Amal Unbound(22)

I went down the hallway leading to the library, past Toqir, the elderly servant who dusted the baseboards. He didn’t even glance at me as I passed him. Slipping inside, I put the book back into its spot and ran my hands over the other titles. I paused at the thick black dictionary on the bottom shelf. Omar always wanted one of his own; he said dictionaries contained every word ever uttered. I pulled it out. It was heavier than expected. The paper was thinner than in the other books, and the font was tiny. I smiled. What if I read this whole thing? What would Omar say when I told him I read all the words to ever exist?

I heard footsteps. Toqir. I tightened my grip on the dust rag, my ready excuse for why I was here. But before I could slip the dictionary back onto the shelf, I saw it wasn’t Toqir. It was Jawad Sahib. He stood at the entrance, blocking me.

“And what do you think you’re doing here?” he asked.

“I’m dusting.” I gestured to the dust rag and tried to keep my voice from trembling.

“And that’s why you’re holding my book?” His eyes narrowed. “I thought you’d have learned your lesson by now, but I return home and learn my new servant has been stealing books from me? I have to say that takes a great deal of nerve.”

“Stealing?” I gasped. “Never!”

“I bet you saw my books and thought they’d fetch a big price, right? But you could sell a thousand of them and never make enough to pay off what you owe.”

“I would never steal from you, Sahib. I borrowed some books, yes. But I returned all of them.”

“And who said you could walk in here and take my things?”

My face flushed. He was right.

“I shouldn’t have,” I said. “And I’m sorry. But these books . . . You have so many. There’s dust gathering on their spines. I couldn’t help it. Forgive me, I’ve missed reading so much.”

There was a long pause.

“You can read?” he asked.

“Yes. Of course.”

“Can you write as well?”

I didn’t know whether to be offended at his presumptions or relieved the storm clouds seemed to be parting, revealing blue skies and sunlight.

“I can write. I can read. I know math as well.”

He studied me for a moment.

“Full of surprises, aren’t you?”

But his words weren’t filled with his usual contempt.

“I can’t remember the last time I read one of these books,” he said as he walked to the bookshelf and examined the titles. “I might have been your age when I read A Stranger in Al-Andalus.” He pulled the book from the shelf. “I loved this one. Read it so many times, my father replaced my worn copy with a new one. He didn’t realize I liked the feel of the old one.”

I tried imagining him as a teenager, sentimental about a worn book. I couldn’t.

His mobile phone rang. He glanced at the phone and then at me.

“I’m letting this pass,” he said. “See? I can be a forgiving man, but don’t touch my books again.”

He lifted the phone to his ear and motioned for me to leave.

I stepped into the hallway. He let me go. He didn’t punish me.

Nothing happened. Everything was fine.

I should have felt grateful.

But the thing was—those books were what made my days bearable. They were what helped me sleep at night without my homesickness choking me.

Without books, what was there to look forward to?





Chapter 24





Nasreen Baji had a migraine headache. I had spent half the night massaging her head, but it hadn’t helped, and now she grimaced over lunch.

“I can draw your bath when you’re finished,” I offered. “The steam helps sometimes.”

“Rest will do more good.” She clasped a hand to her forehead and stood up. “Mumtaz is gone for the afternoon to visit her sister. Keep an eye on the kitchen until she returns.”

“And tell Bilal I’ll be in the library catching up on some work,” Jawad Sahib told me. “He shouldn’t bother me unless I call for him.”

“What kind of work?” Nasreen Baji asked.

“Just some accounting and paperwork.”

“But why? Zaid should be doing that. What do we have an accountant for?”

“Whether or not he is an accountant is debatable, and the only one I can trust is myself anyway,” he said. Then he looked at me. “How are things going with her?” He nodded toward me.

“Very well,” Nasreen Baji said. “She is a gift from God.”

“Good. I’m glad it all worked out,” Jawad replied.

I’d settled dirty dishes into the sink and had just turned on the faucet when I felt a tug on my kamiz. Fatima looked at me. Her expression was somber.

“What’s wrong?” I turned off the water.

“I heard about what happened yesterday. About the books.”

I flushed. Toqir must have told everyone all about it.

“So you know how to read?” she asked.

“Yes. I learned at school.”

“Could you teach me?”

I paused at the unexpected question.

“Baba said he could get me paper and pencil.”