You tricked me, said Alif to Farukhuaz, trembling. Farukhuaz didn’t respond, but tilted her head to the sound of the tiny bells that shivered in her veil. She was a cipher. Alif fought for something real, something to make him remember the earth that looked so tremulously small below him. He tried thinking of Intisar. But Intisar, too, had become an ashen idol. He saw his own life polluted with her ambivalence, first about their uncertain marriage, then about this uncertain book, the purpose of both clouded by pointless secrecy.
He had mistaken that secrecy for something elite; evidence that he had been initiated into a greater truth than the unseeing people around him could understand. At this altitude his self-importance seemed tawdry. He did not hide because he was better, he hid because he was afraid. It was not Intisar’s fault—it had begun with his name, the name behind which he had concealed himself, a single line seemingly as straight and impregnable as the tower rushing skyward around him. The name without which he would never have had the courage to approach her. Yet he blamed Intisar nonetheless.
It occurred to him that he might not love her.
The nexus was drawing nearer. The light it emitted penetrated Alif ’s skull even when his eyes were closed, and he wailed, overtaken by fresh panic.
Where are you going? the nexus repeated.
The tower began to crack.
Alif heard the door to the sheikh’s office crash open. There was a smell in the air like burning flesh. He gasped, wrenching away from the keyboard: it glowed hot, and blisters were already forming on his fingertips. The computer monitor was a molten heap, revealing mechanical guts that crackled with a bluish static charge. Pain overcame the protective veneer of adrenaline. Alif moaned, balling himself around his injured hands. There were voices in the doorway. The smell of burnt skin was replaced by that of sweat, fur and blood; a dark-pelted shape, now jackal-like, now human, limped toward the desk chair and regarded Alif at eye level.
“You’ve made quite a mess, younger brother,” it rasped. Fluid trickled from one side of its mouth.
Alif turned sideways in the chair and buried his face in the furred shoulder closest to him.
“I’ve screwed up so badly,” he whispered. “Dina was right—the Sheikh was right—you were right—”
“I usually am.” A cough vibrated through the chest beneath Alif ’s cheek. Alif looked up.
“You’re hurt!”
Vikram was favoring one limb, which ended in a paw, or hand, that bent inward at a sickly angle. Blood streaked his coat.
“There are a lot of them now,” he said, “And they’re on their way inside.”
Sheikh Bilal appeared behind Vikram’s looming shoulder, with the convert and Dina close behind. Alif instinctively reached for Dina; she stopped short of touching his hand, but let her fingertips linger in the air above it.
“God save us! What on earth has happened in here?” Sheikh Bilal surveyed the simmering wreckage on his desk. “Did you light my computer on fire?”
“Hellfire,” said Vikram, with a hissing laugh that ended in another cough. “The boy has been dabbling in some very naughty things. That’s sulfur you’re smelling.” He cackled at his own joke.
“There’s no time for idle talk. We’ve got to get the women out. God knows what might happen to them if they’re arrested.”
“I’m an American citizen,” said the convert in a voice that shook, “I’ll show them my passport—they can’t interrogate me without someone from the embassy present—”
Alif did not take his eyes from Dina. The sight of her, concealed though she was behind yards of black, drained some of the fear from his chest. She looked at him steadily, the green solar flares around her pupils bright and tearless.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he told her.
“You most certainly will not, because you are going to turn yourself in,” said the sheikh.
“You will explain to the authorities that these girls were coerced into aiding you, and have had no part in whatever schemes you are involved with.”
Alif uncurled his hands, wincing. “Where are they now?” he asked.
“They’ve gotten through the outer doors,” said Sheikh Bilal. “I barred the back entrance of the musala to buy us a little more time. I think, perhaps, if the girls were hidden in the cellar—”
“What a stupid idea,” said Vikram. “They’ll be discovered within an hour. No, I’ll take them with me.”
“Take us where?”The convert’s question ended in a shriek. Her face was very white.
Vikram sighed. “Into the Empty Quarter,” he said, “Into the country of my people.”
“What are you talking about? What is he talking about?”
“Is that safe?” asked Dina quietly. Vikram shook his head.
“It’s said that only holy folk can walk there without going mad,” he said. “And it’s very difficult to get your muddy little bodies through intact. Very difficult.” He winced. More fluid dripped from the side of his mouth, and splashed on Alif ’s knee. “But it’s better than what will happen if you stay.”
Alif searched for the origin of the blood on Vikram’s pelt. He thought he saw a red wound between two ribs, opening and closing with each breath like a hideous mouth.
“Are you—well enough to do that?” he asked.
Vikram’s head drooped a little.
“On a good day it would cost me my life. Today it may cost me significantly more.”
“No!” said Dina. “No—”
“Don’t squeak at me, little sister,” said Vikram irritably. “Let me choose my own final deed, so the angels have something impressive to write down on the last page of my book.”
The voices of men, angry and low, echoed down the corridor from the direction of the musala.
“I want five minutes,” said Alif, “Do I get five minutes? With Dina. Alone.”
Vikram hauled himself to his feet.
“You’ll be lucky to get three,” he said, and padded toward the door. Sheikh Bilal ushered the convert out in front of him.
“I will wait for you outside,” he said to Alif. “Plan your next actions very carefully. As-salaamu alaykum.”
The door closed behind him. Alif knelt at Dina’s feet.
“It’s so bright in my head,” he stuttered, “There are so many things I want to say, but it’s so bright I can’t think—help me, please. You’re the only one who knows what to do. Just—just make it less bright—”
Dina hesitated. Then she knelt in front of him, knee to knee, and threw her veil over his head.
* * *
The darkness soothed Alif ’s dazzled eyes. After a moment they adjusted, lessening the smarting pain in his head. He could not have guessed the world she had created for herself. Sewn into the underside of her long outer cloak were patches of bright silk: patterned, beaded, spangled with points of light; they hung above him like a tent, supported by her bare, bandaged arm. They lay on the floor facing one another. He rested his forehead in the curve of her neck, taking in the scent of her hair. She watched him. She was not beautiful, not by the measure of the magazines hidden beneath his bed at home. Not like Intisar. Her nose was as large as he remembered. She was unfashionably dark, leading Alif to guess she had never bothered with the skin-bleaching creams so many girls used to poison themselves. Of course she had not. She had pride.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking that you are all good things in one place,” he said. She blushed. Her mouth was tender, expressive; her red-brown skin unflawed. He realized with something like humility that her most striking feature had always been visible to him. The greenish, upswept eyes, set against the palette of her flesh, were even more appealing. No, not beautiful, but a face that was not easily forgotten.
“I’ve been unfaithful to you,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”
“I forgive you.”The delightful mouth curved upward. He wanted to kiss it, but held back. He would not touch her until sh
e permitted him, until he had spoken to her father and made it all right. He had to take leave of her and go.
“Please stay alive,” she whispered.
“You too. I’m coming back for you.”
“Say it again.”
“I’m coming back.”
* * *
Sheikh Bilal was waiting in the hallway with a grim expression. Vikram, like an oversized dog, lay panting at his feet, damp with clotted blood and sweat. He rose unsteadily when Alif and Dina emerged.
“You go wait over there, little sister,” he said to Dina, “Keep the other one quiet. She’s gotten a bit hysterical.”The convert was leaning against a wall further down the corridor, whimpering. Dina gave Alif a searching look before turning to do as she was told. Alif watched her go with a dull ache in his throat.
“If you are ever cruel to her, I will come back and haunt you,” said Vikram. “Guard her like your own eyes. She is probably circumcised, which means you must be very patient and very gentle when you take her to bed.”
“God forgive us, man!” Sheikh Bilal stared at Vikram in dismay. “At least leave this world with some manners.”
“I’m only telling the boy what he needs to know,” Vikram said sullenly. Alif put his arms around the broad, blurred shoulders, which shifted between man and animal and shadow in a way that betrayed pain.
“Thank you,” he muttered, embarrassed by his own ragged affection. Vikram clapped him on the back with his good limb.
“Keep your wits sharpened, younger brother,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ll meet again in this life.”
Alif gave a curt nod, hoping his lip didn’t tremble.
“I’ll see you in the next, then.”
“God willing.”
Vikram limped down the hallway toward Dina and the convert, who stood watching him with clasped hands, as though waiting for a train which might not arrive. Alif looked away, sensing he could somehow damage what was about to happen by observing it. He sent up a wordless prayer for Dina’s safety. As an afterthought, he prayed for the convert as well, with the uncharitable feeling she needed it more.
“I am going to unbar the door,” said Sheikh Bilal, looking likewise away from the scene at the end of the hall. “I would take my hands out of my pockets if I were you. These are the type of men who will never spend a day in jail for shooting you on sight. Bismillah.” He lifted the creased wooden bar from the door between the musala and the classrooms and offices beyond it.
“Wait!” Alif called out. “What will happen to you? They wouldn’t shoot the imam of Al Basheera, would they?”
Sheikh Bilal snorted. “This will be an entertaining way to find out.”
Alif took his hands from his pockets and wiped them on his pants. The wooden door slid open, revealing two rows of riot police in full uniform, who began to smash their batons against their polycarbonate shields in a coordinated rhythm. Alif fought the urge to giggle. His nerves, shot and exhausted, couldn’t summon the chemical wherewithal for fear. He looked over his shoulder: Vikram and the girls were gone. The only evidence of their passing was a thin trail of blood, smudged in several places by what looked like the footprints of a very large dog; footprints which halted abruptly three feet before the stone wall at the end of the hallway.
Turning toward the police, Alif put his hands back in his pockets.
“Hi,” he said in English. The rows of men parted as three State security officials with handguns at their hips came rushing forward. Alif heard Sheikh Bilal shout. Before he could look back at the old man, a baton came down on Alif ’s skull. Pain shrieked through his head and neck. He brought up the contents of his stomach, gasping.
“Little faggot’s thrown up on my shoes!”The voice was fat and familiar; Alif recognized it as belonging to one of the men who had trailed him from the university.
“Stupid shit. I should make you lick it up. It’s the last meal you’ll have for a long time.”
“F-f-”
“What’s that?”
“F-fuck you.” Alif spat the remaining bile from his mouth. Then, suddenly, he couldn’t see. A black bag had descended over his eyes, and the world collapsed into a flat void.
Chapter Eleven
He awoke in darkness. Blinking revealed nothing: he could make out neither shapes nor depth nor any kind of light. Clawing at his face, he discovered the black bag was gone; this darkness was something more complete. For a moment he thought he had been buried alive, and shrieked, pinwheeling his arms. He touched only air, and heard the shriek echo off of a wall some distance away: not in a coffin, then. Was he blind? He rubbed his eyes experimentally and saw spots. This reassured him, but only for a moment; he realized he did not know what a blind person could and could not perceive. Was it like seeing darkness, or was it the complete removal of all visual sense? The question kept him occupied for several haggard minutes. Fear had returned, fresh and rested, and poured through his limbs in a stew of adrenaline.
Air on several sensitive parts of his body told him he was naked. He ran his hands down his torso and was relieved to find himself intact. His head was sore, and a painful exploration of his scalp revealed the skin had split where the baton met resistance. The cut had not been treated; it stung under his fingers. Blood was matted in his hair. He moved forward, shuffling his feet, and reached out with both arms until he met a chilly wall. He followed it around several corners, coming at last to a hinge and an expanse of metal that might be a door. Pounding on it and shouting yielded nothing. He slid to the ground with his back against the metal facade, succumbing to a loud, wet bout of weeping that left him exhausted again.
When the tears stopped, he curled up on the floor facing the door. A tiny breeze touched his face, telling him there was a gap, small but existent, where the door met the ground. Try as he might, he could divine no light from it. Either the space beyond the door was dark as well, or he truly was blind. The thought threatened to bring on fresh tears. He wanted Dina, he wanted her consecrated darkness, so unlike this hostile absence of light. She was dark the way the hour before dawn was dark, a time ordained by God for prayer. He wanted the lemon scent of her hair and the stars that glimmered in the secret interior of her veil. He thought of what she had risked by comforting him and was overcome by urgency; he knew her exasperating sense of decorum would not permit her to take any other partner now that she had shown him her face. He had to return to her. He began pounding on the door again.
There was no answer. When his hands were raw he stopped and withdrew to the opposite side of the room, restlessly aware that he had created a third problem to go along with his wounded head and blistered fingertips.
“I’m doomed,” he said to the unlistening air. The sound of his own voice startled him. He needed to urinate. Feeling his way along the wall, he halted at the first corner he encountered. He deliberated for several moments before relieving himself into it, shuddering with humiliation. All the stories he had read online about the prisons of the western desert had seemed so theoretical; a goad for his outrage against the government, not real in and of themselves. They were part of the fiction in which he lived. But there was nothing fictional about this room, no tangible evil against which he could prove himself brave. There was only the stifling black silence, which amplified his thoughts in a way that stirred dread in the recesses of his mind.
He backed away from the corner, hoping he would remember which one it was to avoid stepping in his own mess. The air around him was growing uncomfortably warm. Was it daytime, then? There seemed no better option than to try and sleep. Alif felt his way to the door again and lay lengthwise in front of it. The tiny draft it admitted was an iota cooler and fresher than the stuffy rebreathed air inside the room. He took long, slow breaths of it, eyes closed, and willed himself to relax.
The speed with which he lost track of time alarmed him. When he woke he couldn’t tell whether he had slept for minutes or hours; making his way to the corner, which was going fetid in the heat, h
e urinated again, and wondered whether the recurrence of this bodily function told him anything about how long he had been confined. He was getting thirsty. He tried to go back to sleep and couldn’t; lying awake, he wrote code in his mind, tapping out key sequences on the metal door to make a little noise. At some point, he drifted off again.
The sound that awoke him was difficult to identify. At first he thought it was steam escaping from somewhere, perhaps a vent or a pipe hidden in the ceiling. For a moment he was afraid they were gassing him. But the sound was syncopated, irregular, halting at organic intervals, and after listening for some time, he realized with horror what precisely he was hearing.
It was laughter.
He searched wildly in the gloom for its source, but the darkness was too thick to be certain of anything. Terrified, Alif began to pant, pressing his back against the door and drawing his knees to his chest. The laughter grew louder. There was something familiar about it. Alif was possessed by a wild hope.
“Vikram?” he whispered.
The laughter stopped.
“No,” came a voice, hissing, neuter, disembodied. “Not he. You are not saved. Vikram is dead, dead, quite dead.”
“Who are you?” Alif ’s voice broke on the last syllable. There was movement across the room, the dry noise of fabric being dragged along the ground.
“You don’t recognize me?”The voice drew closer. “After all that we built together. Alif.”
He heard the sound of small bells. The edge of something soft, like silk, slid across his foot. His head throbbed.
“Farukhuaz,” he breathed.
The laughter began again. Alif pressed his hands over his ears.