CHAPTER

33

• December 18, 1995, Karak to Amman, Jordan •

THE STREETS WERE WET with ice and rain when Omar pulled up in front of the guesthouse. He honked twice.

“I thought we were going by cab.” Amani climbed in and swung the door closed.

“Well, it’s a miracle, cuz,” he said, drumming lightly on the steering wheel. “I was halfway out the door and Baba asks where I’m going. And I guess he liked whatever I said, ’cause then he says lately he’s been thinking, like, I might be worth something after all.” Omar grinned. “Who knows why, but he did. Anyway, he must’ve been in some kind of major good mood, because he told me to take the car!”

“Take it today or take it forever?” Amani gave him a sidelong glance.

“I can dream, right?” Her cousin swung the visor down: a pair of sunglasses fell into his lap and he put them on. “They’re shipping him a new car from Germany—it’s on the boat now. If I don’t say anything, he might forget about this one.”

It was cold outside, but the sun climbed over their heads as they took the hairpin curves on the King’s Highway. They were on their way to the convent. Amani buzzed down the glass, taking in the dark hills like ocean waves. She inhaled the air that even in winter smelled somehow so specific to Jordan, with traces of sesame and olive.

A FEW WEEKS AGO, Amani opened her eyes in the guesthouse, her hand touching the Nefertiti necklace. She’d dreamed about the desert again, that she’d flown over tents and seen underwater currents in the sky, and she woke smiling. She and Gabe were supposed to fly home that day. But sitting up in bed, she’d known she wouldn’t go back to the States. When she told her father she was going to remain behind, he’d laughed, then stared. He hadn’t believed her. She rode in the cab with him to the airport and told him she didn’t have specific plans yet and she didn’t know how long she would stay. He shook his head repeatedly as if trying to clear it. When their flight was called, he stood up holding his carry-on bag, once again staring at her. “You really are sure of this?”

“As much as I can be.”

He walked toward the jetway, then stopped. He looked at her, aghast. “Your mother.”

She hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Tell her I might even be happy.”

“Then good,” he said, and kissed her head. “Your grandmother said ‘love and fear never eat from the same plate.’ ”

And she had started writing again. Not poetry now; this was something between fiction and journalism. She transcribed to her computer all the bits of writing she’d found in her grandmother’s envelope, piecing them together as best she could.

Amani knew what the paper scraps were—a writer’s false starts, the beginnings and ends and partial pieces, and the tearing and crumpling that accompany the fight to translate ideas into words. Mrs. Ward had saved them. She told Amani that before Hafez had moved back to Jordan, she had lived with and cared for Natalia during the final years of her life in the rear wing of the house. The jewelry box, and the books, clothes, and writing that Amani had found in the armoire had all belonged to her grandmother. There were nineteen fragments of work, which had become for Amani the openings of nineteen chapters. They were her inspiration and jumping-off points, the beginning of a conversation between herself and Natalia. She was writing about a girl, raised in one place, uprooted, moved to another, married too young, left to hardship, who tried to restore herself in books. Amani had started to talk to people who might have known Natalia, or might have understood her loss. She met again with Sitt Danya, and with the guard at the pleasure palace, and she talked with other refugees and visited the camps, walking between the rows of cement-colored tents, Mostly, though, Amani read the blue letter and Natalia’s fragments and imagined her grandmother’s life. She needed only focus, only the slimmest light—a trail from desk to fingers. Her mind felt supple; the writing had begun.

Farouq had lent her the guesthouse for as long as she wanted. She emailed a brief, forthright letter of resignation to her university. The Sousin Arts Foundation gave her studio space and a stipend in exchange for opening and running its small café in the mornings. Both Farouq and Bella had argued against her taking such lowly, public work. Her uncle offered to place her in his investment company headquarters—or to connect her with people in almost any professional field in Jordan.

And then there was the letter from Hafez, addressed to Farouq, who’d read it aloud:

Abu Dhabi, they say, is lovely this time of year. But it’s not as lovely as you might think. The taxis are worse than ours: one senses the imminent possibility of murder just beneath the surface. I think longingly of my little buggy. Our hosts have taken us to the gold market, to the tallest building on Earth, to shopping malls where German tourists scuba dive behind vast plate-glass windows. They are very hospitable here—there are approximately 20 “guest workers” for every 1 Abu Dhabian: life here is for the lucky.

We’re visiting my old college chums Odeh and Manal Malouf. Odeh is—according to Odeh—making a killing in pharmaceuticals and pesticides—the two go hand in hand, he says with his smile, like love and marriage. I expect you’d know something about that, Farouq.

Farouq snorted. “He goes on—still obsessed with the damned knife. Amer’s land. It’s going to be claimed by the government. Surprise, surprise. He says he’s so disappointed for all of us. Ha-ha. I’m sure he was planning to take us all to Disneyland.” He looked at Amani, adding, “He says he wants to get you a job in the ministry of culture.”

Rafi assures me that the king will not be angry for long; he tells me that all is mostly forgiven: His Highness understands I wasn’t trying to hide the land from him, that I didn’t appreciate the political sensitivity of its location. Always more refugees to accommodate.

We will remount the peace process—though I no longer quite the confidence I did before. I do feel, I’ll admit, somewhat diminished these days. Peace does not come easily to some: we must learn to embrace it. When last we spoke, Shimon Peres assured me that we will move forward, that Rabin’s assassination will not destroy the treaties, that the warmongers will settle down, the militants will lose interest. He will establish the Peres Center for Peace. He says the Internet will make war obsolete. I would choose to believe him, but I myself am not a man of peace—as our brother once so wisely observed. I am more familiar with our enemy, which is as they say, oneself. What I know of the enemy, therefore, does not bode well.

Do I fault myself? There are certain things I should have done differently. I try never to feel guilt or pride: but this a cold way to be, so separate from oneself. To paraphrase the airlines: Be kind to yourself before being kind to the person next to you.

FOR NOW, the café was what Amani needed. She liked the twist of expectations—deliberately trading a professorship for a job waiting tables. She really did feel happier, more lined up with herself. Amani no longer wanted a drink—she hadn’t in while. Her thoughts grew sharper, clear as instrument strings. She looked forward to the scent of brewed coffee, the early quiet hours there before she opened. First, she tied on an apron, then straightened the tabletops and started the silver espresso machine. Placed croissants, fruit, and biscotti in the case. When business was slow, she’d take her notebook and a coffee to the table near the windows and let her thoughts unspool. She found her natural pace. Mrs. Ward, who now cooked for Farouq and Bella, told her Natalia had liked to say Al-`ajala min al-shaytan. Hurrying is from the devil.

IN KARAK, Amani and Omar climbed Musa’s hill, the sky a bowl of blue smoke. Musa came out and took their hands and led them into his cave. On the ground was a flat, woven carpet of brilliant colors and over this a smaller Persian carpet that shone like water, the surface of its fibers silvery. Musa squatted on the carpets and patted two leather hassocks for Omar and Amani to sit. He said something that Amani didn’t catch, and Omar laughed. “He says he’s too old to learn how to sit on a chair.” Musa gestured: there were new pots in a glass-fronted cabinet, a brass-topped table, a silver tray, a tapestry of a gazelle, even a new coffeepot. He got to his feet and gestured toward the cave’s other opening: there was the start of construction, some cinder blocks and the wooden frame of a floor and a door. “He says the King is building him a house,” Omar said.

Amani nodded and ran her hand over the tapestries, the layered textures of wool and silk. As Musa bent over his dented saucepan filled with twigs, she noticed a glint at his side: the knife tucked into a piece of fabric tied around his waist. He poured them cups of tea, then chuckled and said in Arabic, “No cookie today.” Removing the knife, he carefully pared an orange in one continuous peel, and handed segments to each of them. He wiped both sides of the knife on his robe and replaced it in his belt. Settling his cup on the brass table, Musa went still for a moment; his face lifting to hers looked like that of someone awakening.

IT HAD STARTED to snow while she and Omar sat with Musa: the night was dawning purple, white flakes coming down so gradually, so brightly, it seemed possible to see each crystalline fractal as they turned in the air. They picked their way back down the hill carefully, skidding on wet patches. A powerline in town had fallen under the weight of the snow and the convent had lost electricity. Along the walkway and on each step leading into the building the nuns had placed lighted pillar candles, glowing against the early nightfall.

Sister Sylvain offered them dinner, but Amani was tired and ready to get home. The two embraced tightly.

They drove back to Amman in silence, into a starry night that turned as if on a dial. She slept in the passenger’s seat for a bit and woke, then slept again.

When Omar pulled up in front of the guesthouse, she glanced out the window to see a man unfolding from the front steps under the porch light. Amani inhaled sharply. She hadn’t yet told Eduardo she was staying. She hadn’t meant to avoid him, but once she’d decided to remain she couldn’t think of a way to talk to him about it that seemed natural. She didn’t want the fact that she was staying to feel like pressure or expectation. And then the longer she waited, the stranger and more complicated it seemed. She turned in the car and gave Omar a swift, fierce look.

“What?” He held up his hands. “Someone had to tell him. Maskeen. I didn’t know what you were waiting for.”

“For the right time!”

“Pff. What even is that?” His hands dropped. “This is Amman, cuz. Three hours is a very, very long time for someone here not to know something, never mind three weeks.”

“Two and a half weeks,” Amani snapped. She climbed out and slammed the door.

Eduardo waved at Omar, who flashed a peace sign before pulling away, then waited as Amani walked toward him. “So your cousin called me,” he said. “I had to come see for myself. I’ve been rather at loose ends, you know.”

Her skin felt hot. “I’ve wanted to call you—every day. I am sorry—I should have. I wanted to. But. I didn’t want me being here to mean more than it needed to.” She held her left shoulder with her right hand, as if she could still feel the old talon marks. Her throat felt constricted. “I don’t know. I’m so bad at—this sort of thing.”

After a moment, he lowered his head and nodded. “I think, perhaps, you had your guard up. It’s wise—to shield oneself. But at some point—”

“I know.” She nodded. “It’s supposed to come down.”

He followed her just inside and stood in the open door; his hands holding the doorframe. The streetlamp behind him cast its glow into the entryway. “So, may I ask you something?”

It was difficult to make out his backlit features, but she didn’t want to turn on the lights. “Please.”

“Is your guard still—” He put one hand on his chest. “Up here?”

She let go of her shoulder. Her mind felt clear, as it had since her nights in the desert, as if she’d put down something heavy and walked away. She moved toward Eduardo. Reaching around him, she pushed the door shut. Amani slid her arms under his. Their kiss was private and soft, like a message passed in secret. She began to pull out of it but he bent to her with more urgency and she felt a shivering current through her body. When they stopped, he was looking at her. “Truly—you’re not going.”

“Not right now, I’m not.” She put a hand on the side of his face.

He seemed to wait, to study her a moment longer. Finally, he said, “All right. If that’s what it is.” Outside the uncovered windows, the clouds looked low and moonlit. “I think . . .” he said, considering his words. “I think you may have to help me find my footing. I’m not sure where we are.”

“I’m not either,” she said quietly. “That’s okay. Let’s not know.”

They held each other in the unlit house. Closing her eyes, Amani listened to the wave of breath in his chest. Her thoughts went from the cave to the little room in her uncle’s house. She saw it—not just a room but a space held against disappearance. It was too easy to believe so much in promises, in things, she thought, in the created world: keys, letters, knives, even land. Better to look a bit farther, behind the things. It seemed to her as they stood there, in the bare light from the street, that the invisible world was the only one that mattered.

“All right,” he said at last. “I suppose I can do that.”

The street light dimmed in the windows; a mosaic of snow had once again appeared, patterning the night.

With her finger, she dashed a Z across his chest and he smiled and said, “The mark of the brave.”