I Have Lost My Way(48)

“Is everything spicy?” Leesa asks, looking at the food. She turns to Nathaniel. “I always get the worst indigestion when I leave here.”

“I made you something special, not spicy,” Ammi says. She points to a bowl of plain spaghetti noodles.

Leesa grimaces. “I can’t eat pasta. I have a gluten allergy.”

“A gluten allergy?” Ammi asks.

“Yeah, no bread, no pasta, no cakes. That kind of thing.”

“Saif didn’t mention any allergy.”

“It’s okay. I’ll just have rice.”

“Try the lentils, babe,” Saif says.

“Are the lentils spicy?” Leesa asks.

“To me they’re not,” Ammi says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that she doesn’t think the lentils are spicy,” Halima huffs.

Leesa sighs. “How about we open that wine?” She gestures to a bottle, still in shiny Mylar wrapping, on the sideboard. “It’s a twist-off.” She turns to Freya. “I’ve learned from experience that this family doesn’t own a corkscrew.”

“We don’t drink wine,” Halima says. “Why would we have a corkscrew?”

“For guests?” Leesa says.

Ammi takes the bottle from the sideboard, holding it gingerly, as if it contains strychnine. “Do you want wine?” she asks Freya and Nathaniel.

“I’m fine with water,” Freya says.

“Me too,” Nathaniel says.

Harun looks at his friends, surprised at how at ease they seem. When he asked them if they wanted to join him for a family dinner, he didn’t explain who would be there, or what dynamics to expect, or what the dinner was for. He didn’t have to. They said yes as soon as he mentioned the meal, and once they were on the train, he couldn’t figure out the right way to interject: Oh, by the way, the dinner is a farewell for me because tomorrow I’m leaving for Pakistan to find a wife, even though I still love James and don’t want a wife, and by the way, James told me to get the fuck out of his life. That’s not the sort of thing you just bring up out of the blue. Particularly if you are a coward.

Leesa stands up and takes the bottle from Ammi. “I’ll just help myself,” she says, and marches toward the kitchen. “You want any, Steve?”

“No thanks, babe.”

After she leaves, there’s another awkward silence. The Leesa fireworks dispensed with, Harun holds his breath, waiting for the main event to begin. For Ammi to take a close look at the ledger, to ask questions about Freya and Nathaniel and Harun’s connection to them. Once that happens, everything will unravel, and Harun will have no choice but to come clean.

But Ammi just asks Nathaniel if he too is gluten free, like she thinks this is a white-person quirk.

“Definitely not,” Nathaniel says, filling his plate. “What’s this one?” He points to one of the platters.

“Seekh kebabs,” Abdullah answers.

“And that one?”

“Achar gosht,” Halima says. “Crazy spicy.”

“Maybe start with the kebab,” Ammi says.

Nathaniel takes three. Ammi smiles. “You have very nice friends,” she declares. “You should’ve brought them home sooner.”

Harun does not smile back. He did not bring his friends to impress Ammi. He brought them to activate her bloodhound nose. Surely his family would want to know what he was doing with these two people they’ve never met before. Surely Abu would be asking more questions than the perfunctory ones Leesa asked. Surely Ammi’s curiosity about the uninvited guests would not be mollified by the sight of one of them hoovering his plate like there was no tomorrow.



* * *



— — —

About that.

Nathaniel can’t stop eating. He’s already full from the first round, but this is an epic feast. He’s never had such an epic feast. Doesn’t know if he ever will again.

And this food. He closes his eyes to process the flavors. He has never tasted anything like them, but the flavors are still somehow familiar, even if he completely lacks the vocabulary to name them.



* * *



— — —

Freya can name them: garlic, cumin, ginger, cardamom, nutmeg, clove . . . spices her father used to cook with.

“Is there fenugreek in this?” Freya asks, pointing to the biryani.

Harun’s mother lights up. “None of my children even know what fenugreek is, let alone how to discern it among the spices.”

“It’s used in Ethiopian food,” Freya says.

“I’ve never had Ethiopian food,” Harun’s mother replies. “What’s it like?”

“Lots of stews and sauces, similar spices. You eat it with fermented bread, using your hands.”

“Back in Pakistan, we would eat this with our hands too,” Abu tells her, before meticulously wiping his right hand and using it to expertly scoop up meat, rice, and sauce in a neat pocket of naan.

Freya watches him and does the same, only less expertly, and some of the sauce drips onto the tablecloth.

Harun’s mother mops it up, waving away Freya’s apologies. “I like to see people eat.” She glances at the kitchen, where Leesa is still doing something with the wine.