God charges not any soul except with what it can bear. To its credit belongs what it has earned: upon it falls the burden of what it has deserved.
—Our Lord, said the declaimer.
—Our Lord, Aden answered. —Do not lay upon us a heavy burden, as You laid upon those who came before us. Our Lord, do not lay upon us that which we have no strength to bear.
They recited without pause until the noon call to prayer and when their prayers were done they gathered in the courtyard. She relieved herself in the latrine on the far side of the building, taking care no one saw her, then went looking for Decker. She found him crouched in the shade of a mulberry tree with two beardless men she hadn’t seen before. As she approached them the men got grudgingly to their feet, mumbled a few words in greeting, then drifted away. Decker sat back on his heels and watched them go.
—Your friends don’t seem to like me much, she said.
—They can’t figure you out.
The blood rushed to her head. —Figure me out how?
He yawned and shrugged his shoulders.
—Did I do something wrong at recitation?
—I wasn’t at recitation.
—Why not?
—I slept in.
—Do you want to let me know what’s going on? Are you trying to impress your new friends? Is that it?
—Don’t wig out on me, Sawyer. I’m sure you can guess.
Her back was to the yard now but she felt herself observed. —Tell me what you’re trying to tell me, Decker. Just say it in words.
—These kids grew up poor as shit. They’ve never seen— He stifled a yawn. —I don’t even know where to start. A Corvette. A laptop. An American up close. You might as well have a pointy tail and horns.
She nearly laughed with relief. —Is that all it is? That I come from the States?
—It’s enough.
—Don’t scare me like that again. Okay?
—Just quit worrying so much. That won’t help anyone.
She put a hand on his shoulder and felt him pull back. —Are you going to tell me why you’re treating me like this?
—Like what?
—Like you wish I was dead.
He squinted into the sun. —I’m trying to figure out why I should lie for you, I guess.
—Coming here was your idea, remember? Lying was always going to be a part of it. Nothing’s changed.
—You’ve changed, Sawyer. You cut off your hair and you talk in a fake voice and you won’t even say fuck. Won’t say it and won’t do it. So don’t go trying to act like I’m the one that’s different. Don’t you dare.
She gripped her knees and listened to the ordinary sounds around her. The clatter of teacups. The call of a magpie. The whining of a generator on the far side of the wall. —I’ll make this right, she said at last. —I’ll make this up to you.
—Sure thing, Sawyer. Whatever you say.
—What are you going to do, Decker?
He shook his head tiredly.
—It won’t just be me that gets in trouble if someone finds out. We came here together.
—I could leave anytime.
—That doesn’t make what I just said less true.
The look he gave her brought her precious little comfort. It was less a look of cunning or resentment than one of calm indifference. It made no sense to her.
—Don’t turn on me, Decker. Don’t do it.
He looked away from her. —You’ve got things switched around again. You turned on me.
They chanted through the afternoon until the third call to prayer and when their prayers were done they chanted on till dusk. The declaimer’s reedy singsong never wavered. The Arabic of the others was colored by Pashto or by Urdu or by languages of which she had no knowledge. She sat in the midst of them and recited in a halting, breathless voice, so softly that not even she could hear. The talibs rocked in rapture to the verses. In the very best moments her own sight seemed to dim and she could feel the verses buzzing as they passed between her teeth and that was all she wanted or could ever want.
After the fourth call to prayer Decker appeared in the doorway and found a place for himself at the back of the hall. They had reached the two hundred and sixtieth verse of the sura and each voice seemed distinct and known to her. His California twang cut through sharpest of all: the voice of privilege and vanity and everything else she’d hoped to put behind her. Her own voice was just as grotesque, just as incongruous, subdued though it was. She did her best to ignore it. She pictured herself reciting as if from on high, a small still form in all that sway and tumult. She imagined herself and the others, bowing and rising and bowing again, rippling like a field of windswept grass.
When Saul set out with his soldiers he said: God is about to test you at a river. Whoever drinks from it is not my follower. Whoever drinks not is my follower, save one who scoops a scoop into his hand.
They drank from it, all but a few.
When he passed across the river, he and those who believed with him, they said: We have no might today against Goliath and his troops.
Those who believed they would meet God said: How often a small force has overcome a numerous force, by God’s leave. God is with those who stand fast.
After the fifth prayer they took their evening meal of flatbread and dhal in the courtyard and when she’d finished she was sent for by Hayat. She found him in a sunlit room at the school’s southwest corner, humming unmusically to himself, sitting on a leopard-spotted cushion in the middle of the floor. Apart from a tea set and a padlocked metal cabinet the little room was bare of ornament. A matching cushion faced him and he gestured toward it grandly.
When she was seated the mullah arranged the pot and cups between them. A small boy with a harelip came to serve the tea but Hayat waved him off. —I’m not too decrepit to pour my own tea, praise God, he told her in English. She nodded and gave him a tentative smile.
—I take buffalo’s milk with my tea, Hayat said as he poured. —The English prefer cow’s milk, I understand.
—Yes, mu’allim, she said. —But I’m not English.
—Of course! He let his head tilt forward in what might have been a bow. —And yet you do take cow’s milk with your tea.
—I don’t take anything.
The amusement that was never entirely gone from his countenance was conspicuous now as he sat and observed her. She found herself smiling to mask her discomfort. She was tired and unsure of herself and her throat was raw from chanting. She raised her teacup to her lips and drank.
—To your fine health, the mullah said, raising his cup.
She stopped in mid-sip and returned his good wishes. —Pardon my rudeness, mu’allim, she said in Arabic. —I have many things to learn.
—You know a great amount already, Suleyman. An astonishing amount. Are many American boys like you?
She took another sip. —I don’t think so, mu’allim.
—Your Arabic is better than that of most of these country blockheads God has given me to teach. Much better. It pleases my poor half-deaf ears to hear it.
—Thank you, mu’allim.
—It is formal, of course. Not the everyday way of speaking. And there