Ayesha At Last(81)

“I’m sorry,” he said. She didn’t smile.

“Why did you come?” Her voice was flinty.

He moved toward her, reaching first for the letter, but pulling out Hafsa’s Post-It note instead.

Ayesha read quickly, shaking her head in disgust. “Did she break things off with you?”

Khalid shifted his weight. “That is what the note claims,” he said. “I didn’t want to show this to her parents at the mosque. They were already frantic. I thought I’d ask if you had any idea where she might have gone. Does she like to frequent a particular park, or . . .” he trailed off. Ayesha was laughing softly.

“Shouldn’t you know this stuff? After all, you were engaged to be married. You should be able to read her like an open book.”

The mocking tone in her voice made Khalid wince. She was so angry with him. She had every right to be.

“I knew her better yesterday than the day before,” he said. “However, a few weeks’ acquaintance is not enough to sustain a working knowledge of another person.”

“But it’s enough time to decide to marry them?” Ayesha asked, fixing him with her dark eyes.

Khalid looked away. He didn’t know why he was so shy to admit the truth now: She was right. He wasn’t ready to get married, not to Hafsa. He should never have played along with the engagement, not after he’d discovered the identity mix-up.

“That’s what I thought,” Ayesha said. “Since you’re not together anymore, I don’t think this is any of your concern. I’ll tell Sulaiman Mamu about the note. They might have some ideas. We’ll handle it from here.”

“How are they?” Khalid asked.

“Samira Aunty has taken to her bed. Sulaiman Mamu is trying to stay calm. When I left, he was calling around to hospitals.”

Khalid stood to go. “I’m so sorry, Ayesha—” he began.

“I’ll let you know if we hear anything,” she said. She didn’t look at him. “It’s been a long day.”

She walked him to the door. He wanted to reach out and take her hand, to reassure her that everything would work out, but there were too many lies between them already. He said salam and closed the door behind him.

Before he could stop himself, he slipped the letter underneath the door jamb. Now it was in Allah’s hands.

AYESHA heard the rustle of paper from the kitchen. She picked up the thick white envelope, weighing its heft. Curiosity wrestled with anger and won. She read the letter upstairs in her room.

Dear Ayesha,

Thank you for accepting this letter. You have made your intentions clear, and this is not a request to reconsider. I respect you too much to assume you do not know your own mind.

However, honour compels me to answer the other charges levelled against me. I have always found it challenging to express my thoughts in person, and I was in some distress during our exchange this afternoon. In truth, I find it difficult to speak coherently in your presence.

Sometimes it is also hard to breathe.

Ayesha’s heart beat fast as she read the line over again before moving on.

Firstly, you accused me of insulting your family and your faithfulness. I apologize for offending you. You are right—I have a tendency toward judgment and have decided from this point forward to suspend all assumptions.

As for the second charge: I do not wish to hide my initial impression of you. When we first met, you were performing in a bar . . . sorry, lounge. The second time we met, you were impersonating your cousin and misrepresenting yourself to an imam. I can add, however, that upon getting to know you I have come to realize you are a loyal, intelligent, outspoken person who has made great sacrifices for the people you love and the principles you live by. That is the definition of faith in my mind.

Next, my reference to your “little poems.” I haven’t known you for very long, but in all that time, you have never displayed any pride in your art. When you were asked to perform at the conference, you were reluctant. Yet when you recited your work at Bella’s, you were extraordinary.You are upset with me for belittling your work, yet you seem to have little regard for it yourself.

Finally, my opinions regarding arranged marriage: I must address these along with the most serious of your accusations—the alleged beating, nearly to death, of my sister, Zareena.

Zareena is almost four years older than me. I have heard that an age difference of this amount usually results in children who are raised independently. Certainly, my sister and I are very different people. She is an extrovert, popular and adventurous. In contrast I am an introvert, preferring my own company to that of most others. Yet we got along quite well, until she started high school. At that point our paths drifted as she began to hang out with friends who preferred to party rather than to attend class. She became more and more extreme in her behaviour, and though I covered for her as much as possible, our parents knew something was not right.

I am not telling you this to condone what came next.

In her junior year, when she was seventeen years old, something happened to Zareena that threw my parents over the edge. I’m not entirely sure what. I suspect she was arrested, or caught in a compromising situation. Regardless, the fallout was terrible. They took her out of school, and within two weeks had sent her to Hyderabad, India, where she was married to a distant cousin.

She was sent to Hyderabad against her will, and married against her will. For this, there is no excuse. But she was never beaten, of that I am certain.