The days pass. The coast of Africa slips by, sometimes obscured in haze, sometimes close, barren and deserted, without a trace of green. My slide into nihilism continues.
Claymore, my love, we have not exchanged a single word since we left Egypt. You tried, at first, but I have steadfastly rejected all your advances, verbal and physical. We go together to the meals – I do not want to go alone and have all those men stare at me. When I am with you, their stares become furtive glances. Most do not look at all. I know you frighten them. They look at you and I can feel their fear. We eat, but we do not speak. We return to our cabin and you go up on deck, returning only to take me to the next meal. At night, you climb into the top bunk and read for a while and then turn out the light. In the darkness, your voice comes, deep and sure: Goodnight, Ra, you say. And each night, I do not answer.
I can feel myself turning inwards. Only Eugène matters to me now. I have not prayed for three days. I can no longer feel God.
When I was just a girl, after the men had come to our house in Algiers and murdered my father as I watched, my mother told me that it was Allah’s will, that there was purpose and meaning to everything. My mother’s faith was strong, and it nurtured mine, so that as the years passed I began to see indications of God’s purpose. I came to believe that my father had been taken from me so that I could see the value of life, of the limited time we are given, and that like him, it was my purpose to resist the forces of extremism that were corrupting Islam. That was why I joined the Directorate. Then, when I met you, and you helped me see the error we were about to make in Yemen, I again saw God’s purpose revealed. For without the events so entrained, I would never have met you, the love of my life. And then, finally, Eugène. It was complete. And in a way, I was happy.
And now, I have lost you both.
I read my Koran, searching for direction. But the words are empty to me.
There is no God.