle East and North Africa. From 2007 to 2008, she was a Fulbright Fellow in Syria, where she studied religion and language with a women's mosque movement and lived with the family of a leading intellectual. Robbins holds a BA from Swarthmore College and an MFA from Was.h.i.+ngton University in St. Louis, and in 2016 she received a second Fulbright, to study in Jordan. She lives in Chicago, Illinois, and Brownsville, Texas.

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