after cairo - laura mitchell, author

After Cairo A Novel ~ By Laura L. Mitchell

Copyright Laura L. Mitchell 2015

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Acknowledgements After Cairo is a novel set as a sequel to Cairo Time, a film by Ruba Nadda. Cover Design: Original watercolor by Amie Shaw Musical and Literary References: Weichet nur, betrübte Schatten, BWV 202, cantata by J.S. Bach, Emmanuel Music translation, pp. 31-32. Sonnet 116, by William Shakespeare, p. 90. I Live in Your Eyes, by Farouk Goweedah, p. 150. The Prince and His Three Fates, Egyptian folktale, retold by the author, pp. 171-73. Cloths of Heaven, by W.B. Yeats, p. 245.

Appreciation Thank you to Ruba Nadda for a film that inspired me. Patricia Clarkson and Alexander Siddig for performances of Juliette and Tareq so real, honest and compelling that I had no choice but to write a future for them. Amie, Cecily, Ellen, Emma, Jena, Julie, MaryJane, Miranda, Stephanie and my family. .

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After Cairo

The Visitors 2 Contact 12 Reunion 22 The Dead 27 Checkpoints 35 The Living 44 About Tareq 49 No Man’s Land 56 About Juliette 61 Walls Come Down 68 Crossing the Border 79 Giving Thanks 90 Leftovers 117 Turning Right 134 Homecoming 149 The Eve 161 January 180 The New Year 188 Dog Days 204 Composition 221

After Cairo ~ The Visitors

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The Visitors Juliette awoke early that Saturday, before sunrise, still able to catch a few stars from her curtainless window. Sleep wasn’t always easy for her. Sometimes the problem was falling asleep. Other times, like today, the challenge was to stay asleep. She picked up a book and tried to read in bed, but then gave up and headed downstairs. She made coffee. Hot. Strong. Ever since her trip to Cairo, she no longer added milk or sugar. After the first cup, the sun began to rise, pale and cold and yet full of the promise that the sun always brings with the dawn of a new day. That’s not just a metaphor, she mused to herself. Every day was a new day, with new possibilities and new promises. Some promises would be kept and others would be broken, but new promises came nonetheless. Once the sun flooded the kitchen, she went to the front door to retrieve the newspaper. Everyone else she knew had long stopped getting an actual paper delivered to their doors. But Juliette loved the morning newspaper. She loved the thud as it landed on her front porch. She loved its scent, and she was old enough to remember when newsprint could smudge your hands. She didn’t want the Internet to topple entirely that fixture in her life. The only thing she didn’t like about the newspaper was its size. Newspapers were designed for men, for those humans with longer wingspans. She always had to fold the paper back and hold one-half at a time. Magazines – her publications – were human-scaled. But newspapers were more present and demanding: this was what you needed to know before you started your day. She opened the door and reached for the paper. The April air was crisp and cool, but the blazing forsythia in the garden promised that the day would warm the earth. April is the cruelest month, T. S. Eliot had written. But he had probably never stepped out onto a front porch in upstate New York on an April day like this one. As she rose, paper in hand, she saw them: two men in dark suits, one with sunglasses, entirely unnecessary at this hour of the day. They came up the driveway, the gravel crunching beneath their formal black shoes. She instinctively stepped back, closed the door, and latched the deadbolt. Her heart was pounding. She heard the men’s heavy steps on the porch and wondered what to do. Then one of the men said, “Mrs. Laroche? Mrs. Laroche?”


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No one ever called her Mrs. Laroche. She had kept her maiden name, published under her maiden name, worked under her maiden name. It was the 80s, after all, when she married. All of her friends had kept their names. “Yes?” she replied through the door. “Mrs. Laroche, may we come in?” the voice replied. The tone was official and insistent but not unfriendly. “Who are you?” she replied, anxiety rising inside her. It was unstoppable and was beginning to overwhelm her. “Mrs. Laroche, we need to speak with you. May we come in?” He slipped a business card through the mail slot. “Ma’am, if you need verification of my identity, please call the number on this card.” “Who are you?” she asked again, but she never really heard his reply. State Department. United Nations Office of blah blah blah. He was dead. That’s all she knew for sure. He was dead. She leaned her back against the door and slid to the floor. At first she whimpered, which was all the shock would allow, but then her whimpers gave way to wails and uncontrollable sobs. “Mrs. Laroche,” the voice said again. “I’m so sorry. Please, may we come in?” Something in his politeness focused her. How rude of me to leave these men standing outside, she thought. I’m not being a very good host. “Yes, yes. I’m sorry. Yes.” She repeated those words over and over. For a minute? 10? An hour? She would never know. She tightened the sash on her bathrobe, ran her fingers through her hair, and wiped her eyes. And then she decided to open the door. This is the last thing I will do, she engraved in her memory, before I am told I am a widow. This is the last thing I will do when I may reasonably believe he might call at any moment to say he’s fine, just fine. Once I open this door, everything changes. She grasped the doorknob firmly, turned it, and opened the door. The sunlight blinded her, and she could not see the faces of the bearers of her bad news. But she could hear them. “Mrs. Laroche?” “Yes, that’s me.” “May we come in?” “Certainly.” “I’m from the United States Department of State. My colleague here is from the United Nations. I am afraid we have some difficult news. Would you like to sit down?”


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“Yes, yes,” she replied. She thought she would like to sit down. The two men entered her home, like thieves coming cruelly for her happiness. They looked hardly old enough to even know what bad news really was. She motioned to them to sit, and one of them took Mark’s chair. How could he have known? She listened intently as the one young man told her that Mark had died – had been killed, more accurately. His words didn’t make sense to Juliette, so she turned her head to the other young man, who looked back at her apologetically and said nothing. She returned her eyes to the first young man and asked him to repeat what he had just said. He obliged, but it still didn’t make sense. She was in a state of shock. But she was also a trained journalist, and she could summon that persona. She pressed on with questions that made the young man uncomfortable. He responded by repeating the same information: a limited story with a simple and tragic beginning, middle and end. This was not the whole story, and she knew it. But after several attempts at more information, she gave up. What did it matter? He was gone. “Coffee?” she offered, interrupting the young man who was saying something about what a great service Mark had performed. “No ma’am. We’re fine. But is there someone you might want to call? Someone who can come here to be with you?” Juliette shook her head left and right, trying to jar herself into comprehension. “My daughter. My son. He’s Mark, too,” she heard another woman, another self, explain. This is an out of body experience, she observed. I am now having an out of body experience. I must remember this feeling, she thought, in case it happens again. “Would you like us to call them?” In her head, the one still attached to her body, she said no. This was news that her children ought to hear from her, not from a stranger in a dark suit and sunglasses who had arrived unannounced and uninvited. “Yes, I think you’d better,” she replied. She typed in her password and handed him her cell phone. “Their numbers are in here. Search Emily. Then Mark son. Not just Mark.” “I’ll be a moment, ma’am,” he said, and took her phone to the porch. The other young man, who had not spoken at all, sat silently next to her. You are young, she thought, but you know when there are no words. Thank you for not burdening me with your words. The other man, the one who talked, came back into the house. “Your children say they are on their way.” “Thank you.”


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“Would you like us to stay here until they arrive?” “It will be a few hours before they can get here,” she said. But the quiet one can stay if he wants, she thought to herself. “Is there a neighbor I can contact?” She shook her head. “I’ll be fine,” she lied. “I’ll be fine.” The two men left, and Juliette returned to the kitchen and watched her coffee turn cold. Juliette was still sitting at the kitchen table later that morning when she heard new footsteps. She opened the door for Emily, Mark and Samantha before they could knock and scanned their faces, reading the various stories of grief. She did not have the energy to reach out her arms. Samantha looked anxious but not sad; even though she and Mark had been married for several years, she barely knew her father-in-law. Her grief was for Juliette, and for all women who were widowed young. Mark the son’s grief was almost as remote as Samantha’s. “Mom,” he said, “I don’t know what to say.” Like Samantha’s, his sorrow was more for Juliette than for himself. He registered that his father’s absence would now be permanent, but he was so used to his father being gone that he had stopped missing him many years before. Juliette found the courage to look at Emily. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red. Emily had a capacity to feel pain that her brother did not. “Mom,” she said, throwing herself at Juliette and wrapping her arms around her. “I love you.” “I love you, too, sweetheart.” Some things in life would never change, Juliette thought, and this was one of them. She stepped back from Emily’s embrace and looked at her daughter. So wonderful. So wondrous. So different than herself. Just to look at the two of them was to contrast; Emily’s face was round, and her dark hair nearly exploded on her head. The artificial streaks of color were intentionally chosen and placed for maximum effect. Two holes in one ear, three in the other. The delicate tattoo around her wrist where Juliette would never put anything but a wristwatch. “I love you, too,” she repeated and hugged Emily for dear life. Juliette looked beyond Emily to the forsythia in the garden, the yellow blossoms oblivious to what had happened that day. But those blossoms would fade, too, and fall off their branches. New leaves would replace them, then turn brown and drop. The winter would encroach and freeze the ground beneath them. And then, in a year, new promises would bud on the same branches again. With the same predictability as the change of seasons, the sun set that day. The darkening sky signaled dinnertime on its own that evening; no one felt hunger. Samantha rummaged through a drawer in Juliette’s desk and found a take-out menu for a Chinese restaurant in a neighboring town and handed it to Emily to place an order. Emily would know best what Juliette could be coaxed into eating. Juliette’s house was well beyond the restaurant’s delivery range, but Mark and Sam were glad to have an errand that would get them out of the house for an hour.


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Emily and Juliette were left alone; Emily sat by her mother on the sofa, holding her hand. She put her head on Juliette’s shoulder until she knew her head was too heavy, then sat up and made room for Juliette’s head on her shoulder. When the crunch of gravel alerted them that Mark and Sam were back, Emily set the dining room table and put out a pitcher of water. Sam pulled out the little white containers and took the chopsticks out of their wrappers. They all sat down, looked at the food, and wondered what to do next, as though food were some new-fangled invention designed to sustain life that they didn’t know how to use. Emily began putting food on Juliette’s plate. “When’s the last time you ate, Mom?” This was a question Juliette could answer. “24 hours ago.” “Yep, time to eat,” she ordered. Juliette obeyed as best she could, picking at the peppers and cashews she normally liked. They ate in a silence that confirmed the news of Mark’s death. Normally their dinners together were loud, their voices practically climbing over one another in a friendly race to the top of the conversation heap. But not tonight. Juliette gave up and put her chopsticks down, directly onto the table; she was beyond caring that the sticky sauce would make a mess on the tablecloth. “Damn you,” she said under her breath. “Mom?” Emily asked in alarm. Emily could count on less than one hand the number of times she’d heard her mother swear. “I said damn you,” Juliette spoke calmly. She glared down at her food, her shoulders square and her fists tensing on either side of her plate. “I told your father he was going to get himself killed.” She looked up at Emily. “And now he did.” Juliette could recall the conversation distinctly. She could see them at the top of a ridge during their last hike on the Appalachian Trail. And even if she hadn’t been able to picture it in her mind’s eye, the photo above the fireplace served as proof. They’d sat for a while, nearly above the clouds, and talked, talked like she remembered their talking in years past. During that hike, she had felt that their life together was starting to make sense again, and she’d asked him – begged him, really – to take the job at the local community college that he had been offered. She had begged him to come home. “Mom,” Emily put her hand on Juliette’s arm, “bad things happen. You never know.” “I changed everything for him, Emily,” she glared down at her food again. “I changed my job. I moved out here. I made time.” “I know, Mom, I know,” Emily spoke in measured tones as Mark and Samantha watched silently.


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“And now there’s no time left.” Mark interrupted his mother. “Mom, I’m really sorry. Sam and I are going to need to go.” He knew his timing was bad. “It’s getting late. But Emily’s going to stay here with you. Okay?” Juliette nodded and stood from the table. “You have to eat more than that, Mom,” Emily stated firmly. “You do.” “Not right now, honey,” Juliette shook her head. “Sam and Mark need to go.” They said goodbye at the door, and then Emily tried unsuccessfully to persuade Juliette to return to the dining room table. “I’ll clean up,” Emily conceded, “you rest.” “I’ll help you,” Juliette replied. It was easier to stay in motion than to sit. They cleared the table together, threw out what needed to be thrown out, and put the leftovers in the refrigerator. “I’m tired,” Juliette said, lowering herself to the chair at her small, square kitchen table. She placed her elbows on the worn, butcher block surface and buried her head in her hands. “Really tired.” It was too early to go to bed, but she couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. “Come on,” Emily replied, pulling one of her mother’s hands away from her face. She led Juliette upstairs to her mother’s room and sat on the chaise by the window while Juliette undressed and put on some pajamas that were too warm for the season. Emily tucked her in and then lay down next to her. “Let me find some music, okay?” Juliette nodded from her pillow as she watched Emily walk over to her side of the bed. Emily sat down beside her and let out an involuntary giggle as she looked over at the bedside stand. “What’s so funny?” Juliette asked. “I can’t believe you still have that thing,” Emily shook her head in disbelief. “What thing?” Juliette asked. Emily pointed to the combination alarm clock and CD player. “What’s wrong with it?” Juliette asked. “Nothing,” Emily replied, stroking her mother’s hair. She sorted through a short stack of CDs on the table and picked the one she thought would be most likely to lull her mother to sleep. “Get some rest, Mom. I’ll be right here.” She kissed her mother’s cheek and returned to her father’s side of the bed. Still in her clothes from the day, Emily lay down next to Juliette and took her hand, and they both fell asleep. Emily stayed with her mother through the next day and would have stayed into the workweek as well, but Juliette told her to go. The mother in Juliette knew that routine was what they all needed, and Emily had finally found a job she really


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liked. On Sunday night, she drove Emily to the train station, kissed her goodbye, and returned to the house of which she was now the sole owner. Juliette entered her living room with trepidation and sat in her chair. At first she sat with her eyes closed, but then she summoned the courage to look over at Mark’s chair, its extra cushion crumpled just as he had left it. It had been weeks since he had sat in that chair. His work had always kept him far away, for long periods of time, and in places where she could not visit. In all of his years working abroad, she observed to herself, she had only travelled once to see him. A trip to Cairo she would never forget. Juliette got up from her chair and deliberately sat down in his. The chair’s seat cushion felt stiffer and newer than hers; it had not experienced nearly the same hours of use. She looked up at the mantle from his seat and surveyed the family photographs. Mark smiled down at her, his eyes hidden by sunglasses. It had been a bright day when they hiked that mountain. In her mind, she inventoried the house for other signs of his presence: the coaster on the table between his chair and hers, some papers in the desk in the foyer, a few clothes in the closet, and a stack of books by his side of the bed that he would never finish reading. But evidence of his existence was thin in this house, which was much bigger than the apartment they had shared in the city. In their cramped urban quarters, they were inescapable to each other. But in this house, he had never really taken hold, no matter how hard they had tried. They had moved to this house after Cairo. One lesson, one metaphor, from Cairo had stuck with her more than any other. A marriage, she thought, is like a pyramid. You build it slowly, one block after another. Some moments are so significant, so spectacular that they cover the structure with gleaming limestone so that it shines brightly in the sun. But if you don’t care for the pyramid, it can crumble. If you strip it of its limestone, it loses its luster. But the building blocks remain below. Those blocks can still be climbed, can still be reclaimed. Even thousands of years later. All it takes is determination. And effort, endurance, stamina. Work. Compromise helped, of course, too. Two people sharing the teeter-totter. Sometimes you’re up, and sometimes not. Sometimes it was your turn to kick start from the ground, and sometimes you got to soar high above where you could ever go on your own. When it came to the teeter-totter of her marriage, of their marriage, Juliette corrected herself, she had to admit there wasn’t much room for compromise. She had to kick start, she had to make the compromises. This reality was not going to change before he retired. Or caved to a desk job she knew he would hate. So it’s my job to kick start, she told herself after Cairo. And she did. And in many ways, she knew, this had also allowed her to soar: she loved the creative freedom that her new arrangements allowed. Now she wrote for herself, edited other people’s work for fun, and published what she could when she got the chance. It was a freedom she hardly remembered from before work, before marriage, before kids. Work and marriage and children were blessings, but they came with the price of rigid structures, often seemingly endless demands, and the


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relentless need to walk on the paths of others, leaving your own path unexplored and overgrown. The newfound flexibility had been an even bigger prize. She remembered the first time she had said, “I won’t be taking any assignments in June. Mark will be home then.” She had expected the Editor-in-Chief to say, “Well then, you’re fired.” But instead she piped cheerily, “I’m so happy for you. I’ll call you after the 4th.” And that was it. She had begun her career as an independent contractor and had had a steady stream of projects ever since. In this new environment, she focused on learning how to carve out time. Time for herself, time for Mark. Time to be married at all. This is what Cairo had taught her: the importance of the gift of time that we give to each other, for which there is no substitute. But time, she knew, had to be carved from the most solid and stubborn of stones: neglect. She and Mark had lost track of time. They had not always been more married to their work than to each other, but over the years, their work had consumed them more and more, devouring their time for each other as relentlessly as locusts devour all before them. And this had cost them in Cairo. Cairo, and Tareq in it, had jolted Juliette. And so after Cairo, Juliette decided to claw back time, no matter what it cost. She looked at the clock on the mantle. Now she had plenty of time, but only silence with which to share it. But in the weeks that followed, the silence gradually subsided, like a storm that passes to make room for the songs of nature: serenading birds, rustling leaves, the nearby stream. Some sounds were less welcome, like the breeze that made its way through the aging window frames of her century-old farmhouse. There was no silence, not really, except the silence inside her.

After Cairo ~ Contact

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Contact Everyone, it seemed, knew what to do with death. There were rituals for death and the bodies of the dead, when there were bodies, even for someone only obliquely connected to a religious tradition. There were rituals for grief as well, although more fluid than those for death. Early in grief friends and relatives made frequent contact, brought food and flowers, came around unexpectedly and stayed until the tears subsided. As the initial shock wore off, people encouraged her to get out, asked her to lunch, suggested books to read and did their best to make small talk – anything to ease the transition from two-ness to one-ness. Or from one-ness to one-half-ness. But by mid-summer, the stream of condolence cards adorned with flowers, all kindly meant to comfort, had largely dried up. The phone calls had nearly ceased, and no one had brought a casserole in weeks. The well-intended visits dropped off, too, and the questions of How are you doing? dissipated like fog. The period of grieving was ending and the days of widowhood opened ahead of her. Grief had its rituals. Widowhood did not. Friends and loved ones dispersed on summer vacations. Those who decamped to homes on New England’s coastal islands made repeated invitations. “Come to our place,” they offered, “stay as long as you like.” “We’ve got wifi here, too,” one friend implored, “and you can work from anywhere. Come get a change of scenery. And you wouldn’t be alone.” But she would still be alone. And the idea of being a widow among happy couples was not something she could absorb, let alone consider seriously. “Maybe next summer,” she politely declined each invitation, “maybe then.” As the season’s long, bright days called others out of doors, Juliette spent time with her computer at the tiny table in her kitchen that barely accommodated two chairs. She always sat in the chair nearest the archway to dining room, her back to the memories of that first dinner after she was informed of Mark’s death. She edited in this chair, ate in this chair, and cried in this chair. She looked at the empty seat across from her, the one with the view into the dining room. She could move that chair to the basement, she thought. Why let it take up precious real estate in her kitchen? But it was a good place to put her purse, she reasoned, and so the chair remained.


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As she ate lunch alone again one day, she heard the postal carrier push the mail through the opening in the front door. The brass cover on the mail slot slapped shut with a clang as the papers swished onto the floor. Junk mail had its own particular sound, she thought, and she returned her attention to the manuscript she was editing. Work was not enjoyable these days, but deadlines provided welcome structure. Three more paragraphs, she told herself, and then take a break. Then three more after that. 18 by dinner. Maybe have a good cry after that, and then six more. Then hit the send button. “You’ve got to have a plan,” Mark would always say. “If you have a plan, you can get through anything.” Eventually the dusk settled enough to require her to turn on a light in the kitchen; this was a signal to lean over from her chair to open the refrigerator for inspiration. Nothing appealed, which made her hunger intensify. She thought back to the meals she had made when the kids were younger, the wide-ranging conversations at the dinner table, and the number of times she’d have to remind them not to talk with their mouths full. But once the kids were out of the house, she didn’t cook much at all, unless Mark happened to be at home. But now she was on her own. He was not coming home for dinner. Ever. Juliette gave up on dinner and decided in favor of sorting through the junk mail that had arrived earlier. Putting useless advertisements in the recycling bin would be far easier than figuring out what to eat. She walked to the foyer and reached for the delivery sprawled over the worn wooden floor. And that’s when she saw it. A letter. An actual letter with a stamp and a hand-written address. She was certain of it. This was a letter. The handwriting was flawless. She didn’t recognize it at all. The stamps were as beautiful and unfamiliar as the penmanship. She reached for the pair of reading glasses she kept on the old roll-top desk and did a double take at the stamp. Her heart simultaneously jumped and sank. She flipped over the envelope to see the return address, aware that she didn’t know what his address was anyway. She didn’t know his address any more than she knew his handwriting. But she could see that the return address read Cairo. She searched the desk for the letter opener that she had dug out when the condolence cards were arriving daily, but that had since been lost to the desk’s cubbyhole recesses. Letter opener reclaimed, she carefully slit the envelope open and withdrew a folded sheet. The paper was thick and textured. She scanned straight to the end and read his name. Tareq. The enclosed name card confirmed she was not misreading. He had written. She had thought many times that she should contact him to let him know of Mark’s death. Mark and Tareq had, after all, worked together for many years. But she wasn’t sure how to reach him, wasn’t sure she should even try, and assumed that someone else would have told him anyway. But she had wanted to tell him, and as she held his letter in her hand, she was grateful that he had taken the risk that she had not.


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Dear Juliette,

I offer my sincerest condolences on the death of your husband, Mark. May God rest his soul. My mother and sisters also send their condolences. I am sorry I was not able to attend the memorial service. If you will allow, I wish to pay my respects in person. With your permission, I will travel to New York in the near future. You will be surprised that I now have a smart phone. My sisters’ children presented me with it and insist that I must use it. The number is on my calling card. Sincerely,

Tareq The letter was formal and polite, professional and even distant. A bit gallant, which was authentic, and written in what she thought had to be a fountain pen. She put the letter back in the envelope, keeping his card in her hand, and walked in a daze the short distance to the living room. Sinking into the sofa, she looked at the card again. As promised, there was a phone number. She glanced at the clock. It was after midnight in Cairo. Probably a good thing, she thought; had she opened the letter when it had arrived, she might have found calling him irresistible. His email address, though, was also on the card, and there was no time zone reason to delay an email. She returned to her computer in the kitchen and sat down to write. Don’t think about this too much, she told herself, just write.

Dear Tareq,

Thank you for your letter, which arrived today. She stopped. What else should she say? What should she say to a man after nearly two years without any contact? When the last glimpse she had had of him was as the elevator said goodbye for them both?

It was lovely to hear from you. Well that’s prosaic, she scolded herself on the page. But she felt that the situation called for kabuki-like control of the dialogue. You are very kind to plan to visit. That’s honest, she told herself. But not complete. I would be very happy to see you. There. She’d said it. How to sign off? Sincerely? Regards? Yours truly? Juliette

Just Juliette.


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She hit send. Emily had once showed her how to recall an email after sending it. Juliette was glad she could not remember how it worked. She closed the computer and returned to the refrigerator. Noodles with cheese would be fine that night. Vegetables should be microwaved, she was confident of that. And wasn’t lemon pepper the perfect seasoning for anything? At least the bottle of Pellegrino looked like more than what she’d had on hand in graduate school. He had written her a letter. His words were still circling above her head, asking for final permission to land. A letter. The phone rang. It was just past 7 o’clock, which was when Mark or Samantha called every day to check on her. It was a bit smothering, but Juliette also looked forward to it. She accepted that Mark’s death had sped up the role reversal that occurs with all parents and children. Parents cared for dependent children, but as those children grew, the relationship evolved and the next thing you knew, everyone around the dinner table was an adult. And then those adults cared for their parents, sometimes in ways similar to how the parents had once cared for the children. This was the way of life. And her two adults had proved more than up to the task of comforting her as she found a new footing. Reaching for the phone on the counter, she pressed the reheat button on the microwave, tapped the phone to answer and lifted it to her ear, all without looking. “Hi sweetheart. How was your day?” she asked into the phone. “Good. It was a good day,” came the reply. She stood silent. Was this another out of body experience? “Juliette, is that you?” “Tareq?” “Yes! How was your day?” “I thought you were Mark,” she stammered. “My son, Mark. I’m sorry.” “Why?” “Tareq. It’s so good to hear your voice.” “It is good to hear you, too, Juliette.” His voice was just as she remembered, and when he said her name, she could taste coffee in Cairo, smell jasmine blossoms and feel the Nile beneath her. And then the familiar silence that was often a third party in their relationship. “I know you do not like the telephone,” he continued with a wry tone, trying to deflect both his uncertainty and hers. He remembers, she thought, and she hoped


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he could somehow hear the smile on her face. Nervous, he repeated himself. “It is good to hear you, Juliette. Very good.” More silence, and then she blurted out, “When are you coming?” As soon as she asked, she felt her face redden at her eagerness to see him. “Ah,” he began, the disappointment evident in his voice. “This is why I called.” In the days since he had sent her the letter, he explained, he had attempted to get a visa. But a visa was going to be impossible at the moment. Cairo was convulsing, Egypt was convulsing, and travel abroad was difficult. “But you used to work for the UN,” Juliette said, confused. “Surely a former UN employee can get a visa to the US.” Her heart was pounding. In the minutes since she had read his letter, she had set her heart on his visit. In those mere minutes it had not occurred to her that a trip would not be possible. The severity of her disappointment startled her. Tareq described life in Cairo. She would not recognize it, he was sure. Well, she would recognize it, but it was not the same. Only the pyramids were unchanged. There was violence. Reports of people disappearing. People felt fear. She thought she even heard fear in his voice. “Tareq, what if I called one of Mark’s colleagues? I keep in touch with some of them. Are you sure no one at the UN can help?” “No, no.” More silence. “Thank you, but no,” he replied. He was happy that she had offered help, but could not accept. Had his intention been only to pay his respects, he might have considered it. But the truth was that, while he did wish to pay his respects to a murdered colleague, he wanted to see that colleague’s widow even more. “And I know someone at the State Department I could contact,” she continued. “Maybe that would help?” Juliette thought back to the men who had appeared on her doorstep that fateful morning. The man from the State Department had left his card and told her to contact him if he could ever be of assistance or if she “had any questions”. She had kept his card in the desk, but had had no intention of contacting him. Not yet, at least. She had many, many questions about how Mark had died – how he had really died – but she did not yet have the strength to ask them. But she could ask him to help with Tareq’s visa. She had the will to do that. “No, no,” Tareq repeated. “It is useless at present. The current political situation. Maybe later. Yes. Later. Things will improve.” More silence. She wanted to tell him how much she wanted to see him. She wanted to beg him to find a way. She wanted to cry. “What time is it there?” she asked. “It is past one in the morning,” he replied.


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“You’re up late.” “Yes. I was watching television.” “Because you couldn’t sleep?” “Yes. And my reward? I was awake to see your email when I could still call you.” “Thank you, Tareq. Thank you for your letter. Thank you for calling.” “You are welcome,” he said in a way that conveyed a thought interrupted. “I am very sorry that I cannot travel to New York at this time.” More silence. And then, in a statement that to Juliette seemed to come from nowhere, Tareq declared, “I will go to Berlin.” He announced this with an upbeat tone that made it sound as if it were the only sensible alternative to his plans to go to New York. “Berlin?” she asked. “Yes. Berlin. They have many Egyptian treasures there, and I have long wished to visit them. And I have a cousin there. He has come to Cairo for several months for sabbatical and has offered me his flat. I need a rest from Cairo, and I am able to travel to Berlin.” “Berlin is wonderful, Tareq. Have you ever been?” “No. You?” “Yes, but before the Wall came down. I’ve never seen the city since it reunited. I loved it, though. And the coffee should be good there!” Now they were talking like two friends of a lifetime who had never said goodbye. The ease with which they spoke was extraordinary, she thought. “Come,” he stated matter-of-factly, again as if this were the only sensible suggestion anyone could make. As soon as the words left his mouth, he remembered the impulsive kiss he had given her back in Cairo, back in time. “To Berlin?” she replied, not sure she’d heard him correctly. “Yes.” Silence. “Why not?” The truth is, she told herself, there’s no good reason why not. Go, she told herself, nudging her fear aside. “Oh, Tareq, I don’t know,” she hesitated. But what didn’t she know? She didn’t know what would happen, true, but that would be the case whether she saw him in New York or in Berlin. “When?”


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“Soon. In a few weeks? Can you leave your work?” “Yes, I could get away. I’m just finishing up a deadline and then I could go.” “Always a deadline,” he chided with a laugh. “With you, always a deadline.” “Actually, I’m working a lot less these days. I just do contract work. I work from home mainly.” “Much has changed, then, Juliette.” “Yes, Tareq, much has changed.” “But you still do not like the telephone,” he said knowingly. “I can tell. We will talk more about change in Berlin.” “Sure. Yes. Good. Change in Berlin. I could write an article about that, or even a book,” she mused, paving the way for more silence between them. A pregnant pause, to be sure, but what it was giving birth to, neither of them knew. “Well, then. I guess goodbye? For now. We’ll sort out details by email?” She didn’t want to say goodbye, but she felt the conversation was supposed to end. “Indeed. Sort out details. I like that. Yes.” “Let me know where your cousin’s flat is, and I’ll try to book something nearby.” “Kreuzberg,” he offered quickly. “So goodbye, then. You’ve got my email address now, so that’s good.” “Yes, this is good,” Tareq agreed. “This is very good.” “Tareq,” she concluded their phone call, “I’m really glad you called.” “I am as well,” he replied. They said their goodbyes, but were now thinking about their hellos. She held the silent phone in her hand as though it were his hand. Her brain whirred. Berlin. Tareq. Change. Stupidity? Fate? Even love? What would her kids say? What would Mark say, if he could tell her? What had Tareq said? Much had changed. Eventually she put her phone down on the counter by the microwave. She was standing in the same place as when she first picked up the phone. She looked up at the clock over the doorway into the dining room. It was well into the middle of the night in Egypt, and he would not be calling again. Berlin, she thought to herself. Berlin.

***


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Over the next few weeks, Juliette and Tareq exchanged a handful of brief emails. Their messages were largely logistical, as though they were mere travel agents representing two people who happened to be planning trips to Berlin at the same time. He called once more to confirm a minor detail that he convinced himself was important. He was careful to note her flight details. He never said anything about meeting her at the airport, nor did she ask if he would. But they both knew that this was what he would do. Tareq would be staying in Berlin for six weeks. Juliette decided on 10 days in mid-October. She wanted to arrive after he did so that he would have time to settle. Then, when she landed, neither of them would be new to Berlin and neither of them familiar. She called Emily to tell her she’d be gone for a bit more than a week. Would Emily check on the house once while she was gone? “And water the plants that you’re always killing with artificial drought conditions?” Emily needled. “Those too. Thanks for remembering!” “Where’re you going?” Emily asked. “Berlin.” “Germany?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Just a vacation,” Juliette downplayed the decision. “What’s his name?” Emily teased, doing her best impression of a nosy, irritating, impossibly inappropriate younger sibling, and never, ever expecting to hear her mother actually mention a name. Juliette bit her lip and then said, “Tareq.” “Tareq? How do you know a guy named Tareq?” “He’s from Cairo.” “Cairo?” “Yes. He used to work with Daddy.” “You met him when you were there a few years ago?” Emily queried. “Yes.”


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“Uh-huh,” Emily continued. “And?” “Don’t you remember? Your father was stuck in Gaza for most of the time I was in Cairo. Tareq was my tour guide. He showed me around.” “And now you’re meeting him in Berlin?” “Emily, I know it sounds odd. But it’s innocent. Believe me. He wrote me to offer his condolences and to say he was sorry he couldn’t attend the memorial. He wanted to come to New York to pay his respects, but he can’t get a visa.” “And so you’re meeting him in Berlin. Now those dots all line up, don’t they?” “He’s going to be in Berlin for a few weeks and asked if I might visit.” “To pay his respects?” “Well, I guess.” “Mom, do you even know this guy?” Emily’s question was the right one. Juliette had spent at most 10 days with Tareq in total. She’d had no contact with him in the intervening years until his letter. Did she really know this guy? “I know him well enough, honey. And besides, I need a vacation. And you know me. I need an excuse for a vacation or I’ll never go. I haven’t been to Berlin since college, when the Wall was still up. I’ve always wanted to go back. Now I’ve got the prompt.” “Wait,” Emily was wracking her brain, “is this the Tareq Dad sometimes talked about? His bodyguard, right?” “He was a UN security officer,” Juliette explained, “not a bodyguard.” It was hard to imagine Tareq as a bodyguard. He was tall and strong, but slight in build. His physical presence was not intimidating, but his intelligence could be. His real strength was his ability to survey a scene, observe his environment and make snap judgments that favored safety. “I think I remember now, Mom,” Emily continued. “He’s the one Dad always said he trusted with his life, right?” There’s irony for you, Juliette thought. Perhaps if Tareq hadn’t retired, Mark would still be alive. “That’s the one, honey.” “Well, have fun then,” Emily continued, “and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do under extreme circumstances.” “Like dye my hair purple or pierce my nose?” “Something like that.”


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“I have the most wonderful daughter,” Juliette cooed over her younger child. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, Mom. Enough to try to resurrect your house plants.”

After Cairo ~ Reunion

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Reunion Her flight landed on time. Juliette could feel the anticipation congealing inside her. She didn’t exactly feel sick, but she didn’t feel at ease, either. She fiddled with the cartouche around her neck. She had debated with herself at length whether or not to wear it. But in the end, she found she could not leave it behind. For nearly two years, it had rested in her jewelry box, wrapped neatly in tissue paper. The tissue paper was now in the recycling bin. She followed the herd through immigration and customs and emerged with her fellow travellers into the arrival hall. Her bleary eyes scanned the crowd for him, never doubting that he was there. It was just a matter of finding him. And then, rising above the cacophony of reunions and public address announcements, she heard her name. “Juliette,” Tareq called, “I am here!” She pivoted and caught a glimpse of him, his hand raised above his head. And then, amidst the bustling crowd, she lost him just as quickly. He reappeared a few steps closer. And then closer, maneuvering his way nimbly through the masses. And then he was upon her, mere inches away. It didn’t feel quite like a dream. It was more surreal than any dream she could imagine. “Tareq,” she sighed audibly. “It’s so good to see you.” She had spent much of the flight considering her options for their first greeting. Shake his hand? No, too formal. Kiss him on either cheek casually in the way friends do? This was probably the appropriate choice, she counseled herself. Abandon all decorum and throw her arms around his neck? Tempting in a frilly romance novel sort of way, but she could not work the scene out in her mind. She placed her hands on his arms and kissed him first on one cheek and then on the other. To her relief, this seemed to be his expectation for their initial reunion as well. “I trust you are well?” Tareq searched her face for clues. She nodded. “A little tired,” she sighed, searching his face with equal care. “Let me take your bag,” he offered, moving to her side and placing his hand protectively on her back. This was a gesture she remembered well and, in the


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intervening years, had thought of in unguarded moments. “The express bus to the city is this way,” he pointed. “Shall I take you to your hotel?” “That would be great,” she said with relief. “I’d love a shower.” “You have had a long flight. Was it comfortable?” “Comfortable enough,” she answered. “Not too much turbulence. I hate turbulence.” “Yes, I know,” Tareq noted with a nod. “Mark told me once that you were not … how did he put it? You were not a confident flyer.” Tareq had mentioned Mark’s name. To her surprise, she felt relieved. A part of her wanted to hide Mark from this trip to Berlin, or maybe shield him from it. But Tareq’s casual recollection was exactly what was needed. She and Mark had been married. They both knew that. She was now a widow. They both knew that, too. Her late husband had been acknowledged. He was not present, but he was there, in whatever rightful place was his. “Yes, I think you could say I’m not a confident flyer.” “We have no wings,” he observed with scientific detachment, “perhaps it is wise to fly with caution.” His eyebrows peaked playfully. “Wait here a moment. I will buy our tickets.” “I should go to an ATM. I don’t have any Euro with me.” “Later,” he waved off her suggestion. He returned quickly and handed her a ticket. “Shall we?” he invited, returning his hand to her back as they walked to the bus. Once outside the terminal, the bracing, late afternoon autumn air took her by surprise. She was really in Berlin. She had bought a ticket, boarded a plane, and flown to Berlin to see him. “It’s colder here than I thought,” she remarked. “I looked at the weather online, and I’ve got a coat in my bag, but I wasn’t thinking it would be so cold.” “And you are tired,” he added. “But I have brought something.” From his jacket pocket he pulled out a small package. “I believe this will help.” She opened the bundle to find a pashmina in a vibrant turquoise blue. “It’s beautiful,” she spoke softly as she ran her fingers over the silky fibers. “The blue, it’s so, so . . .” “It had – I heard this phrase in a movie – it had your name on it.” His delight, both in knowing the colloquial phrase and in having chosen an appreciated gift, danced in his eyes. He opened the scarf fully and draped it over her shoulders. “There,” he proclaimed, “much better.” He stood back to get a better view of her in the shawl and allowed a few memories of their time in Cairo to reawaken, if only a little. And then he noticed the


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cartouche around her neck. “Your cartouche!” he exclaimed. “You are wearing it.” A smile fluttered across his face as he allowed more memories of Cairo to wriggle free from the mass of remembrance he stored safely away. “Tareq, I’m so sorry. I didn’t bring you anything.” He leaned toward her to correct her. “Yes, you did.” The bus ride into the city was pleasantly short, but long enough for Juliette to take in the new Berlin. She was so absorbed by the scenes outside the bus that for a moment she forgot that Tareq was sitting next to her. But then his arm appeared over her shoulder, pointing out Berlin’s landmark tower, the Fernsehturm. “We’re almost there,” he said, leaning his shoulder lightly into hers. By the time the bus stopped, the sun was nearing the horizon, and some city lights were flickering on. They hailed a taxi for the rest of the distance to her hotel. As they neared their destination, they passed Checkpoint Charlie. “We can go there tomorrow,” Tareq suggested. “I have done some sightseeing in Berlin, but I did not go there yet.” “That would be great,” she replied. “I went through Checkpoint Charlie when I was here in college. I was only 20. It was one of the most terrifying things I had done up to that point in my life. I’ll never forget the East German guards. They were so imposing.” “Checkpoints,” Tareq muttered bitterly, shoving disparate emotions into a drawer in his mind and slamming it shut. Checkpoints were something he knew well. They had been a fixture of his work, and now they seemed to be a fixture of life. And in Tareq’s experience, all checkpoints were fundamentally the same: a man, who was usually only a boy, tried to fill his uniform with some authority that was not his, and passed judgment on people he did not comprehend. Juliette heard the anger in Tareq’s voice and did not press him for his unspoken thoughts. She was sure he was remembering how he and Mark had once watched a man die at a checkpoint, trying to get to a hospital on the other side. The guard had watched the man die, too, and had done nothing, despite Mark’s and Tareq’s repeated attempts to assist the man. Mark had told Juliette this story many times. “You were 20 when you crossed Checkpoint Charlie,” he reiterated, taking her hand briefly and releasing it as quickly. “The guard was probably also 20. Maybe 19.” That thought had never occurred to Juliette. She had been so nervous at the time, it had not crossed her mind that the guard who took her passport was also young, perhaps also nervous. “Checkpoints are run by adolescents,” Tareq pronounced definitively. “They should not be, but they are.” The taxi pulled up in front of the hotel, and Tareq got out quickly. He opened the car door for her, retrieved her bag from the trunk and escorted her into the hotel lobby. The lobby was sleek and modern, with plenty of leather, granite and stainless steel. The light fixtures looked like abstract birds glowing from the ceiling, and the windows were, in Tareq’s opinion, relentlessly vertical and so accurately plumbed as to raise suspicion.


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He did not find the lobby comfortable, but he did his best to relax while Juliette checked in. He took a seat in a curved, cream-colored chair, crossed his ankles and then quickly uncrossed them again. He searched his pockets for cigarettes and was just about to light up when a hotel employee looked at him severely and pointed to a prominent “No Smoking” sign next to the front desk. He returned the package to his pocket somewhat sheepishly and shifted his weight within the chair. “All done,” she told him as she walked over from the front desk. “I can go to my room.” “And then would you care for dinner? Or would you prefer to rest?” Food had not occurred to her, but now she realized that she was hungry. It was past lunchtime in New York, and she knew that if she didn’t eat then, she’d wake up later and regret it. “Dinner would be nice. But can I change first? Are you in a rush?” “I am on holiday, Juliette. I do not rush.” He walked her to the elevator and extended his arm against the door to keep it open while she pulled her bag inside. He nodded as the door closed between them and then winced at the memory of the elevator door in Cairo. He returned to the questionable chair and glanced around the lobby, looking at the guests coming and going, the art on the walls, the pattern of the floor tiles. He also noted the locations of all the exits, considered the thickness of the glass in the floor-to-ceiling windows, and scanned for a fire extinguisher. He had spent many years as a security officer. He surveyed a room in the same manner he drew breath; he couldn’t forget those skills any more than he could forget himself. In her room, Juliette showered, changed clothes quickly and then grabbed her coat. Pausing briefly at the mirror by the door, she adjusted the pashmina around her neck. After Cairo, she had worked hard to forget that shade of blue, to forget everything about Tareq. But now the blue was wrapped around her, keeping her warm. At some point, Tareq got up and stood by the elevator to wait for her. The doors opened and closed several times, taking in some passengers and letting others out. When the doors opened and she emerged, they were both startled to be standing so close together again. He put his arm akimbo, and she threaded her own through his, tucking his elbow close. They entered Berlin’s twilight streets in search of food and, they both knew, in search of each other. For this journey, they each had a reliable compass, but neither had a map. “Here we go,” she whispered to herself, not realizing her words were audible. “Here we go,” he agreed. They didn’t have to walk far to find a place to eat. The district of Kreuzberg, long a destination for immigrants, burgeoned with cafés, restaurants, bars and more.


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“We could try that one,” Juliette pointed across the street. “No, we cannot,” he replied, biting his lip to limit the grin that was forming. “Why not?” “That café is for men only. Turkish,” he explained with a chuckle, “and this time, I cannot invite you in.” They both laughed, remembering how Juliette had entered Tareq’s men-only café in Cairo, unaware she was crossing any boundaries. “But this will do,” he stopped in front of a small establishment. “My cousin likes this one very much.” The restaurant bustled, and they found a table for two wedged among couples and families speaking various languages. They ordered absently, both nervous to be dining together. “I can’t believe I’m here,” Juliette said both to herself and to Tareq. This was not an attempt at idle conversation; a part of Juliette truly could not believe she was in Berlin and that Tareq was sitting across the table from her. And she was only beginning to let herself comprehend that nothing stood between them now – they could be anything they wished to be to each other. Their conversation rambled over many topics as dishes and coffee cups came and went: his visa application, her children, his café (the chess board was still where she would remember it), and her work. But all the while, they were both asking the same question inside: where do we go from here? “Let us walk,” he suggested after paying the bill. “The lights will be on now.” Juliette had forgotten. “The lights! Of course! Where should we go first?” “To Potsdamerplatz. 15 minutes on foot. Or are you too tired?” “No, not at all,” she was certain. She had been looking forward to Berlin’s annual Festival of Lights and was eager to see the monuments and other buildings brought to life with projections of images and patterns. “Let’s go.” They walked to Potsdamerplatz, passing streets and landmarks mapped out somewhere in Juliette’s memory. But this time there were no checkpoints, no guards, nothing to stand in her way. Just Tareq, with his hand at her back and a blue pashmina around her neck.

After Cairo ~ The Dead

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The Dead With the time change, Juliette slept fitfully, woke up tired, and half-stumbled to breakfast. She grabbed an English language newspaper and took the table nearest the door to keep an eye out for him. She was just finishing a cup of coffee when she saw him enter the lobby. She waved to him, and he joined her at the table. “Good morning,” he greeted her cheerfully, pulling his seat up as close to the table as he could. “You are well?” “I’m fine, just jet lag! Would you mind if we put off Checkpoint Charlie until tomorrow? I want to be more awake for that.” “Of course. Maybe the Charlottenburg Palace this morning? I am told the gardens are lovely, even at this time of year. And I have this,” he pointed to a guidebook, “to help us after that.” Juliette liked the idea of the gardens, and a palace would not, she was hopeful, prove too taxing on her foggy brain. “Your job today,” she informed him, “is to keep me going until 8 pm. If I keep walking, get some fresh air, I’ll get over the jet lag.” He nodded in obedience. “We will walk. But first we will take a train. The palace is too far to walk.” On the train, they perused the guidebook and mapped out a plan for the day. Once at the palace, they entered through a grand main gate beneath the watchful eyes of two soldier-sculptures, their shields and knives drawn. A gravel courtyard spread before them, with the wide, low-slung main building in the distance. The initial approach was plain and, in Juliette’s opinion, not particularly attractive. The only green in this view was the dome’s copper cladding with its verdigris that testified to its age and grandeur, suggesting possible splendor within. They climbed the front steps and passed through the towering main doors into a different world entirely. Tareq pointed simultaneously left and right to ask her which way to go. They peeked briefly at the palace’s grand banquet room, and then Juliette guided them upstairs to theen Gallery. The view in this room was dizzying. The parquet floor, in different depths of honeyed tones, created moving patterns of chevrons and diamonds that evoked an Escher design. The ceiling was a baroque canopy with golden twists and curls; its


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medallions competed with the heavens themselves for richness and beauty. Each side of the long, narrow room boasted floor-to-ceiling windows that were so large that Juliette mistook them at first for French doors. Between each pair of windows hung an enormous, gold-encrusted mirror that supported two golden candelabras. The candelabras’ reflections bounced infinitely from mirror to mirror across the room; from any vantage point, the hall looked like a repository for endless sources of light. “It’s stunning, but a bit disorienting,” Juliette said as she walked over to Tareq and rested her hand briefly on his arm. “I wonder how long this room is.” “Over 40 meters,” Tareq replied. He walked a few steps on and then stopped to inspect a detail. In that moment, Juliette could see him front and back at the same time, his face in a mirror and his back to her, his silhouette repeating like the candelabras, becoming smaller and more distant. He turned slowly on his heel as he surveyed the room, and as he did, she observed him in the round. When his face arrived at hers, his expression was calm, and he gladly assumed his place in her field of vision. After exploring the rest of the building, they strolled the length of the formal garden slowly, remarking casually on the color of the leaves turning crimson and amber in the early autumn weather. They followed the curved path around the pond and, reentering the formal garden, took in the size and scale of the palace itself. “What is on top?” Tareq asked, pointing to a statue on the dome. Juliette consulted the book. “Fortuna,” she read. “The goddess of happiness.” With Fortuna keeping watch from a distance, they wandered further and found themselves in a wooded area that was as fresh and open as the formal garden was studied and well-rehearsed. Birds flew from tree to tree, but Juliette’s flight was catching up with her. “How are you?” he asked. “Tired,” she admitted. “Permission to sit for a while?” “If you promise not to tell me that I failed in my duty,” he replied with a grin. “I promise.” They sat on a bench situated beneath an ancient tree. The jet lag was unbeatable, and Juliette felt her body become heavier and heavier. Without thinking, she leaned her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. A few minutes passed, and she did not move. “Juliette,” Tareq whispered, looking around at her face. She did not answer. “Juliette?” She was fast asleep, and Tareq let himself remember how he had longed for her head on his shoulder in Cairo. Now it was there, her hair tumbling over him. A gentle rain began to fall, and Tareq fumbled for his umbrella. He opened it with as little movement as possible and held it over both of them. As the rain strengthened, the bench itself became wet and inhospitable. “Juliette,” he nudged her now, “time to wake up.”


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She raised her head groggily, looked up and saw the underside of an umbrella. Then she saw his hand, his arm, his face. “How long was I asleep?” “I do not know.” He stood up from the bench and offered her his arm. The transparency in his eyes arrested her. “I do not know,” he repeated. Their tour of the palace complete, they departed the grounds in the direction of lunch. Finding shelter under the glass atrium of a café, they settled into wicker chairs that clung to the idea of summer. A large indoor tree spread its branches above them, and the rain fell softly on the glass panes as they sipped ginger lemonade – delicious but hardly seasonal, Juliette remarked – and regrouped for the afternoon. They had chosen this café because it was near a museum dedicated to the works of Käthe Kollwitz. Tareq had never heard of the artist, but when Juliette saw the reference in the guidebook on the train that morning, she made it a destination. They walked through the café’s courtyard garden to the adjacent museum and were immediately met by the artist’s dark vision, shadowed by war and hunger. The morning’s lark of green and gold quickly turned somber. “What are the most important things to see?” Tareq asked, thinking that the shortest route through the museum might be the safest for them both. Judging by what was on display on the first floor, he sensed that this museum would not be easy for him. Juliette took an English language floor plan from a rack near the entrance. “Here. This is what we shouldn’t miss.” She pointed to a museum highlights list for navigation. Even taking the quick tour, the catalogue of pain and injury in this one building was overwhelming. Timeless faces of suffering, war, hunger and death surrounded them as they climbed the museum’s central staircase. A woman and her two children, panicked with hunger, yearned for bread. A person shrieking Nie Wieder Krieg – No More War – universalized the pacifist cry with features that defied race and gender. And everywhere the children. The baby being held by its mother over a corpse, the girl on death’s lap, the young soldiers heading toward sacrifice. “Her own son died in World War I,” Tareq paraphrased from the leaflet he had picked up. “And her grandson died in World War II.” Tareq was not a parent, but he was sure that Kollwitz captured the agony of all those who had lost children. He felt drawn to Kollwitz now. She had seen the worst humanity could inflict on itself. After staring dumbfounded at a larger than life sculpture of the artist herself, her globe-like eyes looming out of her sadness, they had both had their fill. “Coffee?” Tareq suggested. Juliette nodded. When they stepped outside the museum, bluer skies awaited and Berlin’s tree-lined streets invited them to contemplate life beyond the horrors chronicled in the museum. “I read,” Juliette reported, trying to lighten the mood, “that when the Wall was up, the government planted hundreds of thousands of trees to make the city more livable.”


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“They remind me,” Tareq thought out loud, “of one of my favorite paths in Cairo.” “I remember,” Juliette nodded. “We walked there.” “We did,” he recalled. Juliette’s legs were now leaden beneath her, and she leaned on Tareq’s arm. “Tired?” he asked. She nodded, and he supported her as they looked for a place for a quiet cup of coffee. “I did not know Kollwitz,” Tareq interrupted his own thoughts. “But I will never forget her now.” “I first saw her woodblocks decades ago,” Juliette told him, “with Mark.” “Did you ever write the article on Egyptian street children?” Tareq inquired. Kollwitz’s depictions of frightened, almost hollow children reminded him of tragedy everywhere, including his native country. “No, I didn’t,” Juliette flattened the question. She remembered telling Tareq she would write something on that topic, but after she returned to New York, she put everything in Egypt and about Egypt behind her. “Here?” he pointed at a café with a low door topped with a thick wooden lintel. She walked through the door, but he had to duck to clear his head. He pulled out her chair for her and ordered two coffees. The interior was dark, and Juliette rested her head against a standing beam by their table. She drank her coffee this way, head tilted, and eyes closed. “Shall we?” he beckoned her from near sleep after her cup was empty. “The concert at the church will begin soon.” They had put the concert on the list that morning, she recalled, when she was still fresh. “You’re not going to let up, are you?” she grumbled good-naturedly. “You made me promise,” he replied. He stood up to pull back her chair and helped her with her coat, straightening the lapels solicitously. “You are tired. We must keep you warm.” “Hopefully I’ll last through the concert.” “The organ will be loud,” he chuckled. “That will help.” He took her arm, and they headed down the street toward the sky-scraping Memorial Church. They stopped to take in the bombed out late 19th century original, standing defiantly next to its successor, a jutting, modernist cylinder of glass brick. The new church, which opened mere months after the Berlin Wall was built, was to many Berliners a symbol of peace and a place of meditation. To Tareq, though, it didn’t look much like a Christian church or a particular expression of any faith at all. But the interior changed his mind. Rows upon rows of cobalt blue glass brick soared to the heavens and soothed the mind. The streambed-like floor, with its many colored, circular inlays, flowed irregularly within the stark octagonal structure and pushed the soul in – into the building, and into itself.


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Juliette brushed her hand against Tareq’s. “I don’t know much about the Bible,” she said, “but I know there’s a verse about the peace of God surpassing all understanding. I think this is what they meant.” They stood in each other’s presence, breathing in the stillness. And then the pipes of the organ began to fill the air. “Wow,” Juliette exclaimed in a half-voice as the instrument’s vibrations shook the sanctuary. “A Bach prelude,” Tareq noted with approval. “Very beautiful. I like it here.” The music was a signal that it was time to sit, so they picked up the printed program and found places in the seats arranged in a semicircle around the altar which was set up for a small orchestra. The organ music concluded, and an angular man with spectacles appeared before the crowd of a few dozen listeners. He explained first in German and then in English that the evening concert would feature Bach’s Weichet nur, betrübte Schatten, a secular cantata that Bach may have written for his own wedding to Anna Magdalena. If so, Anna Magdalena herself might have been the soloist. The possibility clearly delighted the conductor. The text was not biblical, he noted with apology, perhaps thinking that the audience was expecting a more stereotypical Bach that evening. The lyrics were a poetic reflection on love; the words were printed on the sheets provided. He introduced the visiting soloist, who appeared to be the reason for the choice of the cantata. He thanked the group of instrumentalists for being there on short notice, lifted his baton, and out poured music, as blue as the glass bricks and as flowing as the church’s floor. The soloist sang:

Dissipate, you troublesome shadows, Frost and winds, go to your rest! Flora’s pleasures The heart will Never exchange as joyful delight, Since she brings flowers with her. The world becomes new again, On the mountains and in the valleys The loveliness clings with doubled beauty, The day is free from any chill. Phoebus hastes with rapid horses Through the newly-born world, Indeed, since it pleases him, He himself will become a lover. Therefore Love himself seeks his pleasure, When crimson laughs in the fields, When Flora’s magnificence glories, And when in his kingdom,


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Just like the beautiful blossoms, Hearts make a fiery triumph as well. When the springtime breezes caress And waft through colorful meadows, Love will often slip abroad To seek after his treasure, Which, it is believed, is this: That one heart kisses another. And this is happiness, That through highly favorable fortune Two souls achieve such a treasure, Around which much worth and blessing shines. To be accustomed, in love, To cuddle in playful tenderness Is better than Flora’s fading delights. Here the waves swell, Here on lip and breast The triumphal palms smile and wave. So may the bond of chaste love, Committed pair, Be free from the inconstancy of change! May no sudden fall Or thunder crack Disturb your amorous desires! May you behold in contentment A thousand bright happy days, So that soon in the coming time Your love may bear fruit!

Following the cantata, the organ music resumed, giving Juliette and Tareq welcome time to distance themselves from the cantata’s lyrics. Neither had expected the day to take such a decidedly romantic turn, and they both avoided eye contact, each wondering what the other was thinking. The concert’s final work was a rapidly-paced toccata. Tareq tapped the complicated rhythms on his knees, each hand in a different pattern. Juliette watched his fingers fly; it helped her stay awake. The toccata’s final strains were met with resounding applause from the appreciative audience. One man called out for an encore, but none came. Tareq and Juliette left the church with the others and made their way into a now dark Berlin. As they left, they chatted casually about the organ music, flying over any mention of the cantata. But Juliette noticed that Tareq folded the concert program and put it in his pocket. He would take those words with him.


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The concert-goers flowed onto a plaza near the church toward a massive, sculpted, spherical fountain. In the dark, they could hear the fountain more clearly than they could see it. But suddenly the metal orb appeared out of the night; the Festival of Lights had begun for the evening. The illumination that shone on the fountain reflected on their faces as well, and they smiled at each other in various shades of blue. By this time, Juliette could scarcely keep her eyes open. “Let’s go back, Tareq,” she yawned. “I’m exhausted.” “I promised to keep you awake until 8 o’clock,” he chided with a grin. “I will keep you awake.” “Okay,” she gave in. “But only if you can find Chinese food.” She thought that was a safe demand; he’d have to concede defeat and take her back to her hotel. “Chinese food in Berlin?” Tareq questioned. “Why not. Turkish was good last night, right?” He could not disagree. He searched for a restaurant on his phone. “You are in luck,” he told her. “How far?” she groaned. “Not far.” Within a few minutes they arrived at a Chinese restaurant with the words Good Friends written above the door in English. “Plenty of seats,” she said looking through the window, “give it try?” Tareq opened the door for her, and they chose a table in the farthest corner. They ordered, and the waiter brought them tea in delicate porcelain cups. “This will help!” Juliette exclaimed. “And I’ll take your cup, too, just to be safe.” He pushed his cup close to hers; the rims touched. But then he assumed a formal posture that attracted Juliette’s full attention and made her uncomfortable for the first time that day. “I must apologize, Juliette,” he began. Oh no, she thought. “I have yet to offer you my condolences. I was very sorry to hear of Mark's death. He was a good man.” Juliette was not at all prepared for this conversation. The jet lag alone had her off-kilter, and even wide-awake, she did not want to talk to Tareq about Mark. But it was unavoidable. “Yes,” she nodded. “He was a good man. He was,” her voice searched for more adjectives, adjectives that would fit both Mark and this particular conversation. “Yes,” she said again, beckoning words that would not respond to her command. “He was...“ “Your husband,” Tareq completed her sentence. Tareq’s simple statement of the noun – the thing he was, the person he was, her


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husband – arranged all the adjectives about Mark at once, like a magnet arranges iron filings. “My husband,” she echoed, letting out the breath she’d been holding in all the while. Finally she summoned her courage. “Tareq, what really happened to Mark? Do you know?” He turned his face away from her and regretted it instantly. But he could not look at her. He did not want her to see the horror he felt. He took his time to recover and then looked at her directly. “Yes, Juliette, I know.” He stopped at that, implicitly asking her if she really wanted to hear the whole story. He read the uncertainty in her eyes and reduced the reality to something more palatable than it was. “He died caring for people, and he died with the people he cared for.” “But who killed him? Who killed them?” “I do not know Juliette. No one knows for certain.” This was true. If pressed, Tareq could have produced specific suspects and likely scenarios, but this would have meant little to Juliette. “Fire,” he waved one hand in the air in a mocking gesture. “Friendly fire,” more mocking hands. “It is all fire.” He shook his head in disgust at the chaos he knew so well and then looked at her with a compassion that came from having observed much human suffering. She remembered that look, and now it was here again, a gift right before her eyes. His compassion made her feel safe. “Tareq, if you hadn’t retired…” her voice trailed off. “I’d be dead, too,” he stated flatly. “Fate,” she winced. “Fate,” he replied, fidgeting with the chopsticks on the table. “I’m sorry I didn’t contact you to tell you, Tareq. I just didn’t know how.” He shook his head at her. “Juliette,” he started, and then weighed his next words carefully. “I believe I knew he was dead before you did.”

After Cairo ~ Checkpoints

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Checkpoints The next morning, Tareq was waiting in the hotel lobby by the time Juliette came down for breakfast. He held a newspaper in his hand, but kept his eye on the elevator. When he saw her, he rose quickly to greet her. His heart raced, and his legs nearly followed suit. But his head took control of his limbs, and he walked calmly to greet her. “Good morning,” he said, sunshine in his voice. “Good morning,” she replied. They brushed each other’s faces with a kiss. “Have you been here long?” “No, no,” he shook his head. “Breakfast?” she offered. “We can sit here.” She turned her head in the direction of the informal dining room off the lobby. They took a table nestled between two large potted palms. “Have you eaten?” “Yes,” he replied. “But take your time. The Checkpoint Charlie museum opens only at 9. I will take a coffee.” He placed the folded newspaper on the table and opened his face to her with anticipation, but without expectation. Juliette glanced at her watch. It was only 7:30 am, and the museum was mere minutes from the hotel. All of a sudden, 90 minutes seemed like a long time to sit with Tareq at a table. 90 minutes over dinner seemed casual and easy. But that same length of time over breakfast felt intimate in way that was also intimidating. Dinner was for people getting to know one another. A breakfast like this was for couples with settled routines. She reached for the guidebook in her purse. “I was reading this,” she passed him the book and hoped her nervousness was not evident. “Want to look?” He took the book from her and flipped through the pages. He read some sections to himself and others aloud to them both. A waiter came and went with coffee, and Juliette shared some bread from her plate with Tareq. “Bread in Europe is better than in the U.S.,” she opined. “But maybe not as good as in Egypt?” Tareq tilted his head rakishly to agree. “So,” he concluded, putting his coffee cup down on the table, “Checkpoint Charlie, the Topography of Terror, and then to Potsdamerplatz? This time by day.”


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“And I’d like to see the Resistance Memorial and the Memorial to the Berlin Airlift,” Juliette added. “I think they’re on the way. And there’s an area near here called Bergmannkiez,” she sounded out the word haltingly. “It is very close, but in the other direction,” he spoke with authority. “You know it?” “Yes, it is near my cousin’s flat.” He stopped full. Would he invite Juliette to his cousin’s flat? “He emailed me last night,” Tareq changed his own subject. “He reminds us not to neglect a walk along the Maybachufer.” In truth, Tareq’s cousin had reminded Tareq to enjoy a stroll on the Maybachufer. No one in Tareq’s family knew that Juliette was in Berlin. “Sounds good.” Juliette interrupted Tareq’s thoughts of his family, his home in Cairo and the walls that asserted themselves as if they were a part of the natural universe. But if Berlin proved anything to Tareq, it was that walls were meant to come down. Juliette glanced at her watch. “Almost 9!” she exclaimed. Where had the time gone? “I’ve got everything with me. Should we go?” As he always did, Tareq rose from the table first and pulled out her chair for her. By now she expected this gesture and waited for his assistance. She did not need his help, but she understood that it was important to him to provide it. But for Juliette, to let him fulfill his sense of duty required a significant shift in her own mind. She was not used to help, and wasn’t always sure she wanted it. But Tareq was chivalrous in an old-fashioned, black-and-white-movie sort of way. And, she let herself remember, he had once put his suit jacket on the stone of a pyramid to provide a place for her to sit. “The weather is beautiful today,” Tareq granted his approval as they left the hotel. And it was: the sun shone as if it were late summer, and the clouds floated as though they had no care in the world. By now, Berlin was awake and humming with activity. “Berlin is so vibrant,” Juliette remarked. “I wonder what it’s like to live here.” “My cousin says it is very interesting. Many people from many places. My cousin says that I may have worked for the United Nations, but that he lives in the nations united!” “So many stories,” Juliette’s voice wandered. He squeezed her shoulder knowingly. “I do not think you have retired as much as you say you have.” His comment hit Juliette like a bolt of lighting. This, she thought to herself, is the first real idea I’ve had for a magazine story since Mark died. She could feel her creativity fluttering its eyelids after a long hibernation. She took a notebook from her purse and scribbled down a few lines. As she put the book back in her bag, she


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caught sight of the historic Checkpoint. “Look!” she exclaimed, taking Tareq’s arm. “Checkpoint Charlie! Or at least what’s left of it!” The guardhouse, a lonely remnant of times past, stood in the road with sandbags in front of it. “I think I have a picture of myself standing around here,” Juliette pointed in the general vicinity of the structure. “I will take another now,” Tareq offered, pulling his camera from his pocket. “Go, stand there.” Juliette walked across the street, and Tareq snapped a photo. A stranger approached Tareq and said something in German. Tareq replied in German and walked over to Juliette. “He will take a photo of us,” Tareq explained as he put his hand against her back. The stranger snapped the photo and walked toward them to return the camera. Tareq thanked him and checked that the photo had been taken properly. “You speak German?” Juliette asked. “A little,” he replied. But Juliette thought that Tareq’s little was probably more than her own little. “I want to walk across,” Juliette told Tareq. “Over that street, Zimmerstrasse. That’s where the Wall was.” They waited perfunctorily at the intersection until they could cross safely and then, in fewer than 15 seconds, were inside the former East Berlin. They turned around to look at the Checkpoint again, this time from the other side. “It’s hard to believe that something that was so difficult in the past is now so easy,” Juliette shook her head in disbelief. “It’s been years now since reunification, but to cross the street here, it’s still a big thing.” Tareq was now engrossed in the guidebook’s description of life on Zimmerstrasse when the Wall was up. Near the intersection where they stood, the Wall had blocked the view from one side of the street to the other. Further down, the buildings had been so close together that people living on the western side of the street could reach out of their windows to shake hands with those in the east. And because the Wall was built just inside the border, West Berliners walking here were actually in East Berlin. This had made the street a perfect place for anyone evading the law, as no one – including the police – could drive down the street. It was in West Berlin as defined by the Wall, but was beyond West Berlin’s laws. This street spoke powerfully to Tareq. Between worlds, he reflected silently, there is always a path. It is often traveled only by rule-breakers, but there is always a way between two worlds for those who seek it. “Hey,” Juliette waved her hand in front of his face. “Back to the museum?” They turned back toward the Checkpoint Charlie museum. Juliette remembered the collection of escape vehicles and inventions, some elaborate, like the hot air balloon and submarine on view. But it was the more mundane escapes that struck Juliette, then and now. The ladder, the suitcase, the huge stereo speakers that no contemporary teenager would even recognize as audio equipment. And the escapes that seemed incongruently like play: the zip line, the tight rope. And the photos of the people who, in the early days of the Wall at least, climbed out of windows,


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jumped barricades and ran – just ran – maybe according to plan, or maybe only on impulse. Juliette and Tareq made their way through the displays, alternately amazed by the ingenuity of some of the escapes and disturbed by the pain of the thwarted attempts to reach freedom. The images made for startling contrasts: the radiant face of a woman whose escape succeeded, and the lifeless body of a teenager, shot on the border and left to bleed to death tangled in barbed wire. A label noted that a fast food restaurant now stood on the spot where this young man had lost his life. At the end of the exhibition, they lingered at one of Checkpoint Charlie’s most enduring symbols: a sign reading You Are Now Leaving the American Sector written in four languages. The sign was deceptively humble, even homemade looking. “I definitely remember this sign,” Juliette told Tareq. “I don’t know if it’s this exact one, but I remember going past these words and wondering what would happen next.” “Let me take your picture,” he told her, positioning her at the edge of the sign. He clicked the photo and turned the camera around so she could see the image for herself. “Let me take yours,” she reciprocated. “But I was never there,” Tareq protested. “You are now,” she insisted. Tareq complied. “But in truth,” he joked, reaching out in her direction, “I think I am now entering the American sector.” She snapped the photo with his hand outstretched toward her. He walked behind her and peeked over her shoulder at the camera’s screen. “I like it,” he said, running his hand lightly along her arm. “You must send me a copy.” They proceeded from one of the most significant icons of the Cold War to images of how that war had ended. The photos and news clips looked dated; the Wall had come down a long time ago. “I remember seeing all of this,” Juliette contemplated aloud, “and thinking that I would never forget any of it.” “But we do forget,” he assessed their collective memories. “We forget even what is important.” She nodded in assent, but said nothing. There was plenty to forget, and plenty more to remember. This is why she had come to Berlin. She wanted to put the past in its place, both by forgetting and by remembering. “Come,” he said, taking her hand briefly to pull her from her thoughts. “We have much to see today.” They left the museum and headed toward the aptly named Topography of Terror. Walking along the bombed-out shells of former prison cells, they read the stories


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of those who were imprisoned there during the war. The exhibition spared no gruesome detail. Or if it did, it was perhaps for the best. “Oh look,” Juliette called to Tareq, taking his hand briefly. “Here’s a photo of Dietrich Bonhoeffer.” “Who?” “A German theologian and member of the resistance. It says he was imprisoned here in 1944 and ’45. I remember my grandfather talking about him. He heard him speak once in New York, before the war. When I was a little girl, I remember my grandfather reading a collection of letters Bonhoeffer wrote from prison. It must have been this one.” “And what became of him? “He was executed right before the end of the war.” Juliette looked up and down the long gallery of remembrance. This was not her particular history, nor was it Tareq’s. But it was the history of the world: past, present and probably future. The ghosts were very much alive among the ruins, whispering their stories, issuing their warnings, and making their judgments. “Tareq, I think I’m done.” He nodded, sighed heavily and put his hand at her back. “Coffee?” he asked. “Lunch?” “Lunch.” They walked on to Potsdamerplatz, which the guidebook described as a Cold War no man’s land now transformed into an oasis of food and drink. They happened upon a casual restaurant that seemed as good as any in terms of the menu and offered far more in terms of sight and sound. The glass façade squared off with three white walls decorated with curved neon lights. The tubes, in varying hues, clung to the walls in random patterns, almost dancing to the echoes of Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells that pulsed from small speakers dotted on the walls, creating a stereo effect. “Sit here,” Tareq directed, taking them to a particular table. “The sound will blend best here.” Juliette did not entirely understand what he was talking about, but she had no reason to contradict him. “Sure,” she said as he pulled out her chair for her. “Probably don’t have a café like this in Cairo, do they? Or did I just miss it?” She heard her own sarcasm and scanned his face to make sure he had not mistaken her tone as criticism. “No. No such café in Cairo,” he confirmed, his eyes widening at the thought.


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“You’d find this sort of place in New York,” she continued. “In the city, I mean. Not in the part of New York where I live now.” “Do you miss it, the city?” Tareq had no idea how complicated his question was. “Yes,” she responded immediately. “But also no.” She was unsure how much more to say, how much to reveal to Tareq that he was, at the root of it, the reason she had moved out of the city. “I moved for the right reasons, and it’s been good.” “Is it lonely?” “It can be. I have neighbors, but it’s not like being in a building in the city with lots of people around. And I’ve been snowed in a few times, and that made me nervous.” “I am sorry,” Tareq consoled. “It’s okay,” she went on. “It’s affordable in a way the city is not. And that gives me flexibility. If I were still working and living in the city, I could never have come here right now.” “Then I am glad you moved.” He paused to take in a particular swell in the music. “And I am glad you came to Berlin.” “So am I,” Juliette affirmed. “It’s really good to see you again, Tareq.” “It is wonderful to see you, Juliette.” And he meant it: it was full of wonder to be with her once more. After they had parted in Cairo, he had never dared to believe he would see her again, and he had worked hard to not wonder about what might have been. Her thoughts preoccupied her in tandem with his. Could it really be this easy? Could they fall into step with one another this readily, this effortlessly? She could see cracks forming in the edifice of her second guesses. The relationship she and Tareq had begun in Cairo was not just a fantasy, not merely a mid-life spasm or a desire for validation. She and Tareq genuinely got along. They were genuinely happy in each other’s presence. By the time they finished lunch, they were both ready to leave the restaurant. “This was interesting,” Juliette remarked. “But I wouldn’t want to work here.” “No,” Tareq agreed, putting his hands to his ears. “It becomes too much.” “Where to?” she asked. “Maybachufer. The Turkish Market. My cousin will ask if I have gone there.” They took the U-Bahn and then walked the short distance to the Market, crossing a picturesque bridge with a view up and down the canal. The narrow waterway’s tree-lined banks cradled the small boats that basked in the afternoon sun. On the other side of the river, they entered the Turkish Market, a lively expression of


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Mediterranean culture in the heart of Berlin. The market resonated with the chatter of immigrants from around the Islamic world, and Juliette recognized a few Arabic words. Dried fruits and nuts abounded, along with fresh fruits and vegetables in a kaleidoscopic display of color. The aroma of cooked food perfumed the air. “I wish I were hungry,” she said, stopping to breathe in the market’s lush aroma. “The merchants, they wish so too!” he replied. “Later. My cousin told me where to go. But for now, coffee.” He could see the jet lag in her stooped shoulders. “It is still my job to keep you awake.” They found a café with a view of the water and ordered coffee. “How long has your cousin lived in Berlin?” Juliette inquired. “Many years now.” “What brought him here?” “University. He earned his doctorate in Germany and then took a position here in Berlin.” “What does he teach?” “Music.” “An instrument?” “No. History. The history of music.” “Sounds interesting. I’d like to meet him.” Their coffees arrived. Tareq breathed in its scent. “This,” he put the record straight, “is coffee. What we drink at the hotel in the morning is not really coffee.” He took a sip and exhaled with delight. “He would like you,” Tareq continued, acknowledging her last statement. “Maybe next time.” She paused as a question formed in her mind that she was not sure she should ask. But having already taken so many risks, she felt emboldened. “Tareq, does any one in your family know that I’m here?” He had hoped she would not ask, but he would be forthright. “No,” he replied. “They do not.” He looked at her directly and awaited her response. “I didn’t tell anyone I was meeting you here, either,” she replied, both because it was true and because she wanted to put him at ease with his own secrecy. “Well, I didn’t tell Mark. Emily wheedled it out of me.” “Wheedled?” he asked, his eyes narrowing with the question. “You know, like this.” She reached across the table, placed her fingertips on his chest and pretended to bore into him. “She made me tell her. She’s very good at


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this,” Juliette sighed in defeat, once again, at the persuasiveness of her younger child. “You’ll find out when you meet her.” “I would like to meet her. And Mark, too.” “Are you going to try for a visa again?” She asked as casually as she could. “I do not know that the result would be different.” “Tareq, let me contact the person I know at the State Department. It’s worth a try, right?” Tareq knew his answer but was afraid to give it. But now that he was with her again, he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. “Yes,” he nodded his head. “Thank you.” They lingered at the café, watching the river flow. Eventually, Juliette felt hungry enough to be tempted by the Market’s aromas. “Can we eat now?” “Of course,” he replied. “But not that way,” he pointed back to the market. “Tonight you will have koshary.” “What’s that?” “You will see. My cousin recommends a particular place. A friend of his from Cairo.” Tareq rose, helped her with her chair, and offered his arm. “A few minutes from here. Let us walk.” Their path headed back toward Kreuzberg, and soon they stopped in front of a restaurant that offered only about a dozen seats. When they entered, Tareq greeted the owner in Arabic, and they quickly fell into conversation. Tareq introduced Juliette in Arabic, and then translated. “Youssef speaks only Arabic and German, not English. I have explained that you are a friend visiting from New York.” Youssef bowed his head several times to Juliette and said, “Wilkommen.” “Thank you,” she replied. “Shukran.” Youssef motioned to them to sit down, and Tareq ordered. Youssef spoke quickly, and Tareq nodded as he pointed to himself. But then he pointed at Juliette and shook his head. Youssef walked back to the kitchen, calling out in Arabic what Juliette assumed must be their order. “What was that all about?” Juliette asked. “I told him spicy for me, but not so spicy for you.” “I think I should probably thank you for that.” “Perhaps,” he agreed. “We will see.” Youssef returned momentarily with two bowls of koshary. Steam rose from the mixture of pasta, rice, beans and other ingredients cooked together, like a thick


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stew. Next to the bowls Youssef placed two bottles with labels Juliette could not read. “Shukran,” Juliette said to Youssef. “This smells wonderful.” Tareq nodded his thanks to Youssef who padded back to the kitchen. Juliette took a spoonful of the warm soup. “It’s delicious! And it’s not spicy at all. Can I try a bite of yours?” “Of course,” Tareq replied. He would not attempt to dissuade her, but he was not sure what to expect next. Juliette took one bite and then, a moment later, felt flames ignite in her mouth. Her eyes popped, and Tareq immediately handed her the bottle before her. “Drink this,” he commanded. She did, and the excessively sweet beverage countered the pepper from the stew. “What’s that?” she asked, once able to speak again. “Sugar cane water,” he replied. “Very popular in Egypt. And sugar calms the spice. Water would make it worse.” He was right. Another few sips and the heat of the koshary subsided. “I think I’ll stick to mine,” she let out a deep breath. A few minutes later, Youssef reappeared, this time with a woman. Again, Tareq began a jovial conversation in Arabic. Juliette could tell that she was the main topic. Youssef’s wife, Mariam, was very interested to know more about the woman dining with the cousin of their friend, the music professor. “Juliette,” Tareq whispered after Youssef and Marian walked away from their table, “I told you before that I had told no one in Cairo that you would be in Berlin. That was the truth. But I believe that all of Cairo may soon know that we dined together here this evening.” Tareq and Juliette giggled self-consciously and continued with their koshary, speculating about the extent of Mariam’s network. When they had finished, Tareq asked for the check, but Youssef shook his head. They were his guests that evening. Tareq and Juliette thanked him profusely and headed out into the night, which was now dark and cold. Shortly after they had left the restaurant, Tareq’s phone chimed that he had a message. They stopped in front of a lamppost while Tareq read the text on the screen. “Juliette,” he rolled his eyes and shook his head. “My cousin says that he is told that you are very beautiful and he hopes that you enjoyed the koshary.” Both Tareq and Juliette let out shy, nervous giggles and leaned against the lamppost together. “So much for secrecy,” Juliette closed her eyes. Tareq wrapped his arm entirely around her waist briefly, held her a moment, and then slid his hand to her back as they walked back to her hotel.

After Cairo ~ The Living

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The Living “Do you have an umbrella?” Tareq asked as Juliette walked out of the elevator the next morning. “Yes, I grabbed it just as I was leaving the room. Looks like rain?” “Maybe. But perhaps our luck will hold.” He kissed her on each cheek. “Good morning.” “Good morning to you, too.” She smiled brightly enough to scare away the clouds. “Have you eaten?” “No. May I join you?” “Yes. Please do.” She turned to the wait staff standing at the entrance to the dining room and raised two fingers. They sat down at the same table as the day before and ordered coffee. “My cousin sent me an email today,” Tareq mentioned as they were finishing their breakfast of bread, cheese and fruit. “He says there is a free concert at the Philharmonic today at lunch that we might like. Would you care to go?” “Sure,” Juliette replied. “Good for a rainy day. And then where after that? “Tiergarten, if the weather agrees,” he suggested. “Sounds like a plan,” she concurred. “Ready?” “Ready.” He stood quickly, pulled out her chair and then helped her on with her coat. “Walk or take the train?” Juliette asked as they left the hotel. The sky couldn’t seem to make up its mind, and neither could she. “Walk?” he asked. “Let’s risk it,” she agreed. “But remember: sugar melts.” He furrowed his brow in confusion. “When sugar gets wet, it melts,” she explained. “It’s just a way of telling someone not to get wet in the rain.”


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“Ah,” he said. “But I am not sugar.” He raised puckish eyebrows. If Egyptian mythology had imps, Juliette thought to herself, this is what they would look like. Their route to the philharmonic hall wended its way through parks, along waterways and across a canal. Most of the buildings looked old, but were largely post-World War II construction. Amid the traditionally-styled buildings, masterworks of modern architecture claimed their rightful places. As they neared the concert hall, they stopped to look at the New National Gallery with its piercing metal frame and soaring glass. “I remember going there,” Juliette recalled, “I saw an exhibition by an artist who used nails in everything. And somehow he made them flow, like waves of wheat blowing in the wind.” “Things are often not as they appear,” Tareq continued her thought. “Even the sharpest of realities can be made soft.” Their private stroll gave way to thickening crowds as they approached the Philharmonic. Berlin was awash in tourists for the Festival of Lights, and many of the light-lovers appeared also to be drawn to music. At the entrance, a staff member gave them each a token to serve as a concert ticket. “They limit attendance to 1,500,” Tareq explained to Juliette, “and it is often full.” They entered the hall’s cavernous foyer and were enveloped in a grand architectural statement of modernity. The seemingly unanchored staircases drew them upstairs and put them on eye level with red glass bricks that spread out like the sun; whether rising or setting, that was uncertain. Tareq looked down at the floor and tried to find a focal point; the square and rectangular tiles, in varying shades of gray, were laid in parallel lines, but still seemed to radiate out from some center. They worked their way through the crowd and found two seats together on a balcony with a good view of where the musicians would soon take their places below. Tareq sat to Juliette’s left. To her right sat a couple honeymooning in Berlin. Not the usual destination, the newlyweds told Juliette, but they wanted to see the lights. Juliette and the new bride chatted while they waited for the concert to begin. Tareq introduced himself courteously, but then returned his attention to the printed program notes for the performance. “Where is your husband from?” the woman asked Juliette. “My husband?” “Yes, he has a beautiful accent. Where is he from?” “Cairo.” “That’s on our list of places to visit. But not now, unfortunately. After things die down, then maybe.” “Yes,” Juliette concurred. “After things die down.”


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Applause erupted as a cellist, a violinist, and a pianist took their places on the raised podium on the ground floor to perform the first piece on the program. The trio was beautiful, and the performance flawless. The audience rewarded the musicians with more applause as the pianist and violinist left the stage. The cellist then stood and addressed the audience in German. “He will play from the Bach cello suites,” Tareq whispered to Juliette. “We have come on the right day.” The cellist arranged himself in his chair and closed his eyes. From memory, he graced the enormous hall with the warmth of his single instrument. Juliette relaxed back into the cello’s strains, but Tareq leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. And, Juliette noticed, he sometimes moved his index finger along his cheekbone as though he were conducting the piece to himself. When the concert ended, Juliette and Tareq were pushed out onto the plaza with the waves of listeners leaving the hall together. The threat of rain was now past, and a bright autumn sun reflected off the building’s golden walls, making Tareq and Juliette squint. As they let their eyes adjust, Tareq returned his hand to Juliette’s back and leaned in close. “I should tell you. I am not from Cairo.” “What?” She was confused. “When people ask about my accent,” he turned to face her, “you should know, I was born in Alexandria. I grew up in Cairo, but I am from Alexandria.” He smiled at her winsomely and let other assumptions remain as they were. “Come,” he directed, “to the garden.” The sun, growing bolder as it pushed the clouds away, lured them across the street to the Tiergarten, Berlin’s largest garden, with its promises of lakeside strolls and pleasant views. They walked first along a well-trodden path, but then crossed a bridge to a small island. Its trees burned with autumn colors, but its manicured lawns insisted that spring was not too far gone, nor too far away. “You know,” Tareq said, pointing beyond them toward the main garden, “my cousin tells me that at one point, the Tiergarten was a refugee camp.” Juliette took in this bit of history with surprise. “Yes, I know. It is hard to imagine. But Huguenots put up their tents here.” “Not much like the camps where you worked,” Juliette surmised. Tareq turned his head away abruptly. It was an anguished gesture, Juliette observed, a pain that he hid from her and perhaps from himself. If Käthe Kollwitz were with them right then, she thought, she might find Tareq a worthy subject. They followed the island’s loop and, finding a bench, took a seat facing west into the afternoon light. They sat with a calmness that matched the waters surrounding the island. In this stillness, Juliette had to know. She had to ask the question that had been somewhere in her mind for nearly two years. “How is Yasmeen?” she ventured.


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“Yasmeen?” “Yes, Yasmeen. How is she?” “Well. I believe. Hanan and her husband, they have a child now.” “Is she still in Alexandria?” “Yes, I believe so.” “You believe so?” “Yes. We have not spoken of late,” Tareq’s tone was clipped but not impolite. He didn’t want to talk about Yasmeen, but he was also eager to make clear to Juliette that Yasmeen had no place in his life. “Oh. You didn’t contact her after I left?” “I did.” He paused, not entirely sure how to continue. “Juliette, you once asked me, What is your fate, Tareq?” “I remember.”` “After you left, that question nested between my eyes. It sat here,” he pointed to the bridge of his nose, “staring at me, waiting for my answer. Why, it poked at me, was Yasmeen at the airport the day you were sent to meet Juliette? Why were these women at the airport at the same moment? Did fate send you to the airport to meet Juliette? Or did it send you to the airport to see Yasmeen?” He cast his eyes to the side as he revisited the question. Looking back to Juliette he spoke plainly as a man of uncomplicated action. “I went to Alexandria to meet her a few months after your departure.” His tone was laced with a defiance that had no immediate object. “Just lunch,” he continued, his voice softening. “You Americans, you have something called Just Lunch. Do you know it? A young man who worked for Mark once told me he had met his wife on a date arranged by a company called Just Lunch.” Tareq laughed out loud at the concept of such a company. And then he returned to the topic of Yasmeen. “We talked.” “That was all?” Juliette prodded. He nodded a nod that Juliette could not read. “Nothing left?” “Much left, and then left where it should be left. In the past.” He spoke as though presiding over a memorial service for something that had come to its rightful conclusion. “Juliette, on the boat in Cairo,” he continued, “do you remember? You taught me the word crush.” “I did?” “You asked about Yasmeen, but I did not have the words. You called it a crush. Yasmeen was a crush, you said. I did not know that term for an affair of the heart. But it made sense. Yasmeen had crushed my heart. Many, many years before.”


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“But in English, a crush is a mild thing, an infatuation.” “I know this now. But then I did not. And the word fit, in its true meaning. Americans should not use this word so carelessly.” He shifted topics quickly. “I still have the photo I took of you that day.” “I do, too.” Her copy was buried in a book about the pyramids, shelved in her office. She knew exactly where to find it, but had not looked at it since her flight home from Cairo. “I still can’t believe we ran into her at the airport like that.” Juliette changed the subject back. She regretted any discomfort she might cause him, but she had to know. “I could not believe my ears or my eyes,” he shook his head as he relived the moment. “I had not seen her in many years – how many I do not know – and I had not received a letter from her since my retirement.” “Did she even know you were back in Cairo?” “Perhaps not.” Tareq seemed untroubled by this. “I knew that the young woman with her was her daughter. But I did not know of the death of her husband. “ “What did you think when she told you?” “At first, nothing. And then I wondered. But so many years had passed.” “Nothing to rekindle?” “There is perhaps always something to rekindle,” he replied, looking at Juliette directly. “But my heart would not go to her.” He closed his eyes, and they both allowed the silence to have its say. Memories crowded in on them, and Juliette and Tareq each mentally made room for them on the park bench. Tareq drew his next breath with determination. “I told myself one night,” he declared, “Tareq, Yasmeen may now be yours. Juliette may not be yours. Take your heart from Juliette and give it to Yasmeen.” He paused for a moment and then laughed out loud, his head back, eyes still closed. “You know, Just do it!” He punched his fists into the air. “And did you?” Juliette asked. Hers was a question, pure, simple and trembling. “No.” He brought his head forward to meet her gaze. “I did not.” “Why not?” “Because,” he said, lifting his empty palms for her to see, “my heart was no longer mine to give.”

After Cairo ~ About Tareq

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About Tareq There was no need to plan an itinerary that morning. Tareq had fixed this day within hours of receiving Juliette’s email that her plane ticket was booked. He would visit the wonders of the ancient world with her: the Pergamon Museum’s extraordinary collection of art and architecture and the Neues Museum’s famed Egyptian collection. When Tareq’s cousin had offered his flat in Berlin, visiting these museums was the first thought that had come to Tareq’s mind. After Juliette bought her plane ticket, he thought more about Juliette beside him at the museums than he did of the museums themselves. Over breakfast, Tareq read to Juliette about the treasures they would encounter. They drank one last cup of coffee and then walked briskly to the Museum Island. Once at the river, they crossed the pedestrian bridge that took visitors to the entrance of the Pergamon. They proceeded through the entry hall and found themselves before the museum’s signature installation, the Pergamon Altar itself. It rose high before them, and to Juliette’s surprise, visitors were walking up the altar’s steps, just as people would have done more than 2,000 years earlier. Such a wonder of the world might at least have a velvet rope in front of it, she thought to herself. But then again, having survived so long as living architecture, perhaps it could well survive 1,000,000 tourists a year. Juliette and Tareq climbed the altar together, Greek gods and giants warring to their left and right. Some creatures fought with full bodies; their twisted torsos, unable to cry out in pain, paired off with lifeless forms carved to perfection. In other places, only fragments remained – stray legs, hooves and angel wings – ravaged by time if not by war. From the top of the altar, they looked back into the hall. “The German archaeologists did everything big,” Juliette observed sardonically. “They didn’t just take a chunk here or there. They took entire buildings back with them.” “What is more impressive?” Tareq asked, circling his hand in the air. “That this altar exists, or that it exists here in Berlin?” Tareq imagined the engineering required to move the altar. But then his thoughts turned to the engineers themselves: why would anyone want to move something this big? What did it require for a human being to wake up on an ordinary morning and decide to uproot such magnificence, transport it over thousands of miles, and reconstitute it in a foreign land?


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They walked down the stairs through a doorway and were greeted by Orpheus, enshrined in a mosaic floor, along with the birds, animals and people he charmed with his music. The 2nd century Market Gate of Miletus towered above them, its columned alcoves and curved arches reaching up to the sky-lighted roof. “According to what I read,” Juliette turned to Tareq, “most of the gate was destroyed in an earthquake. But I guess the reproduction gives you a sense of scale.” She looked around again, wondering if she had ever before seen a building contained entirely within another building. She touched Tareq’s shoulder blade and then pointed up. “This entire museum is an enormous superstructure for structures that are only slightly less than enormous.” He slipped his hand behind her back as they passed through the market gate’s human-scaled opening and moved a few centuries forward in time to the Ishtar Gate. Its tiles of blue and gold shimmered in the 21st century light just as they had hundreds of years earlier, but without the benefit of the original precious stones. Ishtar, the goddess of love and war, deserved nothing less than lapis lazuli ornaments, but she had not been able to hold onto them. From Ishtar’s blue boldness, they followed the Procession to Babylon with its ceramic bas relief lions on either side; whether the lions were guarding them or stalking them, they could not tell. Beyond the procession, two Assyrian winged creatures – men who were part lion, part bird, or perhaps, birds who were part lion, part men – looked benevolently down upon them. Just beyond, two more lions held watch, their eroded faces no longer capable of inspiring fear, their ancient roars now muted. The past was the past. Only Hammurabi’s Code, preserved for the generations, spoke aloud to the present. “An eye for an eye,” Tareq muttered. “Some things do not change.” At the end of the long corridor, they passed a statue of Hadad, the god of storms, and then turned around amid the pale colors of antiquity and headed upstairs to Tareq’s real destination for the morning: the Aleppo Room. At breakfast he had explained to Juliette how this room, originally from the home of a Christian merchant in Aleppo, had been dismantled piece-by-piece and then reassembled in Berlin. In this room, some 400 years earlier, the merchant had greeted guests, impressing them mightily with his wealth and erudition. The room’s decor was a crossroads of culture and faith, a place where different beliefs coexisted harmoniously in pattern, color and imagery. Christian Psalms and Arabic poetry conversed eloquently and easily, and the Virgin Mary sat happily next to scenes from Persian literature. “What’s this panel?” Juliette asked Tareq, pointing to a painting of a young woman. “That is the story of Leila and Majnun,” he explained. “They were in love, but Leila’s father would not allow them to marry.” “Romeo and Juliet,” Juliette summed up. “You find that story in every culture.” They continued through the rest of the collection and stood appropriately in awe before the Mshatta Façade, its expanse as impressive for its delicate, curled, and almost filigreed detail as for its hulking mass. The wall was neutral in tone, but


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shared the gallery with exuberant works of art: the brilliant Alhambra Ceiling, colorful arrays of tiles, and vibrant textiles. The patterns and hues unleashed Juliette’s memories of walking with Tareq in Cairo. She could remember Tareq in Cairo easily, but now as she studied him, engrossed in the façade of King Nebuchadnezzar’s throne room, she recognized him more fully. He had not been unfamiliar to her in the past days, but now she absorbed him deeply. He turned to her from the remains of Nebuchadnezzar’s glory. “Coffee?” he asked. They hunted until they found the museum’s cramped café on the basement level and squeezed around a small table. “Tell me about Aleppo,” she said, not knowing that this query was as intricate as the Aleppo room itself and as layered as his question to her about whether or not she missed the city. “Aleppo,” he pursed his lips and looked at her, nodding his head in thoughts he had no intention of sharing, at least not then. “Aleppo,” he intoned like someone narrating a documentary, “is a jewel of the Middle East.” He lingered on the words Middle East and cocked one eyebrow. “I know you don’t like that term,” she remembered. “No, I do not. But it is the term that others use.” “And?” “It is an ancient city of culture. Art, music, poetry. They all flourished in Aleppo.” That was not the whole story, but he did not wish to think further. But summoning his courage, he continued. “It is a city of fortification. The castle crowns the city. But the castle began as a temple to the storm god Hadad.” “Like the statue we just saw?” Juliette asked. He nodded. “Hadad is one name for Aleppo.” He looked at her to see if he were holding her interest and saw she was eager for more. “It is one of the longest continuously inhabited cities on earth, maybe 7,000 years old. A center of trade, and important in the time the Silk Road.” Settling further into his detached descriptions, he continued with increased confidence. “Some of the best olives in the world come from Aleppo. And the weather is temperate, at least most of the year. And there is rain.” By now, he thought he must be boring her, but her eyes still fixed upon him. “In the last 2,000 years, Aleppo has been Greek, Roman, Armenian, Persian, Mongol, Egyptian, Turkish…” he waved his hand in the air to the show that the list went on and on. “And it is all of those things today. And for the last 2,000 years, Aleppo has been home to many beliefs: Greek, Roman, Jewish, all manner of Christian denominations and Muslim sects. It is said that Abraham gave milk to travellers from white cows as they went through the region.” Here he paused, his sense of confidence faltering. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed and, Juliette thought, forlorn. “When I was in Aleppo,” he breathed


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deeply, “we lived together.” He held that thought in his mind for a moment. “Not all agreed that we ought to live together, but in many ways, we did. Not like now.” His eyes gazed out over a mental landscape of sadness. “Not like now.” Juliette followed him into his silence and asked no further questions. “Come!” he changed gears completely. “I have an appointment with a Queen.” He got up abruptly, helped Juliette with her chair, and ran his hand over her hair before catching himself at the nape of her neck. They left the Pergamon and walked the short distance to the Neues Museum and its famed Egyptian collection. In planning this visit, they had both devoured information on the museum: he, because it was Egypt; she, because he was from Egypt. Under the main hall’s cobalt blue ceiling, they meandered among displays of small objects documenting daily life in ancient Egypt. Tareq moved slowly, reading labels carefully and stopping to look at artifacts that he, on some level, recognized, but which for Juliette held less meaning. He pointed out something to her here and there, but mainly lost himself in the fragments of clay, metal and stone. In the next room, they were greeted by the head of the Pharaoh Amenophis II, who famously married a commoner. Carved in a reddish quartzite, the Pharaoh smiled from the stone and looked at ease, even with his nose gone missing. “He looks friendly,” Juliette commented to Tareq, “like he might just say hi.” Perhaps, she thought, this is what one might expect from a man who had disrupted venerable traditions by marrying outside the royal circle. In the next room, they took in the Berlin Green Head, an Egyptian priest carved from greenish sandstone which, the label informed, was intended to show the wisdom of the priest rather than portray a particular person. “I do not believe it is the Berlin Green Head,” Tareq joked half-heartedly. “Sort of looks like you,” she teased, caressing the creased lines between his eyebrows. He swatted at her playfully and took the opportunity to hold her hand for a moment longer than was necessary. They ambled through a room with pieces of temples and then made their way up the stairs, arriving in a shadowy gallery populated with vertical glass cases, each housing a single statue. The cases were illuminated from above, and the light through the glass refracted across the floor, creating angled patterns around each statue. Some sculptures stood, some walked toward them or away, some sat, others kneeled. And some looked like they were carved within a single block, trapped in stone, but not unhappy with their fate. The sculptures formed an inanimate ancient community now on display in Berlin. From this fraternity hewn in stone, they walked through a collection of artifacts from Amarna, and in the distance, they saw the bust of Nefertiti, the wife of Akhenaten, dug up from the sand in 1912, and now resplendent in a room devoted only to her. By now Juliette was accustomed to the weight of Tareq’s hand at her back. Outdoors, through her coat, his touch was reassuring but remote. Indoors, the


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pressure of his palm was unmistakable, and his thumb occasionally ran absent-mindedly up and down a short length of her spine. When they stood still, as they now did before the serene face of an Egyptian Queen, Tareq stood slightly behind her, his shoulder nearly touching her, his face moving closer and closer to her own. Juliette responded by not resisting, and neither of them acknowledged in words their evolving choreography. They danced slowly, both aware that there was no need for, and no wisdom in, any sudden movements. “Her name apparently meant a beautiful woman has come,” Juliette said to Tareq. “She lives up to the billing.” “Is that her name?” he asked. “I did not know this. But this is how she looked,” he added. “The sculpture was done from life, in the sculptor’s studio.” “I like the lines around her mouth,” Juliette observed. “And the indentations in her cheeks. She looks real, like the sculptor didn’t feel he had to hide her age.” Tareq placed his hands on Juliette’s shoulders and leaned his face forward to hers. “Age has its benefits, does it not?” His cheek was close enough to hers that she could feel his beard, but not his skin. “Tareq,” she said, turning around to face him directly. “How does it make you feel to see this statue here? I can’t imagine what it would be like for me to see, oh, I don’t know – the Liberty Bell? – in a foreign country.” “The riches of Egypt have been admired . . . and plundered . . . for centuries. I accept this.” When he was younger, the sheer number of Egyptian artifacts in museums outside of Egypt had rankled him. But now, at middle age, he had no desire to fight a diaspora. On the way out of the building, they retraced their steps and bid farewell to the objects they had gotten to know. Back in the fresh air again, they headed over another bridge, pausing for a moment to take in the sun’s dance on the River Spree below. They enjoyed the view in silence, and Tareq pulled out a package of cigarettes. “Please, don’t.” Juliette reached out for his hand reflexively. “Don’t smoke. People die of smoking.” Her tone was caring, but adamant. He stopped, aghast. A bit falsely dramatic, but aghast nonetheless. He was not accustomed to anyone telling him what to do, especially a woman. She had asked politely, to be sure, but there was a clear order implied in her plea. He had not forgotten her frankness; indeed, this was one of the things he cherished most about her. But in the years that had passed since their time Cairo, he could not recall any woman challenging him, his thoughts, or his decisions. “Please, Tareq.” She put her hands on his upper arms, almost as though she would shake him. “Please.” He softened his stance and glanced down at the cigarettes in his hand, the box occupying the narrow space between their bodies. He knew she was right.


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Smoking was a nasty habit. He had lost relatives to cancer. Why did he smoke? It was reckless. He didn’t want to be reckless anymore. He wanted to love her. “I know,” she jibed. “You hate agreeing me.” “I do, I do hate agreeing with you!” He glowered at her playfully and then looked down at his feet as they shuffled beneath him. It’s important to matter to someone, Juliette had once told him. And he knew that he mattered to her. Mattered enough that she was telling him to stop smoking. Neither his mother nor his sisters had ever told him to quit. To them he was a man who made his own decisions. They would not interfere. To Juliette, he was also a man who made his own decisions, but she interfered. She reminded him that that his decisions impacted more than just himself. She released him, and he walked away from her. He leaned on the bridge’s parapet and looked out at the river. He held the cigarettes in front of him at arm’s length to get a good view. Taking a deep breath, he said “goodbye” and threw what Emily always called death sticks over the side of the bridge. It was no mere toss. He threw the package as hard and as far as he could. The cigarettes were gone, and along with them, any desire to smoke. “Thank you,” he said into her eyes. He slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her body against his side, and kept her there. She rubbed her head against his shoulder and put her arm around his waist. They matched their gaits evenly and continued across the bridge. Dusk fell pleasantly, and Tareq checked his shirt pocket for a print out with information about viewing the Festival of Lights from the platform of the Fernsehturm. “Hungry?” he asked her. She nodded and then cajoled him into a burrito restaurant she had spied along the way. “You’ll like it,” she promised. She ordered for them both, and they settled into a booth. “Berlin makes me think of New York,” she commented between mouthfuls. “Think of it: in just a few days, we’ve had Turkish, Chinese, Egyptian, and now Mexican. I like this city!” “I like it, too,” Tareq replied. “I like you in it. And this burrito, it is good as well.” After dinner, they proceeded to the tower and took the elevator as high as it would go. The viewing platform was packed, and they had to work their way to a spot where they could stand comfortably together, their bodies pressed close as tourists jostled around them. Tareq put his arms around Juliette, in part to protect her from being bumped by strangers, and in part to carve out a space just for the two of them. They viewed the lights together, but it was an experience they shared with a multitude, not with one another. After the excitement of the initial illumination had subsided, the crowds on the viewing deck thinned. Tareq looked out onto Berlin’s lightscape, but spoke to her. “Juliette, when we were at Hanan’s wedding, I told you I would miss you.” “I remember.”


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“I missed you very much.” He leaned forward and turned his face to her. “I have missed you.” “I’ve missed you, too, Tareq.” He kissed the top of her head. “I am glad we are here together now,” he said, looking out at Berlin awash in light. “I am glad to see all of this with you. I am glad you came.”

After Cairo ~ No Man’s Land

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No Man’s Land This day was Juliette’s to determine, and she was determined. She wanted to retrace the Wall she remembered from decades past and to walk through and within physical spaces that had been off-limits the first time she had visited Berlin. She wanted to go into the no man’s land she had seen only at a distance and touch what before had been beyond her reach. Tareq ran his finger along the route she had penciled onto the map spread out before them. Today they sat at a table for four, using more than half of the area to plot out their way. Juliette stood behind him, leaning around his shoulder to look at the map. “Make sense?” she asked him. He nodded. “Now,” she said, turning so that she could look him in the eye, “I’ll let you figure out how to get us to the Wollankstrasse station to start. After that, we know where to walk.” One of the wonders of Berlin, in Juliette’s opinion, was its dense and interconnected system of trains, streetcars and buses. It seemed you could get within 100 feet of any destination in the city with the right combination of these three methods of transportation. Tareq was quicker at identifying the transport connections, and she was glad for that. He found the optimal route on his smartphone and held it up for approval. “You’re getting really good at that thing,” she told him, lifting her coffee cup to her mouth. She sat down at the table, and smiled up at him. “It’s like carrying a little computer in my pocket,” he replied with delight. “Very useful.” Tareq folded the map carefully as Juliette packed her purse. They set out on their journey, reference material at the ready, and made their way to their first destination. The Wollankstrasse station, which loomed large in Juliette’s memory, turned out to be much like any other station. The first time she had visited Berlin, the station’s northeast exit was a border patrol crossing, but now people walked in and out as though it were normal because it was, in fact, normal. “I keep forgetting,” she told Tareq, “just because the Wall has just come down for me, it’s been down for everyone in Berlin for a long time.” They walked unceremoniously through the exit and followed their route under the train’s tracks to a pedestrian path that was wedged into an unkempt strip of land and overgrown with weeds. “Is this part of the no man’s land?” Juliette asked.


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Tareq wasn’t sure either. The path seemed like a forgotten wilderness in an otherwise urban landscape. Soon they reached the square that commemorated the fall of the Wall. “Look,” Juliette pointed across the tracks. “That’s the station where people first came into West Berlin in ’89.” Juliette snapped a photo. After she took the photo, she wasn’t sure it had any value; better to look at the photos that showed people emerging into freedom for the first time. She ran the palm of her hand across Tareq’s shoulders. “Let me take your picture,” she said to Tareq. “Mine? Why?” “Freedom,” she replied. “Smile.” They looked together at his expression on the camera’s screen, the momentous train station behind him. “This may be my favorite picture of you yet,” she told him, kissing him on the cheek. Everywhere they went, they were greeted with the normalcy of the toppled Wall. Most traces of the Wall had been entirely obliterated, and where it remained, it had often been transformed into something beautiful. The infamous Death Strip, once strewn with barbed wire and land mines, was now home to a park where children played and dogs ran. The threat of gunfire had long since been replaced with weekend karaoke. A preserved section of the Wall still provided a canvas for graffiti artists, but it had lost any sense of its original context. “All things new,” Juliette mused aloud. They watched some jugglers and then continued on to the Berlin Wall Memorial. From an observation tower, they took in the view of the reunited city, the scar from the Wall now barely visible. Back on the ground, they walked along a section of the Wall preserved as it was and which now served as a memorial to the more than 250 people who died trying to get from East to West. Near this section of Wall was a diminutive chapel, its twig-like structure rooted in the place where the large stone Church of Reconciliation had once stood. A photo showed the church stranded in the no man’s land, defiantly crying for its own name, until the East German government blew it up in 1985. They walked on to the New Synagogue, which miraculously escaped destruction on Kristallnacht in 1938 only to be bombed heavily during the war. Juliette craned her neck to get a good look at the reconstructed Moorish facade with its imposing dome. “I wonder how big this dome is in comparison to the one at Reichstag,” she thought out loud as they stood across the street from the entrance. Inside they visited the synagogue’s standing exhibition and honored it as a place of meditation. When they left the synagogue, it was well past lunchtime, and both Tareq and Juliette were ready to rest. They were now in a part of Berlin that was more familiar; the Pergamon and Egyptian museums of the day before were not far away, and the Fernsehturm in Alexanderplatz and the skyscrapers of Potsdamerplatz provided a fair reckoning of east and west.


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They stumbled onto a café in a courtyard that even the locals seemed to have forgotten. The small cobblestone square, dotted with tables for two, had nearly succumbed to the afternoon’s shadows, but one patch still clung to sunlight. Tareq and Juliette gravitated there, and Tareq motioned with a heavy arm to the waiter. After they placed their order, they sat in silence; the weight of the morning had sapped their energy for conversation. So many people had died trying to escape over, under, through, across and around the Berlin Wall. So many more had been separated from those they loved. Quiet came easily to Juliette and Tareq, both separately and together, and they felt comfort in each other’s presence, with or without words. “Coffee?” Tareq asked. This was the first word for either of them in more than 10 minutes. “That would be nice,” Juliette replied and returned them to their silence. When the waiter brought the bill, Tareq took it from the waiter’s hand before he could put it on the table. “Let me get that,” Juliette insisted, trying to grab the piece of paper from Tareq, but he shook his head. “Okay,” she conceded, “but when you get to New York, it’s my treat.” He shrugged his shoulders in reply. “Where to?” he asked. There were more destinations on her route, but he was hoping she had had enough. “Back to the hotel,” she read his mind. On the way back, they ended up passing one more place on her list: the Palace of Tears, the station where East Germans had said goodbye to loved ones returning to the West. This particular checkpoint was only ever one-way: it was solely for those leaving East Berlin. No one from the West entered here – there were no hellos at the Palace of Tears, only farewells. And those who parted knew that they might never see one another again. Juliette and Tareq were now on familiar territory. Not much farther and they would be back at Checkpoint Charlie, and just a few minutes beyond that was Juliette’s hotel. As they walked, Juliette thought about walls and ways to overcome them. You could climb over them, she thought, walk around them, tunnel under them or even fly over them. But in the end, the only permanent solution was to tear them down. Tareq thought more about the people separated by the walls. In his work with refugees, he had seen many families torn apart. A wall was a weapon, he thought. The only solution was disarmament. As they walked, he looked at the disarmed Berlin around him, its reunited present more impressive than its divided past. People walked without borders and went freely about their daily lives. Berlin looked and felt like any other city. And certainly the days of a communist economic system were over, and advertisements abounded. As they passed a kiosk, Tareq put out his arm all of a sudden and stopped Juliette in her tracks. “Look,” he said. “Would you like to see this?” He pointed to a poster for a showing of a film version of Romeo and Juliet. “It is tomorrow night. In English.”


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“Would you like to go?” Juliette loathed this story, but if Tareq wanted to see it, she would go along. “I do not know much Shakespeare,” he replied. “Perhaps I ought to.” He smiled at her, and it occurred to Juliette that this might be his first smile since breakfast. “For my general education.” They both laughed. It was a relief to laugh once again. “Then let’s go,” she replied. “You know,” Juliette thought out loud as they resumed their walk, “I wonder whatever happened to Jamila and Magdy,” To her, they were a Juliet and a Romeo. “Who?” Tareq asked. “Jamila, the young woman I met on the bus to Gaza. And Magdy, at the carpet factory. Their child would be a toddler now.” Tareq remembered. “You know, you opened her letter.” “The letter,” he enunciated clearly. “Yes, the letter you opened that wasn’t addressed to you.” She eyed him askance. It still took her aback that he was capable of opening a piece of private correspondence. But she accepted that in Tareq’s world to open a private letter could be a matter of life and death. He was trained to suspect ill intent first and to trust only when ill intent could be ruled out. He did not default to such niceties as the inviolability of personal correspondence. He took control of evidence, assessed information, weighed the validity of different types of proof, and then drew conclusions. “I remember your mocking me,” she recalled, “saying that Mark and I were out to save the whole Middle East.” “Perhaps that was not fair,” Tareq acknowledged. “No, it was fair. I knew what you meant.” She knew that Americans could be annoyingly naïve. “I valued your candor. You told me exactly what you were thinking.” He nodded his appreciation. Juliette paused, and then gave in to her curiosity. “Tareq, tell me, what did you think of me when we first met?” They were standing at a street corner now, and the light was flashing to indicate it was time to cross. Tareq stopped and looked around for somewhere suitable to disclose his answer. He took her elbow to cross the street to a grassy square lined with benches facing inward to a waterless fountain. When they were seated, he replied to her question. “What did I think of you?” He wasn’t sure he wanted her to know his first impressions, but she had asked. “Do not be angry with me. I will tell you the truth. When I first met you, I did not like you. I am sorry to say this, but I did not like you.”


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“You didn’t?” Juliette was surprised. “I did not dislike you, either,” he added. “But I thought you were another tourist. To you Egypt was hot and the women were cruelly clothed for the weather. All this I had heard before.” “And I thought you were awfully dismissive. They are accustomed to it, you said, as if that made it okay.” It had not occurred to Tareq that perhaps she had not immediately liked him, either. “But if you didn’t like me, then why did you offer to take me to the pyramids? Why did you take the time to show me around?” “Juliette, I am Muslim. I believe in the honor of hospitality. You were my guest. And you were in need of assistance.” “I suppose I was,” Juliette agreed. “And,” he paused to prepare himself adequately for his admission, “eventually I understood that I was in need of your assistance.” His eyes landed on hers and thanked her for the hospitality she had unwittingly given him. “I needed to hear what you said to me.” “What did I say to you?” Juliette asked. “Many things. You knew about Yasmeen. Mark had told you about her letters. This made me angry.” “Married people tend to tell each other things,” Juliette offered. This wasn’t always true, she knew, but it was the sort of transparency to which she aspired. Tareq didn’t respond. “And I liked the way you said my name.” “Tareq.” “Yes?” “Nothing. Just saying your name.”

After Cairo ~ About Juliette

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About Juliette Tareq appeared in the lobby just as Juliette was sitting down to breakfast. He walked to the table, but did not take a seat. “My cousin has pressing need of me today. Business I must attend to in his absence. I am sorry. I will not be able to visit the Olympic Stadium with you.” “Oh,” she said, trying to disguise her disappointment. “Do you have time for a coffee?” “No, unfortunately not. I must leave now to catch a train to Halle. A delivery my cousin prefers to be made in person. A rare book,” he pointed to the carefully wrapped package in his hand. “But if I leave now, I will return in plenty of time for the film this evening. I will send you a text message.” “But you don’t like texts,” she teased. His eyes twinkled. “I will send you a text message. I promise.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek tenderly. “I am sorry to leave you.” “I’ll be fine. Your cousin’s book seems important.” He caressed her shoulder, smiled, and was gone. His unpredicted absence created a hole in her that she could feel. The past few days in Berlin with him had been fun, fun in a way that she had almost forgotten was possible. Even the day before, with its burden of history, had been fun because he was there. Juliette didn’t generally aspire to fun. Her world was thoughtful, well-researched and expertly edited. But Berlin with Tareq was fun, and she wanted more. She took her time at breakfast and reviewed the guidebook’s information about the Olympic Stadium. The Stadium, she noticed, was near the Charlottenburg Palace and its hall of mirrors. She retraced memories of that day in her mind: Tareq’s reflection in the mirror, falling asleep on his shoulder, the museum, the concert. And dinner. It was hard to believe how much had transpired since then in so little time. She finished her breakfast, checked her purse for essentials, and then left the hotel behind her. With Tareq by her side, she hadn’t taken much responsibility for remembering routes, but she knew which way to turn for the U-Bahn Station. As


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she boarded the train, she received a text. “I am on the train to Halle. Tareq.” Emily would tease him, Juliette thought, just as she teased Juliette. Old people, Emily explained to her mother once, wrote texts as though they were formal communications and signed their names as though texts were letters even though their names appeared at the top of the screen. Juliette had long wanted to visit Berlin’s historic Olympic Stadium. It had been on her list for her first trip to Berlin, but driving rain on her last day in the city had dissuaded her from the outdoor venue. But now she walked among its monumental columns and down to the field itself. She thought of Jesse Owens, who had angered Adolf Hitler by showing that a man with dark skin could out-compete those of Aryan heritage. This was a venue that had witnessed a wall coming down, even if it hadn’t ended a conflict. She wanted to tell Tareq this, so she sent him a text. He replied quickly that he was almost in Halle and would text her again when he boarded the return train. After a final panoramic view of the stadium, Juliette turned back to the heart of Charlottenburg. It would take roughly an hour to walk back to the Palace, but she had no reason not to spend her time that way. When she got to the Palace, she waved to its dome and felt Tareq’s absence like an empty hanger waiting for its coat. She found a place for lunch; it was odd to eat alone again, she thought, and yet in real life, such as it was, she ate alone most of the time. But now sitting alone felt strange, empty and even unnatural. It was quiet, but not in the way that lunch had been quiet the day before. Together and quiet was vastly different than alone and quiet. Without paying much attention, she flipped through the guidebook and looked at the map again. She glanced down at her phone, hoping she’d missed a text from him, but no. Pushing away her half-eaten sandwich, she thought about ordering coffee. But without him there to share it with, she decided against it. She looked at the phone again; so much time yet that afternoon before he would return. She opened the guidebook again to see what it might suggest, and this time an entry for a vintage record store caught her eye. She double-checked that she had all her belongings, wrapped herself in the blue pashmina, and headed off in the store’s direction. When she entered the store, she immediately knew where she was. The store had a familiar scent, and the array of albums evoked the vintage record stores she knew from home. The customers, too, seemed familiar; they could blend seamlessly, Juliette thought, into any vintage record store in New York. These shoppers were not, to say the least, climbing the corporate ladder. Juliette stood out in her more traditional attire and unadulterated hair. She missed Emily. An employee from the store approached her and offered assistance in English. Was there anything in particular she was looking for? Juliette thought for a moment, bit her lip, and thought some more. The record expert waited patiently. Then the name “Oum Kalthoum” sprang from her mouth. Juliette was surprised to realize that this was in fact why she had come to the store in the first place. “Do you have anything by Oum Kalthoum?”


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“I believe we do,” he replied. He walked her over to the counter and asked her to wait. From where she stood, Juliette could seem him flipping through a carton of albums, and after a few minutes, he returned with a record. The cover featured the Mother of Egypt, smiling and wearing a pair of glasses that clearly dated the recording. And across the top was her signature. “I’ll take it,” Juliette stated without hesitation. “Thank you.” Just then her phone pinged. The message from Tareq read that he would return to Berlin by 4 o’clock and asked her to meet him at the main train station then. She replied simply, “yes.” Their reunion in the train station was not dramatic as it had been at the airport. But they had missed each other during the day. Tareq would have liked her company in the train to Halle and back, would have liked to walk around the university with her, and would have liked to have had her near him when he dropped off the book. Now with her before him again, he wondered why he had not asked her to come along on the errand. But at least now the goodbye had turned into hello, and they set out in the direction of the movie theater. They had plenty of time to grab some pizza and catch up on the day. He wanted to hear about the stadium, she wanted to hear about Halle. “But what else did you do today?” he asked. Her tour of the stadium had obviously not occupied her for the whole time they had been apart. “Just wandered,” she replied. She had the record safely in her bag, but wanted to save it for the right moment, which did not feel like then. After pizza, they found coffee, and after coffee, they walked to the theater. They settled into their seats. The theater was nearly empty and remained that way. Juliette made a decision to like the film as much as she possibly could and consoled herself that among the many versions of Romeo and Juliette, this was one that she found less objectionable than the others. When the film ended, she was glad to be out in the night air. As they walked down the theater’s steps, Tareq offered both his arm and his unequivocal opinion. “I do not like this film,” he judged as they crossed the street into a large park. “They did not need to die.” “My point exactly,” Juliette concurred. She would happily acknowledge Shakespeare as one of the greatest authors of the English language, but if she could speak with the master himself, she would tell him that she and Tareq agreed: they did not need to die at the end. “Why did your parents call you Juliette?” Tareq was befuddled. “Juliette, oh Juliette, wherefore art thou Juliette?” “She’s the one who says that actually. It’s Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo.”


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“Of course,” he said, his indignation rising. “But why did your parents call you Juliette? Did they not know the story?” Tareq’s question made Juliette practically guffaw. Could it be that anyone might not know Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet? “I tried using my middle name for a while. But that one isn’t any better.” “What is your middle name?” “Amelia.” “That is beautiful. What is the matter with that name?” “In the United States, when I was growing up, the most famous Amelia was Earhart. A pioneering aviator, but she died tragically, too.” There was nothing funny about Amelia Earhart’s disappearance and death, but they both laughed in spite of themselves. “So I stuck with Juliette. That Juliet,” she pointed back in the direction of the theater, “she’s dead anyway. It’s my name now.” “Yes, you are right. And it is a beautiful name. I like it. But I would not choose it. It is a difficult name, I think.” And it had been a difficult name. For as long as she could remember, when she introduced herself, people would say, “Like Romeo and Juliet?” And if they didn’t say it out loud, she was sure they were thinking it, placing her squarely in a 400 year-old melodrama about two star-crossed teenagers so destabilized by love that they had killed themselves in their machinations to be together. People would say, “Oh, what a romantic name.” But to Juliette, it wasn’t a romantic name at all. It was the name of a fictional girl who made rash decisions to disastrous effect. “I did not know this when we selected your cartouche,” he continued. “It’s okay. After the cartouche, I think I started liking my name better. What about Tareq? Tareq, Tareq, wherefore art thou Tareq?” “Ah, this is a story.” His eyes gleamed. “You will see I have been a troublesome creature since my birth. Tareq means ‘he who knocks at the door in the middle of the night.’ Or maybe you would say, he who pounds on the door in the middle of the night.” “How did your parents choose that?” “My mother always said that I woke her up to give birth to me. I was born in the middle of the night, and too early in my mother’s pregnancy. She said it was as though I was pounding on the door and begging to enter life. And when I was born, I was cross. She said I looked at her as if to say, Why did you keep me in there so long!” “I’d like to meet your mother,” Juliette thought out loud. But as soon as she said this, she realized that in all likelihood, she would never meet his mother. In some


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parallel universe, though, Juliette thought, she would tell his mother how Tareq had pounded at her door in the middle of the night, too. “One thing I did not understand. What does it mean, Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized?” “That’s a Christian concept,” Juliette explained. “Your given name is sometimes called your baptismal name. It’s the name given to a child officially during the baptism ritual in the church. It’s the name that sort of makes you who you are.” Tareq listened closely. “So a new name for Romeo would erase the thing that kept Romeo and Juliet apart?” “Yes, that’s right.” “But would it have worked?” They left that question unanswered as they walked through the park. “Here it is!” Tareq exclaimed. He pointed to an oversized, outdoor chessboard nestled between low hills. “Care for a rematch?” “That depends,” Juliette replied. “How do you feel about losing?” The truth was, Tareq didn’t care at all. When he looked at Juliette, he knew he was winning in the only ways that mattered. Chess was just a game, but his world with Juliette was life itself. They moved a few pieces around, but it was too dark and too cold to play for long. “Wait,” he told her, “I want a photo of you with the queen.” He snapped the photo and confirmed that it had exposed sufficiently in the dim light. “Come here,” she called to him, moving the king piece next to the queen. “Sit here.” They sat on the ground together in front of the pieces, and Juliette took the camera from his hand. Tareq put his arm around her shoulders and pressed his head to hers. Juliette nestled close to him and held the camera out at arm’s length. “Smile,” she said. “On three.” “One, two, three,” they chanted together and were blinded by the flash. The resulting portrait captured them with their eyes closed, their faces not quite centered, and their mouths joyfully open. “Perfect,” Juliette pronounced. They continued through the park, making their way past the beloved Fairy Tale Fountain, now illuminated for the Festival. The fountain area was full of couples who, like Tareq and Juliette, did not want to say goodnight. Juliette and Tareq were out of place only because they were not holding hands. But they let their bodies sway into one another as they walked.


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They continued through the park, heading roughly in the direction of the station that would take them back toward her hotel. Juliette spied a bench situated off the path and motioned them there. “Sit down. I have a surprise for you.” “A surprise? What kind of surprise?” he queried as he took a seat. “Close your eyes and put out your hands.” He complied immediately. She sat down next to him and placed the album flat on his upturned palms, the photo and the autograph just visible in the moonlight. “Okay,” she instructed. “You can look now.” Tareq looked down, looked at Juliette, and then looked down again. “Where did you find this?” he asked, his tone almost reverent. “At a vintage record shop in Charlottenburg,” she replied, deeply gratified by his reaction. “Juliette,” he uttered. That was the only word he could find. And then he took her in his arms and kissed her on her mouth. Juliette stood up suddenly. Why she did this, she was not sure, but by the time she knew what she had done, she was standing before him, her fingers covering her mouth. “Juliette, I am sorry,” Tareq apologized instantly. “I have offended you. Forgive me. I was just so happy. The album. Your gift.” “It’s okay, Tareq,” she replied, catching her breath and rubbing her hand on her forehead. “Really, it’s okay. I’m happy, too. I don’t know why…I just need…’’ “What do you need?” he asked, rising from the park bench. “Anything.” “I need to think.” They stood opposite one another, a distance now between them that was not there before. “Please hold me,” she whispered. Tareq pulled her under his chin. She burrowed her face in his chest and began to cry. She cried for how much she had missed him that day, exploring Berlin on her own, and for the peace she had felt when she saw him again at the train station. Did she dare to cry for joy? Not with the pain of parting so present in her mind. She cried for their goodbyes. She saw the elevator in Cairo close, the door severing them in two. She cried for what they had shared in Cairo, and for what they had left undone, unspoken. She wept for the pyramids. She wept for Mark. There would be no elevator at the airport in a few days, but there would be a goodbye. I am terrified of being in love, she acknowledged to herself. Love was so different now, so paralyzingly self-aware. She and Mark had met on their first day of college. They were still teenagers. The excitement of falling in love then had eclipsed any sense of fear. But now love was as much about loss as anything else.


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“I’m making your shirt wet,” she sniffled. “Your tears honor me.” “I’m glad you feel that way,” she found the ability to chuckle. “I thought I was just making a mess.” She rested her forehead on his chest for a moment longer and then raised her face to his. Even in the darkness, she could read the devotion in his eyes. “I just need some time to think.” They sat down on the bench again, side by side. Tareq wrapped one arm around her shoulder and took her hand with the other. “I’m frightened,” she said, looking out at the dark garden. “I am as well.” “You are?” She was genuinely unsure if he meant that statement, or if he were only trying to comfort her. He seemed he could be frightened of nothing. “Yes.” He squeezed her hand to comfort them both. “We are old enough to understand consequences.” “I’m going back to New York in a few days.” “I know this.” “What happens after that?” She remembered herself in an aqua blue dress on a balcony in Alexandria, telling him that she would miss him. She didn’t want to miss him again. He turned toward her and ran his fingers over the pashmina that swirled around her neck and then took the cloth firmly with both hands. They would part again, that much was certain. They sat on the bench until midnight, when the last lights of the festival flickered off. “Time to go,” he ordered them both. “It is late.”

After Cairo ~ Walls Come Down

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Walls Come Down When Juliette awoke that morning, she could not at first tell the time of day, the day of the year or the place where that day would unfold. She had slept the sort of sleep that reorients the subconscious in its dreams. Only when she rolled over and noticed the curtains at the window did she remember that she was in Berlin. And what happened last night? A few seconds passed before she could regain focus. He kissed me. I jumped. She viewed the scene in her memory from a distance. He apologized. There was no need for that. That she remembered clearly. I cried. I said I was scared. He said he was scared. That was unexpected. We walked back here. We said goodbye. Had she kissed him goodbye? I fell asleep. She could recount the sequence of events, but that would not help her master them. She looked at the clock. He will be here in 15 minutes. Nothing like a deadline to focus the mind. She laughed to herself. At least I still have a sense of humor. She got up, showered quickly and threw on some clothes. Her purse was still ready to go from the night before. From the room it would be just out the door, into the elevator and out to the lobby. He would be waiting, and she wanted him to be there. But she was nervous now – more nervous than when the plane had landed a week earlier. Their relationship had shifted, and any plausible deniability of what had passed between them in Cairo or in Berlin was now gone. Everything going forward would be a conscious, active decision. They both felt fear. Probably healthy, she thought. One option was to run. To say to herself, and maybe to him, that this had all been a mistake: she should never have let herself get so near to him in Cairo or in Berlin. Cut the losses and the gains and retreat into a vacuum that could not support fear or any other emotion. But that would not do. Neither of them were runners. They were both climbers by nature. She pushed the elevator button and heard the generic chime that seemed to be the sound of every elevator in the world. The door opened, and there he was. “I was worried,” he said. He stood in the elevator doorway, not in, not out. “Am I late?” “A little. You are well?” “I’m fine. I overslept.”


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“Good morning,” he said, his manners returning to him. “Good morning,” she replied, adjusting her handbag on her shoulder. “Coffee?” “Yes, coffee,” she sighed. The mention of this one beverage had the ability to put the universe itself in order. Over coffee, she knew what to do and what to say. She could slip into this comforting ritual of morning and figure everything else out from there. He motioned her into the elevator and stood a few inches away, his arms neatly at his side. He held a book in the hand nearest her, the hand that, Juliette thought, rightly belonged at her back. But he was not far away. Quite on the contrary: the adjustment in their physical distance was the result of their emotional proximity. The nearness of their hearts pushed their bodies apart. As the elevator door opened, they could see that the dining room was empty; they were the morning stragglers this time. The wait staff was already beginning to pack up the bread, cheese, meats and pickles on offer, so Tareq and Juliette grabbed what they could from the buffet before the trays disappeared into the kitchen. Tareq arrived at their table first, in time to pull out Juliette’s chair. Once she was seated, he sat down across from her. “Breakfast here always seems like lunch to me,” she made light conversation. “But at least I got this.” She held up yogurt in a clay pot. “This I will miss. At home, yogurt pretty much comes in plastic tubs.” “I remember,” he replied. “Remember?” “Yes. I was once in Virginia. I remember the yogurt.” The look on his face made clear it was not a pleasant memory. “What were you doing in Virginia?” “I attended a conference there when I was studying for my master’s degree.” “You have a master’s degree?” “You are surprised?” “No, not surprised,” she hurried to tell him. “There’s just so much I don’t know about you.” “What would you like to know?” “What did you study?”


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“Conflict Resolution,” he waited for the look on her face. “The conference was at the School for Conflict Analysis and Resolution at George Mason University.” “That sounds intense.” “Not really. Not in comparison to work.” He could not have put it more plainly or more poignantly. In a flash, Juliette understood that this was one of the most significant wedges in her relationship with Mark. She would never know – could never know – the intensity of his daily routines. “They took us to Monticello one day,” he said grandly. “It was beautiful.” “I once wrote an article about Thomas Jefferson.” “Now I learn something about you.” “You know he was the first Secretary of State as well as a President.” “So I may hold him accountable for my difficulty in obtaining a visa?” Juliette laughed heartily. “He was from Virginia. You know the unofficial motto of Virginia? Virginia is for lovers.” “Funny motto for a state called Virginia.” He raised his eyebrows playfully. “It’s sort of a joke in honor of Thomas Jefferson. He had a reputation for being quite charming,” Juliette explained. “And did you write your article about his charm?” Tareq teased. “Sort of,” Juliette answered, amused. “When Jefferson was in Paris, he fell in love with a woman named Maria Cosway. She was an artist and extremely intelligent. They corresponded until his death.” “Did she love him, too? “It certainly seems that way from her letters.” “Then what happened?” “She was married.” Tareq nodded slowly. It had never occurred to him that he might have something in common with Thomas Jefferson. “His most famous letter to her is called the Head and Heart Letter,” Juliette explained further. “Pages and pages of his head arguing with his heart, trying to decide if he should love her.” “What did he decide?”


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“In the end, he sided with his head. She was married. That seemed to settle the question.” “As it did for us,” Tareq said. “Then.” Juliette allowed her eyes to tell him that she knew he was right. Then was the operative word; it was the only word that mattered now. Her mind darted first to the kiss from the night before, and then to the kiss in Cairo. The Cairo kiss had been his kiss, not hers, but she’d been glad he’d given it. If she had it to do all over again, she’d still take that kiss in Cairo. She’d take everything in Cairo again and hold onto it then, now and forever. And this was the problem. At that moment a waiter came to their table to take their dishes and to indicate that it was time for them to leave. “Where to?” she asked. “I have an idea,” he said, his tone brightening. “The Palace of Sanssouci. An hour away. We may walk in the gardens.” Juliette liked the idea of gardens after the weight of Berlin. It was an inspiring city, but it was also an exhausting catalogue of violence, war and division. To be in nature, among trees that inflicted no harm, never looted or lit fires, built no monuments and aspired to no false arrogance, would be a welcome change. He pulled her chair out and edged a bit closer than he had in the elevator. “I’ll just run up to the room,” she said. “Be right back.” Tareq watched her as she walked to the elevator, fixing his eyes as the door opened, she entered, and the door closed again. He ran his hand through his hair and looked around the lobby. She makes me happy, he thought to himself. Such a simple idea: to be happy. But to be without her was not the opposite of happy. To be without her again would be empty, void not only of happiness, but of a part of himself. She returned quickly enough, and they set out for the train station under fair skies. Once in the train, they dug into the book Tareq had brought along – a guidebook just for Sanssouci that he had found in his cousin’s bookshelf. He read aloud to her, skipping parts here and there, and re-reading paragraphs she found interesting. By the time they arrived, they both felt prepared to appreciate their surroundings. The Palace of Sanssouci, they had learned, was meant to be a home. A grand home, to be sure, suitable for a ruler like Frederick the Great, but a home. It was to Sanssouci, intentionally named without care, that Frederick brought his dogs and his friends. Here he entertained musicians and writers and philosophers. Here he had terraces landscaped for the cultivation of wine, and here he was buried. But while meant as a retreat from the more formal court, the interior still reflected a regal existence. To Tareq and Juliette, the rooms were as lavish as those at Charlottenburg, and they certainly supported a king’s life of leisure. But some spaces were as intimate as they were interior. Tareq pressed open the door to the library, accessible only from a narrow passage off a bedroom, and held it open for Juliette. Once inside, he closed the door quietly behind them. They stood in the


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middle of the circular room and turned around together, eyeing the decorated spines of the library’s 2,000 volumes. The books surrounded them in a pleasantly claustrophobic way. “It’s like swimming in a sea of knowledge,” Juliette whispered. Very little of the palace appealed to Tareq or Juliette in an I’d like this at home sort of way, but they both felt at ease in the Flower Room, where Voltaire stayed when he visited. Its warm yellow walls with their paintings of bright flowers and exotic birds and animals gave a pleasant sense of play to an otherwise formal environment. But the gardens were the reason to visit Sanssouci, even as the days shortened and the sun sat lower in the sky. As they stepped onto the terrace, Juliette tucked her pashmina around her neck and buttoned up her coat, and Tareq followed suit. She brushed her shoulder into his. “At least I’m used to this,” she told him. “This must feel arctic to you.” “Best to keep walking,” he replied, and he led her down the broad steps that cascaded to the river below. At the bottom of the terrace, they turned in the direction of the Dragon House that now served as a restaurant on the palace grounds. After lunch, they delved back into the garden and happened upon a single-storey, cylindrical structure with a verdigris dome and columns. They walked the few steps that led up to the gallery and circled once around. Pausing at a statue of a woman, Tareq opened the book. “This is the Temple of Friendship,” he confirmed as he walked down the temple’s stairs and looked back at the structure. “Sit?” he pointed to the steps. He started to take off his coat to put it on the stone steps for her. “It’s dry,” she stopped him. “And it’s also cold. You need your coat.” They sat down and looked out at the garden. No flowers bloomed, but the garden still insisted on its glory even with its fading leaves. “Tareq, about last night,” she began. “What about last night, Juliette?” His voice was as gentle as a morning dove. “I just don’t want to make a mess of things.” “Good,” he declared. “I have changed my shirt.” She gave his shoulder a shove and then buried her head in her hands. Eyelids closed, she pictured the night before, the evergreens clearly visible against the night sky, a nearly full moon above. When she opened her eyes again, the sun peeked at her through her fingers. “Juliette,” Tareq took her hands from her face and held them in his, “there is no mess.” “But there could have been.”


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“How?” “In Cairo, I mean.” “In Cairo, yes,” he concurred. “But we are now in Berlin.” Her engine of resistance stalled. He was right. Berlin and Cairo were two different places, two different times, two different realities. But one thing bridged the two in her mind. “Tareq,” she dropped his hands, “if I had the capacity to betray Mark in Cairo, what’s to say I don’t have the capacity to betray you, too?” Tareq fell silent. He had never thought of it that way. “Did you betray Mark in Cairo?” She had reviewed the history many times in her mind, but his question still caught her off guard. “In some sense, yes. My heart went to you. My body didn’t. But I couldn’t stop my heart.” “And mine went to you. Perhaps mine went first.” “For a while, after I got back to New York,” Juliette continued as much for herself as for him, “I replayed everything in my mind, trying to understand what had happened.” She paused and closed her eyes. “And then I decided it was better to forget, better not to understand.” Tareq knew those thoughts and feelings as well. “But now,” she opened her eyes fully, “I need to remember. I need to understand. I have to make sense of it. If I don’t, I don’t know if I can trust myself again.” He picked up a twig lying by his feet and began drawing figure-eights in the dirt. His feelings for her then, like now, risked no vow and broke no promise. But for Juliette, he saw clearly, the facts of her own heart had shaken her to the core. “What happened in Cairo?” she asked both herself and Tareq. “What happened in Cairo, Juliette, is that I fell in love with a married woman.” “And I fell in love with a man who wasn’t my husband,” Juliette paralleled. The facts of the matter were now before them. “Juliette, I believe I could not stop myself. My heart, it ran ahead on its own. If I could have stopped it, I would have. I knew you were married.” “Wise men say,” Juliette began with an air of resignation. “You know the song?” “Only fools rush in,” he continued, half-singing, half-sighing. “But it is true. I do not believe I could help it. And I feel no remorse,” he shook his head at himself. “Perhaps I should, but I do not, not even toward Mark. In fact, I hold him responsible!” His tone was mocking, but he was also serious. “If he had come to Cairo as he promised, he would have met you at the airport, not me.”


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“I’m glad you met me there, though.” “As am I. Now.” He threw the twig in his hand off to the side. “But when he called to ask that I meet you, I was irritated. I said, Of course. But I thought, You do not know the burden you hand me. You think you only ask me to meet her. But really you ask me to disappoint her.” His annoyance with Mark was severe. “You would not be looking for me,” he spoke now to Juliette. “How would we find each other? So I wrote your name on a sheet of paper. Only Juliette. I did not know your second name. I knew that your second name was not Mark’s name, but I did not know it.” “You were very formal,” Juliette recalled. “You were even wearing a suit.” “Of course,” Tareq replied, completely unaware of how odd that sounded to her. Juliette knew no other man who would wear a suit in sweltering heat to meet a stranger at the airport. “And then he did not come for you.” Juliette remembered Mark’s absence all too well. “And then I went to Gaza to find him,” she recalled. Tareq threw back his head and covered his eyes with his hands. He pulled his hands slowly down over his face, shaking his head at her all over again. “Tareq, I’m sorry about that. Did I even tell you at the time how sorry I was?” Some regrets, Juliette thought to herself, can last a lifetime. Memories flooded her mind of her futile attempt to see Mark and her embarrassment when she called Tareq to pick her up. “You gotta’ call someone to pick you up,” the soldier had told her, handing her his cell phone. Tareq was the only person she could call, and the only person she had wanted to call. “I’m so sorry, Tareq. You must have been shocked when I called.” “I do not like receiving calls from the Gaza border, this is true,” was all Tareq said. “And the drive. What was it round trip for you? 12 hours? More?” He did not answer, and the silence reminded her of the long drive back to Cairo, the tension thick between them, like a wall. “I wasn’t angry with you,” he began. “No,” he corrected himself, “I was angry with you. You had put yourself in danger. But,” he looked at her with respect, “you did so out of devotion. I envied Mark that.” He caressed her hand. “I was furious with Mark.” “It was stupid of me, I know that now. And if you hadn’t come, I don’t know what I would have done.” “But I did come,” he ran the back of his hand along her cheek. “I came.” His eyes were as soft as his voice. But then, in an instant, Tareq’s voice turned stormy. “And the whole time I thought: Mark, you fool!” His hands cursed into the air. “But I also remember that I knew I had no choice. I could not leave you there. I


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picked you up at the airport out of obligation to Mark. But I drove to the border because it was you.” That was news to Juliette, and the revelation triggered a realization of her own. “Maybe that’s the reason I went to Gaza,” she considered for the first time. “Maybe after spending time with you, I needed to remind myself of Mark.” “I believe I knew by then what you were to me,” he concluded. “And I was glad when you appeared again at my café.” “I knew you were angry when you dropped me back at the hotel. I couldn’t leave it at that. I had to see you again.” “And then you beat me at chess,” he flashed his eyes at her. “A fine way to say thank you!” He waved his finger at her good-naturedly. “I did beat you at chess,” she recalled. “You took the time to play chess with me.” She recalled holding the queen in her hand. “I had a husband who worked thousands of miles away from home, I’d come all the way to Cairo to be with him, and he wasn’t even there. But you gave me your time.” She knew there was no benefit in making such comparisons; Mark and Tareq were completely different people in different circumstances. But she needed Tareq to know how much his time had meant to her. Her thoughts now wandered from memory to memory of Tareq and Cairo. The jumble was freeing. Sense wasn’t always a matter of order. “Do you remember that stupid quiz?” “The one I failed?” “The one that concluded you were definitely not marriage material.” “I remember.” “You made fun of the magazine.” “Perhaps I was not fair,” he offered. “No, you were right. And when I went back home, I took stock of my work, my writing. I realized I didn’t want to devote so much time to the magazine.” “Really?” he asked. He had never intended such an impact. But the quiz had changed him, too. It was a ridiculous set of questions, he knew, but it also niggled at him. What was he doing with his life, not sharing it with someone? Why wasn’t he married? Was he just waiting for her? “You asked me before what happened in Cairo,” he interrupted himself. “In Cairo I forgot that the only reason that I was with you was that Mark was not.” They both paused for a moment. “I forgot, too, Tareq. And I think I was content to forget.”


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“And then I did not think at all. I just kissed you. And I felt happy in my heart.” “I felt happy in my heart, too, Tareq.” “And I began to deceive myself,” Tareq recounted. “In the train to Alexandria, I told myself you could stay in Cairo. With me. At the wedding, I was happy to be with you in a way I had no right to be.” “I remember,” she whispered. She could feel his hand on her back. “I went to the balcony to think. When you found me, I wanted to tell you how I felt, to ask you to stay. I gave no thought to what this would mean, for you or for me.” He folded his arms on his knees and bowed his head. Juliette pulled herself closer to him. “My heart ached when you danced with Yasmeen,” she said into his ear. “I liked Yasmeen. I could even see you with her. But I couldn’t bear the thought of your being with anyone but me. I had no right to feel that way; I knew that. In that moment, I knew I’d lost the battle to keep my heart safe.” He looked up at her, his arms still clenching his knees. “Neither of our hearts were safe,” he observed. “But love is not safe.” “When we got back to the hotel…” she began. “I thought I understood your meaning.” “You did understand.” “Then what?” “I wanted to see the pyramids with you.” “I let myself believe you were mine alone there.” “I was.” Her eyes graced his face with the truth. She had promised Mark she’d wait for him so they could visit the pyramids together. While she waited for him in Cairo, she had seen pyramids from a distance; it had seemed the pyramids were visible at every turn. But she had refused invitations to go to them. But that morning, she broke her promise to Mark. Tareq had kept his distance all day, from the elevator door to the gardens of Sanssouci, but now he opened his arms to enfold her. “Please,” she accepted his embrace. In the privacy of his neck, she found the courage to remember. “If Mark hadn’t been in the hotel lobby when we got back….” “Yes.” “I just know that when the elevator closed, I didn’t know who I was betraying more, you or Mark.”


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“I knew I would never see you again.” Traces of that agony were still audible in Tareq’s voice. “But here we are.” “Yes, here we are.” He loosened his hold on her, held out his hand and pulled her up from the steps. “Here we are. Walk?” They continued through the garden, turning back toward the main palace. Tareq’s hand was now again at her back. There was no path in this part of the garden, but the dense trees in the distance indicated the location of the river. As they neared the riverbank, they found a quiet spot with a clear view of the terraces on the other side. “Did you go with Mark to the pyramids?” Tareq had been wondering this for nearly two years. “Yes.” She replied honestly. He looked resigned. It would have been unrealistic to expect a different answer. “But you were everywhere. Oum Kalthoum was on the radio, and when I asked the driver to turn up the volume, he switched to a different channel. And the song that was playing should have meant nothing to me. But instead it undid me.” “What song?” “Never Knew What I Missed Until I Kissed You.” “The Everly Brothers.” “You know it? “Of course. You don’t realize what you do to me.” It wasn’t clear to Juliette if he were quoting the song or saying the words to her for himself. “The words made my heart cry. It sounds so trite, but it was like they were singing at me, talking to me about you. But I was there with Mark, and those words, that silly song, it should have been for him. But it wasn’t.” Juliette had buried this particular memory in one of her strongest vaults. But now the locks blew open and all of the memories of that day exploded into the air above her. “And Mark asked me about my cartouche. He asked me if his name were on it. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. And my need to hide you from him made me realize how much you meant.” She stared straight ahead now, her body stiffening. “And then I was angry. Angry he wasn’t at the airport. Angry that there was no message from him when I arrived at the hotel. Angry that it took him so long to call. Angry that he wasn’t coming and didn’t even know when he’d get there. That he sent you to me with another message that he was delayed. That the soldier in Gaza contacted Mark’s people but I couldn’t speak with him. And after Gaza, he was angry with me on the phone. Angry with me! I understood on some level, but I practically hung up on him. And then I cried.”


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She retreated slowly from her anger and then turned to Tareq. “I thought to myself, This is the person I was waiting for to go see the pyramids? And I was glad I had gone with you.” “I am glad you went with me, too.” He took her hand. “I am glad we went together.

After Cairo ~ Crossing the Border

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Crossing the Border

When Juliette entered the lobby the next morning, Tareq was already seated at what was now their table. “The waiter recognized me and brought me coffee,” he told her, pleased that their breakfasts were now an established routine. “What would you like to do today?” he probed, hoping she would have no opinion. “It’s our last day,” she replied as if that were specific enough. “Could I persuade you onto a boat?” Juliette pursed her lips as she sat down opposite him, stopping short of an eye roll. She did not swim and did not like being on the water. But she’d floated on the Nile with him and no harm done, and the Spree was not nearly the size of the Nile. “Okay,” she conceded. “What do you have in mind?” “We can take a boat to Charlottenburg and back. After that, lunch.” “And then tonight?” “I have a plan already.” “You do?” She paused, waiting for more information, but none came. “Any hints?” “No.” One word. That was it. They finished breakfast and headed out on foot toward the river. When they got to the dock, Tareq reconfirmed that she was willing to board. He pointed out that the boat was barge-like, broad and stable, with life vests stored visibly. “Yes,” she said aloud, but in her head, she wasn’t as sure. They climbed onto the boat and nestled into a bench seat along the side. “When I come to New York, I will teach you to swim.” “Will you now?” She liked the idea of his coming to New York, but she was not at all sure about swim lessons. “Yes. It is important that you are able to swim. This is a matter of safety.” “I don’t know, Tareq. People don’t really learn to swim at my age.”


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“They do not quit smoking at my age, either.” This time he had won the chess game. “Okay. If you get your visa and come to New York, you can teach me to swim.” His smile was triumphant as he spread his arms along the back of the seat. She sat close to him and surveyed the water below. The view made her uneasy, and she steadied her nerves with his knee. It would be better to keep looking ahead. Tareq and Juliette were nearly alone on the boat. The weather was on the cusp of being inhospitable for sailing. A season was coming to an end. “I’m flying back tomorrow,” she reminded them both. “Saying goodbye will be different this time,” Tareq countered. “Yes, it will,” she agreed. “I will miss you.” “I will miss you, too.” That part would be the same. “But no goodbyes this time.” Tareq was emphatic. They spent the rest of the cruise mainly in silence, occasionally pointing to something on land that they remembered from the preceding days. But just being in each other’s company was enough. The boat returned safely to the dock. “We made it,” he said to her with a smile. He didn’t want to rub it in, but he did want to make a point. “Now lunch. I have made a reservation at the Café Freischwimmer.” “Fry-what?” Juliette asked. “Freischwimmer. Frei means free, and Schwimmer means swimmer. What they mean together, I do not know.” They both pondered that for a moment. “Juliette, why do you not swim?” “Honestly, I don’t think I know anymore. Maybe I never knew.” “Did you ever try?” “As a kid. A few times. But I just never trusted myself in the water.” “What is to trust in the water?” “The water was always deep and dark and cold. Where I grew up, everyone swam in lakes. There weren’t many swimming pools. Maybe I could have handled a pool. But the lake. You can’t see to the bottom.”


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By this time they had walked past several stations that would have taken them to the café. So they kept walking and arrived hungry at the restaurant. They stepped onto what appeared to be a covered float tethered to the bank of a narrow tributary of the river. Other structures, which looked like houseboats or decks, hugged both banks of the waterway. The distance from bank to bank was friendly and could almost support conversation. A few intrepid kayakers glided past, taking advantage of the last days of the year that the weather would allow such exploration in relative comfort. It was almost too cool to eat outside, but they buttoned their coats, sat in the sun, and took refuge in warm food. “When you swim,” Tareq continued their earlier conversation, “your head is beneath the water and you keep your eyes closed.” “And?” “So you cannot look to the bottom.” “I’d use goggles.” That much was clear. “And when you swim, you stay near the surface. The depth is not important unless the water is too shallow. If the water is shallow, it is dangerous to jump.” “This isn’t helping, Tareq.” She eyed him from over a spoonful of steaming soup. “But I am right,” he insisted. “Deep water is safer than shallow water.” “As long as you can swim. And assuming there’s something you can hold on to.” “I will teach you to swim.” “And the thing to hold on to…?” “Yes.” The waiter came with the check, and Tareq glanced at his phone. “It is time to return you to your hotel. You should rest. Tonight will be late.” “Tareq, I can’t remember the last time someone told me to take a nap, but I think it was in elementary school.” “Trust me. You will be happy I suggested it.” They walked leisurely back to the hotel under Berlin’s ubiquitous trees. Along the way, delicatessens and bakeries generously shared their aromas, and they stopped occasionally to peek in storefronts that offered everything from vintage clothing to high-end kitchen utensils to works of modern art. The walk was not long enough to be tiring, but eventually they sat down at a café with outdoor tables and optimistic umbrellas that beckoned them for a cup of coffee until the shadows shooed them back to Juliette’s hotel.


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“Dinner will be a more formal affair,” he said as they parted, but this was the only information he would provide. She could do nothing but agree to be ready at the appointed time. That evening when Tareq returned to the hotel, the lobby was crowded with people. The only free seat was the uncomfortable chair he remembered from when she had checked into the hotel. He tried it again briefly, shifted uneasily and then gave up. He had arrived early to meet her, and he would stand while he waited. When she appeared in the elevator door, he met her quickly and took her arm in his. “You look lovely,” he said. He ran a finger along the curve of her cheekbone and then saw his hand before him and drew it back quickly. “Not so bad yourself,” she replied. Her reply was off-handed, but washed over a deep belief. To her he was fundamentally beautiful. She could not define beauty, either for her own time and place, even less assuredly for the sweep of history. But she knew that something in beauty was transcendent. Something about beauty linked the head of Nefertiti to all the rest of time. A quality of grace, she mused, that found physical manifestation in the young and old, in visages of varying hues, in those with physical forms that might casually be described as perfect as well as those embodying a different type of perfection. Grace asserted itself from within and radiated out as beauty. “Where to?” she asked. “The Adlon.” “The Adlon?” She replied, half-wondering if there might be more than one Adlon. “That’s fancy.” “It is our last night in Berlin.” Tareq wanted it to be special, and the historic hotel was also near the final surprise for the night. The route to the hotel took them past Checkpoint Charlie again, but it now felt routine to Juliette to cross the border. When they turned onto Berlin’s famed Unter den Linden, they found both the Adlon and The Brandenburg Gate illuminated for the Festival of Lights. The hotel’s normally sedate exterior was now aqua, and circles of gray radiated out randomly from unpredictable centers, as though someone were throwing stones into a vertical pond. The hotel’s interior lighting, in contrast, cast a faintly yellow glow that evoked an eternal sunrise. They looked around for the dining room, and ended up following another couple who seemed to know where they were going. Once in the dining room, they were shown to a table near a window with a view of the Brandenburg Gate. “This sort of feels like we’re on a date,” she said as he took the pashmina from her shoulders and helped her into her seat. He folded the pashmina neatly and placed it over the back of her chair.


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“I think,” he conspired into her ear, “that may be because we are.” Juliette could feel his warmth on her now bare neck. He took his own seat and straightened his shoulders. “Is that alright?” “Yes,” she reassured him. “It’s alright.” Tareq relaxed his posture. “You know, Grand Hotel is based on this place,” she informed him. “Grand Hotel?” “The movie. With Greta Garbo. You know, I vant to be alone”. Tareq knew the line, but hadn’t known where it came from. He looked at her intently. “I do not want to be alone, Juliette.” He reached across the table and pressed his fingertips into hers. “Is this alright, too?” Juliette looked at the color of his hand next to her paler skin and knew the combination was beautiful. “I want it to be alright, Tareq.” For the rest of the dinner, they talked as though this evening were an insignificant middle of an ordinary week rather than the last night of a journey that had changed everything. At different points, each of them touched on a memory from their days in Berlin, but they stopped short of tales from Cairo. And neither mentioned New York. “What’s next?” she asked when the final plates were cleared from the table and the bill was settled. “Ah,” he said, rising from his chair. He pulled her chair back from the table and offered his arm. “Something you will like.” Brisk air greeted them as they walked out of the hotel. Juliette pulled the blue pashmina higher around her neck, and Tareq put his arm firmly around her as he flipped up the collar on his coat. “It is never this cold in Egypt!” he exclaimed. “It can get a lot colder than this in New York,” Juliette alerted him, as though making an important disclosure. They crossed toward the Brandenburg Gate, lit up for the festival like a rainbow promising who knew what. “Do you think we can walk under it?” Juliette asked. They made their way through the crowds that had gathered for the lights and at last stood directly below the Gate. They were now straddling east and west, occupying a former no man’s land, and validating a united Berlin. “Come,” he hurried her. “Our tickets are for 11.” He pointed toward the Reichstag’s towering glass dome. “We’re going there?” she asked. She’d mentioned visiting the dome a few times, but he had always brushed it aside, as though it were of no interest. “I thought you didn’t want to go,” she said.


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“I very much wanted to go,” he replied, pleased he had managed to keep his plan a secret. “But I wanted to go when the moon was full.” He glanced up to the moon. Its radiance easily outshone the illumination Festival of Lights. “I ordered these tickets the day you sent me your itinerary. And the sky has cooperated. No clouds.” She tossed back her head, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders. “You think of everything, don’t you?” “Sometimes,” he replied with an appropriately self-satisfied smile. “Sometimes.” They entered the building and made their way to the elevator for the Reichstag’s roof. Stepping out of the elevator, Juliette’s eyes widened both at the night air and at the elegance of the structure before them. The dome was even more impressive at this level than from the street below. They crossed to the dome’s entrance along with the current of people from the elevator. The dome was busy, even at this hour, and the size of the crowd surprised Juliette. When they entered, Juliette first looked up at the spiraling walkway above their heads. They peeked down at the empty Parliament chamber, visible in the dome’s central light shaft, and then began their ascent of the spiral, taking in the cityscape with each curve. Eventually they arrived at the viewing platform with its large open-air eye above. The moon shone bright and full. “Reminds me of the Moonlight Sonata,” Juliette said. “That’s always been one of my favorites.” Tareq nodded in agreement. “It is very beautiful. The waves of the left hand are constant. And the crying out of the right hand.” “The crying out?” “Yes. I always hear Beethoven crying out with his right hand.” “What’s he crying for?” “Not what. Who. For Juliette,” he replied. “What?” “Who,” he repeated. “Giulietta Guicciardi. She was his student. Briefly. He fell in love with her, at least for a time.” “I had no idea,” Juliette said. “But it certainly sounds like the work of a man in love.” “Very much in love,” he confirmed, turning his body toward hers. “His letters were eloquent on the topic. Perhaps like those of Mr. Jefferson to Mrs. Cosway.” But not like any letters from Tareq to Juliette. “Perhaps I ought to have written,” he whispered.


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“I could have written, too.” He put his hand on her back, and they descended the spiral and exited onto to the roof deck. They found an empty stretch of wall looking out to the Fernsehturm. The tower was illumined with a pattern of white dots that, from this distance, looked like fanciful constellations. “Juliette, I should never have kissed you in Cairo.” He had broken a rule, and even if Tareq didn’t feel bad for Mark, he felt bad for the rule. She placed her fingers to his lips to stop his apology. He took her hand and moved it aside. “But I kissed you sincerely, Juliette. You must know this.” “I know, Tareq. I knew that then and I know that now.” Nothing about Tareq was flirtatious. He was disarming and could tease with the best of them, but he was never superficial. “And just because you shouldn’t have kissed me doesn’t mean it was unwelcome.” “After you left,” Tareq chastised himself, “I told myself over and over, Juliette is married!” He turned back toward the wall and looked out into the darkness. “You’re being hard on yourself.” “No, I am realistic. You were married and a Christian.” “I’m not really a practicing Christian.” “Perhaps not. But you were married.” “Rules exist for a reason.” As hard as it could be to accept that statement, she believed it was generally true. She turned him toward her and placed her hands on his arms. “Tareq, if we had been more to each other in Cairo, would you even want to be with me now?” She searched his eyes for an answer. “Tareq, what if…” “You told me you loved me and then left me for another?” His question was matter-of-fact. She nodded. “I know that you would return to me. I know this.” “And what would you do when I returned?” She needed to know how the story would end. “I would open the door when you knocked.” “And I would come in.” She could feel a wound closing. They both looked out onto the city that had mended itself, arms loosely around each other’s waists. The dome closed at midnight, and soon it was time to leave


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the rooftop’s aerie perch. Back on the ground, Tareq reminded her of the time. “I should take you back to your hotel.” “No, Tareq, let’s walk some more.” “Walk? Okay. Let us walk.” “Where to?” Juliette asked. “I do not know.” They wandered, and soon they were at the Holocaust Memorial. The night was still, and they could hear the footsteps of others making their way through the maze of concrete, rectangular blocks. The terrain rose and fell, alternately obscuring and revealing the sea of sarcophagi-like stelae. Each metaphoric coffin occupied the same footprint on the ground, but varied in height, and the overall effect was claustrophobic and disorienting. They held hands and led each other through the narrow aisles, emerging to the east. Without thinking, they headed away from her hotel and then turned toward the river. In all their explorations, Juliette now realized, they had missed this part of the city. “I think this will take us to Bebelplatz,” she said, recalling the map in her mind’s eye. Tareq nodded, and they walked on to the historic square that had hosted the burning of thousands of books. Once at the square, they had to hunt for the memorial itself. The lamps in the plaza assisted as best they could, and eventually Tareq and Juliette saw the light coming from the memorial’s small window set into the ground. They kneeled down to look at the empty bookcases below. After a few minutes, Tareq stood up and offered his hand to Juliette. They stood together in silence and mourned the loss of reason, wherever that loss occurred, and hoped for its return. They crossed a bridge and then accepted the need to turn in the direction of her hotel. Eventually their path veered back to the river, and the dark of night turned bright again as they reached an illuminated stretch of the Wall known for its murals. They lingered on a painting called It Happened in November that depicted people coming through the Wall on the night the Wall became obsolete. “It did happen in November, didn’t it?” she asked him, remembering her time in Cairo. She had never known such heat in November. “I know it did.” “Yes,” he sighed, drawing her toward him. “It was November.” From there they walked back over the river and allowed the route to proceed through parks and squares as it wished, propelling them in the general direction of her hotel. Juliette was sure she was tired, but the sense of fatigue seemed to be someone else’s reality, someone else’s problem. This is an out of body experience, she told herself. But I don’t mind it. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, they noticed an open café. They took a seat inside at a booth near the back. They ordered, and Tareq slid toward her,


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eliminating the distance between them. She put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. “Tired?” he asked. “Yes. You?” “Yes.” He was tired of living without her. “Happy?” she asked. “Yes. You?” “Very.” She couldn’t imagine a more peaceful happiness. A young man with dark, round eyes and a closely cropped beard served their coffees. Tareq thanked him, and the young man replied in thickly accented German. Tareq waited for the server to walk away and then gently lifted Juliette’s cup from her hands and put it next to his. “Juliette,” he began. “Yes, Tareq?” she replied. “Juliette,” he tried to continue. “Yes, Tareq,” she assented. “We are not perfect, Juliette. We make mistakes. It is what we do with our mistakes that matters.” “Or what we don’t do.” “Did Mark ever know?” Tareq could occasionally feel Mark’s cold presence. “I don’t think so.” “But if he had?” Tareq imagined Mark’s rage. “I don’t know.” “You made many sacrifices for him. You did not leave him.” “No, I didn’t.” “Juliette, we must forgive ourselves sometimes. We must forgive each other. I never married. What do I know?” His question was not rhetorical. “I know what I believe. I believe that life is complicated. I believe that love must be more than a promise of faithfulness. Love must be more durable than faithfulness. It must be faith itself. I know the choices you made. The choices we made. I have faith.”


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They drank their coffees without further conversation. At that moment, there was nothing to say. The rising sun, though, pierced through the window of the café, and would not be gainsaid. “Your flight will depart soon,” he said. “I haven’t packed.” “We go then.” He mustered resolve for them both. They caught a taxi to her hotel. Their walk was over, at least for now. Juliette wondered if she should tell him to take the taxi straight to his cousin’s flat and then return for her later, after she’d packed. But before she had completed this thought in her mind, he was out of the taxi and opening her door for her. He took her hand, and they walked together, hand in hand, into the hotel lobby. When they reached the elevator, they stood awkwardly, facing each other, a flood of memories filling the space between them. “Good morning,” he said, placing his hands on her arms. “Good morning,” she replied. It was a very good morning, she thought, one of the best she had ever known. They stood together, both remembering Cairo, both remembering the moment he had kissed her good night, surprising them both. That kiss had made magic, but it had also broken the spell. Tareq had acted then, and unilaterally. He had repeated history in the park and had frightened her. This time he would wait. “Good morning, Tareq,” she whispered. The elevator bell chimed as the doors opened. “Please kiss me good morning.” They entered the elevator together this time. She reached over to press the button and then settled back into the palm of his hand. Once inside the hotel room, they kissed good morning. They kissed for the past and for the present, and for the past giving away to the possibilities of the future. “Juliette,” he breathed her name. She looked up. With his dark hair, pale eyes and delicately curved nose, his face was a crossroads of civilizations and centuries. He was a testament to time and to what time honors. Faces like his existed because people fell in love and crossed borders and tore down walls to be together. “Juliette, you are the one who knocked at my heart in the middle of the night.” “I’m glad you opened the door,” Juliette said, and then the phone rang, jarring them both from that place where airplanes existed only for people who could bear to part. “Don’t answer,” he begged into her neck. “I have to. When you have children, you have to answer the phone. You never know…” He spun her around in the direction of the phone and let go.


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No children were on the line, just the hotel’s front desk. “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary. When is the check out time again? Yes, thank you.” She hung up the phone and looked back at Tareq. “They were asking if I needed help with my luggage. Checkout is 11 am. We need to leave by then anyway. I have to pack. Would you make some coffee?” He looked around the room. “Over there,” she said, “there’s a coffee maker over there.” He walked over to the machine with its packets of something that purported to be coffee. “You would like me to make you coffee with this?” he asked. “I know Tareq, but it will have to do,” she cajoled. He shook his head. “I will make tea.” Juliette pulled out her suitcase and packed up her things. She organized essentials on the bed: passport, carry-on, coat. All set. Tareq now sat on the small sofa, two cups of tea ready and waiting, and observed her every movement. How beautiful she was in the unremarkable motions of life. “Done,” she announced. “Come sit with me,” he invited. She sat beside him, pressing her shoulder against his. “Good morning,” he said, angling toward her and handing her a cup. “Good morning,” she replied, taking the warm cup in her hands. They fell into the same wondering: how many more times would he hand her a cup and say good morning? After a few sips, he glanced at the clock next to the bed. “Time to go.” “Tareq, promise me you won’t forget to email the guy I know at the State Department.” She clung to the lapels of his coat, creating an island for the two of them in the airport hall. “I will write to him. I will come to New York as soon as I am able.” He pulled her closer with one hand, the other still on the handle of her carry-on bag for safekeeping. He pushed the hair away from her face and delicately tucked the strands behind her ears. The clock on their time in Berlin had run out. “I have to go now,” she resolved. “Yes,” he acknowledged the tyranny of the flight schedule. He kissed her forehead and nodded almost imperceptibly. An airport was not, in Tareq’s world, the place for more, and Juliette was fully cognizant of all the emotion packed into that one compact gesture. She kissed him on each cheek. “Tareq, take this,” she handed him a folded piece of paper and whispered in his ear. “After Cairo, I tried to forget you. But I never tried to not love you.”


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Tareq watched as she went through security and disappeared into the airport. He wiped tears from his eyes and then looked at the folded paper in his hands. He opened it and read the words, written in her own hand.

My dear Tareq, Until now, I don’t think I ever understood this poem. I think I only saw it from one side. Now I see it in the round. Love, when it’s really love, is always held in common. It is a trust. Love and faithfulness have now come full circle. Yours, as ever, Juliette Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116 Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

After Cairo ~ Giving Thanks

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Giving Thanks Emily met her mother at the airport. Just to be cheeky, she held up a sign saying “Miss Juliette” to mirror the one her mother had described Tareq as holding when she had arrived in Cairo two years earlier. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?” Juliette joked as they walked to the car. Or maybe the greater risk was that Emily would not recognize her mother. The 10 days in Berlin had been transformative: Juliette walked lightly, smiled freely, and breathed easily. Glasses now seemed distinctly half-full, if not overflowing, and anticipation flooded to the ground like shafts of light. The drive up the Hudson seemed to notice the change, too. Riotous reds and yellows waved brightly in the autumn breeze. The river sparkled in the setting sun, and the traffic, usually thick and irritating, hummed along as though it had never even heard of congestion. And her town’s welcome sign seemed to greet her personally, sensing that she might be a newcomer to the area. And home, once so lonely, now took on a warmer glow. The decaying opalescent leaves that cluttered the front lawn were a welcome transport to memories of pleasant walks in Berlin. Her bright red front door looked especially friendly as she stepped onto the porch, and the doorknob accommodated her by not sticking. “Drop your bag, mom,” Emily ordered. “I’ll take your laundry down to the basement for you. Okay? Then I’ll make dinner.” Juliette was not surprised at her daughter’s thoughtfulness. She had been this way since she was a child. Emily was always the one to run for the first aid kit, give a hug, or sit quietly by if that was what was called for. Sometimes she even saw the shadow on her mother’s forehead before Juliette knew the emotional storm was gathering. She was a most sophisticated bellwether. And since Mark’s death, she had been an absolute rock. “I’m going up for a bath,” Juliette called down to Emily, who was busy sorting the laundry in the basement. Once upstairs, Juliette closed her door and surreptitiously pulled out her phone. She wanted to let Tareq know she was home safely, but she didn’t want Emily to know she was contacting him. Why she felt the need to hide this from Emily, she wasn’t entirely sure, but it felt a little like embarrassment. She messaged him quickly and turned on the hot water. In a matter of seconds, he replied. “Thank you,” he wrote. “Now I may sleep.”


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When Juliette returned downstairs, the table was set and dinner was ready. Emily’s motives for dinner were mixed. She wanted to make sure her mother got a proper meal, but her real mission was information. Emily had her mother’s nose for a story, and she knew there was a good one behind Juliette’s uncharacteristic decision to fly solo, and internationally solo at that. “So how was it?” Emily asked with all the nonchalance she could muster. “Wonderful.” Juliette took a mouthful of pasta. “Fantastic.” “That sounds good. Highlights?” Emily prodded, pouring her mother a glass of wine. “Hmmm, it’s hard to point to any one thing,” Juliette mulled. She paused in thought and then continued, “Well, the Wall is gone. Just the absence of the Wall was amazing in and of itself. When I was there in college, the Wall was one of the main reasons you went to Berlin.” She took another bite. “And then there’s all the stuff that is there to see.” She described Nefertiti, the blue glass interior of the Memorial Church and the organ music, the Olympic Stadium. And the lights! The Festival of Lights was beyond what Juliette had imagined. The coffee was good, too, and she was sure Emily would like the city. She didn’t mention the Hotel Adlon, the Reichstag, or the moonlit walk back to Kreuzberg. She did not mention Tareq. “Did you go up in the glass dome?” Emily asked, noticing that her mother had failed to mention the one thing touted in every book and website about Berlin. “Yes. At night, actually. Did you know it stays open until midnight? Can you imagine if Congress let in tours that late?” “Maybe it’s the German version of a romantic date,” Emily giggled. “Come with me to the seat of government, mein Schatz. We will make beautiful music together.” Juliette more than appreciated the humor in Emily’s joke; the dome of the Reichstag didn’t immediately scream romance. But Juliette also knew otherwise. “And what about Tareq?” Juliette felt her cheeks turn red. It had been decades since that had happened, she was sure. “Mom, you’re blushing!” Emily knew she’d hit on something. But she could also see her mother’s self-conscious discomfort. “If you want to, that is.” Juliette was at a complete loss. She wanted to tell Emily something, but in her mind, the story could not be readily expressed. “I don’t know where to start,” Juliette said. And this was truer than Emily could have known. Start in Cairo? In New York with his letter? In Berlin? “We had a really nice time,” she said honestly. “He’s fun. It was fun to roam Berlin with him.” That was all Juliette


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could narrate under present circumstances. She was tired and overwhelmed from the trip. “Can I tell you more later? Show you some photos?” “Sure!” Emily responded enthusiastically. “And besides, you’ll meet him soon, I think.” “Meet him?” “Yes. He should be coming to New York now. I think we’ve found a way to sort the visa.” Emily understood. If he were coming to New York soon, with a “we” involved in getting him a visa, then so much had happened in Berlin that her mother would need more than a dinner to answer questions about Tareq. “Go to bed, Mom,” Emily said, giving her a hug. “You look beat. Don’t get me wrong: you like great. Nice pashmina you were wearing before, by the way. Love the color. But you look beat. I’ll clean up.” When Juliette awoke the next morning, she found a note on her bedside stand.

Mom, Had to go. Walking to the train station – don’t worry, it’s fine. I kissed you before I left. J I promise. xox Emily

Juliette rolled to the middle of the bed, Emily’s note in her hand. When the kids were little, they had always made her promise to kiss them, even if they were asleep, if she had to leave early in the morning or return late at night. She had always done this, so that when they asked later, she could tell them truthfully that she had fulfilled this promise. Now Emily was returning the favor.

*** The following weekend, the whole family got together for dinner at Mark and Samantha’s home. Juliette picked Emily up at the train station on the way. “Good to see you, honey.” Juliette hugged her daughter as she wrestled with the seatbelt. She held her with a relaxation she could not remember, not since before Mark died. She hugged her without worrying that to let go would be to let her die. “Okay,” Emily launched into conversation. “This is supposed to be a surprise, but I’m going to tell you.”


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“Not if it’s a surprise!” Juliette protested. “I can wait.” “Mom, this is big, and you don’t do surprises. So let me tell you, and then just act surprised. Okay? Mark and Sam are having a baby. Due next April.” “A baby!” Juliette bolted upright in her seat. She was glad Emily had told her this before she left the station parking lot. The news was mesmerizing. She would be a grandmother. The joy felt boundless. New life. And arriving a year after Mark’s death. “You shouldn’t have told me,” Juliette scolded. But in truth, she was glad to have the forewarning. “And be prepared,” she went on, “Sam is crazy sick. You’ll probably barely see her tonight.” When they pulled into the driveway, Mark and Samantha’s dog was jumping at the window, ecstatic to greet any guest. Mark appeared at the door. He was so like his father; it gave Juliette a start to see his silhouette in the darkness, illuminated by the foyer light behind him as he clung to the doorframe and leaned forward, his body half in the house, half out. “Hey Mom. Good to see you.” He gave her a casual hug at the door and motioned her inside. Once indoors, she hugged him again, this time as she had hugged Emily. The panic of loss was subsiding. She no longer feared that everyone she loved would die. “Mom,” he said, shutting the door behind her. “We wanted to surprise you with the news over dinner, but it’s not going according to plan. Sam’s just too sick. But guess what? We’re having a baby!” She did not have to work to heed Emily’s instructions to act surprised. While she had heard Emily give her the news in the car, nothing could have prepared her for the moment when her son – her baby – told her that he and his wife were going to have a child of their own. She shed tears of joy and sadness, of impending gain and incalculable loss, of delight and fear. Another human being would enter the world, full of promise, and inevitably destined for broken promises as well. “Oh, Mark,” was all she could say, repeatedly, for some time. Finally she entered real time sufficiently to say how happy she was and to ask how Samantha was doing. “She’s having a tough time, Mom. But we’re happy. It’s what we both want.” “Juliette,” Samantha called weakly from down the hall. “Is that you?” “Yes,” Juliette replied. “I’m coming.” She turned to Mark and Emily. “Just start without me. I’ll go say hi to Sam.” As soon as Juliette was out of earshot, Mark sidled up to Emily. “So what’s up with Berlin?”


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“I don’t know yet, but I think Mom and Tareq might be…” “Might be what?” Mark almost sounded alarmed. “Stop being like that. So what if she’s got a boyfriend.” “Boyfriend? She might be dating this guy? We haven’t even met him.” “I don’t know. I just know she’s being very cagey. I think she just doesn’t know what or how to tell us. But she seems really happy.” “This guy…what’s his name?” “Tareq.” “Tareq. Is he okay? What do we know about him?” “He was Dad’s security officer. Remember? Dad used to talk about him.” Mark wracked his brain unsuccessfully for mentions of a Tareq. The truth was, he and his father had never talked all that much. “Well,” Emily poured on, “I remember Dad saying, I’d trust that man with my life. In fact, I do trust him with my life. Every day.” Her imitation of her father was comically accurate. “Maybe that’s enough, huh?” Mark was nodding unconvincingly to Emily when Juliette returned. “What are you two talking about?” Juliette asked. When her two children had their heads that close together, she’d learned to expect trouble. Or, even more often, something extraordinarily beautiful, like a handmade birthday card hidden behind small backs in small hands. “Nothing, Mom. I was just laying out for Mark the privileges of being an aunt. He needs to understand now that it is my solemn duty to spoil my niece or nephew. The sooner we get that into the agreement, the better.” They dined without Samantha, and after dinner, Juliette heated up some chicken broth and toasted a piece of bread. “This might help,” she offered. “It’s worth a try,” Mark replied, grateful that his mother had more skill sets in this arena than he did. “Thanks, Mom,” he added wearily. “Thanks.”

*** After Juliette’s return, she and Tareq spoke every day. Emily helped Juliette update her phone and computer for video and voice calls. Tareq’s phone was still a new tool for him, but he was motivated to master the technology quickly. Usually their conversations lasted no more than 10 minutes and were perhaps more rituals than conversations. She rose at 6 am and messaged him good morning. He replied,


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usually within moments, and then they set a time for later that day when they would talk. They never established who would call whom, but he was always the one who called. Their conversations followed a rhythmic formula. Visa update first. Then the weather, what he had done that day, what she was going to do that day. Often they’d recount one memory of Berlin to relive together, and then something unrehearsed, maybe about family or work. They would end the conversation by saying that the each was missed by the other. But not loved. Juliette could not bring herself to say these words. Maybe this was because she could not see him – really see him, that is – via the screen on the phone or the computer. Or maybe it was because now, back in New York, she wondered if she had imagined it all. Or maybe she knew that she hadn’t imagined any of it, but now worried that he’d never get a visa, never come to New York, and that they would end up saying goodbye all over again. And if she would not say those words, neither would he. Despite all that had transpired in Berlin, he held back. Berlin had righted any Cairo wrongs, if indeed any wrongs had needed righting. Berlin had also confirmed an affection that was mutual and enduring. He read and re-read her letter from the airport and believed that she was right: love and faithfulness had come full circle. But now that she was in New York again, he wasn’t sure where that circle existed. He relived their discussion at Sanssouci as well, the full impact only gradually sinking in. He trusted her, but he understood why she struggled now to trust herself. Did it matter to him? Only in so much as it mattered to her. But clearly it mattered, and while they had resolved her questions for a moment in time, they were both scared. And perhaps rightly so, Tareq considered. In his professional world, the first step to safety was a healthy sense of fear. What if Berlin had been an unsustainable romantic lark? Merely the fulfillment of a Cairo wish? Was Berlin the coda to Cairo? Or the prelude to something else? With no answers to these questions, he would not say how very much he loved her. But their first topic was always his visa. In the week after she returned to New York, he told her about the emails he was exchanging with her contact at the State Department. Tareq’s name was not particularly common, but even uncommon names had mix-ups, and Tareq the former United Nations security officer had apparently ended up on a United States no-fly list, or so claimed an eager federal employee. Once that was sorted, the visa-related chat revolved around his experiences at the embassy applying for the visa. The lines, the waiting, the faces of the other people in the lines, also waiting. Tareq had it easy: he was educated, he had traveled to the United States before, he had a business at home that showed he was economically self-sufficient. The others around him, asking for the same gift of a visa, were generally poor, uneducated and, for the most part, the sort of profile that most immigration officers would reflexively eye with suspicion.


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And then one day, the visa part of their conversation held this news: Tareq would go to the embassy the next day to collect it. Once that was done, he could book a plane ticket. They both fell silent after Tareq made the announcement. And then he asked, “Juliette, I need to know, would you still like me to visit?” Visa now in hand, his inherent pragmatism kicked into gear. He was entering unknown territory, and now was the time to apply his skills. He knew how to size up situations, weigh options, and consider outcomes. And he knew when to check with those in authority; he respected the chain of command. So he asked Juliette this question, as she was the authority in the matter of her own heart. His question surprised her. They’d talked so much about his visa that it hadn’t occurred to her that he might not use it once it was issued. But in that moment, he came into full view: he made no decision in life based on if, but reserved all judgment until the moment of when. Now that the visa was in his passport, realities on the ground had fundamentally changed. A trip was now possible in fact, not in theory. In this mode of planning for the future, he was the antithesis of her late husband. Juliette had known this all the while, but she had not seen it clearly until this moment. Tareq was a realist, not an idealist. And he was asking for permission, permission that was hers alone to grant or deny. She was the only immigration officer that mattered. “As soon as you can,” she replied. He sighed audibly, and she saw the tension release from his shoulders on the computer screen. “How long should I stay?” he replied. He would be staying with her, that much was understood. The length of the stay therefore was, in his mind, up to her. “As long as you like, Tareq,” she replied. It seemed an easy question to answer. “I must return to Egypt at the end of January.” Juliette was startled. It had never occurred to her that Tareq might stay for that long. “Okay,” she heard herself saying, “two months will be plenty of time.” After she spoke, she replayed the words in her mind and wondered if he were thinking the same thing: two months would be long enough to make a decision about how many more months after that. Ten more whirlwind days, in yet another environment, would only confuse the matter. “Tareq, I miss you.” “And I miss you.”

***


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Unaware of something called the holiday rush, Tareq had booked his arrival for the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. When he first told Juliette his itinerary, she put her hand to her forehead and half-muttered “okay”, not thinking of the impact this would have on him. “Is it okay?” he asked anxiously. “Yes, yes,” she replied quickly, realizing her lack of consideration. “It’s fine, actually. Better than fine. You’ll be here for Thanksgiving.” “Then why did you put your hand to your forehead in such anguish?” “The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is the busiest travel day of the year in the U.S. The airport is going to be mayhem.” “I am sure I have seen worse,” he replied with a laugh. “Look at this way: it will be an authentic cultural experience. We couldn’t have planned it better. Just try to get some sleep on the plane.” They said goodbye, and Juliette glanced at the calendar hanging in the kitchen. She used the one in her phone, too, but she loved the paper one hanging in the kitchen. It brought back memories of decades past, when the kids would mark each box with a big X to count the days until Mark came home, or until a birthday or other occasion. She put an X in the box for the day. Six more to go, and then one more at the table for Thanksgiving Dinner. Juliette was hosting on Friday this year. Sam was finally feeling better, so she and Mark were heading to Sam’s parents on Thursday. Emily and Juliette had been invited as well, but Juliette had begged off, not wanting to be the widow at Sam’s parents’ table. It was still too awkward. And now, all the better, as this would give her and Tareq a day to themselves before the kids arrived on Friday. Juliette called Emily to tell her the news. “Would you mind sleeping on the futon downstairs when you’re here for Thanksgiving? Mark and Sam can take your room, with the queen-sized bed.” “Sure, but what about the guest room?” “I’ll put Tareq in the guest room. I could move him to the futon, but I think he’ll feel more comfortable in the guest room. Okay?” “Why is Tareq going in the guest room?” “Because he’s a guest,” Juliette replied. “Mom,” Emily called her out, “I think he’s a bit more than a guest, isn’t he?” “Well, I suppose,” Juliette admitted, thinking back to all the conversations she and Emily had had about Emily’s boyfriends. It was strange to reverse these roles. “I’m really not sure. Is that enough for now?” Juliette had no idea what noun to


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place on him. Boyfriend certainly didn’t work; he was not a boy, nor was he just a friend. “Honestly, sweetheart, I don’t know what word to use for him.” “Let’s call him a person of interest then, shall we?” Emily ventured. “Isn’t that what detectives call suspects?” “Yeah. And I’m the detective. And I suspect Tareq is more than a guest.” “Really, Emily. You are…” “The best daughter in the world?” “That too. And I’ve told Tareq as much, so plan to live up to your reputation.” “Will do, Mom. See you Friday.”

*** Over the next few days, Juliette shopped in between edits, got the house ready and marked more Xs on the kitchen calendar. And then on Wednesday, she got in the car to brave the traffic to Newark. At the airport, the parking lot was nearly full, but after much circling, she found a spot. She checked his arrival time on her phone. She’d make it, but without much time to spare. Or so she thought. As she locked the car, Tareq texted to say the plane was at the gate. He’ll be another 45 minutes, she guesstimated, based on her past experience negotiating immigration and customs. But she had never negotiated immigration and customs on the day before Thanksgiving as an Egyptian man with a visa obtained in Germany. Two and a half hours later, she caught sight of him. He looked weary in a way she’d never seen before. Had she not seen him in this state, she might have thought it impossible for him ever to look so tired. He had tenacity for more than one, that was for sure, and patience in abundance. But he looked exhausted now. “What happened?” she asked. Her concern and anxiety overtook any earlier thoughts about how to greet him. “Juliette,” he said very quietly, almost like a prayer. He kissed her cheeks and then held her tight for a moment. He stood back to soothe himself with the balm of her face. “It is good to see you.” He tugged at the blue pashmina around her neck and then drew her close for another hug. “Tareq, I was getting worried.” “As was I!” he confessed, still in disbelief over his ordeal. But he was returning to himself, the crisis over.


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“What happened?” “I experienced the full hospitality of the United States Border Control,” he replied expansively. “Oh no, Tareq. I’m so sorry.” “Don’t be. I am grateful to you. I had with me every email from your friend at the State Department. I must write him to say thank you. And to suggest that the State Department help the rest of the government update their lists.” “Good luck with that,” Juliette remarked cynically. “Indeed,” Tareq echoed. He knew government systems as well as anyone. “Let’s go home,” Juliette suggested, taking his arm. “Or are you hungry?” “No. I ate in detention,” he remarked casually. “As is my custom,” he joked, shaking his head. “They fed you?” “The first lady, no. She was not very nice. She put me in a room by myself and took my passport. But the second lady, she was nice. She brought my passport back and read the emails I showed her. She apologized and said it was all a mistake. She left again, and when she returned, she brought me a cup of coffee and a sandwich. And when she handed me the sandwich, she said, It’s not ham, I checked.” Tareq was still marveling at the consideration. “She knew I would not eat pork.” “How did she know that?” Juliette asked. “I think a number of things may have given me away,” Tareq replied sarcastically. Juliette thought about all the discussions she’d heard about racial profiling, but this time, the assumptions seemed to have gone in his favor. “At least one good thing happened then,” Juliette observed. “Two,” he corrected, placing his hand on the small of her back, restoring his sense of order. “Shall we go?” “You might want to get your coat out of your bag.” “Ah,” he said. “No coat?” He shook his head. “I put on my cousin’s coat as I left his flat and then remembered it was his! So I travelled only with this.” He pointed to the sweater he was wearing.


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“That’s okay,” Juliette told him. “We’ll go to the car quickly, and I’ll ask Mark to bring you something on Friday.” By then it was late on the night before Thanksgiving. Rush hour was now long over, but the traffic was increasing, not subsiding. “Should we go back to detention for another sandwich?” she suggested humorously, staring at the sea of taillights before them. “How long is the drive?” he asked. He looked like himself again, but was still visibly tired. “Long,” she replied stoically. “With this traffic, long.” “The busiest travel day of the year,” he quoted her. “Why don’t you get some rest? Put the seat back, close your eyes.” “I will. But first,” he reached into his carry-on bag, “you must have this.” “What’s that?” “A surprise.” He opened a thin package and put a CD into the player. The voice of Oum Kalthoum filled the car with the song Juliette had heard everywhere in Cairo. “I love this song, Tareq. Thank you. Thank you for bringing this.” “You are welcome.” “But you know, I don’t know what the words mean.” “Habibi means dear one, and the rest of the song….” “Habibi,” Juliette formed the word in her mouth. “Yes?” Tareq replied. He had heard her addressing him, even though in that moment, Juliette had only been practicing saying the word aloud. “Now I know what word to use for you,” she said to him. “Habibi,” he returned, and then lowered the seat and began to drift off into the safety of her presence. “Quick,” she said a few minutes later, grabbing his attention before he was fully asleep. “Look out the window!” Tareq sat up with effort and got his first view of New York City. The buildings were visible mainly as collections of lights. Some lights were scattered dots. Others were more like stripes or bands hovering in the darkness. And some, he thought, were like jeweled crowns. Tareq nodded to the magnificence of the light, lowered the seat again, and fell asleep. It was nearly midnight when they pulled up to the house. “Tareq,” she said softly, shaking his shoulder. “We’re here.” He rubbed his eyes and beheld the darkness.


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Juliette had told him she lived in a rural area, but it had been a long time since he’d been somewhere without streetlights and buildings illumined 24 hours a day. He got out of the car and looked up to the stars that shone like crystals in the clear winter sky. The air was fresh and cold, and he felt suddenly awake. “I will get that,” he protested as Juliette took his bag from the car. “Then I’ll take the small one,” she replied, putting the strap over her shoulder. “I like it,” he remarked, looking at the farmhouse. Unlike the perfect right angles of Berlin, this house clearly shifted, both with the soil and with time. It looked nothing like anything in Cairo, but he found it familiar nonetheless. “Let’s get you settled,” she said, welcoming him through the front door. She switched on the light in the foyer, which was dim, but strong enough for Tareq to begin to get his bearings. He put his bag down and looked around. To his left, he saw the fireplace with two comfortable chairs, and a sofa along the window. Beyond that, a room with a table and chairs that looked formal, but not excessively so. Straight ahead was an archway leading to what he thought must be the kitchen; he could see what looked like an oven with a microwave above. To the right was a staircase, and underneath that, a closet where Juliette now stood hanging her coat. A desk occupied a section of wall directly in front of him. Juliette brushed her arm against his as she went to a cabinet by the front door. “I’ll give you a tour tomorrow?” she offered as she opened the top drawer and placed her gloves inside. “I would like to see the kitchen now,” he said as he closed the drawer for her. “I am hungry.” “I can take care of that,” she replied happily. “This way.” She pointed to the archway Tareq had guessed led to the kitchen. As they walked to the kitchen, Tareq saw a greeting card standing on the desk. It was decorated with lilies, and in large gold script it read, In Your Time of Sorrow. “That’s from Rana,” Juliette explained. “You remember Rana?” “I do.” Tareq could see Rana clearly, sitting at her desk, her long black hair falling over her shoulders, her eyes wide, her smile slightly suppressed, as though keeping a joke to herself. “That just arrived today. Mark’s been gone seven months now, but I’m still getting the occasional card.” Juliette moved on casually from the card, but the image of Rana took root in Tareq’s mind. If Rana were present, he knew what she would say, even if only with her eyes. Tareq, you should not be here, she would scold him. You know you should not be here. Mark is dead less than a year. His widow is not for you. She is Christian, she is Mark’s widow. Have you forgotten who you are?


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“No,” he said aloud to himself, but Juliette thought he spoke to her. “Huh?” Juliette asked. He was lost in thought, but the kitchen was dark and she saw only the fatigue. “Nothing.” He tried to shake Rana out of his head. He watched Juliette as she walked to the refrigerator and opened the door. The light from the refrigerator spilled out, illuminating her face like a work of art. That he loved her was not in question. He loved her so deeply that he knew he could never leave her side. Whatever happened in the future, it had to happen with her. What did they say in American movies? He tried to remember a wedding scene. For better or for worse. The better was obvious: he gained Juliette. He had no doubt of that. She was his greater good, his provocateur, the one who pushed him toward his true self. She was his joy, his adventure, his deepest desire. To choose to be without her would be a form of suicide. The worse, however, was equally obvious. Tareq knew the rules, and he knew the consequences of breaking them. To be with Juliette, he would leave Egypt behind, most likely forever. His plane ticket said he would return to Egypt in a few months, and then he would visit Egypt again after that. But he would live in America with her. And when he left Egypt behind, some people would leave him behind as well – people for whom he cared deeply. In Berlin he had been as honest with himself about these facts as his heart would allow. In his head, he had explained to himself objectively that his options were mutually exclusive. It was Juliette or Egypt, not Juliette and Egypt and certainly not Juliette in Egypt. He knew the price he had to pay. With Yasmeen, years earlier, he had paid the price of separation. With Juliette, he would pay the price of union. But when he made the bargain with himself in Berlin, he was standing in a line for a visa. Now he was standing in her kitchen, and a card from Rana was on the desk. His stomach twinged. Tareq wasn’t used to second-guessing himself, so at first he didn’t recognize that this feeling wasn’t just hunger. It was the possibility of regret. “I should turn on a light!” Juliette exclaimed. She flicked on two switches at first. The kitchen became uncomfortably bright, so she turned off the bright light over the sink. That left only a red glass pendant lamp to illumine the square table that, Tareq observed, was not much bigger than his chess set at home. Tareq steadied himself by surveying his environment. Given how big the house appeared from the outside, the kitchen’s compactness surprised him. The kitchen was narrow, with a sink and a few appliances to his right, including the refrigerator where Juliette now stood. The table with two chairs lined the opposite wall; the open refrigerator door nearly touched one of the chairs and entirely blocked the archway to the dining room. Tareq grabbed a slim wedge of counter to his left for balance, but his body betrayed him. He stumbled two steps back and felt cold glass against his back. He


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turned his head around and saw a paned glass door that led to darkness. He leaned his back against the door again and closed his eyes. “Why don’t you sit down,” Juliette told him, walking the few steps over to where he stood. She took his hand and guided him to the nearest chair. From the hard, wooden seat, he leaned over to look inside the refrigerator, but it was so crammed that he couldn’t actually make out anything that looked like food. This was his first introduction to Thanksgiving. “So full?” he asked. “Tomorrow we’re cooking Thanksgiving dinner.” “You mean today,” he pointed to the clock above the archway into the dining room. It was past midnight. “You’re right!” she nodded. No wonder she felt so tired. Five hours in the car round trip, plus nearly three waiting for him. “I know you ate a sandwich at the airport,” she said apologetically, “but do you mind a repeat?” “Not at all.” “You don’t by chance eat peanut butter and jelly, do you?” She asked partially in jest, but hoped against hope that the answer would be yes. She was not keen to dig into the carefully packed refrigerator. “Just peanut butter. No jelly.” “Really?” “I have worked with many Americans.” This is my culture, too, he shot back at Rana in his mind. “I’ll join you.” She closed the refrigerator door and brushed his shoulder on her way to the cupboard for the peanut butter. She pivoted around to the countertop between the sink and the oven, found some bread, and made them each a sandwich. “Tea?” she asked as she pulled out plates for the sandwiches. Tareq didn’t answer; his head was now resting on the wall behind his chair and his eyes were closed. “Tareq?” she asked quietly. “Still awake?” “Yes,” he half-moaned. “Tea?” “Please,” he replied fully, lifting his head with difficulty and forcing his eyes open.


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Juliette put the kettle on to boil, grabbed some tea bags from the cupboard, and then joined him at the table with the sandwiches. Tareq ate, expecting the funny feeling in his stomach to subside. But it grew instead. “Take the tea to the living room?” Juliette suggested when she was done with her sandwich. He nodded, finished his last bite, and followed her. Juliette sat down on the sofa, but Tareq detoured to the fireplace where an array of picture frames on the mantle had caught his attention. Even in the low light, Tareq recognized Emily and the younger Mark from photos that the older Mark had shown him. In one photo, the younger Mark had his arm around a young woman, presumably Samantha. Tareq worked his way down the line and ended up at a photo of Mark and Juliette, Mark’s arms around Juliette’s shoulders like a clamp, his fingers locked. Juliette watched Tareq from the sofa, and as he neared this photo, she got up and joined him at the fireplace. She put her arm around his waist and squeezed, but said nothing. She had wondered if she take the photo down before Tareq arrived, but couldn’t see the point. Tareq could feel Juliette’s arm around him, but at that moment, he was much more aware of Mark. He could see Mark, standing at Rana’s desk, chatting. And then, in his mind’s eye, Tareq watched Mark turn to him and ask, What are you doing in my living room? I am in love with Juliette, Tareq replied in his head. Like hell you are. Tareq could feel Mark’s fist striking his face. Tareq did not think of Mark as a violent person, but this was Juliette, and Tareq knew how he would feel if another man announced to him that he was in love with her. Tareq rubbed his cheekbone just to make sure the blow was imaginary. Juliette felt him blanch. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s have our tea.” She pulled him to the sofa where they sat together in the half-light, tea in hand. They said nothing. They were still comfortable in each other’s silence, but he was now far less comfortable in her presence. “I want to be here,” Tareq said aloud to himself, and to Juliette, Rana, and Mark. “I want you to be here, too.” Juliette drew her legs up on the sofa and cuddled up next to him. She reached back for a quilt and spread it over them. He bowed his head toward her, and she drew her face to his. “These have been six of the longest weeks of my life,” she whispered. Had it only been six weeks? Tareq thought to himself. Six weeks since they had walked through the night and kissed with the sunrise? “Juliette,” he replied softly, looking at the clock standing sentinel amidst the photos above the fireplace. “It is past 1 am.”


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“I know,” she nestled into his chest. “Just let me rest here a minute. Don’t make me move.” Tareq felt her fall asleep, leaned his head back on the sofa, and drifted off himself. Tareq’s eyes opened the next morning in the same place they had closed the night before. He had not moved all night, and his neck was stiff. He blinked into his surroundings, lingering on his first view of her asleep, and listened to the rhythm of her breath. Her head was now at the end of the sofa, resting on a cushion, and her legs were stretched out over his. Moving his eyes away from her, he noticed the colors he had not seen in the dark: the reddish stained wood of the dining room chairs, the evergreen trees out the window beyond, the pale yellow of the walls. The wooden floors were dark, too, with crimson rugs that reminded him of Egypt. The upholstery varied from chair to chair to sofa, a pleasantly controlled mismatch that also looked intentional. He slid from under her knees and found his suitcase where he had left it in the foyer. He opened the case as quietly as he could and removed his coffee maker. He required few things to feel at home, but this was one of them. He walked to the kitchen and scouted for a spot on the counter. A systematic search of the kitchen yielded some coffee beans and a grinder that was clean in a way that made Tareq suspect it was rarely used. He plugged it into the wall, and then stopped, his finger on the button. He walked back to the sofa and kneeled down beside her. She was sleeping so soundly that the grinder might not wake her. Then again, she was sleeping so peacefully, he didn’t want to take the risk. He stroked her head lightly and observed the contrast between his skin and her fair hair. He picked up their cups from the table and returned to the kitchen for tea. He drank his tea at the kitchen table, this time with his back to the dining room. He imagined her in the same spot, eating, talking to him on the computer, reading the paper. He was in her world, her kitchen, and he wondered how to establish his place in it. He was deep in thought when Juliette appeared, still half-asleep. She stretched and yawned as she walked toward him. She pulled the second chair around next to his, sat down and leaned against his shoulder. “Happy Thanksgiving, Tareq.” “Happy Thanksgiving,” he replied, keeping his hands around his nearly empty mug of tea. The thought of reaching for her hand hovered, but an image of Mark stood before him like a human stop sign. “Today’s the real Thanksgiving,” she went on. “It’s always on a Thursday. But we’ll have ours tomorrow.” “I will be thankful today,” he replied, inclining his head toward hers, “and then tomorrow as well.”


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“Good idea,” she replied with a chuckle. He put his arm along the back of her chair, memories of Berlin tugging him one way, and voices in the present resisting the pull. “You must explain this Thanksgiving to me,” he asked. “Too early,” she complained, pressing her forehead against his. “I will make you coffee.” “You won’t like my coffee maker.” “I have brought my own.” “You have?” “Of course.” “Well that’s good for both of us.” “It is,” he confirmed. “Make me some coffee, then, and I’ll tell you about Thanksgiving.” Juliette moved her chair to the other side of the table so that Tareq could get up. After he maneuvered around her, she moved her chair back to its side of the table and then sat down to watch him as he busied himself with coffee. Once the grinder had stopped roaring, she recounted all that she could remember about the pilgrims and their move to the new world for religious freedom. “Only problem is,” she explained, “we haven’t always practice what we preached.” She grimaced. “But it was still the beginning of an idea, I guess.” Juliette recounted the harsh winter, the lack of food, and the positive relationships, however short-lived, with the indigenous population. “And this is what Thanksgiving means today?” he asked further, handing her coffee in a heavy ceramic mug imprinted with words he could read but did not understand. He leaned back against the sink with his own coffee in hand, the sunlight from the window casting him in silhouette. “Today? Today Thanksgiving means football!” “It does?” He was genuinely confused. “Not really,” she shook her head with a chuckle. “It’s still about giving thanks for your blessings, but it’s also a day when people watch a lot of football on TV.” “And there is food,” Tareq ventured, recalling the bursting refrigerator. “Lots of food,” Juliette confirmed. “We’ll cook today. Is that okay?” She got up and opened the refrigerator for his inspection. “Turkey, potatoes, sweet potatoes,”


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she pointed inside. “We’ll make creamed spinach and some green beans. And cake. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m not making pumpkin pie.” “Why would I mind?” “Pumpkin pie is an inviolable Thanksgiving tradition. But I hate pumpkin pie. No one in the family likes it. Sam may bring some leftovers from her parents.” “If no one likes it, why will she bring it?” “Maybe because they’ll be trying to get rid of it!” Juliette laughed out loud. “At any rate, you probably should try it just once. But I promise I won’t make you take more than one bite.” “If not pumpkin pie, then what do you like?” “Dark chocolate cake with ganache,” she responded, eyeing him as though sharing him into a secret. “Which was definitely not on the original pilgrim menu. But that’s what we’re having.” “What do you say? Throwing caution to the wind?” “And the pumpkin pie with it,” Juliette added in relief. She looked up at him from the table and reached out for his hand. He took her hand briefly and then let go. For a moment the air felt calm and relaxed, and he let her eyes remain on his. “I’m glad you’re here, Tareq.” “As am I,” he replied. He leaned toward her, and the light from the window slanted over him in a way that made him look overexposed. “Sit?” Juliette called to him. He joined her at the table and looked at her without Rana and Mark in his line of sight. Juliette held onto his eyes with her own, determined not to let that look go. But when she reached out again for his hand, his eyes retreated. “Juliette,” he implored quietly. “Please forgive me.” He exhaled slowly and then closed his eyes tightly as though protecting them from the elements. She didn’t ask him to explain. She knew that he couldn’t, at least not right then. “You want to cook?” she asked. “Yes!” he exclaimed with an enthusiasm that had no obvious source. “But first, I would like to shower and change my clothes.” Juliette looked at Tareq and then down at herself, registering that they were both wearing the same clothes as the day before. “Good idea,” she said. “Let me show you upstairs.” Tareq grabbed his suitcase in the foyer, catching a glimpse of Rana’s card as he re-zipped his bag. Juliette gestured after you with her arm, and he started up the stairs, holding tight to the bannister. “Don’t worry about the creaking steps,” Juliette told him. “Old house.”


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“It is not me, then?” he replied. “Definitely not.” Juliette put her hand to his back as they reached the top. “Follow me.” She led him down the hall and opened the door to the guest room. “I put some towels for you on the bed,” she pointed but did not enter. “And the bathroom is that door over there.” She investigated his face for a reaction. She had discussed sleeping arrangements with Emily, but she and Tareq hadn’t talked about it at all. “Is this okay?” Tareq nodded. His head felt heavy. “I’ll shower, and then keep me awake until 8?” “Absolutely,” she caressed his neck and kissed his cheek lightly, but Tareq stepped back. They stared awkwardly at each other in the hall until Tareq broke the silence. “The shower is there?” he pointed at the bathroom. She nodded. “Meet me in the kitchen after you’re cleaned up?” They puttered through the rest of the day chopping, slicing, pureeing, and melting. They worked shoulder to shoulder because the kitchen’s size required them to work that way, and because the kitchen forced them to stand so close, they stayed in the kitchen. Their hands cooked and their mouths sampled what they made. By noon, the refrigerator interior looked entirely different. Where raw materials had been piled high that morning, glass dishes were beginning to stack precariously on top of each other, and covered pots found an uneasy footing. “What do we do with this?” he pointed to the turkey. “Brine it,” she replied, and “then I’ll put it in the oven first thing tomorrow.” Tareq pulled his phone from his pocket and asked her how to spell brine. He focused intently on the phone’s screen and then announced, “I will brine.” “Really?” “Of course.” “Knock yourself out,” she replied, handing him the sea salt. “I already brought the pot up from the basement. It’s on the dining room table.” She watched Tareq leave the kitchen and counted the seconds until he returned. “Thank you, Tareq.” She began to take the pot from him, and for a moment they stood across from one another, all four of their hands on the stockpot. Juliette began to move her fingers toward his, but then he let go entirely. “Probably easiest to work here,” she said, putting the stockpot on the kitchen table. Tareq shook the salt in the air like a percussion instrument and nodded.


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By early evening, the preparations for the next day were well in hand. The only challenge ahead of them was dinner. In all her planning for the delayed Thanksgiving, Juliette had given no thought to their own Thursday dinner. She peered into the freezer while Tareq loaded the dishwasher. “I’m not much of a host,” she muttered. “I don’t have anything to feed you on Thanksgiving Day.” “Should we go out?” Tareq asked. “There wouldn’t be much open around here right now,” she explained. “In the city, we’d find plenty open. But not here. Here everyone’s at home with family.” “At home with family is good,” he said to her, brushing his hand across her back. Working with his hands had restored some of his equilibrium. He walked over to the pantry, opened the door and inspected the cans, boxes and bags within. He pulled out rice, pasta, beans, and tomatoes. “Do you have garlic? Onions?” She nodded. He scanned the spice rack hanging on the pantry door and grabbed some chili pepper. “I will make koshary.” For the first time in memory, perhaps in her life, Juliette did not have turkey and trimmings for Thanksgiving. And she didn’t miss it at all. Thanksgiving had nothing to do with the food, she knew, and everything to do with the people with whom you shared the meal. As they ate their koshary in the kitchen, they reminisced about Youssef and Mariam, and wondered how many people in Cairo knew about their koshary in Berlin. This evening, though, they ate koshary in private; no one in Cairo would know that they had dined together. When they were done eating, they cleaned up their dishes. The dishwasher was full and running, so they washed their few plates by hand. Tareq stood at the sink, Juliette next to him with a towel. Lifting the last dish from the water, he took the towel from her and finished off the chores himself. He found the right spot in the cabinet, put the dish away, and closed the door. He braced his arms on the counter and looked out the window. “Juliette, I like to wash dishes with you.” She put her arms at his sides and turned his body toward her. “I like washing dishes with you, too.” She leaned into him and waited. He had yet to tell her that he loved her, but she could see it in his eyes. But she could see something else in his eyes as well, something she could not fully interpret, but it reminded her of grief. She knew that look from the mirror. “What is it?” “I am tired,” was all he was prepared to explain. He had been arguing with Rana for most the day, and his bruises from Mark had multiplied. She accepted his self-evaluation, but knew there was more to the story. “Time for bed, then.” She looked over his shoulder to the clock above. “You made it to 8!” Upstairs again, they stood uncomfortably in the hall, not knowing how to say goodnight. Juliette thought about following him into the guest room, and then thought about leading him to her bedroom instead. But then she heard herself say, “And in the morning, if you get up before me, just help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”


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He nodded slightly, his eyes looking over her shoulder at the family photos hanging on the white wall behind her. “And the sound of the coffee grinder won’t bother me.” They both laughed. With laughter came eye contact, and she studied his face again. It was grief in his eyes, she was sure of it. “Tareq,” she started, looking for any words she thought might assuage the agony. He shook his head to say “no” to a question she had not asked. “Tareq,” she repeated. He placed one hand on her back, and she rested her head on his chest in reply. With one finger, he lifted her face up to his own. He kissed her once on each cheek and hugged her tightly. “You’re tired,” she told him, “I’ll let you sleep.” He nodded again and then went to the guest room, leaving the door slightly ajar. The hallway was dark, and she could see the sliver of light that escaped between the door and the frame. She took a step toward the door, but then the light was gone, and she heard the rustle of sheets as he got into bed. Juliette rose early the following morning. She got dressed, opened her bedroom door quietly, and peered down the hall. She tiptoed to the guest room door and opened it just far enough to observe Tareq sleeping. His back was toward her, his head on one pillow and his arms around another. She waited to watch his torso rise and fall with breath. She went downstairs, wincing at the creaking floorboards. As she passed the desk in the foyer, she picked up the card from Rana. The gold lilies looked dull in the dim morning light. Juliette re-read Rana’s note, flipped the card over to make sure she hadn’t missed any message on the back, and then stuck the card in a side drawer in the desk. The view out of the kitchen window was gloomy and damp, opaque with the sort of autumn mist that contradicted the celebrated warmth of the holiday season. She boiled water for tea, carefully turning off the kettle seconds before it whistled. Leaving the tea bag to steep, she went to get the paper. A deer greeted her as she opened the door. Standing still on the gravel drive, it looked at her with the sort of poise that comes from possessing sophisticated senses of scent and sound. And then, fearing no danger, the deer walked calmly on to the woods, its agile legs stepping with soft confidence in the morning frost. The morning chill snapped at her, and she stepped back inside, the paper tucked under her arm. She retrieved her tea in the kitchen and held the cup to warm her hands. The morning was still: the birds did not sing, and the stream was practically a dry bed. The trees had no leaves to rustle in the wind. But the silence was not solitary. He was in the house, and soon she would hear his noise. She was just finishing the newspaper when she heard his door open, followed by the sound of his steps down the hall. Then the sounds of the top step, followed by the others. She met him at the bottom of the stairs and reached out her hand. She wanted to run her fingers through his rumpled hair, but her hand reached only to his shoulder. “Sleep well?”


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He nodded unconvincingly. “When will the others arrive?” “Not for a few hours. We’ve got time.” “Should I make koshary for breakfast?” he asked with a yawn. “Not necessary,” she teased back. Her hand now pushed the hair off his forehead. “I have plenty for breakfast.” Tareq followed her into the kitchen, sat at the table and watched her as she put things out for breakfast. Yogurt from a plastic tub but, she assured him, better than what he remembered. Bread, butter, jam. “Cereal?” he shook his head. “Tea?” he nodded. He would make coffee later. She joined him at the table and gave his hand a little shake. “You okay?” “What time will the children arrive?” he asked again. It was not like him to repeat a question. “Noon. Something the matter?” He leaned his head back against the wall, rubbed his closed eyes, and then opened them as far as he could. “What if they do not approve of me?” “Why wouldn’t they approve of you?” As soon as Juliette asked the question, she realized it was irrelevant. No inventory of characteristics or qualities that the kids might like or dislike would address this concern. “Tareq,” she took both of his hands. “I’m sure they will approve of you.” He eyed her with uncertainty. “And if they do not?” “What do you mean if they do not?” “What will you do if they do not approve of me?” The thought had never occurred to her. She knew with absolutely certainty that they would approve of him, and she was nearly as certain that they would genuinely like him. She knew, too, that they would need to adjust to the idea of her having someone in her life, that there would be questions, maybe even a rough spot or two. But she never doubted that they would accept him. “I can’t even imagine that. You’re a wonderful man, Tareq. They’ll see that.” “But they loved their father.” “Yes, they did. They do. Still.” He looked at her as though that settled the matter. “Tareq, Mark’s gone. They know that. They want me to be happy.”


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“But Juliette. It is less than a year.” “I know. It’s all gone pretty fast.” There was no need to go in reverse, she thought, but maybe idling wasn’t a bad idea. “But I don’t want you to worry. I know they’ll like you. Trust me.” Tareq did trust her. But he also knew that within a few hours, he would pass through a checkpoint run by three guards who were only slightly older than adolescents. He would face scrutiny, he was sure of it, and his documents would be thoroughly examined, perhaps even rejected. “Why don’t you make us some coffee?” Juliette suggested. He smiled. Coffee he could control to perfection. After breakfast, Tareq spent much of the morning listening for a car to approach. He read until the jet lag caught up with him, then dozed off on the couch. Juliette milled about, accomplishing and inventing last minute tasks. Eventually she sat down on the floor by the sofa and watched him sleep. He was on his side, and she sat where she could study his face. She ran her finger across his forehead, pushing his uncombed hair into place. “What time is it?” she heard him say, his eyes still closed. “You’re awake.” “I am.” He opened his eyes to hers and then looked up at the clock on the mantle. The kids would be arriving any minute. He put his hands over his face and held them there hoping that when he opened them again, the clock would tell a different story. His signet ring was now squarely in her view. She’d noticed it many times, but had never really looked at it before. “Why does your ring have a cow head on it?” she asked. “It is the symbol of the goddess Hathor.” “Hathor?” “The goddess of music and foreign lands, among other things.” He sat up and took off the ring so she could look at it closely. She turned the ring around in her fingers and then slid it back onto his finger. “It’s beautiful.” She was just about to say that she didn’t remember seeing much of Hathor in the museums in Berlin when they heard car wheels on the gravel driveway. Tareq stood up and walked to the front door. He pulled at his shirt to make sure it was straight and ran his hand once through his hair. Then he opened the door resolutely and breathed in the cold air. He slipped on his shoes as an afterthought, and then walked to the car as the engine stopped.


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He opened the front passenger door. “I am Tareq,” he introduced himself, placing his hand over his heart. “You must be Samantha.” “I’m easy to spot these days,” she pointed to her expanding waist. “Nice to meet you.” Mark and Emily rounded the front of the car. “I’m Mark,” Mark said, shaking Tareq’s hand. “Great you could join us for Thanksgiving.” Tareq caught himself staring. “I am sorry,” he apologized. “You are so very much like your father.” “Everyone says that,” he chuckled. It was his father’s chuckle. “I’m Emily!” Emily announced, kissing Tareq on each cheek. “I recognize you from mom’s photos of Berlin. Welcome to New York!” And with that, Tareq realized, he had crossed this particular checkpoint without producing any passport at all. “Mom!” Emily saw her mother standing on the porch. Juliette walked toward the car. “Everybody’s been introduced?” she asked. “Yep,” Emily confirmed. She hugged her mom close. “Happy Thanksgiving.” Juliette hugged Samantha next, and then Mark. The family returned inside, heated and re-heated and prepared what still needed to be prepared. At last, they sat down to Thanksgiving dinner. Tareq inventoried the foods before him and mentally flipped through snapshots in his memory bank. His concentration was evident. He had helped prepare all of the food, but it wasn’t until he saw it arranged on the table that something clicked. “What is it?” Juliette asked. “I have eaten Thanksgiving before,” he said to himself with surprise. “When?” “In Damascus,” he replied, still surprising himself with the realization. “It was a feast hosted by Americans. I was invited to attend. I sat with Mark. But I did not understand then that it was Thanksgiving.” He nodded at each dish around the table. “Juliette,” he said her name emphatically and touched her shoulder. “I have had pumpkin pie.” His mouth twisted with the memory. “I am glad you have chocolate cake.” Mark put his hand on Tareq’s back. “You’ve got good taste, buddy.” But this Thanksgiving dinner, this dinner at all, was like nothing Tareq had ever experienced. Samantha teased Mark, who in turn teased Emily, who then unleashed her wit on Tareq. Juliette laughed at it all. The conversation ranged widely and touched on topics that Tareq felt were too personal to bring up in front of a stranger. Either they had different understandings of privacy, or they did not view him as stranger. He wasn’t sure which. They told stories he did not entirely understand and used English words he had never heard before. They competed


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over what seemed like nothing, were passionate about winning, but didn’t seem to care if they lost. Sometimes he didn’t know whether he should laugh or be offended. They always laughed. When the dinner plates were empty and thoughts of seconds and thirds were past, Mark announced that dessert and the annual Trivial Pursuit game would begin in 15 minutes. Everyone should clear their places and grab their beverage of choice. The serious part of the day was now upon them. “Honey, not me this year,” Sam begged off. “I’ve got to lie down.” “Okay, excused this year. But stay on the couch so you can pass me answers if I get stuck.” “So what’re the teams?” Emily asked. “You and me against Mom and Tareq. Generational warfare.” Americans could use warfare as a metaphor, Tareq thought. This younger Mark, unlike his father, did not know how lucky he was. Juliette produced the game box, and Emily began the set up. “Help me in the kitchen?” Juliette called to Tareq. He followed her to the coffee maker. “It’s going okay, yeah?” she asked. “Yes,” he agreed. He looked around to make sure no one was looking and put his arm around her waist. “Told you so,” she replied. “Now impress everyone with your coffee.” Emily burst into the kitchen and Tareq released Juliette instantly. “Tareq, have you ever played Trivial Pursuit?” “No,” he replied. His eyes focused on the coffee maker while he listened to her explain the game. Geography and history should be fine, he thought. Art and literature and science and nature as well. Sports and Leisure? Unlikely. Entertainment? Tareq couldn’t even figure out what that meant. Maybe music would fall into that category. When they returned to the living room, Mark had set up the game on the coffee table near the sofa where Sam was outstretched. He and Emily leaned up against the sofa, and Samantha rested her hand on Mark’s shoulder. Juliette and Tareq sat on the other side of the low table, and Tareq studied the game board. “We’ll start so you can see how it’s done,” Emily offered. And they were off. They rolled the dice, answered questions, and filled in their respective pie pieces. Tareq turned out to be very well-equipped for the game. “Hey mom, this isn’t fair,” Mark joked at one point. “He knows all the history stuff we don’t. You can’t keep the foreigner all to yourself.”


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“You can have him on your team at Christmas. For now, he’s mine.” She pressed her hand against Tareq’s, hidden on the floor beneath the table. No one protested Juliette’s ownership. They played late into the night, everyone demanding rematches and more slices of cake. Samantha slept soundly on the sofa despite the din. Eventually, everyone agreed to call it a night. Before Tareq disappeared into the guest room, he caught Juliette in the hallway. “You did tell me so.” He took her hand in the safety of the darkness and looked toward the room where Mark and Samantha were settling in for the night. He assessed the risk of one of them appearing unannounced, kissed her quickly, and said goodnight.

After Cairo ~ Leftovers

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Leftovers Once the breakfast plates were cleared the next morning, Mark and Sam packed up their car to head home. Juliette and Tareq stood on the front porch while Emily walked with Mark and Sam, her arm linked with that of her sister-in-law. They were laughing, but neither Juliette nor Tareq could hear why. “You have wonderful children,” Tareq said. “Yes, I do.” Mark opened the car door as far as it could go and leaned over the top. “Sorry I forgot the coat,” he called to Tareq. “I’ll take him shopping,” Juliette replied. Mark dropped himself into the driver’s seat, closed the car door with a slam, and they drove off. Sam waved from the passenger’s seat and blew a kiss at Juliette, and then, Tareq thought, maybe at him as well. Emily trudged back up the drive and landed loudly on the front steps. “Boots, Tareq,” she pointed at his feet. “You’re going to need boots. And gloves for those beautiful hands of yours. Not a hard labor guy, are you?” Emily giggled. “Emily!” Juliette nearly scolded her. She knew that Emily was just teasing, but she didn’t know how Tareq would interpret Emily’s sense of humor. Emily looked at her mother in a way that said you know I’m right. “You do have beautiful hands, Tareq,” Emily reiterated as she went inside the house. “Mom’ll get you some gloves, though. No worries.” Emily was like no daughter Tareq had ever known. The way she spoke to her mother, and to him, alternately alarmed him and charmed him. She had a freedom with herself and with her mother that was foreign to him, but that also made him feel comfortable. What you see is what you get, an American had once said to him. Now that he knew Emily, he had a better sense of what the phrase meant. At lunch that day, Tareq learned what Americans really meant when they said leftovers. He knew it was physically impossible, but it seemed that there was more food on offer on Saturday than there had been the day before. And there was more freedom in how to consume it. On Friday, different foods had been placed next to


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each other on the plate, each occupying its own sanctioned territory. Only the gravy spilled from one region to the next. But on Saturday, the foods mingled. Emily piled mashed potatoes on top of the turkey and poured gravy on top of that. She microwaved the mix, and then added a layer of cranberry sauce above it all. Juliette mashed regular potatoes with the sweet potatoes and laced that with spinach. She skipped the turkey entirely and ate the cranberry sauce on its own. Tareq, however, prepared a traditional plate, each item neatly in place. He did not know the flavors well enough yet to blend them. “You look sleepy, Tareq,” Emily said from across the dining room table. “Jet lag, huh?” “Yes.” “You can take a nap,” she suggested. “Mom and I will clean up. And then after dinner tonight, we’ll watch It’s a Wonderful Life.” She looked over at her mother to confirm this was acceptable. This was a tradition, and it occurred to Emily too late that maybe it was a tradition her mother would not want to repeat that year. “Sure, honey. That’ll be fine,” Juliette reassured her. “Do you know that movie?” she asked Tareq. Tareq shook his head. “Then you should take a nap! It’s a classic. You’ll want to be awake for it.” Tareq complied and headed upstairs, and Juliette and Emily got to work in the kitchen. “I like him, Mom,” Emily said over Juliette’s shoulder as she carried plates from the table to the sink. “He seems really nice.” “He is nice, Emily. Pass me the lid to that container, would you?” Emily knew that was the end of the topic for now. “I haven’t even asked you,” Juliette continued. “How is everything at work?” Things were good, Emily told her mother. At last she was moving up from the proverbial mailroom position and getting involved in projects that interested her. She was working hard, but she still had energy at the end of the day for her own writing. She was making friends. It was a soft-landing after a long search for meaningful employment. “I’m glad, honey. It’s important to do what you love.” Tareq was fast asleep when he heard his name. “Tareq!” Emily called up the staircase. “Almost time for dinner. Then the movie!” Tareq pulled himself slowly upright and sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at the room’s closed door, studying the facets in the old-fashioned glass doorknob. He turned his head to the window; through the sheer curtains drawn across the window, he could see the outlines of the taller trees outside. Another layer of


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curtains, pulled back at each side, were tucked behind decorative hardware that to Tareq resembled doorknobs attached to the wall. He rotated his head around. Behind him was a closet; the space between the bed and the closet was barely big enough to open the closet door. In the corner was a small table and a lamp. He had yet to turn on the lamp, but he remembered putting his passport into the drawer in the table. “Tareq!” Emily called to him again. This time he could hear her coming up the stairs. “I am awake,” he called back as he closed the bedroom door behind him. Emily now stood at the top of the stairs and waved to him as he walked down the hall. “Dinner’s ready,” she said. “And won’t your feet get cold?” she pointed at his stocking feet. “I do not wear shoes inside a house,” he replied. They ate leftovers again for dinner, but they were different leftovers. “We made soup while you were sleeping,” Juliette greeted him as he walked into the kitchen. “Tradition.” She ladled some turkey soup into a bowl and explained that they’d skip the other leftovers for now. “You have to pace yourself with Thanksgiving,” Emily warned him, “otherwise it’s just too much.” She paused a moment and then added, “Unless it’s chocolate cake.” After dinner, Emily made popcorn, grabbed glasses and a few bottles of sparkling water, and set up the movie in the basement. Tareq followed Juliette down the staircase, his hands on the railings on either side. When they reached the basement, he awaited seating instructions. Emily read his body language before Juliette did. “I’ll sit on the floor,” she suggested. “You two take the sofa.” Tareq and Juliette did as instructed, but sat more formally than Emily thought necessary. Emily sat as far away from them as she could without it seeming like she was avoiding them. Juliette read her daughter’s actions quickly. She thought back to when the kids were in high school and heading out on first dates. Was this how Mark and Emily had felt when they brought someone home for the first time? Probably. Over the course of the movie, Juliette and Tareq relaxed into each other on the sofa, but a public display of affection did not suit either of them. Even with his nap, Tareq struggled to stay awake; Juliette nudged him occasionally, but eventually gave up. When the movie ended, she woke him up as the credits rolled. They said good night to Emily and went upstairs together. They now had the second floor of the house to themselves, and they lingered outside her bedroom door. “I liked that movie,” he said, “at least what I saw of it.” He laughed. “Much better than Romeo and Juliette.” “A much happier ending,” she concurred.


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“Juliette,” he said, pushing her hair back from her face, but still standing at a distance Juliette thought was more than just polite. He wanted to tell her he’d see the whole movie next year. He wanted to tell her how happy and relieved he felt that none of his fears about how her children would react to him had materialized. But he could hear Rana remind him of all the rules he was breaking. He could hear Mark telling him to get away from his wife. They were both telling him he had no right. But I do have a right, Tareq retorted in his head, to the movie, to Juliette, and to a wonderful life. “Juliette,” he tried to continue, but the words gave way beneath his feet. “What is it Tareq?” Juliette asked, eyeing his face closely but finding few clues. She waited for him to speak, but Tareq only inhaled and then let out a long, slow breath. “Mom!” Emily called from the basement as Tareq was trying to compose his reply to Juliette’s question. Emily’s voice did not sound alarmed, but it did command attention. “This is what it means to have children,” Juliette said to Tareq lightheartedly, tugging at his collar. “Always an interruption.” Juliette walked the few steps to the top of the staircase and shouted down to Emily. “What is it, sweetheart?” “There’s something wrong with the sink,” Emily yelled back. “I will look at it,” Tareq told Juliette. “Coming,” Juliette called back to Emily. “Maybe Tareq can fix it.” On Sunday, Juliette, Tareq and Emily ate breakfast together, all three at the kitchen table. Emily wanted another cup of Tareq’s coffee and asked him to show her how he made it. He took her through the process, quizzing her along the way. His fingers engaged each step with nimble animation. “What instrument do you play?” Emily asked Tareq. “Instrument?” Juliette asked, overhearing their conversation. “Piano,” Tareq replied. “You never mentioned the piano,” Juliette interrupted with surprise. “Mark never mentioned your playing the piano.” “There was generally not a piano where Mark and I were.” Tareq noted the fact plainly. “We can find you one here pretty easily,” Juliette offered. “That is not necessary,” he replied. “I have not played in many years.”


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“Well, it still shows in how you make coffee,” Emily observed. “People who play an instrument often use all their fingers to perform tasks, not just their index fingers, and they coordinate their hands together.” “Where do you learn this stuff?” Juliette asked her daughter in amazement. Tareq was wondering the same thing. “I keep my eyes and ears open, Mother Dear,” was all she said. “Eyes and ears open.” She took her cup of coffee from Tareq and leaned back against the counter. “This is the best, Tareq,” she nodded approvingly. “You can stay.” “Thank you, Emily,” he replied, both for her compliment and her imprimatur. Juliette glanced at the clock. “Oh! Em! We need to go now if you’re going to make the train.” “I’m finishing this coffee, Mom,” she was clear, “train or no train.” “Enjoy your coffee. It may be weeks before I have the privilege to make you another cup,” Tareq told her. “I will bring your bags to the car.” “I guess chivalry’s not dead, huh? At least not around here.” Emily held the cup close to her nose to enjoy the aroma. “Thanks, Tareq!” She was genuine in her gratitude. It was only a backpack and a computer bag, but his sincerity could move mountains. The steam from the piping hot coffee rose before Emily’s face, and Juliette knew that Emily would never finish it in time. She scrounged in a cupboard and produced a plastic cup with a beat up lid. “Here,” she turned to Emily, “put what’s left into this.” “He’s not going to like that,” Emily warned drolly. Emily hadn’t spent much time with Tareq, but she was pretty certain that he wouldn’t approve of his coffee being consumed from a plastic container. “Probably not,” Juliette agreed impishly, “but you know, desperate times, desperate measures.” Juliette’s expression feigned helplessness as she held the mug steady for Emily as she poured the coffee from the ceramic mug. “Ready?” Tareq called from the porch. “The bags are in the car.” Juliette and Emily could feel the cold air from the open front door all the way into the kitchen and hurried to the foyer. Tareq stood on the front porch and watched them from outside. “What is that?” he asked Emily as she shifted the travel mug from one hand to the other as she put on her coat. “Told you he wouldn’t like this,” she joked to her mother. “It’s a travel mug,” Juliette replied archly, knowing full well that Tareq knew what a travel mug was. “If she misses this train, the next one isn’t for hours.”


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“Ah,” he replied, equally archly. A hint of his sense of humor rippled on his forehead. Once in the car, Juliette sped to the station, and they dropped Emily at the train hastily. Emily hugged Juliette through the car window. “Keep him in the guest room if you want, Mom, but I like him.” Juliette shook her head at Emily, but she was glad to know that Emily approved. Emily checked the trunk for her bags, but then saw Tareq ahead of her, walking toward the station with the bags in hand. “Tareq!” she called. Tareq turned to face her. “Come, Emily. Quickly!” He walked backwards as she ran toward him, trying to keep the travel mug as level as possible. When she reached him, he handed her the bags as though passing off a baton in a relay race. “You’re the best, Tareq. Really. I mean it.” She winked at him and was off. Tareq waited until the train had left and he was sure Emily would not reappear. He walked back to the car at a more leisurely pace and found Juliette parked in one of the station’s handful of spaces. “She made it,” Juliette informed him. “I just got her text.” “Where to?” he asked, buckling his seat belt. He started to lean over to kiss her, but then thought of Mark sitting in the same seat, leaning over to Juliette in the same way. “Gloves,” she replied. “If I don’t find you some gloves, I’ll hear about it.” He held up his hands before his face. Emily’s right, Juliette thought, his hands were beautiful. Juliette matched her palms to his and folded her fingers through his. “And I have a few errands to run.” They drove to the nearest city, about 20 miles away, and entered the largest parking lot Tareq had ever seen. Juliette offered to drop him at an entrance to the mall so he wouldn’t have to walk far without a coat, but he opted to stay with her. They found a spot near enough that Juliette hoped he wouldn’t get too cold, and they made a dash for the multi-acre structure. The size of the complex was impressive, but it was the sound of the shopping mall that struck Tareq first: an intriguing combination of chatter, padded footsteps, and music, all punctuated by the occasional cry of a baby or the shriek of a child. The decorations in the mall impressed him further. Visitors to Egypt might find the pyramids exotic, but in Tareq’s opinion, the American shopping mall in the holiday season trumped the pyramids on that score. He did not find the mall beautiful, but the decorations were eye-popping, and the animatronic Santas, reindeer, and elves made his jaw drop. Fake snowflakes hung from the ceiling; Tareq wondered how these compared to the real ones he hoped to see before he returned to Cairo. The scent of the mall was beyond his description. He stopped and sniffed. “Caramel popcorn,” Juliette explained.


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He followed Juliette blindly, keeping his hand to her back for his own well-being as much as hers. He was expert in assessing buildings and knew it would take a small army to secure this location. But nothing in his training, he concluded, prepared him for navigating an American shopping mall. How Juliette knew where to find gloves, boots and a coat in this morass left him awe-struck. Soon he had all that he needed. “That should do you until spring,” she assessed. “Then it’s wet. But I have a spare umbrella.” From the mall, they went to a warehouse-style grocery store. “If we get separated,” Juliette instructed him, “come back here.” She showed him the information desk. “There’s only one of these, and anyone can point you back here.” She worried that she sounded patronizing, but the store was crammed to the gills. “And we need to get you a SIM card soon. Then if we get separated in a place like this, we can text.” The idea that two people shopping for food would potentially need to text each other within a grocery store was beyond anything Tareq had ever imagined. But he admired her foresight. They took the groceries to the car and loaded up the trunk. As he opened her car door for her, she spied a shop across the street where they could buy a SIM card. “Let’s just get that taken care of now,” she said. “What about the groceries?” “It’s as cold as a refrigerator out here. The food will be fine.” She looked him up and down. “But you may not be.” They returned to the trunk, found Tareq’s new coat and pulled off the tags. “And your gloves,” she said, handing him the pair. Tareq was now the most bundled up he had ever been in his entire life. The gloves were fine, but the coat was heavy and would take some getting used to. Errands completed, they returned home. Tareq moved quickly to open her car door and then went to the trunk for the groceries. The loose gravel drive shifted under his steps; it was not quite sand, he observed, but neither was it solid. The sky above was dark and clear, and a few stars twinkled. The scent of fresh pine mixed uneasily with that of burning timber. “The wood is not dry,” he said. “Excuse me?” Juliette asked. “The fire. Someone is burning wood that is not dry.” Dinner that evening consisted of another phase of leftovers. Tareq now experimented with mixing items on his plate, overlapping tastes and textures. After dinner, they cleaned up from the holiday, putting serving dishes and infrequently used pots and pans away in the basement. After the last trip down, Tareq returned to the kitchen and declared, “All done.” He picked up a towel to wipe off a wet spot on the counter and then turned around and leaned back against the counter’s beveled edge. “I think everything is now put away,” he said, throwing the towel over his shoulder in conclusion. “Juliette,” he called to her from across the kitchen. “Hmm?” she replied as she rearranged perishables in the refrigerator. She closed the door and leaned against it. “What is it?”


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He walked toward her, leaned his shoulder on the door opposite hers, and wrapped his free arm around her. Still at a loss for words, he tried again to tell her everything with his eyes alone. She couldn’t read the story clearly, but she could see his vulnerability. In her experience, most men – most people for that matter – hid themselves behind the curtains of their eyes. But when Tareq looked at Juliette, he drew everything back and stood unprotected. It was this vulnerability that terrified her: her responsibility for his vulnerability, and the vulnerability he created in her. “Juliette,” he sighed and entwined his arms around her like a vine. As he pressed his cheek against hers, a memory pressed up against him from the early years of his career. He was standing at a checkpoint when he heard the blood-curdling scream of a woman. His first impulse was to duck, but then he saw the woman run toward a man as he entered the camp. The man’s eyes were hollow with fatigue and much more, but Tareq watched him resuscitate in the arms of his beloved. If Tareq could find that man again, he would tell him that he understood. “Happy Thanksgiving, Juliette.” “Happy Thanksgiving, Tareq.” He pulled her head under his chin and stood still. He remembered how he had held her the same way in Berlin, however briefly, and how in the line at the Embassy he had thought of holding her forever. He knew, too, that he could ask her to take the photo of Mark off the mantle. But he couldn’t stop Rana’s voice in his head. He couldn’t deflect Mark’s repeated blows. Juliette raised herself on her toes and kissed him, her arms tightening around his body. “Juliette,” he stopped her. His tone alarmed her, and Juliette stepped back. His eyes looked even more vulnerable than before. But now they also looked conflicted, even uncertain, and Juliette felt a chill run through her. She stepped back further, studying his eyes, waiting for them to change with his mind. But his eyes took shelter behind closed lids and ended the conversation for the evening. On the Monday after Thanksgiving, Tareq awoke well before sunrise. His eyes opened to the blank, white ceiling, and he stared up for a few minutes as a realization dawned: he had no idea what he was going to do that day. He had no plans, no destination, no task at hand. Juliette, he presumed, would return to her editing; she had mentioned a deadline that was coming up. But he had no deadlines, no appointments, nothing to draw him from the warmth of the bed into the cold morning air. He rolled first to his left and then to his right, but the bed was narrow and did not accommodate much tossing and turning. He tried lying on his stomach, too, face down in the pillow, but then gave up. He got out of bed slowly and walked to the guest room’s sole window. It faced west, to the front yard and main road. The morning sun was still only a promise behind him; at this hour, he could discern no pending sunrays.


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He tried to imagine the Egyptian sky on a December morning, but came up as blank as the ceiling. Tareq walked away from the window, put on some clothes and socks, and walked quietly downstairs, trying unsuccessfully to keep the steps from squeaking. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and listened for Juliette, but heard nothing. Tareq grabbed his laptop from the dining room table and then ensconced himself on the sofa in the living room. He found maps online of the western morning sky in Cairo and looked out the window to compare them with the view from New York. The maps on the computer screen told him that the two views were remarkably similar, and he matched the stars as best he could. Eventually the sun hinted a greeting and the stars faded. Tareq closed his laptop and looked over to the clock on the mantle. It was still early, but in the growing light, he could see the photos above the fireplace: the children, smiling; Juliette and Emily in a cap and gown; and Mark and Juliette together, Mark’s grip on Juliette as tight as it was the first time Tareq had looked at the photo. But Mark’s arms could no longer hold Juliette, and Tareq knew this. Mark had no active role to play and no voice with which to object. He was neither a risk nor a threat; he posed no danger to Tareq’s head or his heart. And Emily, son Mark, and Samantha had been warm and friendly at Thanksgiving. With Emily, Tareq even felt a rapport. Whatever had closed his eyes to Juliette the night before, Tareq acknowledged to himself, it wasn’t Mark. Tareq looked over to the desk in the foyer in search of Rana’s condolence card. The card was gone, he noticed for the first time, but Rana’s voice was not. She needled him now, just as she had needled him when they worked together. With Tareq, Rana had always been free with her opinions. She would be sitting at her desk at that very moment, Tareq thought, and if she could see him on Juliette’s sofa, she’d have plenty to say about it. What are you doing, he could hear her clearly, an unmarried man staying at the home of an unmarried woman? And with no one else in the house? Why aren’t you at home with your mother? And for that matter, why aren’t you married? And to be more specific, why aren’t you married to me? Tareq bolted upright, banging his shins against the coffee table. He remembered Rana as being forthright, but her imaginary, uncensored remarks still shocked him. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, trying to catch his breath. He looked back out the window, searching for any remaining familiar constellation. But the stars were now completely invisible. Tareq leaned over the sofa, his hands on the windowsill. His breath frosted the window, and the wind whistled beneath the front door. A car drove up in front of the house, and Tareq saw the newspaper fly over Juliette’s car and land in the gravel. He found his shoes by the door and ventured into the crispy air to fetch the paper. On the way back to the house, he buried his eyes in newsprint, shivering as much with the predictability of the headlines as with the cold.


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“It’s too cold to be out there without a jacket!” Juliette piped cheerfully from the front door as he walked up the steps. “I was not outside for long,” he replied. “Can I make you something hot? Tea?” she offered. “Yes,” he replied, handing her the paper. Juliette took the paper and closed the door as Tareq removed his shoes. They drank their tea together at the kitchen table, each with a section of paper in hand. As they turned the pages, the edges rustled against each other. Juliette folded her section in half and put it on the table under her mug of tea. “I’m going to need to do some work today,” she apologized into the section of paper he held open. “My deadline is the 20th.” Juliette had considered taking more time off while Tareq was in New York, but two months would have been a long time to go without an assignment, and she also wanted to experience life with him as it might actually be, not just as a vacation. “I understand,” Tareq replied, lowering the paper and finding a smile for her. Tareq did understand, and in truth, he was relieved. “Thanks,” Juliette said. “After the 20th, I’ve got a good 10 days free.” Tareq nodded, rose from the table without explanation, and started walking to the foyer. “Where are you going?” Juliette asked into his back. “To the town,” he replied over his shoulder. Juliette’s first impulse was to tell him no, that he couldn’t go. She wanted him to stay near her, even if she was at her computer. But she sat still and mute, listening as he opened the closet door for his coat and found his gloves in the drawer. When she heard the clunk of his boots, she got up from her chair quickly and joined him by the front door. She watched him tie his bootlaces resolutely. “It’s awfully early to go to town,” she said. “Maybe one more cup of tea and then go?” Tareq buttoned his coat and pulled on his gloves like a surgeon adjusting them to ensure maximum dexterity. “Okay,” she gave in. “Give me a minute to get dressed and I’ll drive you in.” “I will walk.” “But that’s more than a mile away.” “Yes.” “And what are you going to do there?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Explore.”


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“Tareq, this is small town New York, there’s not a lot to explore.” “There is always something to explore,” he countered with a forced smile that she did not recognize. Juliette drew a map of the village center in her mind: near the train station there was a diner, a hardware store, a convenience store, a post office that seemed to open only when it felt like it, a white clapboard church, and a library. He wouldn’t be gone for long. There was Romeo’s, too, she remembered, a restaurant that was putting her little town on the map. People came from all over, hours by car, to eat at Romeo’s. The eponymous owner was contemplating buying an old Victorian nearby and turning it into a bed and breakfast to accommodate some of the people who came for dinner and then wanted – or needed – a place to rest their well-sated bodies. Romeo had told Juliette about his plans right after she returned from Berlin. “Well, I guess so,” she conceded and looked over at the clock on the mantle. “By the time you get there, things should be opening up. But take your cell phone with you. I’ll pick you up if you get stuck.” “I will not get stuck.” “And you know where you’re going? It’s not like we’ve driven around a lot.” “There are not many roads here, Juliette.” Juliette scrunched up her lower lip in agreement. He was right. From her driveway, there were only two options: left or right. Right took you to the main highway, left took you into town. There was no chance he’d get lost. “Okay, then, see you later? Back by lunch?” “Yes.” A brief embrace, and then he was out the door. Tareq was not accustomed to the dry, biting cold and the winter landscape it produced. Its infinite shades of gray required concentration, the limestone deposits told their own stories and the rocky banks made promises of creeks below. The stark skeletons of trees formed wild patterns against the silvery sky, which was neither cloudless nor sunny. In the frosty air, he remembered a voice singing in the shopping mall. Perhaps this was the scene. It was a jarringly empty land. He had done his best to prepare for this before he bought his plane ticket and consciously chose a return date roughly nine weeks after his arrival. The population of Juliette’s town, he had learned, would easily fit into one block in Cairo, just on the ground floor alone. The population of Cairo – based only on the actual city limits – was perhaps 20 times the size of the entire county in which her town was located. Before arriving, Tareq had struggled to imagine what that would look like. Whether in Cairo, Aleppo, or Damascus, Tareq had always lived among masses of humanity. Now he walked down a two lane


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road completely alone. He looked back now and again, thinking that maybe a car would drive up behind him. But none did. No one cycled past; no other pedestrian appeared. Tareq shared the road only with his thoughts. When he arrived at the town it was, as Juliette predicted, just starting to open its doors. He knew his destination precisely: the hardware store, immediately next to the train station. He had nearly fixed the basement sink the other night, but the washer in the faucet needed to be replaced. The store owner helped him pick the right one based on the photos Tareq had taken that morning. The wind was blowing under the front door, Tareq also explained, and the owner showed him several options. Tareq selected some weather stripping he thought he could make work. “Anything else?” the store owner asked, taking his reading glasses from his nose to get a better look at Tareq. He was not accustomed to unfamiliar faces in his store. Some hinges were squeaking in the kitchen, Tareq continued, and needed oil. And picture hangers, too. The store owner asked a few more questions and then showed Tareq what he thought would suffice. Tareq filled his backpack with these purchases and left the store, spying a fire extinguisher as he exited. Next time, he thought. He proceeded down the town’s main street. The train station, where they had dropped Emily the day before, was quiet. At the library, a man was sweeping the last of the falling leaves off the front steps. He raised his hand to Tareq and waved, and Tareq returned the gesture. He noticed Romeo’s across the street, a “closed” sign hanging in the window. Tareq stopped in the small grocery store to take stock. It would do in an emergency, he thought, but he understood why Juliette had driven so far the day before to go to a larger supermarket. He did one lap around and noticed the cigarettes behind the counter. It had been weeks now since he had bought a package. He had now pretty much explored the town and concluded that this was the quietest example of human habitation he had ever known. There were many houses in the area, and the location warranted a train station. But did anyone really live here? If so, where were they? Was it just a function of the cold weather? Would summer bring more evidence of life? He decided to try the coffee shop. In Cairo, a café would certainly draw a crowd. As Tareq opened the door, a bell startled him with its bright jingling. To his relief, no one looked around to see who had entered. But there were plenty of people gathered here, at least in comparison to the sidewalks outside. An older couple ate breakfast at a booth. A younger man sat alone with a paper. He was dressed in a suit and carried a brief case; he must be waiting for the train, Tareq thought. Two women in leggings and sweatshirts appeared to be either coming from or going to an exercise class, but where that class might be held was a mystery to Tareq. Tareq took a seat by the window and ordered a coffee. “That’s it?” the waitress asked, sticking her pencil behind her ear. Tareq might have ordered more, but he


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was dumbstruck by the woman’s make-up. The dark lines drawn around her eyes were as thick as any painted in ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, and the color of her lips was beyond his recognition. He changed his order to tea. Waiting for the tea to arrive, he cast his eyes about the diner, comparing it to his café at home. But in the end, he could make no comparison. The two seemed too many worlds apart. Except, he said to himself, rising from the table and squinting across the room. On a shelf by the diner’s long counter, with its fixed seats that looked like red buttons attached to chrome columns, he saw a chess set. He passed the waitress bringing his tea on his way to inspect it. He raised his hand to her to say he’d be right back, but he wasn’t sure his body language meant the same thing in this place as it would in Cairo. He picked up the game and took it back to his table. Sipping the distinctly American tea, he moved the pieces around the board, but by the time his teacup was empty, he had grown bored of trying to beat himself at a game meant for two. If he left the café now, he surmised, he would return before lunch and perhaps interrupt Juliette’s work. But with his errand accomplished and the chess match a draw, he had no reason to remain in the town. So he set off down the road again, in the only direction he could go. Juliette heard his steps on the front porch and opened the door for him. “Nice walk?” she asked. “Yes,” he replied. “Cold.” He removed his winter layers. “And successful.” “Successful?” she asked. “Yes.” He proceeded to empty the contents of his backpack before her. Juliette watched as one neglected household projected after another got its due. She considered herself independent, but at that moment, all she could think was that it was nice to have a man in the house. “How did you know all of this needed to be done?” she asked. “What did Emily say? Eyes and ears open?” “And mouths,” Juliette added, rubbing her hand over his shoulder. “Come in the kitchen and I’ll make us some lunch.” Tareq’s morning adventure provided ample fodder for conversation. They talked about where to hang the pictures, and Tareq recounted Earl’s instructions about how to use the weather stripping. Tareq scrunched his nose disapprovingly when he mentioned the convenience store, but his face relaxed a little when he described the chess set at the diner. It was small with plastic pieces, he noted, but perhaps that was all for the better in such an environment. Juliette said she had never noticed the set before; in fact, she explained, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d even been in the diner. After lunch, Juliette came to a verdict about the pictures, and Tareq busied himself with nails, washers, hinges, hooks and weather stripping while Juliette beavered


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away on her assignment. When she appeared in the foyer to thank him properly for his work on the front door, he felt an appropriate pride of place. “Is this your only box of tools?” he asked, pointing to the red plastic box he had found in the basement. “I think so,” she replied. I didn’t need much when I lived in the city. I just called maintenance if something went wrong.” “I see,” Tareq replied, pulling his phone from his pocket. He sat down on the floor and began arranging the meager collection by type and size of tool. “What are you doing?” she inquired. “I am making a list,” he informed her, “Tomorrow I will return to the hardware store to buy tools.” She ran her hand across his head, messing up his hair. He reached up and briefly pressed her hand against his scalp but kept his eyes and other hand on his phone. “Tomorrow,” he said again, rising from the floor and placing his hands on his hips, “you will have tools.” He turned his face from the paltry collection at his feet and gave her one sharp nod. Tomorrow was settled, but Juliette now wondered about that night. He appeared visibly calmer with a tool in his hands, but he still stood uneasily. “You want to get out of here, Tareq?” Juliette asked. He looked at her quizzically. “Go out for dinner?” she rephrased. “I think we’ve had enough cooking and leftovers.” “I want to get out of here,” he agreed in distinctly American English. The words elbowed each other on the way out of his mouth. “Anything in particular you’d like?” He shook his head. “Let’s take a drive then. There’s a little town near here that goes all out for Christmas. Their decorations will be up by now.” Juliette took the long route, away from the main highway. At first the sun lit the way, but soon it gave way to a dusky late afternoon, and lights began to twinkle from scattered houses. The sun did not set much earlier here in winter than in Cairo, Tareq thought to himself, but the cold made the sky seem darker. Occasionally a school or other sign of communal life appeared, and eventually the houses became more frequent. Soon they were on the main boulevard of a small but bustling town. Unlike Juliette’s town, this one was a hive of activity: whole families strolled on the sidewalks, store fronts shone like a mile-long ribbon of light; and sugary aromas were strong enough to waft into the car. Juliette took one of the few parking spaces left on the street. She searched for coins to pay the parking meter and strained in the darkness to read the rates. Tareq


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paid close attention over her shoulder and held up his phone as a flashlight. “Do you have these in Cairo?” she asked him. “Not quite,” he replied. “Show me how this works.” “It’s easy,” she explained, “as long as you have the right coins. And in some places, you can feed the meter with credit cards, or with an app.” Tareq was starting to think that parking in Cairo might actually be easier. “Okay, two hours!” “What happens if we don’t feed the meter?” “Might get a ticket,” she replied. Tareq deemed this consequence to be fairly mild, but he still noted the time when the meter started. “But it shouldn’t be necessary to feed the meter after a certain time at night.” She looked around. “But I don’t see a sign.” Tareq looked around, too, but wasn’t sure what sign he should be looking for. Tareq plunged his hands into his pockets with a shiver. She took his empty elbow and began to lead him down the street. “I know you don’t really do Christmas, but I still thought you’d like to see this.” She pointed around at the brightly decorated street. Tareq studied the scene carefully, relieved that it was nothing like the shopping mall. Real pine garlands, fresh with scent and roped with white lights, twisted around historic lampposts, and red velvet ribbons with clusters of pinecones hung from just below the gas-lit lamps at the top. Between each lamppost were strands of spherical lanterns, alternating in gold and silver and lining the street like suns and moons. And straight ahead, where the main street intersected with another thoroughfare, a Christmas tree rose from a landscaped roundabout. A gold star crowned the tree, and ribbons of red cascaded from the star to the ground, where they were anchored in spotlights that made the tree glow. The exteriors of each store were decorated differently, but with common elements: wreaths, poinsettias in window boxes, strands of colorful ornaments hanging down, across and even diagonally. And lights. Some stayed on, some blinked, some flickered. The lights shone mainly in red, white, and gold. But some shops had chosen blue and silver, even the occasional pink and purple. They walked down the street and peeked into each window. Some sported trees, some displayed nativity sets, and some mixed trees, nativity sets and menorahs together. Juliette answered Tareq’s questions and recounted childhood memories of opening presents on Christmas morning. Gazing into the window of a bicycle shop, Juliette reminisced warmly about how, on one very special Christmas, she had found a red bike on the porch with a note from Santa. Tareq pondered her stories; some things about America, he thought, were not that different after all. Children were children, wherever you went. But at the next store window, Tareq stopped and said definitively, “Juliette, I do not understand America.” The head of Tutankhamen wearing a Santa hat peered at them with glassy black eyes. A poster next to the unlikely Santa advertised a


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contest to win a trip to the Luxor Resort in Las Vegas. Below the poster was a tub of water in which rubber ducks, adorned with Egyptian headdresses, floated about. “If it’s any consolation,” she replied, rubbing her fingers on her forehead in disbelief, “neither do I.” They laughed, a tension broke, and she felt his hand at her back for the first time in days. She had missed his hand. “Let’s eat,” she put her arm around his waist, and they walked along looking for a cozy spot. A neon sign across the street glowed “S’mores”, and Juliette’s mouth began to water. “Tareq,” she looked at him mischievously, “how do you feel about spoiling our dinners?” He had no idea what she meant, but he liked the look in her eyes. “Yes.” They walked across the street to the café that promised the sweet treats of moonlit campfires. Juliette ordered a “S’mores Set for Two” and two coffees. They took their coffees with them and sat down to wait. “What will we eat?” he asked, sipping his coffee. That much was familiar. Only then did Juliette realize that she hadn’t bothered to explain the concept of s’mores. Her response rambled, and to her relief, a waiter arrived with all the necessary ingredients and tools: a stack of graham crackers, a bowl of marshmallows, and two chocolate bars, along with two skewers and a Bunsen-burner like appliance. Tareq picked up each piece of equipment, bemused. “What do we do with this?” “I’ll show you,” Juliette giggled. “Just promise me you won’t tell the kids. They’d never let me live it down.” She opened the bar of chocolate and put one piece on a cracker. “Got that?” He nodded. Then she pierced a marshmallow and held it over the flame to melt, rotating it so that it browned all around. “Now here’s the tricky part,” she warned him. She put the marshmallow on top of the chocolate and then topped it with another cracker, the skewer still in the marshmallow. “You’ve got to slide the marshmallow off the skewer without making a mess.” The open flames cast moving shadows across her face, and her eyes gleamed. “Here,” she said, handing him the confection. “Give it a try. But be careful. Don’t get burned.” Tareq bit into the crunchy, sticky dessert. His face at first looked displeased; the texture took him by surprise. But then the mischief in his eyes matched hers. “Do you like it?” she asked nervously. “It is very sweet,” he replied, wiping stray strings of marshmallow from the sides of his mouth. “But I like it.” He told the truth, but he liked the sight of her making the s’more more than he liked the s’more itself. “Make one for yourself,” he told her. She made s’mores until the ingredients were gone, alternately passing one to Tareq and taking one for herself.


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Tareq held his last s’more in his hand. “I would like another coffee,” he laughed. “This is very sweet.” The still-glowing burner deepened the creases around his eyes. “Sugar and caffeine,” she laughed with him. “You can’t go wrong.” All the tension of the last few days seemed to dissipate, and he again smiled easily at her. “Juliette,” he sighed. “Yes, Tareq?” “What is the song? You don’t realize what you do to me?” “And I didn’t realize what a kiss could be.” She suppressed her tears, but her eyes glistened in the light from the fire. “Juliette,” his voice became grave for what seemed to her like no reason, “I am from Egypt.” He said this almost as though telling her that he had an incurable disease. At first, his statement struck her as absurd, but confusion overtook her sarcasm, and she wondered why he was telling her what she already knew. “I know,” she said, reaching across the table for his hand. “We sailed on the Nile, remember?” “I do.” He looked down at her hand and tried to accept its warmth. “And in Berlin, you promised to teach me to swim.” He remembered that, too. The water, she had told him, was cold and dark and deep. He retracted his hand, turned off the burner, and felt for his phone in his pocket. “We must go,” he told her, showing her the time display on his phone, “or we might get a ticket.”

After Cairo ~ Turning Right

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Turning Right The next morning, Tareq was already finishing his tea when Juliette first appeared in the kitchen. “I overslept,” she yawned at him, leaning against the counter by the sink. “Seems you found everything, though. But I’m sorry,” she sat down across from him. “You could have woken me up, you know.” “I will make you coffee before I go,” he announced as he stood up. “Go?” “Yes. More tools. Remember?” “Yes, I remember.” He turned away from her to the coffee maker and began preparing a fresh cup for her. When Tareq didn’t need his hands for the coffeemaker, he rested them against the lip of the countertop, his wrists angled sharply. When the coffee was ready, he served her and then walked to the foyer to make peace with his winter wardrobe. When he opened the door, he saw the newspaper on the front porch. He turned around to bring it to her and found her standing before him. “Thanks,” she said, taking the paper. She put her on his forearm. “Tareq?” she asked no particular question. Tareq’s mouth pursed nervously, and his eyes didn’t know where to focus. He said goodbye again quickly and left, returning to the nearly frozen road. The morning stood still: nothing flew, shook, or fluttered. Tareq defied the stillness, step by step, moving in a direction that stood proxy for forward. At the hardware store, the same man who had helped Tareq the day before greeted him warmly. “You’re back!” he said, raising his hands in the air. “Yes,” Tareq replied, looking around him to see if there were someone else in the store who warranted the enthusiastic welcome. But Tareq was the only customer in the store. “I need more tools.” Tareq showed the man the scant list of items in Juliette’s possession. The man shook his head knowingly. “You’re at Ms. Grant’s, right?” Exactly how the store owner would know this was unclear. But, Tareq thought, perhaps this town was more like Cairo than he had initially thought. People watched people,


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and Tareq would certainly have attracted someone’s attention at the station when he helped get Emily to the train on time. “Women.” The store owner stated as though that both articulated the problem and solved it. He led Tareq up and down the aisles as they decided what constituted essentials. Back at the counter, they inventoried the lot. The owner packed up Tareq’s bag and said, “Let me know if you need anything else.” “I would like three fire extinguishers,” Tareq requested without a pause. “One kitchen-type? And then one each for the basement and the upstairs?” the veteran owner asked. Tareq now knew that he had found a friend. “Yes. Exactly.” “You on foot?” Tareq nodded. “Let me give you a lift. The Laroche house is only a mile from here, right? Let’s get in the car.” The offer struck Tareq as unnecessarily generous and he wanted to refuse. But he was so stunned by the man’s helpfulness that his mouth couldn’t move. They left from the store’s front door, and the owner, who now introduced himself as Earl, flipped the “open” sign over to a side with a clock face with plastic hands. He adjusted the hands to indicate that he’d “be back soon” in about 30 minutes. “Where you from?” Earl asked, and Tareq realized he had not even responded to Earl’s introduction by providing his own name. “Egypt. I am Tareq.” “Tah-Rek,” Earl said slowly. “Got that right?” “Yes, thank you,” Tareq replied. Earl had pretty much gotten it right. “You moving in, Tareq?” Earl asked the question in the same tone he might ask someone if they wanted matte paint or glossy. The question startled Tareq, but he also sensed that Earl wasn’t being nosy. He was just surveying the scene. “I used to work with Juliette’s husband, Mark.” “Ah, sad business, that.” “Yes,” Tareq echoed. “Sad business.” They pulled into the drive. Earl got out of the car with Tareq and helped him carry the fire extinguishers up to the house. Juliette heard the activity on the porch and opened the door to find Earl and Tareq comparing tools in the United States with those in Egypt. “Ms. Grant!” Earl greeted her, reaching out to shake her hand. “You seem to have found yourself a handyman!” Juliette wasn’t sure how to react. The person she thought of only as “the man at the hardware store” knew her name. “Juliette,” she said, extending her hand.


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“And have you eaten at Romeo’s?” Earl joked, perhaps even thinking he was the first one to say this to her. “Yes, I have,” she nodded with a slim smile. “Nice place for our little town, huh?” “A bit fancy for around here, if you ask me,” Earl wiggled his ears. “But tasty! You’ll have to take your guest there.” “Good idea. I will,” Juliette agreed. “I need to do something to say thank you for all this work around the house!” And with that Earl saluted from his cap, said he hoped he’d see Tareq again soon, wished them both a Merry Christmas, and returned to his car. They watched Earl drive away and then escaped from the cold into the house. “Looks like you’re settling in to village life,” she teased him. “I am,” he replied with a few slow, thoughtful nods. He looked at everything on the floor in the foyer: the fire extinguishers, the new tools, the basics of daily life. This is what he wanted to have with her. He wanted a life that was theirs to share, with dishes to wash, doors to fix, and pictures to hang on the wall. And if there were a fire, he’d use the extinguisher, and then they’d rebuild together. “Juliette,” he looked her directly in the eye. “Yes, Tareq.” He drew her close and braced himself for the whirlwind to come: the weight of her body against his, the beat of her heart, the smell of her hair, the pressure of her arms around his torso. This was like nothing he had ever known before in his life. He kissed her passionately and honestly. He explored her face and neck and memorized the terrain. And then he stopped. He buried his head in her shoulder, and he stopped. “Tareq,” she whispered. “Are you okay?” “I do not know.” “What is it?” “I do not know what to do.” “I thought you were doing pretty well,” she said with a smile, bringing his eyes into her view. She saw the vulnerability again and kissed his cheek to protect it. She looked for the grief, too, but this time saw something different, something she could not immediately recognize.


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Tareq ran his hands through his hair. First his right hand, then his left hand, and then his right hand again. He looked down at his feet and then up to the ceiling. He turned once in a circle. He paced. And then he stopped dead in his tracks. “Tareq, what is it?” Juliette was now worried. She took his face in her hands and stared. This wasn’t grief, she thought to herself. This was panic. He bit his lip and looked at her. “Juliette, in Egypt, this is the way a man kisses his wife.” Now Juliette could see it, and the realization rear-ended her with the same force as the news of Mark’s death. Tareq didn’t just happen to be from Egypt. Tareq was Egyptian. Juliette felt the whiplash. Tareq had explained it all in Cairo: Yasmeen was Christian Armenian. He was Muslim. For them to marry was forbidden. Forbidden. “You’re saying this is impossible.” She dropped her hands and spoke with an eerie calm that unnerved him further. He stared at her, his hands on top of his head like a prisoner, his body tense. The panic made him look harsh. “Tareq,” she asked slowly, “you’re saying this is impossible?” He did not like the way she said his name. “Why did you come all this way if this is impossible?” Her tone remained calm and deliberate, but he could hear the anger rising in her voice. He crossed his arms on his chest and looked down, but she took his face in her hands again and forced his eyes on her. “If this is impossible, why did you come all the way to New York?” She spoke as evenly as she could, trying to keep her own panic at bay. This couldn’t be the end, she told herself. It couldn’t be. “I do not know what to do.” A part of him knew exactly what to do, but the war raged on. He wasn’t supposed to be in love with her. He wasn’t supposed to be in New York, in her house, in her arms. He leaned back against the front door for support. “Someone asked me if I had forgotten who I am.” “Forgotten who you are?” “Yes,” he stood on his own two feet again and looked at her. “I don’t know if it’s a matter of forgetting who you are,” her tone was fierce. “I think it’s more a matter of knowing who you are right now.” Her words stung. “Who are you, Tareq?” He was silent for what felt like an eternity. “I am not sure.” Juliette looked at him in anguished disbelief. “If you’re not sure now, then maybe you never knew in the first place.” She kissed him on each cheek and went upstairs.


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Tareq watched her go up the stairs and then stood in the foyer in shock at what had just happened. He felt dizzy and disoriented and leaned back against the door again. He looked down at himself, still in his boots and coat. He was dressed for the cold and decided to make use of it. He felt for his gloves in his pockets, opened the door, and left. From her room upstairs, Juliette heard the door close behind him. She lowered herself to the edge of her bed and wept, her heart collapsing within her. She remembered her own moment of panic in Berlin. In Berlin, he had held her, and their embrace had made them both feel better. But now, she knew, he had to go his own way. Tareq turned right onto the road this time, toward the main highway. He paid little attention to where he was going, concentrating only on putting one foot in front of the other. He walked and walked and was fairly certain that at least once he had gone in a circle. By late afternoon, he realized he had arrived back in the town, but at what he thought of as the far end of the main street, near the church. A small group of people huddled outside on the church’s slate tile pathway. From Tareq’s distance, their darkly coated bodies seemed to recede into the building’s white clapboard exterior that was glowing faintly in the misty dusk. A burly man carrying a bag over his shoulder arrived with a key and opened the building’s bright red door. The crowd rushed into the church’s warmth like sand through a funnel. Tareq crossed the street and took a seat in the back of the church as the people he had been watching gathered at the front. The large man took black folders from his bag and handed one to each person, chatting gregariously as he went, and then sat down at a piano. From the piano, he raised his left hand high and suggested they warm up first. A second later, his right hand began a series of arpeggios, and the voices sang out in unison. The choir rehearsed numerous Christmas carols, some of which were familiar to Tareq from movies, car radios, and homes of Americans he knew in Damascus. He recognized the Bach cantata, too; the choir director said something about working on that for two Sundays from now. Tareq closed his eyes and allowed himself to think of Juliette, to think about kissing Juliette. He remembered the kiss he had given her late at night in the dim light of the hotel lobby in Cairo. He had taken the day off work that day. But now he realized he had also taken that day off from himself. He had stepped outside of his life as he knew it to embrace a life that he wanted. The rehearsal ended, and Tareq felt the weight of his heart again. As the singers left the church, Tareq stood up to leave, too, but the choir conductor stopped him with a greeting. “Hello, there!” he called from the piano. “You new here?” Tareq stood where he was as the man approached him down the church’s center aisle. When they were nearly face to face, Tareq put one hand on his chest and shook the man’s hand with the other. “I am Tareq. Thank you.” “For what?”


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“The music. It was beautiful.” “You’re welcome. Any time. You sing? “No,” Tareq shook his head. “I used to play the piano.” “Don’t say used to,” the man slapped him on the back. “Once you play the piano, you never forget. That right Betty?” A petite elderly woman nodded vehemently from well below Tareq’s shoulder. “Betty here’s been teaching piano in these parts for 50 years.” Betty tilted her head back to meet Tareq’s eyes. “I’m Bob,” the man continued. “I play the piano at the church and direct the choir. Just for fun. What about you?” “I am from Cairo.” “Cairo? Egypt?” Bob queried. Tareq nodded. “We don’t get many people from Egypt around here.” Tareq knew this. “Well, the least I can do is buy you a drink!” “I do not drink alcohol.” “I don’t drink alcohol, either,” Bob leaned in to say, “but probably not for the same reason as you.” Tareq didn’t understand. “Coffee shop or Romeo’s then? On me!” “The coffee shop,” Tareq replied, not entirely sure he had just heard himself accept an invitation from a total stranger. But then again, after the last 90 minutes of music, Tareq felt he knew this man well enough. “You’re a man after my own heart, Tareq.” Bob pushed Tareq out the door and down the street to the coffee shop. The bell jingled again, as it had before, and the same waitress waved her pencil in the air when she saw Bob and Tareq arrive. “Any table’ll do,” she told them. Bob grabbed two menus from near the door and made the table choice for them both. “So what’re you doing here, Tareq?” Bob asked as they settled into a booth. Tareq explained that he had worked with Juliette’s late husband in the Middle East and that he had come to pay his respects. “So you came all this way to see a woman whose husband rarely bothered to come all this way to see her?” Tareq nodded. Bob had pretty much hit the nail on the head. “And now you’re sitting at the town diner with me?” Tareq nodded again. “Sounds like you’ve got some thinking to do.” “I do,” Tareq admitted. “Well let me give you a little unsolicited advice, Tareq,” Bob started out. Tareq listened, but in the back of his head he was thinking that the United States was a land of unrelenting unsolicited advice. Bob on his relationship with Juliette, commercials on television telling people they needed all sorts of things that were unnecessary, and everyone commenting on the “situation” in the Middle East.


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“I was married once,” Tareq now rejoined the train of Bob’s story. “But I had a drinking problem. My wife left me.” Bob looked down at the menu and scratched his balding head. “Now I’m sober.” He looked back up at Tareq. “Kids talk to me again. So that’s good. But my wife, she’s remarried now.” “I am sorry to hear that,” Tareq’s words were sincere. “So am I, Mr. T, so am I.” Bob flipped the menu over to the side featuring food rather than beverages. The waitress with the eyes appeared before them to take their order. “Tea again?” she said, looking at Tareq. Tareq nodded. “Anything to eat?” He shook his head. “C’mon, Tareq, it’s dinner time. You gotta eat something.” “Spaghetti?” Tareq asked. On television, he’d seen people eating spaghetti in restaurants that looked like this one. The waitress wrote something down. “You, Bob?” “The usual, Fran.” The waitress didn’t write anything else down and walked off toward the kitchen. “And I’ll tell you this,” Bob continued, “you don’t want to be alone when you’re my age. Choir practice is nice, but I’d rather be at home with the missus.” Tareq thought of Juliette at home right then, alone, perhaps eating dinner at the kitchen table. The two men sat silently for a moment. Bob changed the topic, asking question after question about life in Cairo. He wanted to know about Tareq’s family, the café, the river Nile, the pyramids. Their dinner plates came and went, and Bob pressed on. He wanted to know who Tareq was. “Bob, honey,” Fran called from the other side of the diner. “Closing time.” “Well look at that!” Bob exclaimed. “Tareq, why don’t I take you back home?” Tareq accepted the offer readily. Giving strangers a ride home seemed to be common in the United States. Back home, Juliette was growing anxious. She had long since given up on eating dinner. She had left her plate untouched in the kitchen and tried instead to get comfortable at the dining room table. Eventually she had pushed that chair back and moved to the living room sofa, where she had now been sitting for what felt like an eon. It was dark and cold outside, and Tareq hadn’t called or texted. Several times she’d started to dial his number, but had stopped herself. He needed to answer his questions, she thought, not his phone. When the clock hands swept past 9 pm, she began to dial his number. But then she saw headlights sweep over her front porch, and waves of relief flowed over her.


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Through the window she saw Tareq get out of the car and wave to the driver. She watched him walk towards the house and heard his steps on the front porch, but did not move. But then he knocked. She got up from the sofa and opened the door. “I do not have a key,” he apologized. She walked to the desk in the foyer and scrounged for a spare. “Here,” she said, placing the key in his hand. He closed his hand tightly around hers and held the rest of her with uncensored eyes. “Don’t torture me, Tareq,” she said to him. Her voice was quiet, but her tone adamant. “You know how I feel.” The idea that he had the capacity to torture her was unbearable, and she could see that in his expression. “I feel as you do,” he whispered. “Then what’s standing in the way?” “I am in the way,” he replied with quiet clarity. “You are right. It is more important to know than to remember.” He stood as near to her as he could without touching her. “I need to think.” “Then I’d suggest you think,” she said, pushing the hair off his forehead lovingly. She could not stay angry with him. “For both our sakes.” He nodded slightly and took her hand from his forehead. He kissed her fingers one by one and then returned her hand to her. “I will. I promise.” And then he climbed the stairs, still in his coat and boots. The next morning Juliette kissed him on each cheek and hugged him briefly. Their interactions were awkward and contrived, but that seemed to be the order of the day. “So what are you up to today?” Juliette asked. “Hardware store again?” “I will visit the library.” Tareq had noted the library’s hours on the carved, wooden sign next to the main door. “Today it opens at 1.” “I think that might be when the post office decides to be open, too,” Juliette tried to joke. “Honestly, they’re a federal agency. How that post office gets away with irregular hours is beyond me. But after lunch is a good time to try. I’ll drive you in.” Tareq spent the morning arranging and rearranging the treasure trove of new tools that had never moved beyond the foyer from the previous afternoon. He would need to return to the hardware store after the library, he realized, to get another toolbox. But the main exploration for the day would be a public library in a small town in the United States of America.


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Juliette dropped him in front of the library before continuing on to the post office. She’d swing by the hardware store for the extra toolbox; she reassured him she’d defer to Earl’s selection. Then she needed to go to the next town over and would return for him in a few hours. Tareq walked up the bricked path to the library. Narrow flowerbeds, planted with purple and green cabbages, lined the path and were flanked on either side by patches of fading grass. Tareq took hold of the wrought iron railing that served the three concrete steps up to a small landing and opened the library door slowly. No bell jingled and he entered unnoticed. He reflexively removed his shoes and then hung his coat on a rack that stood right by the door. The library was silent, but unlike the empty roads, it was warm and inviting. Immediately before him stood rows of book cases – tall, darkly stained, with decorative cornices. To the left was a formally arranged seating area with a fireplace that gave the library a homey ambiance. To the right was the librarian’s desk, a mahogany table with heavily carved legs ending in clawed feet that held spheres in their talons. The chair behind the desk was empty, but Tareq could hear someone in the shelves immediately behind the desk. A woman appeared from around the corner of one of the shelves. “May I help you?” she asked. Tareq didn’t know how to respond. He didn’t know if he needed help, but he was also not sure what he should do. “Hello,” she continued, stretching out her hand as she walked toward him. “I’m Marian. I’m the librarian here.” Marian waited for him to make a joke about her name as they shook hands, but Tareq heard nothing humorous. “I am Tareq.” “Hi, Tareq. That’s a beautiful name,” Marian replied. “And you get the prize for being the first person not to smirk at my name.” She could see the confusion in his face. “Marian. The Librarian.” She waited for a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “You know, The Music Man?” Tareq shook his head. “It’s a silly musical,” she continued, “and God bless you for not knowing it.” Tareq did not know what divine blessing had to do with it, but he was happy for her. “Have you moved here recently?” she asked. “I am new to this town.” “Where are you from?” “Cairo.” “Well, welcome! Is there anything in particular you’d like to know about?” Tareq shook his head. Marian crinkled her forehead. “Well, then, maybe you can help me.” She looked at him expectantly. “Do you speak Arabic?” “Of course.”


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“We just received a small Arabic collection,” she told him. “It was donated by someone who used to live in the area. But honestly, I don’t know what it all is. Would you mind taking a look?” “Of course,” Tareq agreed, and she showed him two shelves of books with spines written in Arabic. “This is the Koran,” he said immediately, taking the book from the shelf. He explained to her the conventions of respect for the holy book of Islam and suggested ways she could store it appropriately at the library. “These books here,” he pointed to a grouping of five or six, “some would say you ought to burn them. But in my opinion, you should put them on display.” He thought back to the monument in Bebelplatz, he and Juliette kneeling down to look at the sorrow of burning any book. “These books over here,” he ran his index finger over about a dozen volumes, “are poetry. This one,” he pointed to a book with a particularly beautiful binding, “is the poetry of Rumi, a famous Sufi. Very beautiful. Very old.” “Is any of the poetry contemporary?” Marian asked. “No,” he replied, scanning the titles again. “These are all from the past.” “And these?” she pointed to the remaining books. He studied the titles. “Histories, geographies, ancient stories. I am familiar with some, but not all.” He took one of the books from the shelf and explained the contents to her in detail. “Very helpful, Tareq. I’ve been looking at this collection for weeks, but had no idea what to make of it. Do you think you might come back again and help me document the collection?” She explained to him what that would entail, and he agreed. “Thank you, Tareq. This clearly was my lucky day.” “You are most welcome, Marian. The Librarian.” He began to smile at her, but then stopped short. To tease required familiarity and confidence, neither of which Tareq possessed in this new milieu. He took a few of the Arabic books and settled into the chair by the fireplace to await Juliette’s return. One volume had especially kept his attention: a collection of folktales he had read as a child but had not seen in many years. He was engrossed in a story about a cat when he felt Juliette tap his shoulder. “Good afternoon?” Juliette inquired. “Very good,” he replied, rising from his chair. His face glowed at the sight of her. “Do you know Marian?” “The Librarian?” Juliette asked. “Yes.” It was clear to Tareq that Juliette got the joke. “Hi Marian!” Juliette called at full voice. The library was empty, and Marian was not at her desk. “Juliette!” Marian replied, emerging from the books. “How good to see you!”


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The women exchanged hugs. “I see you’ve met Tareq.” “Yes!” Marian exclaimed, eyeing Juliette curiously. “I should have guessed this reader was with you. You’re probably the only person around here who would have a visitor from the Middle East.” “Tareq used to work with my late husband.” “I see,” Marian’s voice turned somber. “I’m sorry for your loss.” “Thank you,” Juliette said. “Tareq will be here for a few weeks,” she changed the subject, “so I’m guessing you’ll see more of him.” “I hope so. He’s very helpful. I had no idea what to do with some books in Arabic. But Tareq’s going to help me get them properly catalogued.” “This one,” Tareq handed the book of folk takes back to Marian, “took me back to my childhood. I will come for it again.” “See you tomorrow then?” Marian asked Tareq. Tareq looked at Juliette and then nodded. “Great. Come in the morning, before the library opens. It’s easier to get housekeeping stuff done then.” Tareq put on his coat and gloves as he and Juliette left the library. “Where to?” “I was thinking Romeo’s. I ran into Earl parking the car, and he asked me again if I’d taken you there yet, so I think I’d better fulfill that duty. We’re early enough that we won’t need a reservation.” Juliette and Tareq crossed the road. There was hardly any reason to look both ways before crossing the street in this town, Tareq thought. He opened the restaurant door for her and was happy not to hear any bells. The restaurant was open, but nearly empty, and the waiters were still setting up. A young man approached. “Good evening, Miss Juliette,” he greeted her. “You are welcome to sit, but the kitchen will not be ready for another 15 minutes.” “That’s fine, Giancarlo,” Juliette said after exchanging a quick glance with Tareq. “Where’s Romeo tonight?” Romeo always greeted Juliette at the door. “He is in New York. He orders things for the holidays. Italian specialties.” Giancarlo showed them to a table and handed them menus. Tareq glanced over the menu quickly. He recognized the names of the dishes, and there wasn’t much pork to avoid. “How was your afternoon?” Tareq asked, putting down his menu. “Good. Yours?” “Very nice. Marian showed me many books at the library.”


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Juliette lowered her menu and signaled to Giancarlo to take their orders. Tareq waited for Giancarlo to leave and then explained that Marian wanted his help with something she called documenting the Arabic collection. Tareq would write up short biographies of each of the authors represented, prepare short synopses of each of the books, and make a list of translations into English that he deemed acceptable. He was clearly enthusiastic about the project, and Juliette felt increasingly at ease with him again, but held herself at a distance. As they were finishing their meal, Giancarlo appeared at their table with a cell phone. “Romeo wishes to greet you,” he said to Juliette. He handed her the phone and then walked to the restaurant’s entrance to welcome some new arrivals. “Hello, Romeo,” Juliette said into the phone, rolling her eyes for Tareq to see. “Yes, dinner was delicious.” Tareq could hear Romeo’s voice over the phone. “Giancarlo was very polite, yes, he’s doing an excellent job.” Juliette swayed her head back and forth impatiently. “Okay, Romeo, see you soon.” Now she tapped her fingers on the table. “Yes, I’ll be by after Christmas to try that.” Juliette tried several strategies to end the conversation, and finally one worked. Tareq was more relieved than Juliette. He disliked Romeo already. Juliette caught Giancarlo’s attention and returned the phone. “Just the check,” she said. “I will take that,” Tareq stated firmly to Giancarlo when he returned to the table. Juliette waited for Giancarlo to walk away and then leaned over the table to Tareq. “We made a deal in Berlin, remember? My treat in New York.” “No. You made a statement. I said nothing.” “Really, Tareq,” she shook her head. “You can be the most stubborn person in the world.” “Yes,” he agreed, almost breezily. He looked stronger now. The wind was up the next the morning, and Juliette offered to drive Tareq into town. But he preferred to walk; the routine offered comfort even if the weather did not. She’d come for him at noon, they agreed. When Juliette knocked at midday, Tareq opened the door in stocking feet. “Having fun?” she asked. He nodded and extended his arm to welcome her into the library. “Almost ready,” he replied. “Hi Juliette!” Marian called, emerging from the shelves behind her desk. “Should we all go across the street and grab something?” She asked them both, but looked at Juliette. “Sure,” Juliette agreed. “Tareq should know what an American diner is all about.”


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“I’d say so,” Marian replied. “Yeah, Tareq?” Tareq kept his mouth noncommittal. Neither Juliette nor Marian could have guessed that he already knew the diner fairly well. This time Tareq was more than prepared for the jingling bell, and he grabbed three menus as they walked to a table. “You again?” Fran said to Tareq when she arrived at their table. Juliette threw him a confused look, and Tareq shrugged his shoulders. “I know it’s tea for him,” she launched in, “and coffee for you, Marian. What about you?” she looked at Juliette through her thick eye-liner. “Tea.” “And to eat?” They hadn’t had time to look at the menus, but her customers generally knew what they wanted. “Greek salad,” Marian ordered. The waitress looked at Juliette impatiently. “What is the soup today?” Juliette asked meekly, feeling like Oliver Twist asking for more. Fran pulled a piece of paper from the pocket of her pink and white striped shirt and lowered her glasses from her head to her eyes. “Roasted tomato and red pepper with basil pesto garnish,” she read haltingly. “Excuse me?” Juliette asked. “The cook ate it at Romeo’s the other day and wanted to try it out for himself.” “I see,” Juliette said, “it sounds delicious.” “Sounds like eight more words than tomato to me,” Fran rolled her eyes, “but the cook says he’s been inspired.” Juliette tried not to chuckle. Marian failed in her attempt. Tareq simply looked on in amazement. “I’ll have the soup,” Juliette ordered, “and a grilled cheese sandwich.” “And you, doll face?” the waitress looked at Tareq. He tried to imagine himself with a doll’s head propped at the top of his neck. “What do you want?” “I would like a hamburger,” he ordered as confidently as he could. This was the other thing he had seen people on television eating in a restaurant like this. “With everything?” Fran tapped her pencil on her notepad. Tareq looked at Juliette, who explained that meant lettuce, tomato and onion.


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“Yes,” he stated tentatively. “Ketchup, mayo, mustard?” “Yes,” Juliette helped out, “but on the side.” “Fries, mash or slaw?” Fran’s rapid fire continued. Juliette turned to Tareq again, and not thinking about Marian and Fran, gently placed one hand on his forearm. “Would you like potatoes or something made from cabbage?” “Cabbage,” Tareq’s stated clearly. His arm twitched. Juliette remembered they were not alone withdrew her hand quickly. “The cole slaw,” Juliette continued the translation. Fran made a few scribbles on her pad and left the table. Juliette let out a sigh of relief. “So Juliette,” Marian launched in, “have you taken Tareq to the city yet?” “No,” Juliette shook her head apologetically. “We were busy with the kids over Thanksgiving, and I’ve got deadlines for the next week or so. But then things free up.” Marian shot her glance that in a split second said, Girlfriend, if I had this man living in my house I wouldn’t be worrying about deadlines. Juliette blushed instantly, and returned the look with embarrassed eyes that chided, Marian, really! She hoped Tareq hadn’t seen the exchange. If only Marian knew. “Well Tareq needs to see Rockefeller Center at the holidays. The tree. The skating rink. The whole shebang.” Marian had both elbows on the table now and was waving her fork in Tareq’s direction. “You’re right,” Juliette said to Marian, “I’m not much of a tour guide.” She turned to Tareq. “We’ll go to the city as soon as I finish up. Rockefeller Center. The tree. The skating rink.” She turned toward Marian. “The whole shebang.” Tareq placed his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands, his eyes on Juliette. “I would like that,” he nodded. He stopped his shoulder from swaying involuntarily toward Juliette, but just barely. Marian observed him closely and concluded that while he may have worked with Juliette’s late husband, when it came to the widow, it was all about play. After dinner that night, Juliette sat down at her computer and reviewed all her financial information. She already knew she could afford to take a month off of work, but she reassured herself anyway. She logged out of her accounts and opened her email. “Not even 100 waiting for me,” she laughed to herself, and then she wrote to her editor.


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“Dear Stephanie, “I’ve got company in town. I’ll make the December deadlines, but I’d like you to find someone else to take my next assignment. I need to take a break for a few weeks.” Juliette

She hit send, happy again that she could not remember how to recall an email.

After Cairo ~ Homecoming

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Homecoming On Friday, Tareq had an afternoon shift at the library. The local garden club was having its holiday lunch in the library, so it was after 3 o’clock before he settled into what was now his table. When he arrived, Marian was cleaning up some cupcakes that had real flowers in them, supported by green plastic straws. “Would you like one?” Marian offered. Tareq shook his head. There were some things about American culture, he was confident, that would never make sense to him. Marian put her own cupcake on her desk. “Well, I’ve got something you’re going to like better than that cupcake anyway.” She picked up a book off her desk and pointed to the Islamic tile art design on the jacket cover. “I wanted the Arabic collection to have some contemporary poetry, and I found this one.” She pulled her chair next to Tareq’s and handed him the slim volume. “It’s a collection of Arabic love poems. Look,” she paused to give Tareq time to see for himself. “It’s got the poems in Arabic on one side and the English translations on the other. Isn’t it great? And the poems themselves are gorgeous.” Tareq gingerly flipped the pages. “May I read this now?” he asked. “Sure,” she replied. “That’s why I’m showing it to you.” Tareq left his desk and made himself comfortable by the library’s roaring fireplace. Marian didn’t usually turn on the fireplace – fire and paper don’t mix, she’d told him the first day they’d met – but the garden club had insisted. “It’s a gas fireplace anyway,” Marian observed from across the library. “Should be safe enough.” The idea of a gas fireplace was as odd to Tareq as a flower in a cupcake, but he appreciated the safety benefits it offered. And even without wood, the fire cast a warm glow. Tareq read through poem after poem, reveling in the rhythms of his native tongue. He read some the shorter poems in translation, too, but stuck mainly to Arabic. And then he read the words he had been looking for without knowing that he was looking for them. He read this particular poem several times, both in Arabic and English. The translation was good, he reassured himself; he would have not have to explain a word. He got up from the chair and returned to his table, hoping Marian would not notice him. He hurriedly found pen and paper and then steadied himself to write out the poem in English to give to Juliette.


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She said: My love…you will forget me And you will forget that I, one day Have granted you my heart And you will adore another wave And you will leave my beaches’ warmth And you will sit, as we used to To listen to some of my tones And you will not care for my sorrows And my name will fall as hope And my address will get lost So, my Love, will you say That you (once) loved me!?

So I said: your love is my faith My forgiveness and my disobedience. I met you with hope Remaining in my arms Like Spring without a bird. On the ruins of a garden, The winds of sadness squeeze me And laugh in my chest. I love you … like an oasis On which all my sorrows have calmed down. I love you like an aura that tells My songs to people’s silence. I love you…like ecstasy that runs And fires my volcano. I love you…you. Hope That like morning light meets me. Love has killed many lovers, And your love has given life to me. And if I were to choose a home I would say my home is your love. And if I were to forget you, My heart would forget me. If I lost my way, I would live in your eyes.

He folded the paper and put it in his shirt pocket for later. “Very beautiful,” he said impassively as he handed the book back to Marian. “A good addition to the library.” “I’m glad you like it. I took a risk and bought two copies, thinking you might. Merry Christmas, Tareq.” Marian handed him a copy tied with a red ribbon. “Once you’re back in Cairo, I hope it’s a nice souvenir.” Tareq studied Marian’s eyes, slowly absorbing the knowledge that a woman he had only met a few days earlier had just given him a book of love poems.


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“Merry Christmas, Marian.” He didn’t entirely know what it meant to wish someone a Merry Christmas, but he exchanged the greeting sincerely. Marian’s face beamed back at him, the warmth of her expression matching the brightness of her orange sweater. The sweater’s V-neck offered a peek of cleavage that reminded Tareq that he was not at home. “I am sorry I have nothing for you.” “Tareq, honey, believe me, you’ve given me plenty. And if you’ll take some of those cupcakes,” she pointed over to a plate on the next table, “I’ll thank you even more.” “There are some wishes I cannot grant,” he shook his head, feigning disappointment. “But may I look at one more closely?” “Be my guest,” Marian retrieved a cupcake for his inspection, and as he rotated it in his hand, they both burst out laughing. They were just discussing how to dispose of the remaining desserts when Juliette entered the library. “Is it time already?” Tareq asked. “6 o’clock,” Juliette confirmed. “You two look like you’re having fun.” Tareq showed Juliette a cupcake. “We do not have these in Cairo,” he informed her, and then he and Marian began cackling again. “I think it’s time for me to get you out of here,” Juliette joked. “I think you two have been cooped up in this place too long.” “Merry Christmas, Juliette,” Marian greeted her with a hug. “And if you can spare him some more, I can always use a good recruit.” “We may be busy, but I’ll see.” When they turned into the driveway, Tareq sighed contentedly at the crunch of the gravel beneath the car’s wheels. He got out quickly and opened her car door as always, and then opened the front door for her as well. He felt for the poem in his pocket and handed her his coat, leaving the book with its red ribbon in the jacket. He did not want her to know that Marian had given him a gift. “Juliette,” he took her hand and held it. “I have something for you.” His hand felt calm, and she felt no need to let go. “Don’t you want to wait until the 25th?” “No.” The 25th of December held little meaning for him, and his gift was urgent. “I would like to give it to you now. Please,” he pointed to the living room and walked her to the sofa. He turned on the reading lamp and sat down next to her, his knees angled into hers. “Marian bought a new book of poems for the library. Arabic poems. I wrote one out for you. I would like you to read it.” He took the folded paper from his pocket and handed it to her. Juliette picked up her glasses from the table, unfolded the paper carefully and read the poem for what to Tareq


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seemed like an eternity. He wanted to say something, to hear her say something, but he kept quiet as she absorbed the words of a poet faraway. When Juliette finished reading the poem, she folded the paper slowly and held it in her hand. She breathed deeply and then put the poem on the table and placed her glasses on top of the poem. She reached out for him with one hand, eyes on the folded paper. Breathing deeply again, she turned her face toward him. Tareq could see the tears welling in her eyes, and he took both of her hands in his. “I know who I am now.” His voice was quiet but confident. “And I know that if I forget you, my heart will forget me.” “And I know that I live in your eyes.” “Juliette,” he whispered. “You must know. I have wanted to make love to you since Cairo.” “I know, Tareq.” “Juliette, I am not,” he stopped, unsure how to explain himself. “I am not a modern man. I think people here would say that I am old-fashioned.” “Yes, Tareq, sometimes you are old-fashioned. But it’s one of the things I love about you.” “Juliette, for me to make love to you is to marry you. They are the same. If I make love to you, I marry you. I do not take this lightly.” “Nor do I, Tareq,” she whispered. “Juliette, you know this. I never married.” “Never? Yasmeen?” “No, no. We were young. I loved her as a young, unmarried Muslim man should love a young, unmarried woman.” His statement was definitive. “But,” he continued, almost as a confession, “I suppose I made love to her with my eyes. Touch does not have to be physical to be real, to be felt.” He took Juliette’s face in his hands. “I have made love to you with my eyes.” “Yes, you have.” “To marry, though, is not only a matter for you and me.” “I’m not worried about my family,” she said. “Please don’t worry about my family.” They both knew her family wasn’t an issue. “But your family…” “My family,” Tareq sighed heavily. “But I belong now to you. I cannot say, this is the moment when I ceased to be my own. But this is what has happened. I belong to you.” He placed his forehead on hers. “You are my address. I live in your eyes.”


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“I’ve belonged to you for a long time now, Tareq.” She couldn’t recall the exact moment, either, but she knew it had happened in Cairo. “But this is a big commitment. It’s between us, but it’s bigger than us.” She could feel him nod his head against her brow. “If we marry, I will never again be at home in Egypt.” “I can’t ask you to make that sacrifice, Tareq. I want you here with me. But I won’t ask you to make that sacrifice.” She was glad she was looking down. He was going to have to figure out this visa on his own, and she didn’t want to see his eyes. Not right then. “Juliette, I know who I am now. But I need time to understand this.” “I understand, Tareq. Really, I do.” She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into his neck. “Just don’t let go while you’re figuring it out.” “I will not. I promise.” “Maybe this will help,” she said, taking the blue pashmina from her shoulders and wrapping it around him. They curled up on the sofa, just as they had on his first night in New York, and said nothing more. Juliette’s phone rang early the next morning, waking her from a solid sleep. It was Emily. “I’m on the train, Mom. Thought I’d come up to see you and Tareq. Is that okay?” “Sure honey.” “Good, I guess, because I’m already on my way. Sorry I didn’t ask first.” “You never need to ask, sweetheart. This is your home.” “Thanks, Mom. See you in an hour or so.” “Call when you get close, and I’ll send Tareq to the station with the car.” Juliette walked down the hall to look for Tareq, but he wasn’t there. She found him in the kitchen, sitting at the table, his back to the dining room, paper in hand, and a cup of tea before him. “Juliette,” he called to her softly, rising from the table. He reached for her arms and kissed her cheeks as calmly as he had held her hand the night before. “Good morning.” His eyes looked like the ocean after a storm. “Emily’s coming today.” “She is?” he asked, pleasantly surprised.


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“She just called to say she’s already on the train. Can you pick her up at the station when she gets here?” “Of course.” “Great.” She reached one hand to his neck, ran her thumb across his jaw quickly and then let go. “So what are you cooking for breakfast?” He shrugged his shoulders and then walked to the cupboard. “No koshary,” Juliette joked. “Let’s look in here.” She opened the refrigerator and took out some eggs. “Can you work with these?” “Of course.” Juliette sat at the table and watched Tareq make breakfast. He boiled eggs, made toast, and worked his magic at the coffee maker. “Home sweet home,” Juliette said aloud. “What did you say?” he asked. “Just a phrase we have in America,” she replied. “Home, sweet home.” “Home is sweet,” he agreed. He kissed her cheek and rested in her for a moment. As they were finishing up breakfast, Emily called. She was 10 minutes away. “You go,” Juliette handed Tareq her car keys as he put on his boots and coat. “I’ll clean up the dishes. And don’t forget these,” she said, handing him his gloves. “Be sure Emily sees you wearing these.” “Of course,” he replied, kissed her and was off. By the time they returned, the kitchen was clean and Juliette was dressed. She met Tareq and Emily at the car as they came up the drive. She opened the door for her daughter and hugged her close. “Good to see you, honey,” she sighed. “Thanks for the unexpected visit.” Once inside, Juliette and Emily sat at the kitchen table and watched Tareq make coffee for Emily. Coffee secure, Emily went to the desk in the foyer and returned with a deck of cards. “Know this game?” she asked Tareq. He shook his head. “Mom and I will teach you,” she threatened playfully. After Tareq had mastered the game, they dug into another round of Thanksgiving leftovers. Tareq had now eaten more turkey in a week than he had consumed in his life, and now he heaped the holiday staples on his plate without decorum. As they ate, Emily regaled them with stories from her office and updated them on her own writing projects as well. Juliette and Tareq chimed in with their own experiences from offices and from life. As they chatted, Tareq pressed his knee against Juliette’s under the table. “Are we decorating the tree tonight?” Emily asked as she began to clear the table.


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“Sure,” Juliette replied, “But I need to pick up a few things first. Tareq, would you like to come along?” “He can’t,” Emily declared. Both Tareq and Juliette looked at her in confusion. “Tareq needs to learn how to make chocolate chip cookies.” “He does?” Juliette asked, perplexed. “That’s not usually the sort of cookie you make at Christmas.” “He didn't get a visa for Christmas, Mom. He got a visa for America. And this,” Emily found a bag of chocolate chips in the cupboard, “is America.” Emily was teasing, but she was also completely serious. “Do you know what these are?” Emily asked Tareq. “I believe so.” “Well today, Tareq, you’re going to know so,” she handed him the chocolate chips. “The only recipe you need is right on the package. Start by finding all of these ingredients,” she pointed to some small print, “and I’ll get out the mixer.” She was as focused as any commanding officer, and Tareq fell into line. Juliette looked at Tareq to make sure this all sounded like a good idea to him, and he nodded. “Okay then,” Juliette said to Emily. “By the time I get back, I expect this house to smell really good.” “It will, Mom. We promise.” Juliette took her shopping bags and car keys and headed out the door. She looked back at Tareq once more to see how he was faring under Emily’s rule. They were focused intensely as Tareq showed Emily how to juggle using two sticks of butter. Juliette closed the door behind them without their knowing that she had left. Emily walked Tareq through the steps of making the perfect chocolate chip cookie. He listened attentively and, Emily complimented him, asked the right questions. When the first batch came out of the oven, Emily handed him a spatula while she adjusted the cooling racks. “Put them here,” she pointed to the racks. “I’ll get us some milk.” Emily put two glasses of milk on the kitchen table and then fetched a plate. She confirmed that the cookies were cool enough and then put six on the plate for them to share. “Don’t tell Mom,” she said to him surreptitiously. “She’d say two per person was enough.” “They are not big,” Tareq lied, peaking his eyebrows. Tareq sat in his now usual chair, facing into the dining room. Emily sat to his right in the third chair Juliette had squeezed into the kitchen, and raised her milk glass for a toast. “To your first homemade chocolate chip cookies! May there be many more!” “Many more!” he agreed.


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Emily took a bite followed by another gulp of milk. She sat silent for a moment, wondering how much of a risk she should take with Tareq. A part of her counseled herself to err on the side of caution, but this was not her normal modus operandi. So she spoke her mind. “Tareq, I can tell you care about my mom. I can see it in the way you look at her.” Tareq stopped mid-bite and then put his cookie down on the edge of the communal plate. “I do, Emily,” he said, trying to insulate himself from her statement. He would not pretend he was not in love with Juliette, but he was not used to speaking so openly. “I care for your mother very much.” “And she cares about you.” Tareq thought about Juliette’s pashmina, which he had tucked in the pocket of his winter coat. “She doesn’t talk about you a lot,” Emily pressed on, “but that’s the way I know she cares. There’s too much for her to say, so she doesn’t say anything.” Tareq appreciated Emily’s insight. “It’s not my place, which has never stopped me before,” she forged on, “so I’m just going to say it. You two both seem like it’s all a done deal. I don’t know what you’re doing in the guest room.” Tareq was not even 30 years older than Emily and had been born and raised on the same planet Earth. But his universe and Emily’s might as well have been light years apart. “Emily, it is appropriate that I sleep in the guest room.” “Whatever,” she replied. “I’m just saying: if you two love each other, then go ahead and love each other. There’s nothing to stop you. She’s a widow, you’re unattached.” She paused. “You are unattached, right?” Tareq guffawed as leaned back in his chair, his eyes wide with the humor of Emily’s question. When he managed to stop laughing, he stared at Emily, trying in vain to imagine her in Cairo, sitting at his family’s table, chocolate chip cookie in hand. But then his face darkened. “Your father has not been gone even a year,” he countered. “Tareq,” Emily stated his name firmly, “my father died.” Tears filled her eyes, and she bit her lip. “Dad’s gone,” she stated with resolve. “He’s just as gone today as he was six months ago. And six months from now, he’ll be just as gone. Dead is dead is dead.” She bit her lip again and ran her hands through her hair. “But,” she was emphatic, “alive is alive.” She tracked his eyes to make sure he was paying attention. “And alive today is not what it was six months ago, and it’s not what it’s going to be six months from now. Alive changes all the time.” Tareq felt the waves of her words, and the kindling of an unfamiliar love stirred in his heart. He guessed this was what fathers felt for their daughters. “Thank you, Emily,” he said softly. Just then they heard car wheels on the gravel. “Your mother is home.” “Sounds like it,” Emily said, rising from the table. “I’ll get the next batch of cookies started in the oven. Make sure the house smells good for her.”


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Tareq got up from the table, too, walked to the foyer, and slipped on his shoes. He placed his hand deliberately on the door handle and opened the door. As he stepped onto the porch, the icy wind blew through his shirt. He decided against going back for his coat, closed the door behind him and walked to the car. When the engine stopped, he opened Juliette’s car door and stood close to the driver’s seat, one hand on the car door and the other on the roof. As she got out of the car, the only place she could go was his into arms. “Juliette.” His eyes bathed her in love. “Yes, Tareq,” she replied. His eyes were at peace. The war had ended. He hugged her in a way that banished the past and defied the future. “I love you, Juliette,” he whispered into her ear. “With all my heart.” “I love you, Tareq,” she pulled herself back so that he could see her eyes. “More than I can say.” “We have cookies for you,” he whispered, squeezing her once more. “Let me take the shopping bags.” At the front door, Tareq pulled his house key from his pocket, unlocked the door and pushed it open for Juliette. “House smells good,” Juliette called to Emily. Tareq put the bags down in the foyer and they walked into the kitchen. “Sit,” Tareq ordered Juliette, pulling out Juliette’s chair a few inches to the side. “You must have one of Emily’s cookies.” “One of our cookies, Tareq,” Emily corrected. “You juggled the butter, remember?” Tareq sat down across from his half-eaten cookie while Emily got Juliette a glass of milk. When they were all seated, Tareq raised his milk glass for a toast. “I must tell you the truth, Juliette. I prefer chocolate chip cookies to s’mores.” “You fed him s’mores?” Emily asked her mother, astonished. “She spoiled my dinner,” Tareq admitted sheepishly, and then Tareq and Juliette giggled under their breath in unison and put their arms across each other’s shoulders. It would be a Merry Christmas after all, Emily thought to herself. After coffee on Sunday morning, Tareq took Emily back to the train. They arrived at the station early and sat together on a wooden bench next to the track. “Emily,” he said when he saw the train approaching, “I am grateful for you.” “I’m grateful for you, too, Tareq.” She squeezed his hand. Tareq walked with Emily to the platform’s edge and handed her her backpack as she stepped onto the


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train. Emily found a window seat near the door and waved goodbye as the train pulled out of the station. When Emily was fully out of sight, Tareq took off his gloves and reached into his coat pocket. Juliette’s pashmina was soft and warm against his bare hand. Back home, Tareq unlocked the door with his key and called for Juliette. Her voice called back from upstairs. He hesitated briefly, took off his shoes and coat, and then walked up to her room, the pashmina in his hand. Her door was open, and he stood in the doorway and watched her putting things away in a drawer, her back to him. The sun’s rays shone through the window and landed at her feet. He knocked. “Tareq?” she turned around. “Yes.” “Emily got off okay?” She extended her arms as she walked toward him. “Yes,” he said. “This is yours.” He held the pashmina up for her to see and then draped it over her shoulders, lifting her fair hair from beneath the folds of blue. His hands stayed behind on her neck. “No curtains?” he asked, looking at the window behind her. “All that’s out there are trees. And I like having the sun in the morning and the moon at night.” He turned his eyes from the window to her face. “I belong with you,” he said. “I belong here.” “Now that you’re here, I belong here, too.” “But I must go. In a few weeks, I must return to Egypt.” “But then you’ll come back.” “I will come back.” “And?” she asked. He moved closer to her and curled some of her hair around his finger. “When I come back, I will stay here. With you.” “Stay, Tareq.” He placed his cheek against hers and whispered into her ear. “Juliette, I know now: your love has given life to me,” he quoted the poem from memory. “And if I were to choose a home, I would say my home is your love.” “You’re my home, too, Tareq.”


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“And if I forget you, then my heart will forget me. If I forget you, I will forget who I am.” “Then don’t forget me.” “I will not, Juliette,” he looked at her now with patient longing, his hands planted on her arms. “I will marry you.” He searched her eyes and saw her plainly. “Juliette, I will be your husband.” “Yes, Tareq. You will be my husband.” “And you will be my wife.” “I will, Tareq. I will be your wife.” She pressed her face to his, and tears streamed down her cheeks and merged with his. They wept at first, and then reveled in the sound of their laughter. Tareq released her long enough to remove the signet ring from his hand. He rotated it before her eyes and then slid it onto her ring finger, kissing both her hand and the ring on it. “This can do for now.” And they married. When Juliette’s alarm went off the next morning, the first thing she saw was Tareq’s arm across her side, hanging loosely over the white sheet. She lifted it with as little motion as she could, but he awoke and gripped her tightly. “Good morning,” he mumbled into her back. “Good morning,” she replied. “I have to get to work.” “No you don’t.” “And you, too. What if you’re late to the library? What will Marian say then?” she teased. Tareq peeked his head above her shoulder. “I will tell her I was making love to my wife. She will understand this.” “I think she would understand,” Juliette giggled. “But the printer would not. Magazines go to press. No excuses.” He released her at once and watched her rise from the bed. She put on her robe, found her computer on the bureau and returned to bed to check her email. A reply from her editor was in her inbox telling her to enjoy her company. The email closed with a request:


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Would you consider doing a story on Berlin? I just read that Berlin rivals NYC for diversity. Might be something our readers would like. Thought of you. Let me know. Steph

Juliette replied immediately. “Yes,” she wrote. “I’ll do the story on Berlin. I’ll send you an outline before Christmas and get to work on it in Feb.” “I’ve got a present for you,” she rolled over to Tareq. He propped himself up on one elbow to receive the gift. “Once I finish this assignment, I’ll have plenty of time. I wrote to my editor and told her I didn’t want any assignments until after January. I’m free for the rest of the time you’re here.” He wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. “You give me the present as a present?” The ways in which English words piggy-backed on one another intrigued him. “Yes,” she confirmed. “Thank you, Juliette. I do not have the words.” “I think you do,” she corrected him. “They’re on the coffee table under my glasses.”

After Cairo ~ The Eve

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The Eve Tareq arrived for an afternoon shift at the library. Marian greeted him at the door as he removed his shoes and coat. He put his gloves in his coat pocket and hung the coat on a rickety stand that strained under the weight of the garment. “I will fix that for you, Marian,” he said as he took his seat at his table. His eyes scanned the neat stacks of books, cards, bar code stickers and papers in front of him, and then he found the place where he had left off the previous Friday. “Time flies when you’re having fun,” Marian said to him several hours later. He looked up at Marian from the book he was reading. “It’s time to go, Tareq,” she motioned him out of his chair. “I need to close up the library early today.” She offered him a lift home, but Tareq shook his head. It wasn’t quite 4 pm, and Juliette would still be working. “Then what’ll you do?” Marian quizzed with concern. “I will walk,” he said, pointing in the direction of the church. “The weather’s turning nasty,” Marian tried to dissuade him. “Are you sure?” He nodded and held up his cell phone. “I will call Juliette if necessary.” Tareq walked down the town’s only real street, reflecting on the week that had just passed. Earl waved to him from the front door of the hardware store, and Tareq could see Fran through the coffee shop window. Tareq wondered what sort of soup she’d have to explain that day and contemplated showing the cook how to make koshary. As he walked toward the church, Tareq remembered that Bob had needed a key to open the door. But he kept going, and when he pressed the door’s handle, it opened for him. Tareq walked the length of the aisle and approached the piano. He sat down on the bench and reflexively adjusted the height, shifting his weight back and forth. His feet fumbled for the pedals, and he ran his fingers silently along the keyboard. He could not remember the last time he had played a piano, but he would try. He began with scales, recalling his hatred for them as a child. They were boring and repetitive. Now as an adult, he had a greater appreciation for their predictability, and they soon led him to more interesting exercises, and then on to full pieces of music he had memorized decades earlier.


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As Tareq reacquainted himself with this old friend, Juliette was at home, staring out the living room window and wondering why he wasn’t home yet. She called his cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. The icy wind was intensifying, so she set out for town to find him. She parked in front of the library, which was dark and obviously closed, and knocked at the door. She rifled through her handbag for her cell phone and called him again, but still no answer. She turned off the alarm bells in her head, and crossed the street to the diner. “Have you seen….” Juliette began to ask, and Fran shook her head; Juliette thanked her and left. She looked through the window of the convenience store, but didn’t see him there, either. The hardware store, though, was a more likely spot anyway. She found Earl behind the counter, helping a customer. “Looking for Tareq?” Earl asked, spying her from the corner of his eye as he rang up some purchases for a customer at the counter. She nodded. “I saw him walking down the street about half an hour ago. Toward the church.” Juliette walked in that direction, too. She had been by the church many times, but had never been inside. As she neared the door, she could hear someone playing the piano – it was the Moonlight Sonata, she was certain of it. Tareq would be inside listening, she thought. That made sense. But when she opened the door, she saw Tareq at the piano, playing the piece, his shoulders at ease and his hands fluid. She walked noiselessly down the aisle and stood behind him until he had finished. “Is that the hand that cries out?” she asked, taking his right hand. “Juliette,” he murmured, turning around to her. “Not anymore.” He looked at her serenely; she could find no trace of grief or panic. “Ready to go?” she asked. “Or do you want to play some more? I’m not in any rush.” “Later,” he said, closing the cover over the keyboard. “I wish to go home with you.”

*** The days going forward were all different. The trees outside the bedroom window were the same, but they were different. The furniture in the room had not changed, either, but it was still not the same. The switch on the table lamp was still loose, and the alarm clock-CD player was still the outdated model that made Emily shake her head. But everything was different. The room had gone from being hers to theirs. His clean clothes hung in the closet and his worn clothes laid next to hers on the chaise at night. He had a side of the bed, and his books were stacked on his bedside stand. The kitchen was different, too. New spices populated the shelves and the kitchen took on a different scent. Cinnamon was now purchased in sticks as well as


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powder, and cumin was a staple. Juliette had always liked cilantro, but now it made more frequent appearances. New foods settled in, too. Juliette had never consciously avoided olives and dates in the past, but she had also never sought them out. Now there were several types of olives in the refrigerator, and dates were always on offer. And honey, and sesame, and pistachio: the kitchen opened its arms to these pale yellows and greens, and the North American garden varieties made room for their relatives from abroad. New utensils were also added to the kitchen’s stock, too. When Tareq went shopping, he invariably came back with a new knife, sometimes in a shape Juliette had never seen before. Improved graters had been a priority, as had proper grinders, one for coffee and a separate one for spices. As new foods moved in, others went on hiatus. They’d skip the ham this Christmas. Juliette never bought much bacon, but now when she saw it in the store, she looked at it as a food of her past, not her future. Nothing about Tareq made her feel she couldn’t have pork in the house, but she didn’t want it there. She wanted to have what they could share. Routines evolved as well. On some days he rose earlier than she did and coaxed her from sleep with a cup of coffee. They curled up with the paper and eased into the morning. She took her computer, he took a book or went to the library. They shopped, they cooked, they washed the dishes. And then, deadlines past, the time opened before them to take whatever form they wished. “Do you want to go to the city?” she asked him one morning over coffee. “Marian certainly thinks you should go.” They both laughed. “Yes,” he replied. “And we may see Emily?” “Absolutely.”

*** Tareq’s first visit to New York City was like most people’s first visit: his neck was quickly getting sore. “I have seen many tall buildings,” he said to Juliette. “But never so many tall buildings in one place, and so close together. This I have not seen before.” Juliette gave his arm a squeeze. She didn’t live in the city anymore, but she still considered it hers, and she enjoyed watching him take it in. They arrived at Rockefeller Center at noon and waited for Emily to meet them. They circled around the skating rink and looked at the tree. “Where do they get such a tree?” Tareq asked. “I don’t know. I never thought about it before,” she replied.


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“It must be over 25 meters,” Tareq marveled. “And the lights.” He turned from the tree and looked back at the rink. “Do you want to skate?” she asked him. He shook his head vociferously. “I do not want to be on the ice with a thin blade attached to my foot. This does not seem amusing.” He watched the skaters glide across the ice and had to admit they looked like they were having fun. “But I would like to know how the ice feels.” “Haven’t you ever been on ice?” He shook his head. “Then you’ve got to at least find out what it feels like.” Juliette walked him over to the opening where the skaters took to the ice. A man stood at the entrance directing traffic and validating tickets. He looked gruff, but Juliette was pretty sure she could get Tareq near the rink. She pointed to Tareq and explained that he was from Cairo and had never touched a sheet of ice like this. Could he just put his hand down and try? The man looked at her like she was crazy, but said to Tareq, “Knock yourself out, kiddo.” Tareq kneeled at the edge of the rink, took off his glove, and placed his hand flat on the ice. It wasn’t as smooth as it looked, and he ran his finger along an indentation carved by the blade of an ice skate. “Thank you,” he said and put his glove back on. Just then they saw Emily coming toward them. “What’s that on her head?” Juliette asked Tareq. Tareq swallowed a laugh. “I have never known anyone like Emily,” was all he could say. “Mom! Tareq!” she hugged them both together. “Like the hat? Kenji gave it to me. He was trekking and thought I’d like it.” “Who’s Kenji?” Juliette asked. “A person of interest,” Emily replied, winking at her mother. “How’s it going, Tareq?” Emily took his arm. “Mom says Marian’s had you locked up at the library.” She shot a glance at her mother to warn her not to let Marian get too close. Emily couldn’t have known that this was superfluous; Juliette had not yet breathed a word to anyone about the decision she and Tareq had made. “Marian’s really nice, isn’t she?” Emily queried further. Tareq’s response was polite but non-committal, and Emily felt relieved. “Where’s your brother?” Juliette asked.


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“Where do you think he is, Mom?” Emily rolled her eyes. “Somewhere up there.” She pointed up to the many glass windows above them. “Forget it, Mom. It’s not going to happen. But you’ve got me!” “Which is wonderful, sweetheart.” “And you’ll see him and his better half in a few days anyway. What do you two want for lunch?” Juliette turned Tareq to decide. Emily looked at Tareq, too. “You’re the guest, Tareq! Your choice!” Her suggestion was polite and sincere, but Emily gave her mother a look to show that she knew that Tareq was no mere guest. “What would you like?” “Juliette, what did we eat in Berlin? At a Mexican restaurant?” “Burritos.” “Yes! That is what I would like. A burrito.” “Done,” Emily said. “This way.” She led the way to one of her favorite Mexican restaurants. As she walked ahead of them on New York’s crowded sidewalks, she looked back now and then at her mother glowing next to Tareq. She noticed Tareq’a hand at her back, his shoulder edged behind hers. Emily turned ahead again, and then felt Tareq’s hand on her own shoulder. “It is good to see you, Emily,” he whispered to her. “You are a very kind daughter.” “And you are a very kind UN security officer,” she giggled as her eyes darted toward her mother. They understood each other perfectly, and Tareq could feel his face grow warm. The restaurant, like everything else in New York, was crowded. Tareq felt perfectly at home. Crowds he knew. They ate their burritos – Tareq’s with the hot sauce that merited three little chili pepper icons on the menu – and then started to think about the rest of the afternoon. “Would you like to meet Kenji?” Emily asked her mother. “Sure.” Juliette replied confidently. In truth, she was only fairly sure that she was sure, but could not imagine saying no. “Great. He’s working at a used bookstore near here. Wanna go?” “Yes,” Tareq answered for him and Juliette. He was as curious about Kenji as Juliette and had a growing sense that he had a right to an opinion.


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They arrived at the bookstore, packed with a sea of humanity in search of just the right gifts. The main floor swarmed, but Emily found Kenji quickly. “Kenji, this is my mom, Juliette.” “Nice to meet you,” Kenji said, shaking her hand. Juliette had to look up to see him eye to eye. “And this is Tareq,” Emily continued. Tareq had to look up, too, but not as far as Juliette. “It’s busy here today,” Juliette made small talk, looking around at the masses on the first floor and the people sitting on the stairs leading up to a loft with more books. “Holiday shopping,” Kenji said. “Good for business. It’s not as crowded up there, though,” he said pointing to the loft. “That’s reference, foreign language.” “Not a lot of demand for old dictionaries, I’d imagine,” Juliette joked. “And not like over there,” he pointed to a corner where young adults were packed like sardines. “Manga. Don’t go there.” They all laughed. Juliette liked Kenji already. “What are you all looking for today?” Kenji asked. “We’ve got some floor maps, but maybe I can direct you.” “Classics, maybe travel?” Juliette said. “And I can smell coffee!” “Café’s over there, right by classics,” Kenji pointed to the back, but away from the Manga readers. “And Emily knows where the travel section is.” Both Juliette and Tareq took note of the way that Kenji smiled at Emily, and then smiled at one another. “And how about you, Tareq?” “Egypt,” Tareq replied. “Do you have any books about Egypt? And any CDs?” “You are in luck, my man. We have a huge CD section over there,” he pointed in one direction, “and a lot on Egypt more toward the front. Let me show you.” He rubbed the top of Emily’s head and then walked off with Tareq toward Egypt. “Coffee in an hour,” Juliette called to Tareq. “Meet us there.” The travel section was relatively quiet. Juliette perused the titles, wondering if she should pick up a book on a place she had visited or find one about a place she had never seen. Then she remembered her next assignment and started looking for travel books on Berlin. It would be fun to compare guidebooks over time and see how the descriptions had changed. She found a few and settled into a beat-up but inviting chair. Its faded chintz fabric told the story of many happy hours of reading.


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Emily joined her, sitting on the arm of the chair. “Well, you two seem to have it all wrapped up,” she said to her mother. “All wrapped up?” Juliette asked, trying and failing to pretend that she didn’t understand Emily’s statement. “You know what I mean.” “I think it’s a little early for that,” Juliette fibbed. She and Tareq hadn’t set a date for a wedding, so she persuaded herself she was being sufficiently honest. “Not from what I can see. I wasn’t entirely sure what to think at Thanksgiving. He was pretty tired then, and fair enough, probably overwhelmed. But he seems to have settled in very nicely,” she gave her mom a look that embarrassed Juliette. Juliette felt her face redden. Blushing was becoming a normal part of her life. “Mom,” she said, looking at her straight on, “he’s great, I like him. And he certainly likes you. He’s so, so....” “Attentive,” Juliette finished her daughter’s thought. “Yeah, attentive. And protective. It’s very sweet,” Emily continued. “And to be honest, it’s a relief. I don’t want you to be alone. I don’t want you to go the rest of your life without someone to love. Without someone who loves you, too.” She waited for Juliette to say something, but then barged ahead into her mother’s thoughts. “But I know it must be weird on some level. Probably for both of you.” It was like Emily could read her mind. Maybe Tareq’s too. But Mark, both Marks actually, always claimed she could. “All I’m saying, Mom, and I know I speak for Sam, too, is that we’re fine with it. As long as you find someone who really cares for you, we’re fine with it.” “What about Mark?” “Don’t worry about Mark. He always takes longer than the rest of us. But I’ll handle him. Sam and I’ll handle him.” She put her arms around Juliette’s shoulders and squeezed hard. “Thanks, sweetie,” Juliette said. She wanted to tell Emily that she now had a word for Tareq: husband. But she held back, and was glad that her hand hinted at nothing. His signet ring, too big for any of her fingers, now hung on a chain around her neck, hidden beneath the blue pashmina. Juliette glanced at her watch. “Tareq will be waiting.” They left the Travel section and found Tareq in the café, coffee in hand, reading a book at a table that miraculously had two empty chairs. As soon as he saw them, he stood, pulled out chairs for each of them, and went to the counter to order two more coffees. “I could get used to this, Mom,” Emily teased.


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“Kenji seems nice,” Juliette replied. “He is. I met him at a book club.” “That’s a good place to meet someone,” Juliette observed. “As long as the club isn’t devoted to – what do they call it? – teenage paranormal romance?” They both were laughing when Tareq returned. He liked seeing Juliette with her children. “Having fun?” Emily asked Tareq. “Of course!” Tareq replied. “Kenji was most helpful. But tell me. His face is most unusual to me. Where is he from?” “His mom is Japanese and his dad is African American. They met when his dad was stationed in Japan. They were together two years before they told any one in their families.” Tareq could understand this. “And then they decided they’d just get pregnant, and then nobody would be able to force them apart.” “That’s one strategy,” Juliette acknowledged. “Did it work?” “Well, he seems to get on pretty well with both sets of grandparents, so I guess so. His mom’s parents are in Japan, so he doesn’t see them as much.” They finished their coffees and began to say their goodbyes. “I’m sorry, honey,” she turned as they were leaving the store, “Tareq and I didn’t even ask you about work. Everything going okay?” Emily nodded. “Great. More later. I’ll be up on Christmas Eve with Sam and Mark.” Emily hugged them and walked off in Kenji’s direction. Tareq and I, Emily thought to herself. They’re definitely a couple. Juliette and Tareq walked back to Grand Central Station and grabbed a train to the suburbs to reclaim Juliette’s car. Once in the car, Juliette turned on the engine and let it idle a moment to warm up. “Tareq,” she turned to him, “After Yasmeen, no one came into your life?” The question surprised him, and Rana’s face flashed briefly before his eyes. “Certain women, yes,” he replied. “But not really. And my job. I knew I would be an absent husband at best. At worst, I would make a widow.” He could have been describing Mark. But he was not. He was reliving the decisions of a lifetime. “There were other women, too!” he exclaimed lightheartedly. “But not for me. Or for Mark,” he paused in thought. “Juliette, Mark was never unfaithful to you. He and I both walked away. We walked away together.” His recollection of Mark was reassuring. No marriage is perfect, she thought, but her marriage to Mark had been good in many ways. “And then I retired. To safety. Alone.” He reviewed the past briefly in his mind. “And then I met you.” He looked around the parking lot to confirm they were the only people around, leaned over and kissed her. “I love you, Juliette.”


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“I love you, too.” He leaned over to the driver’s seat and kissed her more. She loved the sensation of his beard on her cheek and neck as much as she loved the feeling of his hand on her back. “You better cut that out,” she giggled, “you’re going to make the windows steam up. I still need to drive.” “Then we go home,” he said, raising an eyebrow. When they arrived home, two large packages were on the front porch addressed to Tareq. “What are these?” she asked him. He read the return address label. “Ah!” he exclaimed with delight. He picked up the boxes and took them to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and began removing all the mismatched American style mugs, which, he was convinced, negatively impacted the taste of the coffee. Their hodgepodge of faded logos from public television fund drives and destinations visited long ago reduced coffee to a beverage when it ought to be an event. He opened the first box to reveal beautiful coffee cups with proper handles and saucers. The colors and patterns reminded Juliette of ones she had seen in Egypt. “They’re beautiful. Where did you get them?” she asked. She was fairly certain there was no store for miles that carried this type of pottery, and neither of them had been into the city until that day. “The Internet!” She reached for one of the cups and turned it in her hand. “This is lovely, Tareq. Thank you.” She kissed him lightly, truly happy not to have sole decision-making authority over this kitchen, this house, this life. “And these,” he pointed to the second box on the floor, “are for tea.” He opened the lid to reveal clear glass tumblers like those often used in Egypt for hot tea. “Feels like home now,” she said, putting her arms around his neck. He put the cup down on the counter and returned her embrace. “I am home wherever you are.” He let himself rest in that truth for a moment. For the first time, he was sharing his life with someone he loved. This was a privilege, he knew, and he did not take it for granted. And then his mind returned to the coffee cups: “And now when people visit, they’ll know this is my home. When I make them coffee!” “We’ve got to tell the kids,” she blurted out all of a sudden, checking for his ring around her neck. “Of course,” he agreed, but not with her sense of urgency. “I know we haven’t had a wedding, but for me, it almost feels like we eloped and didn’t tell them. I need to tell them. They’re my children.”


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“Of course. As you wish.” “They’ll be here Christmas Eve, but honestly, I don’t want to tell them then.” He stood back and eyed her askance. “Why not?” “I’m not worried about Emily,” she went on. “But Mark. I know he’s going to tell me it’s too soon, and then all of Christmas will be taken over by getting him comfortable with it.” He took her face in his hands. “After Christmas, then,” he concurred with a kiss. “For now, our secret.” “Really? You’re okay with that?” He nodded. “But,” he was emphatic, “I sleep in our room.” “Mark won’t even notice.” “Emily will,” he chuckled. “She probably already knows,” Juliette laughed. But she’ll think I’m just following her advice.

*** Emily, Mark and Sam arrived mid-day on Christmas Eve. Emily bounded into the house, followed by Samantha, who walked carefully, and Mark, who shut the door behind the three of them. Emily apprised Tareq of the day’s activities immediately upon arrival. They would watch all the traditional Christmas specials in between batches of cookies and cookie decorating. She listed off the titles in order of viewing: Charlie Brown, Frosty the Snowman, Rudolf the Rednosed Reindeer, The Year without a Santa Claus…” “Not that one,” Sam and Mark protested jointly. “Really?” “He’s got to see Heatmiser! If he’s going to live in America, he has to know this stuff. It’s a part of popular culture. You don’t want him to be the only kid on the playground who doesn’t know Heatmiser, do you?” They all laughed very hard at this, and Tareq knew it was funny, but he didn’t know why. “Tareq, I’m doing you a favor,” Emily continued. “Besides, if you see all these shows now, you’ll know which ones you to avoid once the baby’s old enough to watch.” She settled the question definitively. “We’re going to the basement.” Tareq followed without protest. “When the cookies are ready to frost,” she threw her head back to her mother, “let us know.”


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“I’m not going to miss this,” Sam said to Mark. “Bring me a cookie when they’re ready, huh?” Mark nodded and looked at the oven timer. “10 minutes if you don’t need frosting. I’ll stick around here and help Mom and then bring some down.” Juliette leaned back on the counter to take in the scene. Her loved ones were together, cookies were baking, songs would be sung, even if they were just silly ones from children’s holiday videos. Who cared what they had for dinner that night? After dinner, they gathered in the living room to open presents. “No Trivial Pursuit?” Tareq asked Emily. “Tomorrow,” she replied. She said this with an authority that made Tareq wonder for a moment if all families in America played Trivial Pursuit at an appointed time on Christmas Day. “Now we open presents.” She handed him a gift wrapped in paper decorated with green and red woodblock trees. “This is beautiful,” he said to her. “Thanks,” she replied. “I made the paper myself.” Without opening the package, he gave Emily the gift he had chosen for her: a book of Egyptian myths and stories he had bought for her at the used bookstore. She flipped through the pages with delight. “Which is your favorite?” she asked, and Tareq pointed in the table of contents to the story of The Prince and His Three Fates. “Read it to me?” Emily asked. Tareq obliged. He read to Emily, but soon had Mark’s, Sam’s and Juliette’s attention as well.

Once upon a time, the Queen of Egypt gave birth to a baby boy. She summoned her fairies to bless the child, but one of them refused. “The prince will die by a crocodile or a serpent or a dog,” the fairy said sadly and flew away.

The King and Queen wept for the fate of their beloved child. “We will build a fortress,” the King said to his Queen, “to protect him from his fate.” They built the fortress high on a mountain, and guards stood watch over him every day and every night.

One day the Prince saw a puppy playing outside his window. He loved the dog and wanted it for his own. Because the dog was young, the King and Queen granted the Prince’s wish and trained the dog to be his protector.

The young Prince thrived and grew into a man. One day he told his father that he wanted to travel beyond the fortress gates. “Do


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not worry, dear father,” the Prince said, “my dog will protect me from my fate.”

The King looked at his son with all the love of the world and granted the wish. He prepared his safest ship, and the prince and his dog set sail on the Nile. When they reached the other side, a horse greeted the Prince, and he rode throughout the land, his dog at his side.

The horse led the Prince to a beautiful kingdom where jasmine flowers were always in bloom, and here the Prince fell in love with a Princess.

“I wish to marry you,” the Prince told the Princess. “But you must know: my fate is to die from a crocodile, a serpent or a dog.”

“Our love is strong,” the Princess said. “I am not afraid.”

And so they married.

The Prince and Princess lived in joy until, one day, guards arrived from the fortress to say that the King was ill. The Prince and his wife rode their horses back to Egypt, the dog at both their sides.

One night, as they slept in the Fortress, the Princess heard a noise that startled her. She lifted her head and saw a serpent coiled near the door. She was a wise Princess and knew that serpents loved milk. She rose silently from their bed and found a bowl with milk. She placed it near the snake and watched the greedy creature drink its doom. When the serpent fell asleep, the Princess called for the guards to take it far away.

The next day, the Prince went out to hunt with his dog. He stumbled over some stones and landed face down at the edge of a river. A crocodile opened its mouth and said, “Not even a Prince can escape fate. I will find you wherever you are. You will only find safety in a hole in the sand that can hold water as though it were made of stone.”

The Prince fled to his beloved wife. “All is lost,” he told her. But she shook her head. “Our love is strong,” she reminded him. “On the driest mountain in the driest desert grows a plant that will keep water in sand for an entire year. I will find it.”

That night, under a sapphire sky, the Princess mounted her horse and set off for the desert. She found the driest mountain in the driest desert and began her ascent. A chasm split the mountain between her path and the place where the leaves grew fresh and fair. But the Princess was prepared. She took her rope, tied a loop


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in the end, and threw it across the gorge. She climbed the rope and retrieved the precious plant.

The Princess sped back to the Prince and found him digging a hole in the sand. “Quickly,” she ordered, “pour the water!” The Prince took a jug of water by his feet and poured as the Princess dropped the leaves into the pit. The sides of the pit turned to stone, and the water did not seep away.

The Prince gazed upon his Princess with all the love in his heart. “You have saved me again, dear wife.” “Our love is strong,” she replied. “No harm will come to you.”

As they stood on the riverbank, a flock of birds filled the air. The prince's dog chased the birds wildly and knocked the Prince into the water. The Prince could not swim and he called to his wife in fear. But the Princess still had her rope, the loop still tied to the end. She threw it to the Prince and pulled him to safety.

Again, the Prince looked at his wife with all the love in his heart. “Your love is stronger than my fate,” he said.

“Your love is my fate,” she replied.

And they lived happily ever after.

Tareq closed the book slowly. “It’s been a long time since I read that story,” he murmured. He wanted to look at Juliette, but kept his eyes fixed on the book, stroking the spine with his hand. “That was beautiful, Tareq,” Samantha broke the silence. “After the baby’s born, you definitely need to sign up for bedtime story duty.” Tareq cracked a smile but still kept his eyes away from the others. But then he raised his face to Sam. “I would like that very much. And I have something for you.” He returned to the tree and picked up the packages of CDs he had found for them with Kenji’s help. They opened the gifts with appreciation and hugged him. Mark and Samantha had gifts for him, too: field guides covering local flora, fauna and birds. Emily presented him with another pair of gloves, just in case his first pair got lost. Gloves were like that, she explained. They went missing on their own. “This is something just from me, Tareq,” Samantha said handing him a small package. He opened it carefully to find a framed photo of himself and Juliette at Thanksgiving. “I wanted you to have a souvenir of your first real Thanksgiving.” Tareq was overwhelmed. “Thank you, Samantha. Thank you.” “And open the other one I gave you,” Emily reminded him, pointing to the package in the woodblock paper. “It’s something I found at the book store after


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you and Mom left.” Tareq carefully unwrapped the book, trying not to disturb the paper, and shuddered slightly at the cover of a pictorial history of Damascus. The shudder was part happy, part sad, and he hoped Emily would only see the happy. This was a city he knew well, but the city he knew barely existed anymore. He opened the book sensing that to look at the pictures would be like looking at photos of a loved one displayed at a funeral. He looked up at her from where he was sitting on the floor and thanked her for the gift. “That’s where you met my dad, right? In Damascus?” she asked. “Yes, the first time I met your father was in Damascus.” Tareq’s throat tightened. “I’m Mark, he said, and he slapped me on the back as if we had known each other many years. I remember.” Tareq continued to flip through the pages as he spoke. “And then he took the seat next to mine and reached for the papers I had brought to the meeting. I had them in order.” It was not clear if this were simply information or a rebuke. “Here!” Tareq exclaimed. “Look here.” He pointed to a photo of an ancient building. “This is the building where I first met your father.” Emily was stunned. When she selected the book for Tareq, she never expected this. “Let me see,” she asked. Tareq handed the book to Emily, relieved to no longer have it in his hands. He got up off the floor and sat down by Juliette. When he was sure none of the others were looking, he pulled at her hand to ask her to follow him to the kitchen. In the kitchen he whispered, “I do not have a gift for you.” “You already gave me the poem, remember?” she replied. “I didn’t wrap anything for you today, either.” “You already gave me the gift of your time, remember?” He glanced around to make sure no one could see them and nuzzled her neck. They were kissing and laughing when Emily walked into the kitchen, their arms around each other, Juliette off-balance against the kitchen counter. Tareq saw Emily from the corner of his eye and began to laugh even harder. He buried his head in Juliette’s neck in embarrassment, but he kept his arms around her. “Nice coffee cups, Tareq,” Emily said wryly. She laughed and walked away, but then poked her head back in the kitchen, “Glad to see you’re making yourself at home.” No one woke up early the next morning. It had been years since any children provided a pre-dawn wake-up call for presents under the tree. But that time was around the corner, Juliette thought to herself. Within a few years, her grandchild would have them all up early on Christmas morning again. But for this morning, she could lie quietly in bed, Tareq asleep beside her, and look out the window. A cardinal landed on an icy, leafless branch near her window, cocked its head at her, and was gone.


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Mark and Samantha had to leave in the early afternoon to join her family, so the Trivial Pursuit game began right after brunch. This time it was boys versus girls, Mark insisted. He and Tareq would make a formidable team. Tareq was prepared this time, not so much for the questions about Sports and Leisure, but for the bantering dynamic that went with the game. The game was in full swing when Samantha told Mark they had to be going with no winners on the horizon. “Next time, Tareq,” Mark shook his hand. “We’ll get ‘em next time.” After Mark and Samantha had gone, Emily and Tareq joined forces to finish clearing up in the kitchen. Emily turned on the radio, and Johnny Mathis crooned over their shoulders: “Come, they told me…” “What is this song?” Tareq asked. “I have heard it many times now.” “The Little Drummer Boy,” Emily replied. “It’s a TV show, too. I can’t believe we missed that one! But we can watch it now.” She poked her head into the living room where Juliette was looking at the photo Sam had given to Tareq. “Mom, I’m taking Tareq to the basement to watch The Little Drummer Boy. You coming?” “No, I’ll skip that one. I want to look at the books Mark and Sam gave Tareq.” “Okay, we’ll only be 22 minutes,” she joked. “No commercial breaks.” “Emily, don’t you think Tareq has had enough holiday TV? “No.” Emily replied. Emily found the DVD and pushed all the right buttons on all the right remotes. “You’ll recognize the song,” she said to Tareq, who had sunk into the sofa next to her. Within minutes, however, Emily felt regret grip her to the core. The depictions of Arabs in this children’s show were appalling. She hit pause, and then turned the TV off entirely. She turned to Tareq with deeply apologetic eyes. His eyes were expressionless. “I’m sorry. This is a really awful portrayal of Arabs.” “Yes, it is.” “I’m really sorry, Tareq.” “You did not do this.” “True, but I’m still sorry. Sorry that anyone did this. Sorry that these images have been out there for so long. This is what I grew up with. Honestly, until we had you in our family, I never noticed.” Her words startled him. She had called Tareq a member of the family. “I’m really sorry, Tareq,” Emily continued, thinking his body language was a response only to the movie.


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“It is reassuring,” he spoke kindly, “to think that you grew up with these images. This shows that people of good will may always find a way to see each other as they are.” On the evening of the 26th, Tareq and Juliette took Emily to the train station together. They huddled on the small platform, Emily’s backpack in Tareq’s hand. They hugged and kissed, and Emily departed. “See you soon,” she called as she climbed into the train. “Don’t be a stranger,” Emily giggled. Tareq waved at Emily until she was out of sight and then returned his hand to Juliette’s back. “Should we see if there is room for us at Romeo’s?” he asked. “Good idea,” Juliette replied. When they entered the restaurant, Romeo approached them immediately. He was tall, elegant and impeccably dressed. He stood close to Juliette and spoke with familiarity. “Buon Natale, Giulietta!” he greeted her. “Where is Emily tonight? Mark? Samantha?” “They’ve left already,” she replied. “And Merry Christmas to you, too.” She gestured to Tareq as way of introduction. “Just me and Tareq tonight. He’s here from Cairo.” Tareq nodded politely but said nothing. “Table for two?” Romeo confirmed, looking at Tareq as though noticing him for the first time. Tareq’s hand slid along Juliette’s back and settled firmly on her waist. Both men read each other’s body language fluently, and Romeo tilted his head with a smirk. “Please,” he said, extending his arm. He directed them to a quiet table away from the entrance. Once they were seated, Juliette whispered from behind her menu. “Romeo’s been flirting with me since Mark died.” “I can see. I am sorry he will be disappointed.” “No you’re not,” she corrected him happily. “You are right. I disappoint him with pleasure.” “Poor Romeo,” Juliette sighed. “He will never have this Juliette.” After dinner, they returned home, and Tareq went to the living room to start a fire. Juliette’s fireplace was real, not like the one in the library. He arranged the wood and kindling, found the long matches, and started a blaze. Fire warming the room, he sat back in one of the winged-back chairs, put his feet up on the ottoman – a term that perplexed him – and thought about the story he had read to Emily. Juliette walked up behind him and put her hands on her shoulders over the back of the chair. They could both see the photo of her and Mark on the mantle. “I’ve got


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an idea,” she thought aloud. She looked through the presents still sitting under the tree and found the photo that Sam had given to Tareq. She placed it on the mantle in front of the photo of her and Mark. The older photo remained visible, but the past graciously stepped aside to make way for the future. She turned from the fireplace and looked at Tareq, seated comfortably in what had been Mark’s chair. “Tareq, I just realized we haven’t made any plans for New Year’s Eve.” “The 1st of January is not the new year in Egypt,” he replied. “So you don’t care what we do on the 31st?” “I care what we do, but not because it is the 31st.” He reached out for her hand. “Then let’s just stay home.” She took his hand and pulled him out of the chair. “We can watch the ball drop on television.” “The what?” He clasped his hands behind her back. “Never mind,” she kissed him. “It’s not important.”

*** The new year began with his calling her name. “Juliette,” he shouted from the basement. “Juliette!” She didn't answer, so he started up the stairs, calling her name once more. She met him at the top of the stairs, and he kissed her cheek. The time would come, he thought, when her presence would be so normal that he would not always greet her with a kiss. But that time had not yet come. “What is it?” she asked, kissing his cheek in return. “A man on the television says there will be a storm.” “How bad?” “Severe,” Tareq quoted the weatherman. “He says we must prepare.” “Hmm,” she replied. “Sometimes they exaggerate.” She went back to her computer in the kitchen. Tareq followed and went to the coffee maker. “Looks like they're telling the truth this time!” she sighed. “So here's how we prepare.” She explained the basics of a snowstorm and what it meant to be snowed in. He remembered her using that phrase in Berlin. At least this time neither of them would be lonely. “So we need to go to the hardware store for a new shovel and some salt, and then to the grocery store,” she closed her eyes in concentration. “Yeah, that’s it,” she concluded. “Ready?” “I will go to the hardware store,” he offered. “You may go to the supermarket.”


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Tareq still didn’t like the big market, with or without a SIM card. “The supermarket will be open on a holiday, but I don’t know about Earl. I’d better call.” “I will call him,” Tareq volunteered. He reached him quickly, and Earl confirmed both that he’d be open this New Year’s Day because the storm was on its way. And before Tareq could ask, he offered to give Tareq a lift home. After Earl dropped Tareq back at the house, Tareq settled into the living room sofa to check the storm visually from the window and follow its progress online. He could see on the computer that the storm was moving fast, and he was relieved when Juliette turned into the driveway. He got up quickly and helped her with the bags of groceries, relating to her all that Earl had told him to expect. In addition to the shovel and salt, Earl had advised on some flashlights and batteries. Juliette had obtained the other essentials at the grocery store: more of Tareq’s favorite coffee beans and the milk, eggs and bread people always stocked up on before a storm. “Now what do we do?” he asked her. “Nothing,” she replied. “Normal life.” “Normal life,” he echoed. He returned to the laptop with his coffee and continued his research on snow and snowflakes. Looking out the window, he found confirmation of what he read online. At first, the skies turned a silvery grey, and the moisture in the air visibly increased. On one website, the author had written that the skies would shimmer; in Tareq’s opinion, this was an accurate description. As the day progressed, the grey deepened as the sun set somewhere beyond the shimmer. But then the skies lightened again: the snow fell white and bright against the dark sky. “Juliette!” he called, putting on his boots and coat. “Snow!” She joined him in the foyer, and he helped her put on her coat. He took her gloved hand in his and led her out to the garden. “These flakes are the kind you can really see,” she told him, looking closely at the snowflakes that landed on his dark hair. As she brushed a flake from his eyelash, he caught her hand and held it. “Beautiful,” he said, looking at the sky. “Beautiful,” he repeated, looking at her. He pulled her inside his unbuttoned coat, and they kissed to his first snowfall. When their heads became too wet and cold for comfort, they went back inside. As they entered the foyer, Tareq stopped at the door to take off his boots, but Juliette hurried toward the kitchen for some towels to dry their heads. “Juliette,” he grabbed her hand and stopped her, “in Egypt, we do not wear shoes inside the home.” “Oh,” she said, “You’re right. I forgot to take my boots off. I was rushing.” But then it occurred to her that Tareq didn’t just remove his wet, dirty boots at the


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door, he removed his shoes, too, in any weather. “And from now on, I’ll take my regular shoes off, too.” She smiled at him and at the blending of traditions. “And we can ask the kids to do the same when they come over.” She took off her boots and put them next to his by the door. In the kitchen, she grabbed a towel and rubbed it over his head. He shook his head free, took the towel and tossled her hair as she ran her fingers through his short, dark waves. She peeked out the kitchen window from underneath the towel. “Looks like you're getting a real winter storm. You know the song? Oh the weather outside is frightful?” she sang. Tareq shook his head, so she continued,

But the fire is so delightful, The lights are turned way down low, Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!

“So I must build a fire?” “And I'll get the lights.” Later that evening, a tree branch cracked loudly under the weight of the snow, followed quickly by the sound of electric wires shorting out. Tareq didn't recognize the first sound, but they both knew the second. Juliette reached for the lamp and flipped on the switch, but nothing happened. “Do you know where those flashlights are?” she asked, rolling toward him. “Do we need them?” he replied. “Don’t think so,” she said calmly. “I can find you in the dark.”

After Cairo ~ January

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January The Friday before the Martin Luther King holiday weekend, Tareq lived in the kitchen. The next day he and Juliette would drive to Mark and Samantha’s for dinner, and Emily would join them there. Juliette would tell the children with words that there would be a wedding. He would tell them with food. With Tareq busy preparing an Egyptian feast, Juliette began work on the Berlin article. As he cooked, she worked at the dining room table, asking him occasional questions about Berlin and sharing the research process with him. Over the course of the day, the aromas became increasingly alluring, and she offered to switch writing gears from travel to food. Sometimes Tareq gave her a taste of something in process; other times he shooed her back to her computer. By late afternoon, the scents were irresistible. Juliette closed her computer for the day and joined Tareq at the oven. “This all looks wonderful,” she said as she surveyed the dishes that sat on the counters, crowded the kitchen table and even perched on the two kitchen chairs. His smile spread across his face like honey. “The only thing missing,” he said, “is bread. Tonight we nust have this,” he pointed disappointedly to a bag of pita bread from the supermarket. “But,” he triumphed, “I have asked Emily to bring some Egyptian bread from a bakery in New York. She assures me it is near her flat. We are safe!” “Are you sure I can’t eat some of this now?” “Dinner is at 8.” He looked her up and down. “And appropriate attire, please,” he teased. “8?” She asked. “What am I supposed to do until then?” “Take a long bath.” She rolled her eyes, but a hot bath sounded good. Around 7 o’clock he appeared in their room. By then she was out of the tub and reading in bed, wrapped in her robe. “Everything okay?” she asked from over her book. “Of course,” he replied, taking some clothes from the closet. “Where are you going?”


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“Mystery,” he replied, his eyes full of surprise. “See you at 8.” This is the man I married, she thought, and I am the better for it. At 7:59, she began down the stairs. “May I come now?” she called. “Yes. All is prepared.” When she reached the dining room, they both gasped – she because the dining room table was beautifully set, and he because she was equally beautifully set. She had taken his instructions to heart and wore a simple black dress, the cartouche and the signet ring around her neck. He pulled back her chair as she sat, and then disappeared into the kitchen. “Let me help you,” she called. “No, no, I am fine.” He reappeared with two bowls of something that looked like stew. “This,” he announced, “is fatta. I have made it almost correctly. The bread is not quite right, but it will do for this evening.” He presented her with a bowl and then stood expectantly, waiting for her first approving mouthful. “This is delicious, Tareq. I’m not just saying that.” “Of course!” His joy in his accomplishment was irrepressible. He took his own portion to his seat to relish it himself. “To us,” he said, lifting his spoon toward her. She followed suit, and they clanked their spoons together. “Is that what you do in Egypt?” “No.” He shook his head. “It is what I do here.” He smiled with his mouth, his eyes, his whole being. And then he explained that fatta was a special dish, prepared for special occasions, and often served when celebrating a woman’s first pregnancy. He would bring this to Samantha the next day. “Oh, Tareq, she’s going to love that. Really. Especially now that she can eat again!” Juliette took another bite, and then lowered her voice. “Not to rain on any parades,” she ventured, “but this doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that travels well.” “It does not,” he agreed. But he had already found the solution in the myriad containers in the kitchen. He would transport everything separately and assemble the dish when they arrived. “But maybe with a little less mess?” she teased. “Do not worry,” was all he said, tipping his water glass to her. “Do not worry.”


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When they packed the car the next morning, Juliette was sure that Tareq had used every container in the kitchen. “It’s like we’re going to feed an army,” she joked. “No,” he replied. In his experience, no army ate this well. “Well maybe it’s more like Thanksgiving, then,” she mused, “Egyptian style.” “Yes,” he nodded firmly. “I like that.” He closed the trunk gently on the delectables that had been carefully arranged to prevent any spillage or other unforeseen tragedy. “I’m glad I kept the Volvo,” she chuckled to herself. “I used to need the space for sports equipment and spare kids. Now it’s essential for your career as a chef!” They picked Emily up at the station near Mark and Sam’s and arrived with the cargo intact. Emily passed on apologies from Kenji, who had drawn the unlucky assignment at the bookstore and was working the entire holiday weekend. Emily helped Tareq carry all the containers into the house, but then Tareq banished everyone except Juliette from the kitchen. Emily set the table, and then Tareq began to serve. He filled the table with plate after beautiful plate, and then appeared at Samantha’s side with the first bowl of fatta. “This is for you, Samantha,” and he explained fatta to her. She reached for his hand in appreciation and took a spoonful. She liked the fatta, but even if she hadn’t, she would have eaten the whole bowl. When they had finished dinner, Tareq stood up. “I must excuse myself,” he said to Emily, Mark and Samantha. “Your mother has something to discuss with you, and I must repair the damage I have done to the kitchen.” “You can stay, Tareq,” Juliette told him. “No, this is a matter for your family. And there is dessert to consider!” He nodded at Juliette and walked back into the kitchen. “What’s going on?” Mark asked. “I want you all to know,” Juliette said, looking at each of them, “that we’re very happy…” “Have you set a date?” Emily burst out. “A date for what?” Mark asked. “For a wedding,” Samantha filled in the blank. “A wedding?” Mark exclaimed in a tone that was confused but not necessarily disapproving. “You?” Juliette nodded.


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“And Tareq?” “Of course,” Emily and Samantha uttered at the same time, rolling their eyes as though they were twins, not sisters-in-law. “This is great, Juliette,” Samantha congratulated her, taking her hand across the table. “Really, I couldn’t be happier for you.” “Me, too, Mom,” chimed Emily. “Me, too.” Mark remained silent and then added, “Me, too, Mom. I guess I’m just sort of shocked. When’s this all going to take place?” “We want to wait until the baby is born. And it depends on Tareq’s visa, too.” “So summer?” Emily pressed. “I hope so,” Juliette said. “We hope so.” “But isn’t this all a bit sudden?” Mark protested. Emily protested back. “Mark, how long did you know Sam before you knew you’d marry her?” “Six weeks,” he answered honestly. There was no use pretending otherwise. He had always told his sister everything, for as long as he could remember. He had called Emily the day after he met Samantha and told her that Sam might be “the one”. Six weeks later, he told her he was sure of it. “And five years later, you two ran off and got married. Why the long wait?” “Well, we wanted to finish school, get jobs, and generally get organized.” “Exactly. Mom, here,” Emily pointed to Exhibit A, their mother, “has finished school, gotten a job, gotten married, raised two children, been widowed and, I think we can agree, organized herself fairly well.” Samantha could not contain herself. Emily could be as entertaining as she was persuasive. She giggled under her breath and told Mark he should listen to his sister. “And, at Mom’s age – no offense – I think she pretty much knows what she’s doing. And if she’s gotten a second chance, she should take it.” That seemed to settle it. “Mom, I’m happy for you,” Mark said as sincerely as he could. He knew that Emily liked Tareq and that Samantha had no objections, but he wasn’t as sure. “Just give me a second to catch up.” Juliette reached across the table and rubbed his hand. “It’s okay, honey. It’s been a big year. For all of us.”


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At this, Emily bolted from the table and swung open the door to the kitchen. “It’s safe to come back now, Tareq. Mom’s told us. We’re all on board with it.” She winked at him. Tareq emerged from the kitchen with a tray of halva in his hand, and Emily held the door open for his grand entrance. “Let me take that,” she said once he was through the door. “You go kiss the bride.” “With pleasure,” he responded, handing over the tray. He walked behind Juliette’s chair, placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned over to kiss her cheek. “That’s it?” Emily scrunched up her face in mock disappointment. “For now,” he replied peacefully and returned to his place next to Juliette, where he would remain. He took Juliette’s hand under the table and fielded congratulations from Mark and Samantha. The feeling of family made his eyes glisten. “Go ahead and cry, Tareq,” Emily told him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing him on the cheek. “In this family, we cry when we’re happy. Or at least I do.” By the time the congratulations were completed, it was nearly time for Juliette and Tareq to go. “Thanks for eating so unfashionably early,” Samantha said to Tareq as they were putting away the leftovers. “Not at all.” “I feel so much better these days, but I still crash by 8 o’clock.” “I am happy to accommodate,” he assured. He wanted to kiss her cheek, but held back. But then he touched her arm. “Samantha,” he spoke formally, “I am honored to have cooked fatta for you.” “And I was honored to eat it.” “I am glad.” “Tareq,” Juliette bumped into him casually, “we better get going if we want to get home before it’s too late.” “Yes,” he replied, packing up what had been washed. “However, I am afraid these containers will remain here.” He opened the refrigerator to reveal the stockpile that Mark, Samantha and Emily would enjoy the next day. “That’s fine,” she said taking his arm happily and closing the refrigerator door. “We know where they live.” As they said their goodbyes at the door, Tareq shook Mark’s hand firmly, smiled at Samantha, and then put his arm around Emily’s shoulder. At the car, he opened


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the door for Juliette and closed it behind her. He took his own seat and then waved to Mark and Emily, blowing them each a kiss. Once they were home, Tareq lit the fireplace while Juliette made tea. They settled cozily in the living room, each appreciating all that the day had given them. But her family was not the only consideration, and they both knew this. “Tareq, how are we going to tell your family?” “I have been wondering about this.” “Any ideas?” He was silent. “Tareq, I love you. But I have to be honest. I can’t convert. I’m sorry.” “Of course.” His face was as somber as she had ever seen it. “I mean, if I have to, to make this work for your family, I could. I guess. But it would be superficial. I don’t feel it. For me, that is. For you, I love all of you. But it’s just not how I was raised. It’s not who I am.” “I understand.” “And at our age, is it necessary? Or how necessary is it? It’s not like we’re going to have children to raise where we have to pick a religion for them, or figure out something else.” “It is not necessary. A Christian woman who marries a Muslim man is not required to change her religion.” “Really?” That was news to Juliette. “But what about your family? Just because it’s not required doesn’t mean they’ll approve of me.” “Juliette, this is my burden.” “No, Tareq, it’s our burden. Ours together. Is there any chance they’ll accept me? Any chance they won’t disown you?” Tareq closed his eyes. Twice in his life he had fallen in love with a Christian woman. When he was young, when he and Yasmeen were young, their cultures had had the power to pull them apart. Now he was more than 50 years old. His father had passed away years earlier. His mother, in her 80s, would not understand, would not accept Juliette. He knew this. Tareq was her only son. He was meant to live his life in a certain way. But his sisters? Would they who had watched his heart break over Yasmeen decades before deny him the happiness he now knew? He began to weep inside. His face remained stoic, but inside, he wept. Love posed such difficult questions.


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Juliette could see his grief, his agony. She knelt before him and took his hands in hers. “Tareq,” she whispered. “I still love the way you say my name,” he smiled, but it was the smile of someone rising above a deep pain. “Then I’ll say it again. Tareq.” “I love you, Juliette. You are my wife.” “I am.”

* * * The clock on their time together was running out. They shopped for gifts for Tareq to take back to Cairo, and he made his round of goodbyes. Marian said the library wouldn't be the same without him, and she looked forward to his return. He thought about saying something to Fran, but decided he'd let Marian explain for him. When Tareq told Earl about his departure, Earl's face fell into shadow. “I'm going to miss you, Tareq. I'm not afraid to admit it,” Earl took several short breaths to douse his emotions. “Give you a ride home for old time’s sake?” The two men walked through the store’s front door, and this time Tareq flipped over the “be back soon” sign as Earl found the key on the carbiner that he kept attached to his belt. “I will be back,” Tareq said to Earl, “in a few months, I believe.” “For spring!” Earl regained his composure with the thought of bags of top soil, flats of flowers in small, green plastic containers, and hoses piled where the snow shovels now stood. “I’ll show you how to plant a garden in this climate.” “I would like that,” Tareq replied, climbing into the passenger seat of Earl’s enormous pick up truck. “I will grow the herbs I cannot find in the grocery store.” “You moving in, Tareq?” Earl drove away from the town. This time Earl wasn't just surveying the scene, Tareq knew, and he wasn't being nosy either. Earl cared. “Yes,” Tareq replied. “Glad to hear it,” Earl replied. “I’ve never seen Ms. Grant this happy, and I'm always glad to talk with a man who appreciates tools.”

*** “Let’s make this quick,” Juliette resolved, her hands fixed to his lapels. “You have to go, and if we keep standing here, I’m going to be a weeping mess here in the terminal.”


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Juliette and Tareq stood still amidst the hoards of travellers coming and going. The airport was noisy and fluorescent and cavernous – everything that home was not. Tareq put his hands on Juliette’s shoulders to shield her for the moment and then nodded, tears welling in his eyes. He arranged the pashmina around her neck one more time and kissed her goodbye. He smiled at her from the security line as long as he could and then waved his hand high and blew her a kiss. And then he was subsumed in the crowd and beyond Juliette’s view.

After Cairo ~ The New Year

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The New Year Winter was colder without him. Juliette kept his coat and boots in the closet, and his gloves rested near hers in a drawer. She wore his coat once when she shoveled the porch steps, but it was too big and made the task more difficult. She hung it back in the closet to await his return. The weather would be warm by then, but the coat would be waiting nonetheless. Juliette and Tareq returned to their habits from November. She messaged him at 6 am. He replied as quickly as he could, but the Internet connection in Cairo was not as reliable as in Berlin, and sometimes she had to wait to hear back from him. Sometimes they even used the landline and talked the old-fashioned way. With the benefits of the modern age sometimes eluding them, and the time zones conspiring against them, they wrote letters. Tareq’s arrived on the same thick paper he had used for his first letter, not even 12 months earlier. Juliette loved his handwriting, especially its formal curves and elegantly crossed t’s, executed in what she now knew was a fountain pen. His letters were always short. Juliette’s letters to Tareq were typed on the computer, printed out, and then signed. They were full of details about Samantha, Mark, Emily and sometimes Kenji. The topic of his visa was again paramount, but the hurdles this time appeared to be minimal. In a fairly short time, he was able to purchase a plane ticket. As for the café, he explained to his mother and his sisters that he planned a return trip to the United States and thought that his eldest nephew should manage it in his absence. He was quite young, everyone acknowledged, but Tareq would train him until May. After that, he would supervise from a distance. For her part, Juliette continued working on the article about Berlin and took on additional assignments. Most importantly, though, she looked to the future. She started a list of places they could visit in the warmer weather; the possibilities abounded, and the list grew and grew. But even as she thought about those adventures, she worried about how Tareq would occupy himself in their small town. She occasionally scanned for apartments to rent in the city, but always landed back in the farmhouse that now felt like a home. Juliette regretted that Tareq was not back in time for the birth of Sam’s and Mark’s baby. Sarah arrived healthy and on time in mid-April. Juliette was certain that Mark and Emily must have been the most beautiful babies in the world, but when she saw Sarah, she also knew that she was the most beautiful creature she had ever


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beheld anytime, anywhere. Holding Sarah on the anniversary of Mark’s death shifted all the focus to life. Tareq wasn’t there to admire Sarah’s perfect little fingers with her, but he would be back soon. In the meantime, Juliette counted the days, checked yet again that the closet offered ample room for his things, cleared out drawers, and looked forward to watching him make coffee. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Juliette said “See you tomorrow” over a wobbly video call. She was wobbly herself as she said it, feeling the onset of a virus. He could hear the illness brewing in her voice and told her not to come to the airport if she were unwell. “But what will you do then?” she protested. Public transportation between the airport and their house was not a realistic option. He told her not to worry, he could take a taxi to Mark and Samantha’s. They would figure it out. She promised to take care, they exchanged I love yous, and slept well in the knowledge that their separation was ending. Tareq slept better than Juliette, whose fever worsened. It was just a 24-hour bug, she was confident, but it was the wrong 24 hours. She wouldn’t make it to the airport. The next morning, she called Emily and asked her to meet Tareq. “Happy to, Mom,” Emily told her. “It’s Newark,” Juliette’s voice creaked like the stairs in the house. “I’ll take the train to New Jersey and then grab Mark’s car.” “Thank you,” Juliette coughed weakly. She hung up, rolled over, and fell back to sleep. As the plane landed later that day, Tareq braced himself for immigration. Armed again with the email correspondence about his name, he got into the relevant line and waited patiently for his turn. He could feel the anxiety rising within him, but he knew that the most important thing was to remain calm. He must approach the immigration officer as though he went through this routine everyday, just as the immigration officer did. Tareq heard the officer say “next” and walked across the line on the floor to the booth. He pushed his passport to the officer, who looked to be about Tareq’s age. The officer flipped through Tareq’s passport. He lingered on the photo page, glancing back and forth between Tareq’s face and the photo in the passport. “Your eyes are green,” the officer stated blandly. “Yes,” Tareq replied. “In the photo, they look brown,” the officer observed. Tareq remained silent. His eyes often looked brown in photos, but he did not know how to explain this to the officer. “Reason for visit?” the officer moved on from Tareq’s eyes.


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“To be with friends,” Tareq replied. It would beyond imprudent to tell the truth. He and Juliette had an appointment with an immigration lawyer the following week, but the immigration officer did not need to know this. “You have a return ticket?” the officer said into the passport. “Yes.” “May I see it?” he looked up at Tareq, expressionless. Tareq produced his return ticket, which he had no intention of using. “Address while you’re here?” Tareq recited his and Juliette’s address by heart. The officer stamped a mark into Tareq’s passport. “Welcome to America, Mr. Kha…” “Khalifa,” Tareq enunciated his name. “Mr. Khalifa,” the officer replied with a half-smile. Tareq kept his face polite and self-possessed, took back his passport and walked away quickly. He found his luggage, two bags this time, and exited into the arrivals hall. He let go of his bags, took a deep breath and felt his shoulders relax. He was searching the crowd for Juliette when he heard Emily’s voice. “Tareq!” she called warmly. He pivoted to find her walking energetically toward him. “Emily,” he opened his arms. “How good to see you.” “You, too!” They kissed each other’s cheeks briefly in greeting. “Mom’s home sick, so you’ll have to settle for me.” “Happily,” Tareq replied, and sincerely. Emily was dear to him. “She is still unwell?” “She’s better. I’ll text her now to let her know you’re here okay.” “Thank you, Emily.” “You made it through fast this time,” Emily said with relief for them both. “Mom prepared me that I might need to wait for awhile. But poof! There you were. I haven’t even started on the snacks!” She opened a bag to reveal Tareq’s favorites. “We’ll eat in the car.” They started toward the exit. “Can I take one of your bags?” Emily offered. “No,” he replied. “I am fine. Please send your mother a text message.”


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“Okay, but I need to get away from that first,” she pointed over to a smoking section. “That’s disgusting,” Emily condemned. “I used to smoke,” Tareq admitted off-handedly. “You did?” Emily made no attempt to hide her surprise. “Yes.” “But then you quit?” “Yes.” “How?” “Your mother asked me to.” “Really?” “Yes. In Berlin. She asked me to stop. So I did.” “That easily?” “Of course.” “It’s not that easy for most people.” “I know this. But when your mother asks, it becomes easy.” Emily loved her father. She respected him as well. But she could not imagine her father ever making such a significant change for her mother simply because she asked. “Thank you, Tareq.” “For what?” “For quitting smoking.” “You are welcome.” “And you’ll be happy you did because Sam would never, ever let you near that baby if you even smelled like you’d been near a cigarette.” They both laughed, but Tareq knew that while Emily’s statement was funny, it was also true. “The weather is much warmer now,” Tareq said with relief as they walked to the car. “Memorial Day’s next weekend,” Emily replied. “First official weekend of summer! And we’re meeting up at Sam and Mark’s. You’ll get to see the baby then.”


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“I look forward to it.” The highways cooperated with them that evening, and soon they arrived home. Tareq pulled his suitcases up to the porch as Emily opened the door. “Mom, we’re here!” she called up to Juliette, but neither she nor Tareq heard a reply. “She might be sleeping,” Emily reduced her voice to a whisper. “Wanna check? I’ll text Sam to let her know we’re home, and then I’m going to call Kenji. He’ll be glad to know you’re here safe and sound.” Tareq gave Emily’s shoulder a squeeze and then climbed the stairs, enjoying every squeaking step. He was home again. He entered their bedroom quietly and found Juliette sound asleep, her phone in her hand. He sat next to her on the bed, caressed her forehead and then relaxed: her fever was not high. He would risk disturbing her rest. He nudged her shoulder gently and called her name. “Juliette, I am home.” She turned her head toward him and smiled weakly. They sat quietly together, Tareq running his fingers over her forehead and Juliette healing under his touch. Several minutes passed, and then Emily appeared at the door. “Sorry to disturb you two,” she intruded mildly. “Tareq, here’s one of your bags.” “Emily, you should not have carried that. It is heavy.” “It’s fine, Tareq,” Emily replied. “My way of helping you move in!” She was glad to perform this service. “But now I’m heading out. I should get Mark’s car back.” “It’s too late to drive.” Juliette and Tareq spoke to Emily in tandem, and all three of them laughed. “It’s not too late, guys,” Emily protested. “And it’s not that far.” “It is too late,” Tareq insisted, “and if you go, I will not be able to make you coffee in the morning. Stay here tonight.” “Listen to Tareq,” Juliette said weakly. “I think I’m going to lose this one,” Emily acknowledged. “See you in the morning.”

*** The following days were wonderfully ordinary. Juliette got over the flu, returned to her computer and did the laundry. Tareq explored the garden in spring, made koshary, and scouted the house for projects that needed to be done. They laughed and loved. Tareq unpacked over several days. He was, Juliette observed as she helped him place his things alongside hers, a man of few material possessions. A galabeya now hung in the closet. A few more shirts and pairs of trousers appeared than last


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time, two dark jackets, and a pair of sandals he’d not brought in winter. But he owned little to nothing of the clothes Juliette associated with men: no cargo shorts, no polo shirts, no faded blue jeans. His clothes were formal, or at least long and long-sleeved. But no neck ties. Besides the scant wardrobe, he had brought with him only the minimum of what he needed to place himself in New York and to remember Egypt. Two accordion files held the core documents of modern identity, papers and various proofs of existence, past and present. “May I look?” Juliette asked, and he handed her everything, including an additional folder that contained letters and other written mementoes, mainly in Arabic, a few sheets of music, and some drawings in crayon and colored pencil. “When they were young,” he explained, “my nieces and nephews gave me many drawings.” A separate envelope contained a handful of photographs. “Who are these people?” she asked, and Tareq introduced her to his family in the photos: his mother, sisters, their husbands and children. Some aunts, uncles, cousins. In the older photos, his father also appeared. They sat formally posed in some images, but others were more candid. Some chronicled significant events, others captured moments of everyday life, significant now in their own way. Several photos were from his time in Damascus, and Mark appeared in some of them. No photos of Aleppo landed in New York with him. Perhaps, Juliette thought, none existed. “And this one,” he handed her a separate envelope. She pulled out the photo inside, her face roughly in profile, the water of the Nile around her. Its corners were now worn and creased. “This one is my favorite.” Most of his books and recordings were left behind; these were largely replaceable. But a few had made the cut: a handful of books no longer in print, some self-produced CDs bought from musicians heard at impromptu concerts, and the signed album of Oum Kalthoum that Juliette had bought for him in Berlin. Other three-dimensional objects were scarce among his immigrating belongings. “A slide rule?” Juliette asked curiously as she removed it from its case. She hadn’t seen a slide rule in ages, and she was fairly sure that neither Mark nor Emily would even be able to identify the tool for what it was. “This is what I learned with,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “My phone and my computer have calculators.” He had also brought a nearly-ancient compass, a few drafting tools and some pencils. All of these were as easily replaceable as the books and CDs left behind, but these items were an extension of himself, or at least an extension of some memories that were too integral to abandon. Even if he never used these items again, he wanted them nearby. Other traces of youth and childhood emerged from the cases: a small wooden box with marbles and string, a collection of miniature building blocks suitable for creating tiny civilizations, a hand-carved menagerie. A set of finger cymbals, a wooden recorder and a scattering of guitar picks comprised what to Juliette looked like a random collection of musical objects.


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“This is heavy,” Juliette said with surprise, lifting a box from the smaller of the two suitcases. “What’s in here?” Tareq’s eyes glimmered. “Open it.” Juliette pulled back the lid of the box and saw Tareq’s chess set. “The men at the café are okay with your taking this along?” She wanted to know. “I left another there.” Tareq had done his duty. “This one belongs here, with you.”

*** By the following Monday, a day to remember many things, Tareq was rested and Juliette was worried about Memorial Day traffic. “But we will see Sarah!” Tareq exclaimed. That made the trip worth the while. He could not remember the last time he had held a baby, but thought it might have been when his youngest niece was an infant. She was now 17. As they left the house, Tareq stopped on the front porch and patted his pockets. “Forget something?” Juliette asked. He kept patting until he found a small package. “I have brought gifts for Samantha and Sarah. From Cairo.” He opened a tiny, ornate box to reveal two turquoise pendants, each on its own chain. “Oh, Tareq,” Juliette approved, “these are beautiful. And the color!” “Blue is auspicious. You must give this to Samantha.” He handed her the box. “You can give it to her yourself, Tareq.” “I would prefer that you give it to her from us,” Tareq insisted. Juliette agreed, but said she would also let Samantha know that Tareq had selected these gifts. “I feel fortunate to see the baby today,” he continued. “Today is her 40th day. In Egypt, this is important.” “Really? That’s a nice coincidence.” “Seven days is more important,” he continued, pursing his lips in disappointment that he hadn’t been there 33 days earlier. “This is sebou. But some people also celebrate 40.” “Your timing is perfect, Tareq.” When they arrived at the house, Emily and Kenji met them at the car. Emily opened Tareq’s door almost before he could get to it himself and hugged him tight. Kenji opened Juliette’s door, and Tareq nodded his thanks to Kenji for doing so on his behalf. Tareq liked Kenji. They walked together to the house, a few steps


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behind Juliette and Emily, and watched the two women, their arms around each other’s waists and heads together. Mark greeted them at the door with Sarah in his arms to a chorus of oohs and aahs. Emily pulled Tareq back. “Note to self,” she cautioned, “before you hold the baby, wash your hands and be sure to tell Sam that you washed your hands.” Tareq nodded. “Parents of newborns are germophobes. I shouldn’t laugh. I’ll probably be that way, too.” In the foyer, Samantha greeted Tareq warmly. “So good you’re back, Tareq. We’re so glad to see you.” “And I am glad to see you,” he kissed her on each cheek. “But please excuse me. I must wash my hands before I am near the baby.” “Thanks, Tareq,” Samantha said with appreciation. “A lot of people forget. I know I’m probably obsessive about it, but you know, she’s my baby.” Samantha put her arm across Tareq’s shoulders and pointed toward the kitchen. “Plenty of soap at the sink,” she said. Tareq glanced at Emily en route to the kitchen to confirm he was following the script correctly. She nodded. Tareq did not know what it was like to utter the phrase “she’s my baby”, but he was eager to know what it felt like to be a grandparent. His hands washed, he sat down next to Juliette in the living room, and Samantha walked toward him with Sarah in her arms. “Did he wash his hands?” Mark appeared out of nowhere. “Yes, he did, honey,” Samantha reassured him with a do-you-really-think-I’d-forget-that-part? tone in her voice. “In fact, he washed them without even being asked.” Samantha looked at Tareq approvingly. “Now let’s let Tareq have the baby.” When Samantha placed Sarah in Tareq’s arms, he felt a rush of humanity throughout his body. He stared in awe at the 10 pounds of miracle before him, and Sarah returned his stare with eyes that were just learning to focus. Tareq felt a type of love he had not known was within him. “Look at her fingers,” Juliette told him. “They’re so teeny and perfect. Her finger nails.” Tareq lifted Sarah’s entire hand with his index finger. “She doesn’t really grip yet,” Juliette explained. “But give her a few months and then you’re going to rethink your beard.” They laughed so loudly that Sarah’s eyes opened fully and she let out a cry. “Too loud!” Juliette chided them both. “No,” Tareq countered. “It is a tradition in Egypt to startle a baby to ward off evil spirits.” Sarah relaxed again in his arms and seemed happy. But after a few minutes, her face scrunched up and she let out the most plaintive of wails. Now Tareq was the one who was startled. “What is wrong?” he asked Juliette. “Nothing’s wrong,” Samantha reassured him. “She’s just hungry. This is the routine with a baby: happy, cry, feed, sleep. Repeat. Throw in a few diaper


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changes, and you pretty much have it down.” Samantha took Sarah in her arms and hugged her close. “I’ll go feed her.” When Samantha left the room, Juliette motioned to Mark. “Mark,” she insisted on his full attention, “you need to get Sam out of the house.” Mark looked worried. “I mean it. I remember this part of being a mother.” She smiled and rested her hand on his. “Tareq and I aren’t that far away. We’ll come back next Saturday,” she looked at Tareq to confirm, “and we’ll stay with the baby while she naps. You and Sarah go out somewhere, even if it’s just for an herbal tea.” “Thanks, Mom,” Mark sighed. “We’re both happy, but we’re so tired. And all we talk about is the baby.” “I remember,” Juliette empathized. “So go out for tea and read the newspaper together,” Juliette suggested half-jokingly. “And then as Sarah gets bigger, we’ll work our way to dinner and a movie.” “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.” Some visits are best kept short, and at Samantha’s next yawn, Juliette announced that she and Tareq needed to head home. Juliette knew that Samantha needed sleep more than she needed their company. As Juliette rummaged in her purse for her keys, she found the box with the pendants. “Samantha! I almost forgot!” she exclaimed, handing her the miniature box with its intricate carving and inlays. “This is from Tareq. And from me.” “You may open it later,” Tareq suggested. “After you have rested.” Samantha put the box on a table by the front door. After one last round of hugs, Juliette and Tareq left for home. As they drove north, they could see darker clouds gathering in the already dark skies. “You can smell the storm coming,” Juliette said to Tareq as she got out of the car at home. “Do you smell it?” Tareq looked up to the sky and breathed in the air. He could distinguish the odor of the damp gravel from the scent of the pine needles, and the humidity in the air pressed in close. But he wasn’t sure he could identify the smell of a storm on the way. The storm bellowed in over night, and the next morning, a distant clap of thunder woke Juliette with a start. Tareq dozed undisturbed, and Juliette picked up a book off her nightstand. She could go downstairs, find the paper, and make some tea, but she preferred to read in bed and wait for his eyes to open. Soon they did. The first thing he saw that morning was her arm propped up on the bed, a book in hand. “Good morning,” he yawned. She put the book down and rolled toward him. “Good morning.” “I dreamt about the baby.” “She’s beautiful.” Juliette confirmed that Sarah was worth a dream.


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“What do we do today?” he queried. “Funny you should ask.” Juliette’s tone was more organized and directed than the early hour deserved. “I have a list.” She rolled back toward her bedside stand and found the papers by the lamp. “A list?” “Yes. I’ve been putting together a list of all the things we can do to orient you to the area.” “A list?” He still wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. Juliette handed him two printed pages of destinations and things to see, organized by geographical distance. He propped himself up on his pillow to get a better view. “These here,” she pointed to the first page, “are all in New York City.” Tareq took the sheet and scanned the many options. “And this page,” she handed him a second piece of paper, “has places that are more than an hour away and maybe need an overnight stay.” “It will take years to work through this,” he observed. “That’s the idea,” she put her head down on his pillow and kissed him. “I’ve got work to do today. I’m sorry. But you start by looking this over and let me know what things appeal to you most.” Just then a clap of thunder boomed so violently that the house shook. “Come closer,” Tareq said, wrapping his arm around her. “Come closer.” The storm persisted throughout the day with brilliant displays of lightning and cracking rounds of thunder. On days like these, Juliette’s favorite place was the screened-in porch off the kitchen. Its poured concrete floor was not elegant, but the porch was deep enough that most of it stayed dry, even in a driving rain. The eastern exposure kept the porch cool on sunny days, and a large Japanese Stewartia tree did its part, too, branching out benevolently to provide welcome shade. The tree was nearly as old as the house itself, the previous owner had told Juliette proudly, and bloomed all summer long. Juliette had bought the house for the porch and the tree as much as anything else. Tareq joined Juliette on the cushioned sofa that lazed against the exterior wall of the house. The earth immediately adjacent to the porch was covered with irregularly shaped pieces of slate tile that formed something bigger than a path but smaller than a patio. Each piece of slate was edged unintentionally with grass that pushed its way between the pieces of flat stone. The strip of grass beyond the slate was barely wide enough to mow without disturbing a bank of daylilies that delineated the end of the garden. Beyond the daylilies, the garden gave way to a slope to the creek below. The creek was not visible from the porch, but it gurgled up noisily in summer.


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The storm created a symphony of water and wind. The creek rippled its high-pitched staccato; the wind replied with crescendos of rustling the leaves that drowned out the stream entirely and then receded again to make room for the sound of rushing water. The scent of drenched soil and wood accompanied the music of the storm. There was plenty of mud in New York, Tareq thought to himself, but hardly any sand. A sudden gust of wind swayed the Stewartia tree harshly, and both Juliette and Tareq grabbed each other’s hands as they listened to the branches rapping against their bedroom window above. “Earl told me to trim back those branches,” Juliette muttered to herself. “I guess he was right.” Tareq nodded at first, then giggled, and then laughed from deep in his chest. “What’s so funny?” Juliette asked, her eyes fixed again on her computer screen. “I like all the branches,” Tareq said, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “I could climb that tree to our window,” he said, nodding his head back to point to the tree with his chin. “I could be like Romeo.” “No balcony,” she eyed him jauntily. “Besides, you own the stairs.” Tareq wasn’t sure what Juliette meant. Since returning to the United States, he had become acutely aware that he didn’t know vernacular American English as well as he knew UN office English. The most familiar and simple of words could take on whole new meanings. He could usually ferret out the meanings easily, but he still found himself listening as an outsider. He had heard Emily say she owned a project at work; this conveyed a pleasant sense of independence and personal responsibility that she enjoyed greatly. But then Samantha had used own to chide Mark playfully when he didn’t want to admit he had made an error. “You have to own that one, sweetheart,” she’d said to him as he hid his face in her shoulder. Neither of these seemed related to the definition of own Tareq knew. “Juliette, I do not own any stairs.” “Well, not yet, I guess,” she hit save on her document. “But I talked to Mark about it. He said it’s not his area of law, but he thinks I should wait until we have a marriage certificate. I think he thinks it will be easier then. Then I’ll make you joint owner of the house. So you’ll own the stairs soon enough.” “Juliette,” Tareq eyed her uncertainly. “I do not know…” “What don’t you know?” “Juliette,” he stammered. “Look, if anything happens to me, I want you to have the house.” “Nothing will…”


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“You can’t say that,” she pressed her index finger to his lips. “I wish we could say that, but we can’t. Believe me, I know.” He nodded and nestled his head on her shoulder. Juliette and Tareq spent most of the day cuddled up together on the porch, laptops in hand. Juliette mainly edited a nearly-finished piece, but jumped now and again to a new story she was working on. Tareq worked through Juliette’s list of things to see and do, but sometimes found himself counting the number of daylilies that eclipsed the view of the stream. “So what’s it going to be?” she asked as she closed her computer that afternoon. “It cannot be only this,” Tareq sighed at the sheets of paper in his hand. “I am not a tourist.” Juliette’s face took on the storm outside. “I understand,” she rubbed his hand. She knew he needed to find a purpose, some form of meaningful employment. But she hadn’t expected him to worry about it so soon. “But it’s summer. It’s vacation time. Let’s have a honeymoon now.” Tareq believed Juliette was right: they should enjoy their summer. “Storm King,” he replied with resolve. “The idea of such a vast, outdoor sculpture garden appeals to me.” “I love Storm King,” she enthused. “I used to go there every year. Anything else?” “Corning,” he added. “I haven’t been there in ages, but I remember really liking it. There’s a museum, and also an area where you can watch glass being made.” “I would like to go to Corning soon.” He sounded as though he needed to leave right away. “Is there a rush?” she asked. “The website says that an artist is visiting from Egypt. I would like to see his work.” “How long is he there?” “Through July. Look.” He handed her his laptop so she could see for herself. “How about 4th of July weekend?” she suggested. “We could visit the museum, maybe drive around the Finger Lakes. And I bet Corning has some fun fireworks.” “There are lakes there?” “Yes, lots of them. It’s one of the things the region is best known for.” She handed the computer back to him. “Do you want to find us a place to stay? Should be plenty online.”


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The next morning, Tareq opened his eyes to the tree outside the window. He reached to his left, but Juliette’s side of the bed was already cool. She’s already downstairs working, he thought to himself. Let’s have a honeymoon now, she had said to him. But she would still work in between the honeymoons. Tareq reached to his right and took her list from the bedside stand. His handwritten notes in the margins made him restless. He folded the papers in half and slid them under the book he was half through reading. Corning and Storm King would be honeymoon enough, he thought to himself, at least for this summer. His life was not a vacation. He lifted himself from the bed and dressed with as much purpose as possible. When he got downstairs, he could see Juliette’s computer open on the dining room table, but the kitchen was empty. He turned his head left and right, listening for her. Then the front door opened, and Juliette appeared with the morning’s paper. “Juliette,” he said to her, leaning against the counter with his back to the coffee maker, “I cannot stay here any longer.” Juliette looked alarmed, and Tareq realized again that while he was fluent, he was living in a language that was not his mother tongue. “I will go to the town,” he added quickly. “I wish to walk.” “It’s hot outside,” Juliette grimaced. “Sure you don’t want to drive?” “It is not hot outside,” he chuckled at her. “And I wish to see Earl and Marian.” He paused. “And Fran.” “They’ll be very happy to see you.” “I will make some coffee,” he gave her a kiss. “And then later we will meet for lunch at the diner.” “Noon,” she replied. “At the diner.” Later that morning, Tareq kissed Juliette twice at the door, grabbed his cell phone and returned to the road he knew well from winter. As he walked, he made note of the changes around him. The gray skies were now blue and strewn with clouds that lolled casually in the air. Dense green foliage, dotted with blossoms, obscured the brown, craggy branches, and the once quiet streams now babbled beyond view. Evidence of human life graced the road as well, with an occasional bicyclist or car passing by. The town was livelier, too. People waited outside at the train station rather than inside their cars, and the sidewalks were busier. Some windows were open, and Tareq could hear a mishmash of music, radio news programs, and fragments of conversations. It was still one of the quietest examples of human habitation he could imagine, but winter had, reassuringly, made way for spring and summer. When Tareq set foot into the hardware store, he splayed his fingers reflexively at the smell of the bags of fertilizer stacked by the front door. He should grab a bag, he thought; the daylilies in the back were growing thickly, but the plants in the


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front of the house, with its unprotected western exposure, needed help. And shears. Big enough to trim back tree branches. He was sure Juliette owned none. “Tareq!” Earl called out from behind the counter, extending his hand. Tareq walked toward him quickly and extended his own hand. “It’s great to see you, Tareq! How long you been back?” “Only a few days,” Tareq replied. “It is good to see you, as well.” They chatted as old friends as Earl toured Tareq through the shop’s aisles to point out some new products he was now carrying. Earl attended to a few customers who came and went, but as far as Earl was concerned, Tareq’s return was the main event of the day. Around noon, Juliette looked first in the window of the diner and, finding no trace of Tareq there, went to the hardware store. She could hear Earl and Tareq toward the back of the shop discussing the pros and cons of various sanding machines. “Ms. Grant!” Earl greeted her enthusiastically when he spied her walking down the aisle. “Bet you’re glad to have this guy back in town!” “I am, Earl. I am indeed,” she took Tareq’s arm. “Can I borrow him? We’re going to the diner for lunch.” “Absolutely,” Earl agreed. “Just send him back when you’re done with him.” Tareq and Juliette left with a wave and headed for the diner. Tareq opened the door for Juliette; the red frame around the large pane of glass was just as he remembered it, and he welcomed the sound of the jingling bell. The brass door handle was more weathered than he remembered, or perhaps the tarnish was just more visible in the strong light of summer light. Fran caught Tareq from the corner of her eye as they entered and greeted him with a terse but friendly, “Tea?” She waited a moment for his response. “And spaghetti or a hamburger?” “Hamburger,” he replied, “with everything.” After lunch, Tareq walked Juliette to the car. He ran his hand once along the length of her bare arm as she sat down into the now blistering interior. “You’ve got to admit this is hot, right?” she jibed from behind the wheel. “Of course,” he nodded. “Almost hot enough for air conditioning.” “Just you wait, Tareq,” she swatted back with a grin. “Summer’s not even really here yet.” His eyebrows arched as he closed her door, and then Tareq crossed the street to the library. The path leading up to the front door was now knee-high with irises, and the small patches of grass on either side of the path were neatly mown. Flower boxes full of impatiens, courtesy of the Garden Club, no doubt, festooned the library’s windows. Tareq could see through the windows that someone had put in


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fresh white lace curtains, and a man he vaguely recognized was taking advantage of the clear day to give the library a fresh coat of paint. Tareq entered quietly and was startled to see people in the library. Other than the Garden Club’s holiday party, he didn’t remember seeing anyone in the library in winter. But now a mother and two girls read quietly in the children’s section, and an older man sat with his feet up in the library’s living room, flipping through magazines. Tareq started to take his shoes off, but then stopped to count the number of people he could see. Marian had never remarked on, let alone objected to, Tareq’s practice of removing his shoes in what felt to him like a home. But in winter it had only been Marian and himself in the library; now he considered how these strangers might react. He deliberated a moment, then stepped out of his shoes and placed them to the side of the door. He could hear Marian working in the shelves behind her desk. Rounding the shelf’s corner, he took her by surprise. “Tareq!” she exclaimed and then retreated to a library voice. “You’re back!” she whispered. “I am,” he shook her hand. Marian was as he remembered her, her flat-ironed hair curving neatly around her full face. “And I believe I have work yet to do.” “Can you pick up where you left off?” she queried enthusiastically, her joy at seeing him again straining under her whisper. “Of course. My desk?” he asked, pointing to the table nearby. “Is it ready for my return?” “You bet it is.” She pointed her finger to the shelves near his table. “Everything’s just as you left it.” Tareq’s eyes swept over the shelves and saw that she told the truth: his careful stacks of papers and note cards stood untouched, and the books looked to be precisely in the order he had left them. Marian couldn’t bear the burden of speaking so quietly, so she motioned Tareq to a small conference room at the back of the library. She closed the door quietly and then asked at full voice, “What’s next?” “I believe that I completed the biographies of the authors,” Tareq rubbed his forehead, “and the synopses. But a list of translations,” he shook his head, “I know already that I cannot write such a list from here.” The library had no English-language versions of any of the books in Arabic, and Internet resources were limited. “I think you’re going to need to go to the city,” Marian told him. “I’m pretty sure they’ve got a strong Arabic collection at Columbia.” Marian watched Tareq’s heart leap at her suggestion. “I’ll make a phone call to make sure they’ll let you in,” Marian told him slyly. “You know how librarians can be about their collections.” “I do,” Tareq gleamed at her. “I have found them to be welcoming.”


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“We are indeed,” Marian agreed. “And protective. Now when would you like to go to New York?” “Tomorrow,” Tareq answered easily. While Tareq reacquainted himself with the work he’d done months earlier, Marian arranged for his visit to Columbia the next day. Before he left that afternoon, she handed him a map and a train schedule for getting to Columbia University along with a letter for getting into the library once he was there. Tareq clenched the papers in his hands as he left the library, lingering on the front steps while his eyes adjusted to the sunlight. He was scanning the street up and down when he heard a voice call his name from the direction of the diner. “Tareq!” a man said again, and this time, Tareq saw that it was Bob from the church, accompanied by Betty, the piano teacher. The three met in the middle of the road before walking back to the sidewalk. “I knew that was you!” Bob said with delight. He put his hefty arm across Tareq’s slender frame. “I just heard from Fran that you were back in town! She said you were at the library. Betty and I were just coming over to see you!” “It is good to see you, Bob,” Tareq looked at Bob warmly, “and you, Betty. I trust you are well?” “Very well,” Betty replied cheerily. “I’m moving next week to be closer to my son.” “How nice,” Tareq replied. He liked the idea of Betty being with her family. “Betty here’s downsizing,” Bob elaborated, “and wants to find a home for her electronic keyboard. I thought maybe you’d want it.” “Tareq,” Betty said sweetly, “I’d be very happy for you to have it.” Her eyes twinkled up at him from beneath the brim of a weathered straw hat. “Once a piano player, you know, always a piano player.” The offer left Tareq speechless, but the look in his eyes made Betty’s whole face shine. “Wonderful!” she said. “Bob will bring it by.” She reached out and took Tareq’s hand. “Play it in good health, my dear.” Tareq kissed her on each cheek. “Thank you, Betty. I will.” “I’ll bring it by in about an hour,” Bob offered. “Same place?” “You remember?” Tareq asked with surprise. “You betcha. But here’s my card. Call me so I have your number.” Tareq took the card and nodded. “In an hour?” Bob raised his eyebrows to ask for a final confirmation. “See you then?”


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“See you then,” Tareq replied, the colloquial phrase flowing slowly but easily from his mouth. Bob was true to his word and arrived precisely 60 minutes later. Tareq heard the car’s crunch on the gravel, put on his shoes and went out to meet him. Together they unloaded the keyboard and stand from Bob’s car. As they walked up the front steps, Juliette appeared at the door. “Hello there!” Bob said to her brightly, “you must be…” “Juliette,” she introduced herself. Bob balanced the end of the keyboard on his foot and reached out to shake Juliette’s hand. “Bob,” Tareq added, “I would like you to meet my wife.” Tareq put his arm around Juliette’s waist and drew her to his side. Bob smiled at Tareq first with a you-sly-devil grin, but then his expression metamorphosed into paternal, congratulatory approval. “Very nice to meet you,” Bob beamed at Juliette. “I’m sure you’re a far better dinner date than me!” “I don’t know, Bob, from what I hear, I think you’re fair company,” Juliette wrapped her arm around Tareq’s waist now and pressed her fingers to his side. “Let’s get this thing inside,” Bob said, picking up the keyboard again, and Tareq led the way to a stretch of empty wall in the dining room. “Oh jeepers,” Bob muttered to himself. “No bench.” “I will use a chair for now,” Tareq said. “It is fine.” “Okay then,” Bob said, still with a hint of disappointment. “But if I see a bench that needs a home, I’ll pick it up for you.” “Thank you, Bob,” Juliette said before Tareq had the chance. “We really appreciate it.” After Bob left, Tareq pulled up a chair from the dining room table to the keyboard. He played a few scales to put his fingers in working order. “What would you like me to play?” he asked her. “The Moonlight Sonata,” she replied, walking up behind him. She leaned over, and as he began to play, she put her right hand on top of his. “What is it?” he asked, thinking she wanted him to stop. “Keep going,” she told him, “I want to feel what it’s like when you’re playing.” He nodded and finished the piece with her hand resting on top of his own.

After Cairo ~ Dog Days

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Dog Days Tareq was wide-awake well before dawn the next day. He turned his head to a still, dark sky, then got up from the bed carefully so as not to wake Juliette. He blew her a kiss at the door and started for the staircase, but then turned toward the guest room instead. Since his return from Cairo, he hadn’t been in that room at all. He pushed the door gently and walked to the window. The patch of sky visible from this window appeared even darker than the swath of black framed in their bedroom window, and the stars shone brightly. But no Sirius, Tareq observed; that constellation had fallen out of view for a season. The Dog Days of Summer had arrived, both in Cairo and in New York. Tareq closed the guest room door fully and headed downstairs to visit the new keyboard. It was a compelling reason to stay home that day, he thought to himself, but as he reached for a chair, he saw the papers Marian had given him the previous day. He reviewed them, double checked the train schedule, and shifted his gears from the keyboard to the library. Tareq took an early train and left the house before Juliette was even fully awake. On the train, he took a cue from Emily and sat by a window that looked back at the station as the train pulled out. But there was no one to wave to on the platform; he’d seen himself off that morning. He texted Juliette that he was on his way and then made himself comfortable with a newspaper and pen and finished the crossword that he and Juliette had started the day before. About an hour later, he nearly missed his stop. When he and Juliette went into the city, they took the train all the way to Grand Central Station; when his train arrived at 125th Street, he almost forgot to exit. He found the right bus; it was so crammed that he feared he wouldn’t be able to figure out when to press the button to stop. He set the timer on his phone for 10 minutes; based on the directions Marian had printed out for him, the bus ride would be 11 minutes long. In 10 minutes, he’d signal the bus to stop. That would put him close enough. Once on campus, he had no trouble finding his way. The library’s heavy door swung open wide with a modest push, and Tareq proceeded to the information desk to present the credentials that Marian had prepared for him. As he handed the papers across the high desk, his stomach twinged, and he realized that he half-hoped that the letter from Marian would be insufficient. Now that he was in New York, at Columbia, he didn’t want to spend the day at the library. But permission was granted swiftly, and he entered the elevator that would take him to the Arabic Collection.


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The librarian on duty in the Arabic Collection eyed him dubiously over lime green eyeglass frames and explained the protocols for requesting materials. She was clear and methodical, and struck Tareq as the sort of person who wants to say things only once. He paid close attention to her instructions, and it began to sink in that he might spend nearly as much time waiting for some books to appear as he would spend looking at them. Fortunately some more common volumes sat on shelves that he could peruse on his own. He made his way through the list, making notes about which volumes had been translated into English. Some books had multiple translations; he made a note of that, too. Marian would be pleased, he thought, at the sheer number of translations available, but he would have to tell her that he could not provide an opinion on them all. The day dragged on, despite numerous successes. Tareq stepped out briefly for lunch, but didn’t relax long. The library’s summer hours were short, and the wait time for some of the books was long. When the library closed, Tareq took a brief stroll around campus, making a mental catalogue of where he would linger the next time he was there. As he meandered, a text chimed from Juliette asking if he’d be home in time to sit on the porch and watch fireflies that evening. “Yes,” he texted back. He found his way back to the correct bus stop, deferring more exploration until the next trip.

*** When Tareq had a full command of the itinerary for Corning, he presented it to Juliette one night at dinner. He sat down with a stack of print outs, and before she could look at them, he took the sheets from the top and folded them away from her view. “These are the maps,” he said inconsequentially, putting them far to the side. “These are about the museum,” he placed a few sheets in front of her. “This is where we will stay.” He placed those sheets next to the first stack. “And this is about Selim. We will meet him at the museum.” While she perused the plans, he picked up the maps and started clearing the table. By the time he returned with coffee, she had looked everything over. “This is great, Tareq. What a nice place to stay. And Selim.” She paused to confirm she was saying his name correctly. Tareq nodded. “Selim looks very interesting.” “He works in the same glass-making tradition that began in Egypt thousands of years ago. But more modern designs. Let me show you.” Tareq clicked on a tab on the computer with images of Selim’s work. “Beautiful,” Juliette admired. “And we get to meet him?” “Yes. At noon on the 5th. The museum is closed on the 4th.”


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“That’s a holiday,” Juliette said. All of a sudden, she wasn’t sure Tareq knew that. “It’s Independence Day. You know, the American Revolution.” “Barbeques, parades and fireworks,” Tareq shared his knowledge. “I have been reading.” He clicked on a different tab for the city of Corning. “There is a concert that evening as well.” He pointed to the screen. July 4th wasn’t Juliette’s favorite holiday, but this year, she thought, it might shape up to be something special. With Tareq’s and Juliette’s plans to be away for the 4th, the kids insisted on a barbeque the weekend before at Sam’s and Mark’s. Tareq and Juliette had visited them frequently since Memorial Day, and Samantha was getting used to the idea of leaving the baby in their hands. On the Saturday before the 4th, though, they all stayed together. Kenji made his grandmother’s special teriyaki chicken and Mark flipped the burgers. Mark explained to Tareq that as a man in the United States, he was going to need to learn to barbeque for himself, and Sam gave him a set of tongs, skewers and spatulas that rolled neatly into a portable case. Emily toured him through the varieties of potato salad, explained the importance having a red, white and blue fruit salad, and handed him a packet of sparklers. “Are there any movies we need to watch for this holiday?” Tareq asked Emily as she lit the sparkler in his hand. “Nah,” Emily replied, taking a step back to appreciate the glittery light. “Yeah there is,” Samantha interjected. “1776. The musical.” “You’re right, Sam!” Emily couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of that herself. “Have a copy? Or we can watch it online?” Samantha shrugged her shoulders. “We definitely have a DVD of that cartoon song about the Constitution.” Mark now joined the conversation. “Remember? We the People…” he began to sing off-tune. “Put your lawyer brain away, big brother,” Emily put her hand over his mouth. “Today’s about the revolution, not about the rules.” Once the mosquitoes thickened, Juliette was ready to go home. Tareq packed up his new tools, they hugged and kissed all around, and then drove home, this time Tareq at the wheel. By the 4th, he would be more than ready to take to the American highway system. The challenge, he found, was paying attention with so few cars on the road. Driving on empty streets allowed the mind to wander. As they pulled into the driveway at home, the gravel was loose beneath the wheels and some stones pinged against the car’s underbody. “Tareq,” Juliette took his arm as he pulled the key from the ignition, speaking with all the love and respect she felt for him. “It’s okay if I open the car door for myself.” His head jerked back and his brow furrowed. “Really, it’s fine. How about this: I’ll get my own car door, and you can get the front door.” “When no one else is here,” he conceded. “But in front of the children, I will open the car door as well. This is a matter of respect for their mother.”


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“Deal.” She opened the door and helped him retrieve everything from the trunk. At the front door, she waited as he opened it for her. They deposited the dishes and new toolkit in the kitchen, and then she took him in her arms. “Thank you,” she said. “I know you respect me, doors or no doors.” “And the children?” “They know you respect me too, Tareq. They do.” “I love them, Juliette. I am not their father, but I love them.” “I can see that, Tareq.” “Do you know how I know that I love them?” “How?” “Because I worry!” he exclaimed with a chuckle and collapsed into his chair at the kitchen table. “I do not like Emily driving alone at night!” He shook his head in amazement at the parental concerns he had absorbed into his sense of self. “I worry about her making a living. I worry that Mark works too much, like his parents before him. I worry about Samantha. I worry about the baby!” “To worry is the privilege of parenthood,” Juliette replied, rubbing his shoulders. “Do you think they love me, too?” he looked up at her. “Yes, Tareq. I think they do.” Juliette spoke haltingly. “But it is still hard for Mark.” “It is,” Juliette acknowledged. “But he’s got Sam.” Juliette massaged Tareq’s neck and then sat down across from him. “They are remarkable people, Juliette,” Tareq complimented her. Juliette shrugged her shoulders casually, but she agreed with him wholeheartedly. “How did you raise them to be so?” “Oh, I don’t know,” she sighed. “Sometimes I think I just stayed out of the way.” “I know you did not just stay out of the way,” he contradicted her playfully. This was not credible, both because of her personality and because children needed parents to be in their way, in the right way. “Tell me. What did you do?” There was no mention of what Mark had done. Tareq knew all too well that Juliette had raised their children largely on her own. “Well,” Juliette let out a deep breath. “I’ve always tried to love them for who they were, not for the someone I somehow wished they would be.” Juliette caressed Tareq’s hand. “And when we had an argument, if they were right, I conceded. I might hate agreeing with them,” she threw him a knowing glance, “but if they had


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the upper hand in logic and information, I found the humility to say, You’re right.” She rummaged through memories of Emily and laughed aloud. “You know the first time I lost an argument to Emily? I think she was probably three years old! Is it really that important to wear socks? Not always.” Juliette and Tareq both laughed. “And power,” she continued. “You have to give a child an appropriate amount of power. That way, when you exercise your power, they know they have some of their own.” “You sound like a colonial governor,” he chuckled. “I do?” Juliette was alarmed at the characterization. “Except with you, you are willing to relinquish power and settle for influence.” “I suppose that’s right,” she concurred. “Love is powerful, but it isn’t about power.”

*** July arrived with a heat wave that reminded Tareq of Cairo and made Juliette wilt. They gave up on work in the days before the 4th, opting instead for stints on the porch with fresh, icy lemonade. Juliette sat with her computer on her lap, but without pretense of writing. She read news items aloud to Tareq, found old photos to show him for fun, and poked at information about Corning. Tareq roamed the Internet for websites about music and music theory. He found many games to teach music to children; learning would be so different for Sarah than it had been for him as a child. Tareq navigated back to his email just as Juliette peered over his shoulder. “Is that one from Rana?” she asked with surprise. The words darted from her mouth before she could worry about sounding nosy. “Yes.” Tareq replied nonchalantly, but he reached for her hand with care. “Why is she writing?” It was too late to worry about sounding nosy. “She plans to visit Cairo and asks to see me,” Tareq related the facts. “Tareq,” Juliette turned his shoulders to her. “Tell me about Rana.” Her voice was insistent, but not unduly concerned. “Rana?” Tareq tried hard to avoid the subject, but Juliette’s eyes were fixed. “Yes,” Juliette repeated. “Rana.” “What is the word you used for Emily?” Tareq bored his fingers into Juliette’s collarbone.


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“Wheedle,” Juliette remembered. “And Emily’s not the only one in the family who’s good at it.” “You did not mention that,” he pursed his lips and ran his tongue over his upper teeth. “Too late now,” Juliette held up his ring that was still hanging on a chain around her neck. “You’re stuck.” “Happily,” he replied. He clasped his hand around hers, the ring in her palm, and kissed her. For a brief moment, he was sure he had changed the subject. “So tell me about Rana,” Juliette kissed him on the forehead. Tareq sighed and resolved to get the conversation over with quickly. “I believe…” he began, but then paused, closed the computer, and looked down at his knees. “What do you believe, Tareq?” Juliette lowered her head to his and looked up into his eyes. Tareq ran his hand over her hair with a chuckle. “I believe she may have been in love with me.” He ejected the words quickly from his mouth. “I see,” Juliette raised an eyebrow. “And?” “And nothing,” he put his hands on her face and kissed her forehead to end the topic. “I don’t think so,” Juliette pressed. “And nothing,” Tareq insisted, bending his neck backwards and then from side to side. His voice sounded like a rubber band stretched to its limits. “Juliette, she is too young.” “How young?” “I do not know. Maybe 20 years younger?” Juliette paused. “Young enough that you might have had a family with her.” “I did not love her, Juliette,” he pulled her close. “And I did not want a family with her.” “I’m being silly, Tareq, I know that,” Juliette rested her head on his shoulder. “But if you had married someone younger, you could have children of your own.” “I do not need children of my own.” His voice was heavy; this was not an easy admission. A part of him felt he was supposed to want to father children. “But,” he continued, “I do want to be a parent now, with you.” He pulled her face into view. “I am happy, Juliette. I am. Emily, Mark, Samantha, Sarah. You. I am happy.”


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“I am, too, Tareq. Very happy.” Juliette wiped her watery eyes and sniffly nose. “So what are you going to tell Rana?” “I will tell her that I am in New York. And I may suggest that my cousin meet her at the airport.”

*** By Tareq’s calculations, the drive to Corning would take four to six hours, depending on where they stopped and for how long. Tareq packed up the car after breakfast and called up the staircase that it was time to go. Juliette came down with her purse, tying her hair back on the way. “All set.” The day was bright and streaked with clouds that accentuated the cerulean blue sky. The landscape was greener than anything Tareq could think of, with commanding vistas punctuated by cloistered turns. As they went west, the terrain flattened, but the green only seemed to intensify. Tareq’s desert was far behind him now. They arrived in Corning by mid-afternoon and checked into a quaint bed and breakfast. In Juliette’s opinion, the photos that Tareq had shown her online had undersold the establishment. “Look at this balcony,” she called out to him. He joined her on the small terrace that looked onto a stream running through a dense wood. A wicker sofa, accompanied by a low table and two additional chairs, faced out toward the trees. “It’s so quiet,” she said. “I think we’re the only ones here.” She went back into the room and turned on the kettle. “Tea?” she called to him from inside. He turned to her with a smile and walked her way. “Thank you, no,” he replied, shutting the balcony door and drawing the curtains closed. He found her in the dark. “Perhaps later.” They ate dinner at the inn and then inquired about that evening’s concert. The proprietor gave them directions and a few tips on parking. “Be sure to bring the bug spray,” he told them. Juliette and Tareq looked at each other and shook their heads simultaneously. The proprietor smiled in a way that let them know this was a common reaction and handed Juliette a bottle. “Stick this in your purse,” he said, “and enjoy the evening.” By the time Juliette and Tareq arrived for the concert, the stadium was filling with people young and old. The concert was scheduled for 8:30, and some families were arriving with a child already asleep in a stroller or over a parent’s shoulder. Juliette took Tareq’s hand as they made their way single file through the crowd and picked what she thought would be a good spot for seeing the fireworks at the end of the concert. That night, Tareq got more than his fill of John Philip Sousa, tubas and trombones. Music conveyed so much about a culture, he thought, and marching band tunes were something he did not instinctively grasp. Aaron Copland’s Appalachian


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Spring, however, seemed fitting for the place he now called home. The 1812 Overture, which concluded the program, was a rousing segue to fireworks. “So how was your first 4th of July?” Juliette asked as they left the stadium and began hunting for their car. “I liked it.” The food, the music, and the fireworks had all been enjoyable. “But I do not know how to celebrate independence.” His hand found its place on her back. When Juliette opened her eyes the next morning, she looked across Tareq’s side of the bed to see him sitting on the balcony. His back was to her, a paper in one hand, his other arm resting across the top of the sofa. She slipped into some clothes and joined him in the fresh air. “Good morning,” he said, “you have slept well.” “Yes. And long. It’s almost 9.” “We are not expected before noon. Tea?” he offered. “Sure.” He handed her his cup. The morning sun was cool and angled, and the moisture was still visible on the grass below the balcony. The stream sparkled a short distance away, and a mixed choir of birds entertained anyone who would listen. Juliette sat down next to him, pulled her legs up on the sofa, and relaxed into his shoulder. She returned his tea to him and closed her eyes. “Back to sleep?” he asked. “No. Just happy,” she sighed. After breakfast they left for the museum. They had about an hour before their appointment with Selim, so they explored the museum’s gallery devoted to the origins of glass. Many of the objects came from Egypt, including a miniature standing figure of a man, his skin bright blue, dating to the time of Tutankhamen. Just before noon, they returned to the main entrance to meet Selim, who was already waiting for them by the information desk. Tareq walked directly to him, recognizing him from the photo on the website. The two men greeted each other like old friends, speaking animatedly in Arabic. “Selim says his English is not strong and he would prefer that I translate,” Tareq explained to Juliette. She smiled and nodded at Selim, and they followed him to his studio. Selim showed them some works in progress and described his methods. He waited patiently as Tareq translated for Juliette and answered their questions with interest. The earliest glassmaking came from Egypt, he wanted them to know, and he was proud of being a recent arrival to an endeavor that was thousands of years in the making. He worked mainly in fused glass, he explained, because he loved the element of surprise. With fused glass, the kiln was a third partner in the artistic


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process, along with the artist and the glass itself. Selim loved the kiln, he told them, because he could never be entirely sure what it would do. From the kiln, Selim walked them to a table with several finished pieces. He held up one bowl to the light and pointed out various elements. Tareq explained that Selim called the bowl his Aleppo Bowl because he had met his wife in Aleppo. Juliette’s expression was electric. “Really? Did you tell him that you lived there? And that we saw the Aleppo Room in Berlin?” “Yes, I explained this.” “The bowl is beautiful.” Selim nodded again at Juliette and then at Tareq, and the two men fell into a longer conversation. The next thing Juliette knew, Selim was placing the bowl in her hands and nodding in a way that was almost a bow. “He would like us to have this,” Tareq explained. “As a wedding present.” Juliette was at first speechless, but then protested to Tareq. “This is too much, Tareq. We can’t accept this.” “I believe we must, Juliette. To refuse the gift...” “Would be an insult,” she completed his thought. “I understand. But Tareq, really, this is extraordinary.” “It is.” “Thank you, Selim. Shukran,” Juliette said to Selim, mirroring his nodding bow. Then she turned to Tareq. “What can we do in return?” “Be happy and appreciate the bowl.” “I don’t think he could know how much this means to us.” “I believe he does. He told me his wife is Christian.” They checked out of the inn after breakfast the next day. Tareq took the driver’s seat again, and they joined the main highway, but not in the direction from which they had arrived. “Tareq,” Juliette nudged, “I wasn’t paying attention, but I think home is the other way.” “We are not going home yet.” “No?”


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“No,” he shook his head and widened his eyes with mischief. Juliette had seen this look many, many times now. “Is this a kidnapping?” she teased. “Of sorts.” His voice was more serious than she had anticipated. “Where are we going?” “You will see.” About an hour later, they pulled into a state park north of Corning. The signage at the front of the park showed a variety of activities, both on water and on land. “Oh,” she said, “I think I know what this is about.” “Today,” he announced, “you will learn to swim.” Tareq had picked this lake carefully. Swimming was allowed only under the watchful eyes of a lifeguard, and a rope with buoys made clear where the swimming boundary ended. A beautiful waterfall accented the view in one direction, and the area was extremely clean, almost pristine. The lake was shallow, so the water would be neither deep nor cold. Dark he could not control. They pulled up to the parking lot near the small beach. Tareq got out of the car and went around to open her door; this time, he knew, she needed a little extra help. He escorted her to the trunk to get their gear. “I didn’t bring my suit.” “I did. And towels. And sunscreen.” He caressed her fair skin gently and then pulled a bag out for her. That’s what the extra bag was for, she thought. She had noticed it in the car before. “You thought of everything.” “I believe I did.” Tareq opened the bag and pulled out a rash guard in turquoise blue, its tags still boasting the power of its SPF. “Emily ordered this for you. She said it was like the blue of your pashmina.” Emily did not yet know about the dress that was the original inspiration. “Emily knows about this?” “Of course. She is a most helpful ally.” And again, that smile, that look of mischief that in the end, Juliette always found irresistible. “We can change over there,” he pointed to a building a few yards away. They walked to the changing rooms, and he gave her a hand a tug before he went his way and she went hers. “You will be fine,” he reassured. “I promise.” Juliette was not at all certain she would be fine. But she trusted Tareq. And while Mark had always told her that she should swim, Tareq was going to show her how. The least she could do was put on her suit and try.


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He was waiting for her when she emerged from the changing room, suit and rash guard on, towel wrapped around her waist. He put his hand on her back and guided her to the water. They put their towels and bag on the grass, and Tareq tucked the car key into a pocket in his swimsuit. “Your swim trunks and rash guard are all black,” she said, noting the obvious. “Yes.” “If you go under the water, I won’t be able to see you.” “I will never be that far away.” They neared the water’s edge. “At first,” he informed her, “we will go only where we can walk.” “We’ll just wade?” she asked. He nodded. “Okay,” she said nervously. “Okay.” “Then we will swim.” “I don’t know how.” “I know this.” Still standing on dry land, he explained to her the mechanics of swimming, showing her how to stroke with her arms in circles. “And kick. Either like this,” he motioned his hands like a flutter kick, “or like a frog. Do you understand me? Or should I lay down on the ground to show you?” Juliette laughed. The idea of Tareq flat on his stomach on the grass by the lake, moving his legs like a frog, had a certain appeal. “Don’t bother,” she told him. “I know how it’s supposed to work. And besides, I didn’t bring the camera for evidence.” Her sense of humor reassured Tareq he had not pushed too far or too hard. He returned his hand to her back. “Come. I can show you more easily in the water.” They walked back and forth along the edge of the lake, his hand at her back, first just to their knees, then to their thighs, and then to their waists. “The water is nice on a hot day,” he told her, not opening the topic for debate. “Yeah,” she agreed reluctantly. He could see she was anxious, so he kept her walking. After a few more trips up and down the shoreline, he stopped directly opposite the lifeguard’s elevated chair. He put out his forearms under the water, palms up, and told her to lie down across his arms. “But my face will get wet,” she protested. “Yes.” Her eyes objected, but then she gave in, laying her body across his arms. She craned her neck back to keep her head out of the water.


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“No,” he told her. “You must allow your face to touch the water. I am holding you. Nothing can happen.” She did as he instructed her, bobbing her face in and out of the water until it no longer frightened her. “Now, move your arms as I showed you.” That part was easy, she thought to herself. He saw her growing confidence, so told her to kick. “But then won’t I swim off your arms?” she asked. He could hear her beginning to panic. “No, I will hold you.” He shifted his arms and curled his fingers around her waist. “Now you can stroke and kick but not move.” Juliette found the courage to kick her legs slightly. “Stronger,” he told her. She kicked with more force, but still not enough to actually swim. “Stronger still,” he encouraged her further. At last, she kicked hard enough to create a splash. “You are ready,” he announced with confidence. “No, I’m not,” she contradicted with equal confidence. “Now hold my hands,” his statement was definitive. She stood up in the water and took his hands. “You see the float behind me,” he gestured with his head toward a round raft equipped with a short ladder. “We will swim there,” his expression was kind but made clear that he would entertain no objections. The float was not many strokes away. “I will walk backwards, and you will kick.” “But you’ll hold my hands.” “At first.” As he walked backwards, she kicked with increasing force. “You are doing well,” he encouraged her. “Now we will let go, and you will add your arms.” She shook her head as he nodded his. “I will always be within reach,” he reassured her. He dropped her hands and said, “Stroke! Kick!” He spoke to her in a tone that was aggressive and demanding. Juliette stroked with her arms and kicked with her legs. Her movements were clumsy and uncoordinated at first, but then she found the rhythm that created forward motion. Tareq swam slowly next to her, his eyes fixed on her. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “You are swimming!” She was just about to say, “No, I’m not,” when she realized that she was, in fact, swimming. They swam together to the float and held onto the side. “You did it!” he congratulated her. “We did it,” she congratulated them both. She looked around her. The lake, which had seemed so big, was in reality rather small.


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“There’s the lifeguard,” he pointed out, “and our things on the grass, and the car.” And beyond that, the horizon of possibility. They climbed up the short ladder and sat on the side of the raft until the sun had warmed them through. “Ready to swim back?” she asked. “I don’t want to get home too late.” “Ready,” he agreed, and as they swam back to shore, Tareq thought of all the swimming lessons they had given each other. They had done it.

*** Throughout July, Tareq returned frequently to Columbia. Even now, the campus was full of activity, with faculty, students, and researchers using the holidays to best advantage. Tareq knew that the summer environment had to be quieter than it would be once the regular school year commenced, but in comparison to home, it was a veritable beehive. Tareq’s work at the library was now well in hand. In his mind, the work was actually done. On one particularly hot, bright day, he left the Arabic Collection at lunchtime with no intention of returning. He got a sandwich and then let himself wander around the campus. He meandered at first, but then admitted to himself that he had a destination. “Excuse me,” Tareq approached a young man sitting on a bench beneath a sprawling honey locust tree. “Where is the music building?” The late-teen did not answer; as Tareq drew nearer, he noticed the young man’s earbuds. Tareq touched his arm to get his attention; the young man removed one of the two earbuds and looked up at Tareq through shaggy bangs. “Yup?” he said, still nodding his head back and forth to the beat of the music he could hear in one ear. “I am looking for the music building,” Tareq asked again. “Right behind you,” the young man pointed over Tareq’s shoulder. “Thank you,” Tareq nodded. “No problem,” the adolescent replied as he returned the earbud to his open ear and closed his eyes. Tareq turned around to face the building. He thought a moment, and then walked to the main door and opened it confidently. He entered the foyer and stood still, listening. Hearing nothing, he turned his attention to a message board that was filled with paper notices in all colors and sizes, tacked to the brown cork with an equally diverse array of pins and thumbnails. Most of the announcements were from the last semester, but Tareq read them all anyway and thought about bringing Juliette to the campus for a concert once the message board had been refreshed.


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As he was reviewing information about student recitals, Tareq heard a piano bench scrape noisily across the floor. The sound seemed to come from the adjacent corridor. Tareq bit his lip and then walked toward the sound. A few steps down the hall, he heard someone practicing the piano. The scale was familiar, but to Tareq felt out of place. The minor key drew him to the closed door of a practice room. Tareq stood outside the door and listened. He remembered learning the words Phrygian dominant scale as a child from his piano teacher who proudly explained that this mode was common in Egyptian music. The teacher had made Tareq repeat the term in English as well as in Arabic. The mode wasn’t unique to Egypt, the teacher allowed, but he wanted Tareq to appreciate it as a part of his heritage. As a boy, Tareq had wanted to laugh at his teacher’s statement, but now the simple sequence of notes made him weep inside, and then made him knock on the door. “Yes?” the pianist asked as he opened the door. “Something wrong?” “No,” Tareq replied. He felt he should say more, but his voice hid behind his thoughts. “Can I help you?” “I am Tareq,” he managed to introduce himself, “I heard you play.” “Hi. I’m Tom,” the man replied, offering a handshake. “I’m an adjunct here. Musicology. You?” “I am researching in the Arabic Collection,” Tareq replied. “Super,” Tom effused. “I get in there myself now and again.” “You do?” “Yes,” Tom told him, leaving the practice room and joining Tareq in the hall. “I’m interested in Arabic influences in American popular music. You know,” he strummed an air guitar, “like Dick Dale.” Tareq’s eyes registered nothing. “King of the Surf Guitar?” Tareq shook his head. “Some people know him from the soundtrack to the movie Pulp Fiction.” Tareq shook his head again. “Where you from?” Tom inquired. “Egypt.” “Wow. You play an instrument?” “The piano,” Tareq heard himself reply. “Fantastic,” Tom exuded. “Mind if I pick your brain about a few things?” The image of someone picking his brain did not sit well with Tareq, but he replied politely, “Not at all.”


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“Wanna go for a coffee?” Tom suggested. Tareq nodded sincerely.

*** In August, when Tareq returned to Columbia, it was for music and conversation, not literature. He and Tom now met regularly, with Tom serving as an eager guide to music in New York City. “Your food or my food?” Tom asked Tareq one day at lunchtime. “I do not know,” Tareq replied. “What is your food?” “BBQ,” Tom said invitingly. “Texas style.” That didn’t answer the question for Tareq, but he accepted. “Great,” Tom continued. “It’s near a music store I think you’ll like. We’ll kill two birds with one stone.” Tareq trusted Tom that killing two birds at once would be a good thing, at least this time. When they got to the music store, Tareq was happy to see that Tom had not exaggerated. Bins of sheet music occupied shelves in rows so narrow that browsers had to squeeze by one another. Near the front of the store, racks displayed different types of paper for composing and notation. In a glass case behind the cash register was a display of metronomes, electronic tuning forks and transducers. Small baskets of picks, reeds, and chord changer clips were scattered throughout the store in no apparent order, but the customers all seemed to know their way around. “Looks like you’re starting a music library!” Tom slapped Tareq on the back when he found him with a nearly foot high stack of scores at the register. “I left most of my sheet music at home,” Tareq explained. “Thank you for bringing me here.” “Any time, Tareq buddy,” Tom could see that this trip to the music store meant more to Tareq than it did to him. “Any time.” At breakfast the next morning, Tareq showed Juliette his music, holding each piece up for her to see and then placing each back into the bag rather than on the table. He had learned this lesson as a child; liquids near sheet music had a tendency to spill. “What are you going to play first?” “Rhapsody in Blue,” he announced, handing her the score for inspection. Juliette leafed through the many pages. “I don’t really read music,” her voice sounded vaguely concerned, “but there’s a lot of black ink here.” Juliette looked up at Tareq. “Doesn’t that mean it’s difficult?”


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“Yes,” he confirmed. “But I have always wanted to play it.” They cleaned up their breakfast and then headed to the dining room, Juliette to her computer and Tareq to his keyboard. He opened the score and tried to play, then closed it again and warmed up with some scales. He opened the Rhapsody again and put his fingers to the keys. He didn’t like the sound of the music on the electronic keyboard, and he was disappointed in his fingers, too. Juliette observed the tension mounting in his arms and shoulders. “What’s the matter?” she asked, pushing an I told you so back down her throat. “It does not sound good on the keyboard,” he sighed. “And my skills are not what they were.” He sighed even more deeply. “It’s okay, Tareq,” she rose from her seat and joined him at his chair. “It’s been a long time since you’ve played regularly.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders to comfort him, but he shrugged them off. Then he banged all ten of his fingers down on ten different keys at once. “That’s going to help.” As soon as Juliette heard her words, she remembered once saying something similar to Emily. It hadn’t helped then, either. “No!” he retorted under his breath. He flipped his hands back and forth before his eyes, glaring first at his palms and then at the back of his hands. He pulled at each of his fingers. And then, taking a deep breath, he said with a forced calm, “I should be able to play better than this. I used to be able to do this.” “Tareq, it’s been a long time,” she replied, gently messing up his hair. “A very long time. Be patient with yourself.” He stared at the piano to compose himself and then ran the back of his hand along the full length of the keyboard. When he got to the highest note, he reached up for Juliette’s hand and kissed it. “You are right,” he conceded and rested his cheek in her hand. “In English people say practice makes perfect,” Juliette told him. She hugged him around the neck again, and this time he relaxed into her embrace. “But you know, I’m not sure that’s true. Perfect isn’t possible.” She kissed the top of his head. “But practice is.”

After Cairo ~ Composition

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Composition After Corning, Storm King topped Tareq’s priorities from Juliette’s list. Just the name alone was enough as it reminded him of Hadad, the god of storms. He did some research, even consulting Marian, to see if there were a connection, but he found none. “Tram or on foot?” he asked Juliette as he was reviewing the online map of the Storm King grounds the day before their visit. “Hmmm, foot,” she replied, her eyes not wavering from her computer. “Then we should anticipate a full day there,” he carried on, “according to the website.” “Hmm,” she nearly droned, engrossed in the document she was editing. “And Saturday?” he asked. “Or should we put this off until next year?” He waited for a response. “Juliette, did you hear me?” “Hmm,” she replied. Tareq got up from the table and walked around to where she was sitting across from him. He put his hands on her shoulders, craned his neck around her and put his face in front of hers. “Juliette,” he called her to attention, “Storm King on Saturday, all day, no tram?” “I’m sorry, Tareq,” she took off her reading glasses, “I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.” “It is alright,” he kissed her kindly. “Meet the deadline so we can go.” She took one of his hands from her shoulder, kissed it and then looked him straight in the eye. “And yes, that all sounds right. We should eat beforehand. Once we’re in the park, we’ll walk away from the picnic area and won’t get back that way until we’ve gone full circle. Don’t enter the park hungry.” The next day, the sky was cloudy in a way that threatened showers but not worse, so they stuck to their plan, umbrellas at the ready. When they arrived, theirs was


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the only car to turn from the road into the main entrance. In the days leading up to this excursion, Tareq had read about many of the sculptures, and he knew where he wanted to go first: the Storm King Wall. “We should park at the south lot. That will take us to a picnic area, and then we may walk from there.” They parked the car, enjoyed their picnic, and then headed to an area on the map marked as The South Fields. They walked slowly down a curving trail dotted with sculptures. Juliette and Tareq could hear the interstate highway, but the trees filtered the whirr of the outside world, and no other visitors were in sight. Soon they glimpsed a low wall made of irregular stacked stones that cut a straight line across the field. It had one visible opening, located at the intersection with the path. The wall continued uninterrupted on either side of the path, disappearing both left and right into some trees. From the map they could see another opening in the wall near a grove by a lake, and they walked in that direction. The map did not deceive them; when they arrived at the small forest, they were able to walk through the wall and follow another route visible in the grass. This new way was faint; few feet had trod here. They followed it as far as they could and came upon a vast, open field with undulating waves of earth that pulsed across many acres. Tareq looked at the map. “This is Wavefield by Maya Lin.” He pulled out his phone to search for more information. “Seven waves, each 400 feet long. The waves are between 10 and 15 feet high, as in the open sea.” The mounds of green earth did evoke the sea, they agreed, but also the mountains around them. From Wavefield, they turned back to the wall and followed it to the edge of the lake. The wall appeared to dip beneath the surface of the water and then emerge again on the other side. “It looks like it continues under the lake,” Juliette commented. “There’s a barrier even if you can’t see it.” “Unless you can swim,” Tareq corrected. She nodded at him, and then turned to look out over the lake. In the water’s dark, mirror-like surface, she could see the obstacles that they had overcome to stand together in that place. They were alone; Tareq kissed her as freely as if they were at home. They continued around the edge of the lake, where there was no path on the map, and met the wall where it picked up again. Unlike the section on the other side of the lake, this part of the wall snaked around and under densely planted trees. Juliette and Tareq could hear a rain shower burst above them, but the summer leaves sheltered them. By the time they arrived back into the open field, the rain had subsided. They followed a new route now, this one lined with trees planted in pairs, evenly matched along the way, like happy couples greeting them as they walked by. Juliette and Tareq accepted these companions, Tareq’s hand at her back and Juliette’s head on his arm, remembering walks in Cairo and Berlin. They would do this every year, Juliette thought to herself. This would be a tradition. Toward the top of the hill, they looked back at the valley and saw the rain clouds parting in the distance.


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“We’re almost to my favorite,” Juliette told Tareq. She led him to a large, low, flat stone with a boulder to one side that was cracked in two pieces. The boulder was hollow; the opening was big enough to seat a child. “This is Momo Taro,” she said. “By Isamu Noguchi. I’ve been visiting this sculpture for years.” “Why?” he asked. “Because you can touch it,” she replied without having to think about her answer. “Most art you can’t touch. But this one you can. You can sit on it or stand on it. And if you’re small enough, you can even nestle yourself into the empty peach pit.” “Peach pit?” “The legend of Momo Taro,” she continued. “He sprang from a peach pit to become the son of an elderly couple.” She walked over to the hollow that looked like it might have held the pit of a fruit. They sat together near the pit and took in the sprawling vista. The stone was cool in the heat of the day. “Tareq,” Juliette opened the door to this conversation hesitantly, “I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time now. What did your family say when you were in Cairo?” “They are happy for me.” “They are?” “Of course.” “What did you tell them?” “That I am staying in the United States. So they are happy for me.” He waited for her condemnation of this half-truth, but she said nothing. “Juliette,” he continued in a tone that made clear that this was a carefully considered strategy. “This is a story they can tell others.” “And?” “Later I will tell them I have married. This they can also tell others.” He searched her eyes for a reproach, but found none. “And then later, I will tell them I have married you. And this they will not need to tell others.” He looked again, but she continued to listen without criticism. “And then I will send them a photo.” “And they’ll see that I don’t look Muslim,” she noted, fearing she’d found a flaw in the plan. “Of course. But they may believe you are Muslim if they wish.” “The truth’s going to come out eventually.” “Yes. Eventually. But slowly. It will seep into the ground like gentle rain. The sort of rain that helps the plants to grow. It will not wash away the fertile soil.”


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This was the sort of approach you could expect from a security officer, she thought. Tactical, designed to minimize conflict, save everything good that could be saved, and lay the groundwork for the future. All combined with a diplomat’s skill of letting everyone walk away from the table with what they needed to tell their constituents. “I am not ashamed of you, Juliette.” He didn’t know if he needed to say this, but her silence made him uneasy. “I know,” she reassured him. “I’ve never thought that. I would never think that.” “But you are unhappy?” “I don’t know,” she thought out loud. “I don’t like things being this way, but under the circumstances, I think you’re wise.” He moved closer to her on the stone slab and put his arm around her. They sat with each other and with their thoughts. “I’m not sure what else to do,” she sighed. The fading light alerted them that the museum would close soon, so they left Momo Taro for home. As they passed through the museum’s main building on their way back to the parking lot, they saw a sign near the door that read “Ben and Beth’s Wedding Reception”. Tareq and Juliette looked at each other in mutual recognition of an idea. “At Storm King?” she asked. “Yes.” “Just us and the kids?” He nodded. “We could just walk down to Wavefield and have the ceremony ourselves.” “Yes.” The next day Juliette researched how to obtain a marriage license in the State of New York. She sat in her favorite spot in the screened-in porch with a view of the daylilies; she respected flowers that bloomed in the heat of summer. She sank into the sofa’s ample cushions and propped her legs on the coffee table. “Tareq, did you bring your birth certificate?” “Of course,” he called to through the open door in the kitchen. “Why?” he asked, appearing in the doorframe with a cup of tea. “We need it to prove you’re over 16,” she replied into her computer. “It says right here that that’s the legal age of marriage consent in New York.” She pointed at the screen with her right hand and extended her left hand to him.


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He placed the tea on the table and cuddled up next to her, stroking the gray in his beard. “Do you think they will need it when they see me?” “And then we need proof of identity,” she kissed the gray and picked up the teacup. “Your passport will be fine for that.” “My passport is in English and Arabic. My birth certificate is only in Arabic.” “That could be a problem,” she scrunched her mouth up to one side. “We can call the lawyer tomorrow. He’ll know what to do.” “Is that all?” Tareq peered over her shoulder now, reading the website for details. “I need to provide Mark’s death certificate.” She said this with a flatness of emotion that took her aback. She thought it ought to hurt to say the words death certificate, but it did not. “And then we need someone to officiate, and two witnesses.” Two witnesses would be easy, she thought. Samantha could serve that function, and maybe Kenji. Kenji was starting to feel like a permanent part of the family album, so Juliette felt it would be okay to ask. She couldn’t find anything in the legalese to indicate that the bride or groom’s children shouldn’t be witnesses, but that felt odd. She felt no pain at the phrase death certificate, but didn’t want to ask her children to sign her marriage license with Tareq. But who could officiate? She couldn’t imagine a clergyman conducting the ceremony. The information she found online said that judges could perform weddings, but that felt too impersonal. She posed the question to Tareq, but he shrugged his shoulders. The process of marrying in Egypt was so different than in the United States that he was at a loss to offer any advice. “I’ll call Emily,” Juliette stated with confidence as she reached for her cell phone on the table. She was sure that Emily would have some clue, some point of reference. And Emily did not disappoint. “Oh yeah,” Emily launched in. “I went to a wedding last year where the bride’s sister did the wedding. The whole thing. In New York, apparently anyone can be ordained by some organization…. I’ll find out.” “Thanks, honey,” Juliette said, “and you’re okay with the idea of our just showing up at Storm King, finding a spot, and having the ceremony?” “I love it. It’s not what I would expect, but I love it.” “What do you mean?” “It’s not exactly the traditional route,” Emily observed. “You don’t usually make it up as you go along like this.” “Maybe I’m growing up,” Juliette told her daughter. “Learning to improvise.”

***


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Tareq and Juliette were each at their keyboards in the dining room a few mornings later when Emily called to say that pretty much anyone could obtain the legal right to perform a wedding in the State of New York. Emily reviewed the process with Juliette in detail and then asked, “So who’s going to officiate?” “I don’t know, Em,” Juliette rubbed her head as she got up from her computer and then flopped onto the sofa in the living room. “I haven’t gotten that far.” “What about me?” Emily asked. “You?” Juliette said with surprise. “That bad an idea, huh?” Emily giggled. “No, no. It’s a wonderful idea. Would you? Really?” “I’d love to! Just clear it with Tareq.” Juliette held the phone to her chest and called for Tareq. He appeared from the dining room and tossed his head back slightly in acknowledgement. “Emily says that she can get the qualifications necessary to officiate at our wedding. She wants to do it. But she wants to make sure you’re okay with it.” A smile spread across Tareq’s face that was the sum of joy and reason. Very little could make more sense. “Of course,” he beamed. “Tell her of course.” Juliette returned to the phone. “Tareq and I both say thank you, honey.” Emily’s squeal escaped over the phone and Tareq could hear her, even at a distance. He walked over to Juliette and took the phone from her hand. “Emily.” “Yeah, Tareq?” “Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” “Here is your mother again.” Tareq returned the phone to Juliette and walked through the foyer to the kitchen. He looked down at the desk along the way and ran his hand over the spot where he had seen Rana’s card months ago. He released the memory and walked into the kitchen. Standing at the coffee maker, he stared out the window, trying to wrap up his emotions into a package he could hold. But they defied him. His feelings were too big, too wide-ranging, too free to be held in one spot. He let his happiness swirl around him and waited for Juliette to hang up the phone.


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“I’ll just call Mark,” Juliette said popping her head into the kitchen and then returning to the dining room table. “Make us some coffee?” Tareq nodded, grabbed some beans and took the grinder from the cupboard. Mark answered on the first ring, and Juliette put him on speaker. She filled him in on all the plans to the accompaniment of the coffee grinder. “And Emily is going to officiate!” she saved the best for last. “Your sister has it all figured out.” Juliette laughed and explained how Emily was going to gain the credentials to perform a wedding in the state of New York. By now the smell of coffee was wafting toward her. “Mom, are you really sure about this?” Mark questioned her. “You read the papers. Have you even thought that maybe all Tareq wants is a green card? Or the house? He doesn’t even have a job.” Juliette looked up and saw Tareq in the archway between the kitchen and the dining room, a cup of coffee in each hand. Juliette’s anger at Mark started in her ankles and pushed its way up through her knees. When it reached her hips, the outrage lifted her from her chair and expanded into her torso. When it hit her throat, she said calmly, “Mark, I have you on speakerphone. I’m going to hang up now. I need to speak with Tareq.” She hung up the phone and placed it on the table without a sound. Tareq stood motionless in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Juliette. His expression was an apoplectic intersection of grief and disbelief. “Tareq,” Juliette moved toward him, but he turned away from her. He put the coffee cups down on the table in the kitchen, continued on to the foyer, put on his shoes and walked out the door. Juliette stood frozen at first and then ran. By the time she got to the front door, Tareq was halfway down the driveway. “Tareq!” she called to him. He raised one hand in the air to let her know he had heard his name, but he did not turn around. “Tareq!” she called again. The shock was giving way to panic. “Stop!” she called out. He stopped, stretched his arms, shoulders and neck, and rotated his head in a circle. And then he kept walking. “Tareq,” Juliette was now yelling from the front porch. “I said stop.” The anguish in her voice forced him to stop and turn 180 degrees. “What is it?” he asked her. He looked in her direction, but not at her. “You know what it is. We need to talk.” Tareq didn’t want to talk. He wanted to be furious, and he wanted to be alone with his rage. “To talk?” he asked. “What is there to talk about?” “I’m angry, too,” she said, walking down to him. The gravel hurt her bare feet. “Please talk with me.” He filled his cheeks with air and then exhaled slowly. Eventually he nodded and walked back to the house with her. “Thank you,” she said, taking his hand.


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They joined their coffee cups at the kitchen table; the coffee was still warm. “Tareq,” Juliette began, “Mark’s out of line. But I don’t think he meant what he said. He’s angry about his dad being dead. I think he may be angry at the dad who was alive. Let me talk to him, okay? Just give it some time.” Tareq loved how Juliette loved her children. But this wound was severe. “Juliette,” he choked up as he looked down at his coffee, “if the children do not accept me…” “Then what?” Juliette asked. Her voice was impatient. “Your family certainly doesn’t accept me. They don’t even know I exist.” Tareq drummed his fingers against the butcher-block surface. He wanted to fidget with something, but there was nothing on the table other than the coffee cups. He pushed his seat back with a sharp shove and banged up against the countertop behind him. “Ouch,” he said involuntarily. He rubbed his neck and then put his face in his palms, retreating into a world of his own. After a few moments, he returned from his thoughts. He leaned against the wall and then stretched out his arms to her. “You are right. Do what you know is best with Mark.”

*** Tareq’s days were now as full of music as Juliette’s were full of words. They worked together in the dining room at their respective keyboards. He accompanied her work with gradual improvement with the Rhapsody in Blue. She accompanied his practicing with the clicks of her computer. And sometimes Tareq took paper, lined out a musical staff, and wrote music of his own. Tareq returned to the city, too, heeding repeated invitations from Tom for more BBQ and more conversation with an ever-widening circle of musicians. These invitations were always welcome, and Tareq learned a new word: gregarious. Tom knew an endless stream of people and had energy for them all. “Tareq, this is Adam George,” Tom introduced Adam enthusiastically on a New York sidewalk on one drippingly humid day. “Adam, meet Tareq Khalifa. Tareq’s moved here from Cairo.” “Great to meet you, Tareq,” Adam extended his hand warmly. “I am happy to meet you as well,” Tareq shook his hand. “Adam’s a musician, too,” Tom went on, “and he’s doing some work these days with immigrants from the Middle East.” “Music therapy,” Adam interjected, “mainly with kids.” Tareq spoke to him next in Arabic, but saw the confusion on Adam’s face and stopped. “Do you speak Arabic?” Tareq asked.


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“Not a word!” Adam laughed out loud. “But my family is from Lebanon.” “Lebanon? But you do not speak Arabic?” “I’m third generation. I was born in Brooklyn. Some people would say I barely speak English!” Tom and Adam laughed uproariously, and Tareq laughed at their laughter. “But Tom’s the one with the real language barrier,” Adam went on. “He’s from Texas. He’s more of a foreigner in New York than you are, Tareq.” Adam put his hand on Tareq’s shoulder. “I bet there are more people in New York right now from Egypt than there are from Texas. What d’ya think, Tom?” Tom nodded. “I’ve certainly found more Middle Eastern coffee shops than Texas BBQ places.” Tom and Adam laughed again like this was the funniest joke in the world. Over lunch the three men talked about music and musicians from all around the world, and Tareq asked Adam questions about his work with refugees. Adam asked Tareq questions, too, and they both knew there was much more to say. As they were finishing up, Tareq’s phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, “It is Juliette. I must answer.” As Tareq listened to Juliette, Adam and Tom watched Tareq’s expression change from joy at hearing her voice to shock, then to consternation and then to a quiet calm as he hung up the phone. “I must go to New York Presbyterian Hospital. Do you know where that is?” “Yes,” they both responded in a split second. “I’ll take you there,” Tom offered. “Me, too,” Adam said. Tareq arrived at the hospital before Juliette and asked to see Mark Laroche. “Are you a relative?” the nurse at the desk asked him. “I am to marry his mother,” Tareq responded. “Where’s his father?” “He is deceased. His mother is coming.” “I’m afraid you’ll have to take a seat,” she told him sympathetically but firmly. Tareq did as he was told and started to dial Juliette’s number, but then realized she was driving. He called Emily; Juliette had already reached her, and she was on her way. “And Samantha?” Tareq asked Emily. “She’s still at her family’s summer place,” Emily told him. “But Mom talked to her. Mom told her to stay put until we knew more.” Eventually Juliette called again. She had just parked the car and was walking to the emergency room entrance. She was still talking to Tareq on the phone when he saw her push open the glass entrance door. Juliette hung up as the door closed behind her and walked into Tareq’s arms.


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“They will not tell me anything,” Tareq’s voice was pained. “I am not related by blood.” “Regulations,” Juliette exhaled. “Welcome to the United States.” She walked to the front desk, presented her identification, explained that Mark’s wife was out of town, and asked for permission to see her son. The nurse offered to take Juliette to see him. “And my fiancé?” Juliette pointed to Tareq, but the nurse shook her head. “Okay. Give me a second.” “Tareq, they won’t let you in,” she confirmed. “But maybe wait here for Emily?” Tareq nodded. This gave him a job he could do. “I’ll call if they let me use the phone in there.” Juliette disappeared with the nurse behind a pair of swinging doors. By the time Juliette reemerged, Emily and Kenji had arrived. Juliette noticed Emily first, seated between Tareq and Kenji. Emily’s right arm looped through Kenji’s, and her head rested on his shoulder. Her left hand held Tareq’s right. All three sat with their eyes closed. “Tareq,” Juliette whispered. All three of them opened their eyes. “Mom!” Emily jumped up. “Is he okay?” “Yeah,” Juliette said with relief. “They’re calling it a psychogenic blackout.” “A what?” Emily asked for all of them. “I don’t really know, honey,” Juliette said honestly. “A friend from work saw him black out at lunch and brought him here. They’ll run some tests, but they think he’s just under too much stress, not sleeping enough, not taking care of himself. He just blacked out.” “Did you call Sam?” Emily asked. “Not yet,” Juliette replied. “The doctor said she’d call her directly. I told her Sam’s out of town and that we’d take him home as soon as they’ll let us. Sam can get back here tomorrow. But we can try her in a minute.” Tareq stood up and offered Juliette his seat next to Emily. “I will find coffee.” He wanted something to do. “Kenji, will you help me?” Several hours later, Mark was ready to be discharged. Emily and Kenji hugged him in the waiting room and then said goodbye. “Hey, Tareq,” Mark greeted Tareq sheepishly after Emily and Kenji were beyond earshot. “Hello, Mark,” Tareq replied with restraint.


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“Let’s get you home, Mark,” Juliette broke the tension. “I think we all know we need to talk, but now is not the time.” They drove to Mark’s house, arriving well after the summer sunset. “Where’s the dog?” Juliette asked as Mark opened the door to the dark, empty house. “Sam’s got her,” he replied. “You go to bed,” she ordered him. Tareq stood by Juliette’s side and said nothing. “But…” Mark objected. Juliette shook her head. “Not after today. We can talk tomorrow.” Mark saw both the resolve and the fatigue in his mother’s face. He looked at Tareq, too, who met his eyes impassively. “Okay. Once a mother, always a mother, huh?” Mark chuckled his father’s chuckle. Juliette nodded and gave him a look he remembered from the time he had gone skiing without permission and had ended up breaking his leg. He had told her he was just staying at a friend’s house for the weekend. The plan was working until he had to call her from a hospital in New Hampshire. “That’s right, sweetheart. I’m still your mother.” She rubbed his shoulder. “Go to bed. Tareq and I will figure out where to sleep.” Juliette and Tareq watched Mark walk down the hall, enter his and Sam’s bedroom, and close the door behind him. “Hungry?” she asked Tareq. He shook his head. “Me neither.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her head in his chest. “Let’s just go to sleep,” she said, looking around the living room. “Only question is where.” The only bed in Sarah’s room was a crib, and the small third bedroom had a twin bed, but functioned mainly as an office. “How do you feel about sleeping bags?” “That is fine,” he said into the top of her head with a kiss. “Let’s look over here.” Juliette led them to a closet in the hall from which they retrieved sleeping bags, blankets, and extra pillows. They laid the blankets down on the floor and put the sleeping bags on top. Juliette fluffed the pillows. “Oh, and the bag is in the trunk.” “The bag?” Tareq asked. “Yeah. I just had a feeling,” she sighed wearily. “I brought our toothbrushes and a change of clothes.” “You thought of everything this time,” he pushed the hair away from her forehead. “Once a mother, always a mother,” she chuckled softly.


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Tareq fetched the bag quickly, and soon they settled into the sleeping bags on the living room floor. “It’s been decades since I’ve slept on the floor,” Juliette said as she cuddled up next to him. “Are you comfortable enough?” “I have slept far less comfortably than this,” he replied. Mark rose early the next morning and staggered toward the living room. When Tareq heard him, he sat up quickly and placed his finger over his mouth, pointing at Juliette who was sleeping soundly. Mark nodded groggily and turned into the kitchen. Tareq pulled himself up from the floor and joined Mark at the kitchen counter, where Mark was trying to make coffee, his back to Tareq. “Let me do that,” Tareq said with a steadying voice. “Thanks, Tareq,” Mark accepted the offer and sat down at the table. Tareq made coffee with the unfamiliar machine and sat down next to Mark, a cup for each of them in his hands. The two men stared at each other. “I know you love my mom,” Mark began. This was more than just an olive branch. “I do.” “You dropped everything and came to the hospital,” Mark acknowledged. “Mom said you got there before she did.” “I did.” Mark rotated the coffee cup in his hand. “I know I haven’t been the most supportive,” Mark admitted, his head bent over the black liquid. Tareq offered no comment. “But I’m glad for you two. Really,” Mark continued, raising his eyes to Tareq without lifting his head. He hoped this would be a sufficient apology, but he could see from Tareq’s face that these few words would not heal the breach. He didn’t know what to say next, so he went back to the beginning. “You met her in Cairo, right? That time she went to meet Dad? And he got caught up in Gaza. Right?” “Yes.” “And then you showed her around Cairo until he got there?” Tareq nodded, remembering the first time he had seen Juliette, arriving at the airport in Cairo. “With your father absent, I felt it was my duty.” Mark nodded. “Makes sense, I guess.” Tareq offered no evaluation of the sense, or lack thereof, in his actions toward Juliette when they were in Cairo. “I remember


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Mom telling me when she got back that she went on a boat on the Nile. I couldn’t believe it,” Mark continued nervously. “Was that with you?” “We sailed on the Nile,” Tareq confirmed, his lips loosening as he smiled with the memory. “This is a normal thing to do with tourists. I did not know then that she did not like the water.” Tareq spoke quietly. “But it was safe. I would never risk her safety.” Tareq looked at Mark directly to make sure he understood this. “And one day she came to my café. My café, which is for men only! But your mother walked right in. She had no fear of that water.” Tareq leaned back in his chair and let out a muffled laugh. “I bet,” Mark leaned back, too. “And then,” Tareq shrugged his shoulders so slightly that Mark barely noticed, “she beat me at chess!” Tareq’s eyes widened, and Mark could not help but smile. “I didn’t know she even knew how to play chess,” Mark thought out loud. “Oh yes,” Tareq affirmed. “That was when…” Tareq caught himself abruptly. He would not tell Mark that he had fallen in love with his mother when his father was still alive. Mark met Tareq eye to eye and completed his thought. “That’s when you fell for her, right? Over a game of chess.” His tone was half-way to an accusation. “So maybe this isn’t all so sudden after all.” Tareq’s face betrayed nothing, but a realization spread over Mark’s face like a spotlight. “You’ve been in love with her since Cairo, haven’t you?” Mark sounded like an investigator solving a case. “I get it now.” “What do you get?” Tareq asked, his voice as flat and smooth as a river stone. “When Mom got back from Cairo, she made a lot of changes. She changed her career, dropped a lot of things so that she and Dad would have more time together,” Mark spoke slowly, still recovering from the day before. “She even convinced Dad to sell the apartment in New York and move upstate. I knew something had happened in Cairo. But I didn’t know what. Did Dad have an affair he regretted, and now she was doing everything she could to make it work? Or had she…” Tareq interrupted him. “In all the years I knew your father, he never had an affair. And those were many years. He was dedicated to his work.” “Sometimes more so than to his family,” Mark sighed. “But he was a true believer, and I admired that about him. Even now.” Mark paused to consider the pros and cons of his father’s choices. “But when Mom got back from Berlin,” he lurched back to his train of thought, “she was different. Happier. And it seemed to have a lot to do with you, Dad’s old colleague, the one she’d met in Cairo. She was very casual about it, you know how she can be, no big deal, just a friend sort of thing. But now I get it. I get what had happened in Cairo.” “Maybe,” Tareq said quietly. “Maybe.”


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“And just so you’re aware, Emily gets it, too.” Mark wanted Tareq to know that he was cornered. “Emily?” Tareq asked, his voice toneless. “Yeah. Emily knows everything,” Mark looked at Tareq aggressively at first, but then rolled his eyes in resignation. “It’s like she’s psychic or something.” He took a gulp of his coffee. “I think she knew long before Berlin. She probably knew the moment Mom got back from Cairo.” Tareq kept his face expressionless. In his work, he had guarded against surprise attacks. But there was no strategy that could protect him from Mark’s need to know the truth. “Yes, Mark,” Tareq surrendered. “I fell in love with your mother in Cairo. I suppose it was when she beat me at chess.” His forehead wrinkled as he made the admission. “And with the men of my café looking on.” Tareq remembered the sound of the men’s playful jibes, and the corners of his mouth curled slightly. “First I lost the game, and then I lost my heart.” Mark relaxed at Tareq’s frankness, and his eyes softened. “Well, Tareq. And why not?” He let his own guard down. “Always good to love a woman who can beat you at chess.” “Always good to love a woman who can beat you at chess,” Tareq repeated with a chuckle. Some defeats were actually victories. The two sat across from each other in silence as the sun began to rise. “And then after the chess game?” Mark started up again. “We walked,” Tareq closed his eyes. “We talked.” He opened them again. “And I saw that your mother was not what I first believed. When I first met her, I thought she was another idealistic American, ready to fix my country, ready to fix the whole Middle East!” “Sort of like my Dad?” “Your father was a good man, Mark. He was loyal. He was brave.” “You make him sound like he walked out of Arthurian legend.” “No, no. He was real. But for me, please do not be angry that I say this, for me the problem sometimes with Americans is that they do not know history. Or they know it but do not adequately feel its weight. They walk quickly and confidently when they ought to move slowly, with caution. They breathe easily when they ought to groan under the burden of the past. They believe they can make everything new. They think that by changing the future they can also change the past.”


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Mark listened quietly. He had heard history professors make similar observations, but somehow Tareq’s words sank in differently. “And because they do not feel the weight of history, they do not understand the risks. Did you know that your mother took a bus to Gaza by herself?” His tone now channeled the anger he felt that night. “How could she be so reckless! I thought.” And then his voice softened. “But I knew she did this because she wanted to see your father, and I envied that.” “And then?” Mark wanted to know more. “Your father did not come. And your mother and I, we walked and talked some more. We talked about life. And she and I, we talked about love. And fate. And in those walks I learned that more than anything, your mother is honest. She is honest with herself and honest with me.” “Honesty’s the key, isn’t it?” Mark said for them both. He had long appreciated his mother’s honesty, and now he appreciated Tareq’s as well. “I fell in love with your mother,” Tareq said both to Mark and to himself, “because she provoked me to tell the truth. The truth about myself. This can be brutal. But sometimes I think this is the highest form of love. She dug into me.” “Like an archaeologist uncovering the pharaoh’s tomb!” Mark raised his hands in the air at the discovery. Tareq let out a single, brief laugh. Americans loved to make Egypt jokes. “She said to me one night, What is your fate, Tareq? She did not need to know the answer, but she made clear to me that I needed to know the answer for myself. She made me think, your mother,” Tareq shook his head. “She does that to a lot of us, Tareq,” Mark put his head in his hands. “I was avoiding my past,” Tareq began to say more, but stopped. “Like what?” Mark asked. Tareq squinted his eyes at him. What was the phrase Tareq had learned? Loaded questions. Some questions were like pistols. But Tareq wasn’t sure Mark even knew that he was armed. “Like Yasmeen,” Tareq stated squarely. And then he told Mark the story of Tareq and Yasmeen. The full story – at least as fully as he was capable of telling it – a story he had never told anyone else in such completeness. He told this Mark first about the letters, the ones Mark’s father had seen arrive over the years, the ones Tareq had left unanswered. But still the letters had arrived, with news of her life, her child, her present, her future. “Why did she send me these letters?” Tareq asked Mark the son, just as he had asked Mark the father years earlier. “Did she think I wanted to know what I could not have?” “She wanted to keep in touch, Tareq. You know. In case something happened.”


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“This is precisely what your father told me,” Tareq said in disbelief. “So I was supposed to respond to her letters, your father believed, in case some day Yasmeen was once again free to be with me?” “Something like that,” Mark replied. “But this is where you do not know history. Yasmeen is Christian Armenian. I am Muslim. It is forbidden. ” “So what did you do?” “We decided to elope,” Tareq answered the question. “We would fly away. Marry abroad.” “You were going to elope?” “Yes. Just as you and Samantha did.” “That was a mistake,” Mark admitted. “We should never have done that. We had no idea how hurt both our moms would be.” Mark’s regret was evident. “We just didn’t want a big ceremony. We thought it would be easier if we just ran away and got married. You know?” Tareq did know. The idea of eloping had seemed easy to him and Yasmeen as well. “Where were you going to go?” “Berlin.” “Berlin?” Mark asked in surprise. “The same Berlin where you met Mom last fall?” “Yes. My cousin – the same cousin who lives there still – had moved there for his education. I was certain he would understand and would accept us.” “Then what happened?” “She came to me to say goodbye. She loved me. I know she did. But she loved her parents, too. She could not break their hearts to join her heart with mine, even if that meant breaking my heart.” Tareq’s eyes misted over with the memory. “It was all arranged. We had our passports ready. We would leave the next day.” Tareq put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. “But no,” he said into his palms. “She came to me,” Tareq looked up again. “Her parents had told her that it was all arranged. Something else was all arranged. She would marry a physician. Wasn’t she lucky? they told her. Wasn’t she happy?” Tareq’s voice wavered; the grief had power, even decades later. “She was not happy. But we both knew that our happiness was not what we were meant to value. This was not about happiness. I was Muslim and studying music to become a composer. Her parents had chosen for her a Christian Armenian with a promising future, who would marry their daughter…”


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“Who would marry the woman you loved,” Mark reassessed. “Who would marry their daughter, who was the woman I loved.” “And then?” “We parted. I do not know how. I do not remember it clearly. For many years I could see only her shadow as she walked away. She walked backwards at first, facing me. The pain was too great, and I looked down. When I looked up again, she had turned around. I could no longer see her face.” Tareq replayed the moment in the past and then reeled himself back to the kitchen table. “And then I left Aleppo. My teachers, they begged me to stay. You see,” he lowered his voice modestly, “I had just received a commission to compose a piece. It was my dream.” “And you left?” “Yes. I told my teachers it was a family matter. They, of course, thought I meant family in Cairo.” “And what did your parents think?” “My parents?” Tareq let out a forlorn laugh. “They were elated. When I came home to study political science at the university, they thought I was at last making a sensible decision. A decision that would bring me security, stability, a normal life.” “Joke was on them, huh?” Mark chuckled. Tareq shook his head in disbelief. How these American children could make such remarkable statements about their parents! He would never quite understand. But there was truth in Mark’s words. Tareq’s parents had, on one level, gotten what they wanted. But on many levels, they had not. Tareq had not married. He had not had the children they longed for. He had not stayed safely at home, but instead had taken a job that put him in very real danger. “And then I studied, and I worked. I studied some more. But politics, not music. And I retired.” “And you got letters from Yasmeen.” “I received letters from Yasmeen.” Tareq sighed heavily. “And then one day your father called from Gaza. Your mother was coming to Cairo to visit. There were problems at the camp, and he would be delayed. Can I ask you a favor? he said in a way that I knew he had not considered the possibility that I might refuse. Can you meet her at the airport and get her to her hotel? I can still hear his voice.” Tareq rose from the chair and stood in the middle of the kitchen. “But he did not come, your father. Delays and delays. So your mother and I, we walked and we


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talked. And I liked her,” he closed his eyes in a moment of reverie. “I liked being in Cairo with her.” “I think you loved being in Cairo with her,” Mark stated sympathetically. “I think you loved her already, back then.” “I did,” Tareq agreed. “Mark, I fell in love with your mother in Cairo. This is all that happened.” “No it’s not,” Mark contradicted him. “She fell in love with you, too.” Mark and Tareq looked at each other in silence, and Tareq returned slowly to his seat at the table. “And then you said goodbye.” Mark filled in the rest of the story. Tareq could hear the compassion in Mark’s voice. Grief seized Tareq’s face as he remembered the moment that he knew that Juliette loved him and that she would leave. “Yes,” Tareq replied, pouring the weight of the world into a single word. “It’s kind of scary, isn’t it?” Mark thought out loud. “What is?” “Loving someone that much.” “It can be,” Tareq concurred. “Now that I have Sarah, I understand that,” Mark wiped his eyes before the tears could start. “I was so scared I wouldn’t be able to love Sarah enough. But you know what? It’s not that hard to love your kid. You just have to want to. You have to want to be there.” “I want to be here, Mark,” Tareq made clear. “I have made a decision to be here.” “Tareq?” Mark looked directly at Tareq. “Yes, Mark?” “Would you accept my apology?” “Yes.” Later that night, Tareq and Juliette lay curled up in their own bed at home. Juliette was nearly asleep. “Juliette,” he called quietly over her shoulder. “Are you still awake?” “Hmm,” she replied, “What is it?” “I would like to tell you why I left Aleppo.”


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“You already told me about that. Remember? Back in Cairo. You said you left music school because you weren’t very good.” “Yes, I remember.” He paused. “But that was not true.” She turned on the light by her side of the bed. “What are you talking about?” The lamp cast odd shadows on his face. Tareq rolled onto his back and let out a deep sigh. He recounted to her all that he had explained to Mark that morning, including the very real success he had enjoyed as a composition student in Aleppo. “So you walked away from the commission, too?” she asked incredulously. “You lost Yasmeen and your composition together?” He said nothing. “But you love music, I know how much you love music.” “I do love music,” he agreed. “And did you ever compose anything again?” He contemplated her question. Had he ever composed again? What was his life if not a variation on a theme, a cadenza in someone else’s symphony and an improvisation of his own? To live one’s life was to make music, at least of a kind. We are all waves, he thought to himself. Waves of energy, of light, of sound. “Not on paper,” he said at last, “and not for anyone to hear in a concert hall. But I compose. I am composing right now.” She drew her head back so he could see the confusion on her face. “Right now, for example,” he explained, “I am composing the most beautiful love song the world has ever known.” “I’d love to hear it.” He curled up next to her again and hummed into her ear. At first the tune sounded like his favorite song by Oum Kalthoum. But then it wandered and became his own melody, and he enveloped Juliette in a song composed just for her. Had he become the other composer, he understood, he would never be writing this song. This was his fate.

***

“The Dog Days of Summer end tomorrow,” Tareq explained to Juliette over dinner a few weeks later, “when the constellation Sirius reappears in the sky just before sunrise after many weeks below the horizon.” “I’ve heard the term Dog Days, but I can’t say I knew what it meant.” “In ancient Egypt, the rising of Sirius was very important. It coincided with the annual flooding of the Nile and signified the beginning of a new year.”


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“So we marry the day after new year’s?” “We do.” “And you’re going to make me get up early tomorrow morning to see this, aren’t you?” “I am.” Tareq was true to his word, nudging Juliette well before sunrise. The sky was clear, and he pulled her gently across their bed to the window. Tareq stood behind Juliette, his arms around her waist. Juliette clasped her hands over his and rested her head back along his collarbone. They studied the sky outside the window; Sirius was clearly visible, and the other stars danced for them just above the horizon. Soon they would be gone for the day, but just for the day. “We need a balcony,” she announced. “We do?” “Yes. On this side of the window,” she pointed away from the Stewartia, in full bloom, “where it won’t disturb the tree.” Tareq leaned them both forward to get a better look out the window, this time to see the ground. “Okay,” he concluded. “It will need to be a narrow balcony. But it is possible.” “It only needs to be big enough for two people to stand and look at the stars.”

*** The day before their wedding ceremony, Mark arrived mid-afternoon to pick Tareq up. Emily was with him. It had all been decided: Emily would stay overnight at the house with Juliette, but Mark was taking Tareq back to his house to spend the night with him, Sam and Sarah. They would all meet at Storm King the next day for the wedding and then have dinner together at a nearby restaurant and inn. Emily had made the dinner reservation for them all and booked rooms for everyone except Juliette and Tareq, who wanted to return home on their wedding night. Tareq did not like the plan, at least not the first part. It was too much driving for Mark, and Tareq didn’t want to be without Juliette. Juliette explained it all to him again. “You have to stay at Mark and Sam’s the night before the wedding. It’s tradition.” “It is tradition for the groom to stay at the home of bride’s son the night before the wedding?” he asked in disbelief.


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She shook her head with equal incredulity. “You know what I mean. The groom can’t see the bride on the wedding day.” “But he must see her on the wedding day in order to wed her,” he countered, knowing he had logic on his side. “I mean before the wedding.” “But Juliette,” he pleaded with a look that clearly communicated we’ve been married for months. He wasn’t going to say this aloud in front of Mark and Emily, but he knew Juliette understood him. “Tareq,” she intoned, giving him a withering look that replied equally clearly, Who’s the local in this relationship? Who knows the traditions around here anyway? “Work with me on this. I’ve got a surprise.” “Okay. OKAY. I leave you then. But not for long.” “No, fortunately not for long.” “Come on Tareq,” Mark confirmed the defeat. “You know you’re beat this time. I’ve got your bag and everything in the car. It’s going to be fun. You and me. And, well, no bachelor party. But it’s going to be fun.” Tareq relented, fully aware of the fortune that was his. A wife, children, a grandchild. What did it matter if he slept away from her for a night? He kissed Juliette a temporary goodbye, told Emily that she really had not been of much help this time, and got into the car with Mark. When they arrived at Mark’s house, Sam greeted them at the door, the baby in her arms. Sarah was fussy, and Tareq could see Sam’s exhaustion. “I didn’t cook,” she apologized as they walked into the house. “There’s a Lebanese place that delivers, so I went with that. Is that okay? It’s the closest thing I could find to Egyptian.” “Of course,” Tareq replied. “Let me wash my hands. Then may I hold the baby?” “Your hands are clean enough,” Sam declared. She handed Sarah over to Tareq with relief and watched him cradle the wailing infant in his arms. For a moment, Sarah fell silent. “A change of scenery will do you good, little one,” Tareq cooed. “Look at my face rather than your mother’s.” His eyes darted jocularly toward Samantha. “That’ll work,” Sam chuckled. But it did work, for a few minutes at least, and then Sarah started up again. “Any more ideas, Tareq?” Mark queried. “Yes,” Tareq replied authoritatively, pulling his phone from his pocket. He fumbled with the screen one-handed. “No baby can cry when she hears the Mother of Egypt.” He tapped his phone awkwardly with his thumb until the sonority of his


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homeland filled the room. Tareq swayed to Kalthoum’s deep, resonant voice, and Sarah fell silent again. Within minutes, she was fast asleep. “How did you do that?” Sam asked, as if Tareq were magic. “It was not me,” he informed her, slowly placing the baby in the port-a-crib nearby. He caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers and whispered to her in Arabic. “There!” he said softly, and then turned to the slumbering infant’s parents. “We will eat in peace.” And they did eat in peace – a peace that was comprised of banter, chatter, and meaningless disagreements. But as they finished their meal, the baby stirred. “She’s hungry again,” Samantha sighed. “At least that means she’s growing. It’s got to be a good sign! I’ll go feed her. You two clean up the kitchen?” “And when you have fed her, I will rock her to sleep,” Tareq volunteered. “Oh, Tareq. It’s okay. You’ve got to sleep. Tomorrow’s your big day!” “I insist. I will rock her to sleep on the night before my wedding.” Tareq and Mark cleaned up the kitchen, Tareq humming the song he had played for Sarah. With the dishes away, Tareq absently folded and refolded a kitchen towel in his hands as Mark put leftovers in the refrigerator. Tareq stared at Mark, thinking back to the many days and nights he had spent with this man’s father when Mark was growing up. Tareq was with Mark the father when this boy, this man, played Little League, performed in school plays, won debate contests, was accepted to university. It seemed impossible that tomorrow he would wed this young man’s mother. Fate was not only strange, it was inscrutable and unsettling. It placed you where you were meant to be by knocking you off your feet. It confused you while it fulfilled you. It emptied you of all you ever knew, or thought you knew, and filled you with the inexplicable. Mark closed the refrigerator door and took the towel from Tareq’s hand. “All done, I think,” Mark looked around the kitchen and then his eyes landed on Tareq’s face. “Tareq, I don’t want to pry or anything,” Mark spoke as sensitively as he could, “but sometimes I wonder, do you think about what my dad would say if he were here? If I were in your shoes, I think that’s what I’d be wondering.” “Sometimes.” “I’m not sure it matters.” “Perhaps not,” Tareq agreed, “but if your father could speak to us now, what do you think he would say? You are his son. Surely you have an idea.” “You spent more time with him than I did,” Mark sighed. “And as adults. Maybe you know better than I do.” Tareq receded into memories of conversations with Mark the father. He had probably exchanged more words with that Mark than with anyone else in his life.


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“We talked a lot, your father and I,” Tareq leaned against the countertop. “About politics. Books we read. Articles in the newspaper. He spoke often of you, Emily and your mother. I knew all about your activities at school,” Tareq recalled. “But we rarely spoke about life,” Tareq lingered on the word, “or love. Perhaps we never spoke of it.” Tareq paused and ran his hand along his cheekbone. It had been months since Mark’s memory had struck him with any force. “So I do not know what he might say.” Tareq closed his eyes and tried to see Mark standing with them in the kitchen. “I believe he would be surprised to find me in your home. Hey, Tareq, What’re you doing here? He would ask in a friendly way, your father. I hear Juliette is getting married again. How did you end up invited to the wedding?” At that, Mark and Tareq laughed heartily, and Samantha hushed them from the door to Sarah’s room. “The baby’s nearly asleep.” Mark and Tareq suppressed their laughter as best they could, doubled over, their hands over their mouths. “And then I’d say,” Mark continued in a stage whisper, “Well, Dad, Tareq here’s the lucky guy.” “And he’d say to you, No son, not Tareq. He is not a lucky guy. He always lost to me in cards!” At this they laughed so loudly that Sarah went into a full wail, and Samantha could not get their attention from down the hall. When she entered the kitchen, the two were embracing, laughing so hard they were in tears. They did not notice her arrival. “Mark,” Tareq put his hands on Mark’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “I love your mother very much. And I love you and Sam and Sarah, too.” “And we love you, Tareq,” Samantha added. Mark and Tareq straightened up immediately. Tareq wiped the back of his hands against his eyes, drying the tears as fast as he could. “You don’t need to do that Tareq. Your secret’s safe with me,” she wrapped her arm gently around his shoulder. “Besides, you’re the baby whisperer around here, or at least you’ve got the right connections. And I need some sleep. Can you get her to stop crying for me?” “I will try,” Tareq was eager. “And you must teach me how to change a diaper.” “You don’t have to do that, Tareq,” Samantha told him. “I would like to learn,” he insisted. Samantha took Tareq’s arm in appreciation, and they went off together for diaper training. It was easier than he thought. Just three points of material around a solid object. He could handle that. Putting the baby’s clothes back on was more of a challenge – how to get the little feet into the little leg holes and little feet-shaped pieces of fabric at the end? All without destroying the equilibrium that came from having a dry diaper.


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He took out his phone and found more Oum Kalthoum, turning the volume very low. He danced with Sarah throughout her room, humming gently. He could feel the vibrations of his humming against her head beneath his chin. There was a unison of being that was nearly indescribable, and he thought of an article Mark had once read aloud to him from the science section of a newspaper. “Get this, Tareq,” Mark had started. “This is nuts.” The article was about particle physics and explained how nothing was solid. “Turns out we’re all waves of energy,” Mark was reading, simultaneously impressed and confused. “We’re all just pulsing energy. We only seem solid, but actually there’s space between our waves.” “I believe this is what Einstein and Heisenberg and Bohr all understood,” Tareq remembered telling Mark. “You know about this stuff?” Mark had asked, astonished. “You’re a man of hidden talents!” “Physics and music are closely related,” Tareq had explained. “When I was studying composition in Aleppo, I learned, too, about physics. About waves. Waves of energy and light and sound.” He looked down at Sarah’s head resting on his chest. “And now I share my waves with you,” he whispered to her. “I will hum my being into yours, I will merge my waves with yours. Together we will blend the past with the present, and I will join the stream of your family.” He sat down in the chair and rocked slowly back and forth. The baby’s breathing became calm as she drifted into deep sleep. Tareq followed her there. Tareq awoke in darkness to Sarah’s morning cry as she lay on his chest. He began to rock her gently, but also helplessly. He didn’t know what to do with a baby first thing in the morning. But in less than a minute, Samantha appeared at the door. “Tareq!” she exclaimed. “It’s 5 am! She slept through the night. That’s a first! I couldn’t believe it when I heard her crying and looked at the clock!” “I am not sure this is sleeping through the night,” he laughed. “Well around here it is. I haven’t set an alarm since she was born – she is my alarm. I can’t believe I made it from 11 to 5.” He could see that despite Samantha’s delight in having slept six solid hours, what she wanted most was to have her baby in her arms. He handed Sarah to her and rose from the chair. “I will go to the other room and sleep a little longer. I have time?” “Yes. We don’t need to leave for a few hours. Get some more sleep. Today’s going to be a big day!” Every day was a big day now, he thought to himself. Every day was so big it exploded. In waves of light and energy and sound. But their wedding day was


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different. Years later, he still pondered why, but he knew that it all revolved around seeing her, his Juliette, walking toward him in a turquoise blue dress he remembered so well. The first time she had worn that dress, in Egypt, they knew they must part. But on that day, their wedding day, they knew that only death would part them again. Their wedding itself was simple with only Emily, Kenji, Mark, Samantha and the baby attending. They gathered together at the edge of Wavefield, having crossed through the wall together. The day was hot and humid, and the late afternoon sun cast long shadows. Kenji and Samantha served as witnesses, and Emily performed the ceremony herself. She began with the language required by the State of New York, but then turned to the poem that Juliette and Tareq had chosen as their vows. She read to them the words of William Butler Yeats:

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread upon my dreams.

Emily reached out with one hand to Tareq and with the other to Juliette, and gave their hands to each other. “Love is not a dream,” she told them what they already knew, “but to love is to dream together. Tareq, do you promise to tread softly upon my mother’s dreams?” “I do.” “And Mom, do you promise to tread softly upon Tareq’s dreams?” “I do.” “Do you take each other for this life, whatever this life might bring?” Tareq wrapped his arms around Juliette’s waist, his hand at home on her back. “I do.” “I do,” Juliette echoed. Emily paused and then asked Tareq, “You have the ring?” “Yes, yes,” Tareq said, reaching into the pocket of his flowing galabeya. “I do!” He lifted Juliette’s hand, kissed it and placed the ring on her finger. It was a delicate braid of three threads of gold. As he gave Juliette the ring, he said, “One for you, one for me, one for us.” “And Mom?”


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Juliette nodded. She took Tareq’s signet ring from her other hand and returned it to his hand. “For you,” she said, “and for me, and for us.” Tareq took both her hands in his, kissing the ring now back on his finger. Juliette raised herself on tiptoes and whispered, “Do you remember the poem you gave me?” He nodded alongside her face. “Love has not killed these lovers. Love has not killed this Juliette.” She stood back to take in his eyes upon her. They kissed briefly. There would be time for that later. But more pressing matters were at hand: Sarah was beginning to fuss in the heat, and she needed to eat and sleep. They left Wavefield and walked back through the narrow opening in the wall. Tareq thought back to Berlin. In marrying Juliette, he knew he had found a way between two worlds, a way that had led him home. Kenji and Emily walked a short distance behind them. “Get a picture of that,” Emily said to Kenji, and Kenji snapped a photo of Juliette and Tareq walking ahead of them, Tareq’s hand resting on Juliette’s back. When they entered the restaurant that evening, the hostess did a double take: Juliette in her elegant gown, Tareq in his galabeya, Emily, Kenji, Mark, Samantha, the baby. “Just your typical American family,” Emily joked quietly to Tareq, hoping the woman wouldn’t hear. “And I am the head of this family,” he joked back to Emily. Emily put her arm through his in agreement. Once they had ordered, Samantha excused herself to feed the baby. “I may not be back, honey,” she said to Mark. “Just bring some food up to the room.” Mark brushed Sam’s arm sweetly as she walked away with the baby, and then turned to Emily to congratulate his sister with a playful punch in the shoulder. “Well done out there, Em. You should do this sort of thing more often.” “Well, I would have done your wedding if you two hadn’t run off like that,” Emily replied. She was teasing, but the current of disappointment was visible on the water’s surface. “Emily, I said I was sorry. And I am. Really.” Emily hugged her brother. “I know. Low blow. Sorry.” “And anyway, you completely forgot the music! You know, Tareq here could have been a famous composer. And you didn’t even have music at his wedding.” “We couldn’t exactly carry a boom box into Storm King without people noticing,” Emily retorted. “Do not let your brother discourage you,” Tareq intervened. “Today was perfect.”


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“Thanks, Dad,” she smirked, kissing his cheek. “I always knew I was your favorite.” She shot Mark a glance that said it all, and they broke into laughter loud enough to turn heads at the other tables. Emily’s words washed over Tareq like an ocean wave. He loved Emily as though she were his own, but he did not entirely understand her. How could she call him Dad, even playfully? His heart overflowed, but his mind did not fully grasp her ability to expand boundaries so easily. It was one thing for him to think of her as his daughter; he had no other daughter, no daughter who had died, who existed only as a memory. But Emily had a father, a father who had lived and breathed and loved her dearly. Was she not cruel to the memory of her father? Americans don’t understand history, he could hear himself saying. They don’t feel the weight of the past. But now, he considered, perhaps that wasn’t always a weakness. He knew that Emily had not forgotten her father. But he also knew that Emily was not going to allow her father to burden the future. She had plenty of room to call Tareq Dad. Tareq and Juliette left the next generations at the inn and drove home, to their home. The crepe myrtle trees were just beginning their summer ruckus, bright reds and pinks visible even as the night overtook the garden. Tareq parked the car and put his hand on Juliette’s arm as she began to open her door. “May I open the car door for you this time?” he asked with a smile. “Of course,” she replied, also with a smile. She waited for him to come around to her side of the car, and then they walked to the house together. When they reached the steps of the front porch, he paused. “After you,” he said. She shook her head. “With you.” Once inside, Juliette closed the door behind them. “You know,” she said, taking him by the waist, “someone once told me that in Egypt, it’s not a wedding without dancing.” “Really,” he said. “Is that so?” “I have it on good authority.” “Then I suppose we must.” He found his phone in his pocket and scrolled through the playlist. “I like this one.” He took one of her hands to his heart and wrapped his other arm around her close. “It’s a Wonderful World, Juliette. Wonderful.” They danced until the song concluded. “Close your eyes now,” she told him, “and come with me.” He closed his eyes without question. She put her hand on his back and guided him to the dining room. “Okay,” she told him, “open your eyes.” Along the dining room wall stood a full-size, upright piano with a proper bench. “Juliette!” he exclaimed. “When did this happen?”


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“Yesterday!” she exclaimed. “But just barely. You wouldn’t leave the house! I told them I’d call once you were gone so they could bring it over, but you wouldn’t leave!” “Juliette,” he sighed as he walked to the piano. “Thank you.” He ran his fingers silently over the keys. “You’re welcome, Tareq,” she walked up behind him and put her arms around his waist, resting her head between his shoulders. “Give it a try? They said they tuned it before they left, so I think it’s ready to go.” “Yes, but first…” he turned around to embrace her and rocked them back forth in time to a song that was in head. “Juliette, you tread softly on my dreams. Thank you.” He kissed her with his eyes alone and then sat down at the piano. He adjusted the seat height, familiarized his feet with the pedals, and then played a few scales to confirm that the instrument was in tune. “What are you going to play?” “I know,” he declared and went to the foyer for his bag. Juliette could hear him rummaging through its contents, and then he returned with a few sheets of paper. He sat down on the bench and carefully placed the sheets of music on the piano’s small ledge. Juliette looked over his shoulder at the handwritten musical notes on the staff paper. “This is for you.” His eyes handed her the gift. “What’s it called?” she asked. He hadn’t written a title at the top. He turned around and found a pen that was lying on the dining room table and then wrote the words Tareq and Juliette across the top. “It is a happy ending,” he said to her with a smile, and then he played the piece he had written just for them.

after cairo - laura mitchell, author

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