Alif the Unseen (37 page)

“Forgive me, noble sir,” said Sakina, “I merely assumed that a
marid
of your rank would know anything worth knowing in Irem.”

The thing looked satisfied.

“That is not an unfair assumption,” it said in a magnanimous voice. “Nevertheless, I can’t help you. It may be that the situation is more complicated than you
imagined.”

“What in God’s name does that mean?” NewQuarter broke out. Sakina hissed at him. He ignored her. “Do you know where these ladies are or not? Why is it so hard for you
people to speak plainly?”

The
marid
drew itself up to its full height, towering over the courtyard like a stone idol. A low rumble issued from its throat and made the fronds of the palm trees quiver.

“Boy,” it said, “you are in my house, and while you are in my house, I will tolerate no insult—especially from one as shriveled and weak-thighed as you.”

Alif began to feel sick. Sakina put her face in her hands, saying nothing. Stiffening his back, NewQuarter glared up at the
marid
.

“God placed man above djinn, and
me
above most men you will ever meet. I think I’m entitled to a straight answer in response to a straight question.”

Colors began to shift over the oil-slick surface of the
marid’s
skin. It raised one massive fist above its head. NewQuarter did not move. A wild idea grew in Alif’s mind
until it became an imperative, bolstered by NewQuarter’s deranged calm as the
marid’s
fist descended toward his head. Preparing himself, Alif sucked air into his lungs until
the sound of his breath was half-deafening. When he heard Sakina shriek, he bolted, running through the misty aperture of the
marid’s
lower body—the scent of ozone again, and
rain clouds—toward the door in the far wall. He was followed by a hail of raised voices. His feet pounded against the flagstones and set his teeth to rattling. Reaching the door, he yanked
hard on the iron circlet bolted to it in lieu of a handle and was rewarded when the wooden arch budged slightly.

“Open,
open,
” he screamed, feeling the damp aura of the
marid
closing in around him.

Bracing his foot on the lintel, Alif pulled until the sinews of his arms began to burn. The door swung toward him with a sudden gust of air. Alif stumbled backward, recovered himself, and rushed
through into a large, domed room. Throwing his weight against the door, he slammed it shut on the
marid’s
smoldering face with a howl of inarticulate triumph.

Inside there was silence. The room was pleasant and whitewashed, with latticed windows—which he had not noticed from outside—looking into the courtyard. Along one wall was an
enormous sleeping platform lined with cushions as tall as a man. Songbirds twittered in an ornate silver cage atop a post. It was, Alif thought dazedly, like a film set from some old Bollywood
movie, one that would inevitably feature dancing girls in candy-colored silk. It was only when he heard his given name that he realized he was not alone.

Dina was moving toward him from the sleeping platform. She said his name again, in a hushed and horrified voice, and he put one hand to his cheek, realizing how his gaunt unshaven face must
look. She was wearing a black robe and veil but the material was finer than anything Alif had ever seen her wear and the garments seemed to have been tailored for her body, such that even in their
looseness they highlighted the trim proportions of her shoulders and arms. He rushed toward her with a sob.

“Oh, God, oh, God—how did you get here? How did you find us?” She sank to her knees as he did, tears muddying the kohl that lined her grass-colored eyes.
“I was afraid you were dead.” Her voice broke on the last word. She fought to regain it through choked, unsteady breaths. “You’re so thin! Please say something, you’re
frightening me out of my mind—”

Alif opened his mouth to tell her he was fine and promptly lost the power of speech. The tension that had been animating his body slackened and he swayed on his knees, feeling dirt and sweat and
snot run from every opening in his skin. Forcing his lips to move, he managed to croak her name.

He was rewarded with a warm hand on his temple, smoothing the hair back from his face. He let his head fall to her knee and began to weep in earnest. There was a commotion in the doorway as
NewQuarter burst in with Sheikh Bilal and Sakina close behind, followed by a tremor in the ground that could only have been the
marid
itself.

“Have you gone raving mad?” demanded Sakina, indignant with rage. Alif felt Dina put a protective hand on the back of his neck.

“It’s all right,” said Dina. “I know him. The convert knows him, too. He’s safe.”

There was another tremor. Alif looked up and saw the
marid
hovering just inside the door, arms crossed. Its head nearly brushed the underside of the domed ceiling.

“Very well,” it said, thunderous and quiet all at once. “For your sake, I won’t kill him, or the other puny rude one. But I don’t want them around our
patient—she shouldn’t be upset or annoyed in her condition.”

“What’s going on? Who’s going to be killed?”

The voice, nasal and American, was familiar. The convert, dressed in a hooded turquoise gown, rushed into the room through a smaller door in the wall perpendicular to the sleeping platform. Alif
frowned. She seemed to have put on weight, particularly around the middle. It took him a moment to understand.

“How—are you—are you—?” His English escaped him.

She looked at him, embarrassment and pride at odds on her rounded face.

“Pregnant,” she said.

* * *

Once they had convinced the
marid
that neither Alif nor the sheikh nor NewQuarter were any danger to the convert’s health, he allowed them to sit on the floor
while he hovered behind her, fetching cushions for her back by stretching one hand across the room to retrieve them. Dina kissed Sheikh Bilal’s hand through her veil, murmuring tearfully that
she was glad to see him well, and he touched her brow in blessing with a delighted smile.

“I would say that we have been searching hard for you,” he said, “but really all credit is due to Alif. For a blundering fool he has proven very resourceful.”

“What happened to you?” asked the convert. “What went down at the mosque after we left? You look
terrible,
no offense. Where have you been for the past three
months?”

“You first,” said Alif, trying not to stare at her belly.

Dina glanced at the convert with an unreadable expression. The convert flushed, and Alif thought her eyes looked damp.

“I almost don’t know where to start,” she said.

“Just go bit by bit,” said Dina, surprising Alif by speaking stilted but understandable English. “Don’t feel any shyness.”

The convert narrowed her eyes, looking into the middle distance, avoiding Alif’s curious gaze.

“Coming here felt—well, you’ll know how it felt, since you got here yourselves. I didn’t really believe what was happening. I was still resisting, resisting. Even when
Vikram seemed not to look human anymore, I somehow made him look human in my head. I thought I was just going nuts because of the stress, you know. So, anyway. One minute we were walking down the
hallway in the mosque, toward a solid wall, and the next minute we were standing on a dune in the Empty Quarter, looking down at this fairy-tale city. Naturally, I kind of went
hysterical.”

“Anybody sane would,” muttered NewQuarter.

“At that point,” the convert continued, “it was clear Vikram was not doing well.”

Alif thought he heard her voice harden just a little, as though she found it difficult to say the dead man’s name.

“He was bleeding and in obvious pain, though he kept up with his usual devil-may-care thing. He took us into the city—took us here, in fact, and had some kind of discussion with our
generous landlord, the gist of which was that we would be allowed to stay for the night. I didn’t realize how sick Dina was—her arm, I mean, needed to be treated.”

Alif looked at Dina in alarm.

“It’s fine now,” she said, flexing it as proof. “Completely healed. There is only a small scar.”

“So Vikram sent her out to have the wound cleaned and rebandaged and whatnot. And so then we were alone here. And he asked me to marry him. I brushed it off because this is something he
did all the time to freak me out. I’d learned not to dignify it with a response. But something was different this time—he took my hand and looked me in the eye, really
looked,
like he was speaking to some other part of me, and said he was worried about leaving me and Dina here alone. We weren’t safe without him. It was obvious that he was dying, you see.”

The convert’s face crumpled and turned bright red. Alif and NewQuarter stared at each other in dismay, unprepared to handle the tears of an unrelated woman. Dina cooed something
reassuring, petting the convert’s shoulder.

“He told me that if I married him we would have some kind of protection, some kind of immunity, even after he was gone,” she went on in a steadier tone. “He said a bunch of
other things, too, sweet things, trying to make me laugh because I was freaking out and all. He said he admired me and that he doesn’t say so to very many people. But I told him I
couldn’t marry him even if I wanted to, because I can’t marry an unbeliever. And he laughed and said he’d been a believer, ‘for the better part of a thousand years,’ I
believe were the exact words.”

“What?” said Alif. “Vikram? Vikram the madman who bites people?”

“He might be those things,” said the convert hastily, “but did you ever know him to do or say anything really blasphemous?”

“I guess not.” Alif subsided into bewildered silence.

“He told me if anybody had an issue with belief, it was me,” the convert said. “Because I didn’t believe in him. Because I had basically skipped a big chunk of my own
religion, yet here I was lecturing him about the rules. And he was right. So I said
yes
. I didn’t really know what else to do.

“Somehow, in a very short period of time two witnesses showed up, one of which looked like a horrible ball of fur with teeth, the other of which looked even worse, and we were signing a
contract. And, you know, it entitled me to certain things in the event of his death, those things being favors he was calling in so Dina and I would be provided for as long as we needed to stay. So
that was very clever on his part. And then it was done and we were alone again. And he touched my face—”

“We don’t need to hear the details,” NewQuarter interjected.

The convert flushed again.

“I wasn’t going to get into details. I was just trying to explain why I would—why any woman would willingly go along with a guy like Vikram. He was a much gentler version of
himself, is what I’m trying to say. He made sure I felt safe with him. By the time I fell asleep that night, I was in love. Just like that.”

Alif studied the plump, pale woman sitting in front of him, trying to imagine whether this depth of feeling had existed within her when they had first met. The few Americans he had encountered
in his lifetime had all seemed flat to him, as if freedom weakened one’s capacity for intense emotion by demanding too little of it. The convert had seemed, like the others, to be always
performing: opinions brisk and pat, smiles rehearsed, identity packaged for consumption by an audience. To see her so candid, as she attempted and failed to preserve her self-assurance, was almost
charming. Still, it was difficult to picture her in love, and in love with someone like Vikram.

“When I woke up in the morning I looked over and saw him for real for the first time. I mean every layer of what he was, which was something very old and very dangerous and made up of
elements I had never seen before. And I wasn’t afraid. Not of him, anyway—but I was afraid that he was going to die right there, in my arms. I could see the last bit of life bleeding
out of him. I started to cry. He asked me why I was crying, thinking he had hurt me or something, and I told him, no, I was crying because I loved him and I didn’t want him to die. So he
petted my hair and told me he was leaving me with something I would love even more than I loved him, something that would ensure no djinn would ever hurt me. And then he asked me to go and get the
marid
.

“I jumped up and put on my clothes and ran out into the courtyard, looking, I’m sure, like a complete madwoman, and Dina was out here asleep on a cushion and the
marid
was
sitting in a corner doing his thing, and they followed me when they saw I was so upset, and came back in here where Vikram was breathing his last. He told Dina to take care of Alif, and said
something to the
marid
in a language I didn’t understand, and then he called me over and kissed me and said ‘Call her Layl.’ Those were his last words. And that’s
when I knew.”

Alif heard NewQuarter translating for Sheikh Bilal in a low voice. He himself could not decide how to respond: whether congratulations or condolences should come first.

“The world must feel much smaller to you,” he said timidly, and then wondered what had prompted him to say so.

The convert considered this for a moment.

“No,” she said. “Just the opposite. I feel like the horizon has been pushed back and there’s infinitely more between it and me than I once thought. And yet I have less
anxiety about everything. About what I’m supposed to do, what I’m supposed to think, how I can stay in control of my life. I’ve stopped trying. I just act, now, just respond to
whatever the situation demands. I’m not so committed to the rational barrier between seen and unseen. It feels like—like passing straight from disbelief into certainty. Without stopping
at belief in between. I’m not sure I ever had any of that, not really. You even pointed it out once.”

“It was wrong of me to say so,” said Alif, feeling ashamed. “I have no right to question anybody’s beliefs.”

“Well, you
were
right, in any case.” She looked down and smoothed her gown across her spreading lap. It suited her, this state of fecundity, strange though it was. The smile
that played across her face was sad in a way that was almost beatific, reminding Alif of an icon in the Greek Orthodox church he had seen once on a middle school trip to a tiny Christian
neighborhood in the Old Quarter. For an instant, the convert seemed not like a grim-eyed foreigner in borrowed clothes but an echo of her own civilization.