found the word in Arabic that she’d been seeking. It rang strangely in her ears, deeper and angrier than she’d intended. She wondered whether all boys’ voices sounded harsh to them.
—Na’ama, the mullah repeated. —Na’ama is Grace.
—Yes, mu’allim.
—This is a common name in California?
—It was, mu’allim. In more religious times.
He nodded again. —And your father?
—What about him?
He tipped one hand upward. —His name. His vocation.
—Martin Isaiah Sawyer. She took in a breath. —He’s a professor.
—Of what?
—Of Islam. Of Islamic studies.
The mullah sat forward. —Ah! He leads a madrasa?
—No, mu’allim. The students he instructs are not believers.
—Not believers?
—They are not, mu’allim.
—Then why do they study the Book?
—My father would say— She hesitated.
—Yes?
—My father would say, because they find it interesting. —Interesting, said the mullah.
—Yes, mu’allim. Like visiting a foreign country.
He pursed his lips as though he’d eaten something sour. —And your father himself? Has he been rewarded with faith?
The voices in the next room had risen. The sura was one she knew well. Should you slip after clear signs have been revealed to you, be assured that God is Almighty, All-Wise.
—I don’t know the answer to that question, mu’allim.
His expression clouded further. —How do you not know?
Are they truly waiting for God to come to them in the shadowy folds of clouds, with His angels, when judgment is pronounced and all revert to God?
—Because he never told me.
—Does he not pray in your home?
For those who disbelieve, the present life has been made to appear attractive.
—My father and mother live in two different houses, mu’allim. I don’t see him much.
—Tell me about your mother.
—I’d rather not, mu’allim.
—Ah, he said. —And why not?
—Because she’s a drunk.
The mullah cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his beard. He seemed to be observing something just beneath her cot. He seemed to be considering its merits.
—I see now why you came to us.
—Yes, mu’allim.
—Let me ask you something more. Have you elder brothers?
She shook her head.
—You are the oldest in your house?
—I am, mu’allim.
—Then why do you not bear your father’s name?
—I don’t— She stopped herself. —I can’t say, mu’allim. I’ve never asked.
The mullah nodded thoughtfully. She kept straight-backed and solemn and watched him considering her answers. It was a sign of disrespect to stare but the mullah seemed indifferent to her rudeness. She tried to look away but could not do it.
—I see, he said a second time, taking the cup back from her and getting to his feet. —Perhaps it is well, given what you have told me, for Martin Isaiah Sawyer’s name to go no further.
—Yes, mu’allim.
—In this house you will be called by a new name. One of your own choosing. You will find this is best. He took her by the hand.
—I beg your pardon, mu’allim. I—
—Yes, child?
—I don’t like to be touched.
He seemed not to hear her. —You are a young man of gumption, to travel so far. Is this what you say? Of gumption?
—Some people might say that. It’s an old word, mu’allim. Like grace.
—I see. He bobbed his head. —Do you have need yet of a razor?
She opened her mouth and closed it.
—Feel no embarrassment, child. We have boys in our care of less than seven years. He straightened and turned toward the door. —I’ll see that a copy of the Book is brought to you, that you may choose your name.
—I don’t need the Book, mu’allim.
—No need of the Book? Why is this?
—I chose my name the day I left my mother’s house.
He gave her a Qur’an regardless and led her down an unlit corridor with his hand at the small of her back. He was temperate and mild and did not rush her. It was she who was rushing. The Recitation grew brighter as the daylight receded. God guides whomsoever He wills to a path that is straight. Though the voices were high-pitched and lilting they were the voices of men and men only and this thought forced the air out of her lungs and made her head go hot and empty. She could no longer make out the walls or the floor. She was listening her way forward.
At the corridor’s turning the mullah stopped her and opened an unpainted door. The hall they passed into was narrow but deep and though it was filled with skullcapped figures not a man among them raised his head to look. Fluorescents bathed the kneeling men in quavering yellow light. The Recitation was of the two hundred and fourteenth verse of the second sura of the word as revealed to the Prophet by the Angel Gabriel. Or do you imagine that you will enter the Garden without undergoing that which befell those who came before you? Violence and injury did touch them and they quaked, until the Messenger and the believers with him said: When will God’s victory come?
—Children, said the mullah in Arabic when the sura had ended, letting his hand come to rest on the declaimer’s shoulder. —Join with me in greeting Brother Suleyman. He comes to us from California.
Now their heads lifted. She had dreamed of this instant and feared what might follow but she saw no malice in that field of upturned faces. A welcome was murmured in Arabic and a language she guessed to be Pashto. The youngest sat elbow to elbow in the foremost row and she noted to her amusement that their expressions were the most dignified of all. She tried and failed to find Decker among them. She had never felt so closely watched or so unseen.
—Find a place for Brother Suleyman. We receive him this day as our honored guest.
A shoulder’s-width interval opened before her and she took her place among the youngest children. They were ten years of age at the oldest, some much younger, and she tried to make herself as small as possible. Tattered brown prayer books lay before them on bookrests and their shoulders pressed against her through the linen of her shirt. Sweat was gathering in her armpits and at the small of her back and she imagined the men behind her watching first with curiosity and then with outrage as the body her clothing hid from them came gradually into view. But of course the men were doing no such thing. They stared down at their prayer books and she did the same. When she raised her head again the mullah was gone.
The declaimer coughed into his fist and turned the page.
—The Messenger believes in what was revealed to him.
—The Messenger believes in what was revealed to him by his Lord, came the answer. —As do the believers.
All believe in God, his angels, his Books, and his messengers. We make