The Sweetness of Tears by Nafisa Haji

Author:Nafisa Haji [Haji, Nafisa]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780061780103
Publisher: Harper Collins USA
Published: 2010-12-31T05:00:00+00:00

Jo

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face . . .

W. B. Yeats, “When You Are Old”

Deena’s words stopped. Silence swayed over us, making me suddenly aware of what she was saying about the worth of every moment, as this one, here, now, rose up and made itself felt. I took a deep breath and remembered what she’d said a few seconds before. That I looked frightened. When she asked me that question: “Have you ever been looked at with such soulful longing that you are transformed, the object and the subject of Love, capital L?” That was because of the answer that came to mind—the image that rose immediately out of my recent memory. No. Dan had never looked at me like that. But I knew what it must feel like, from having experienced its opposite. I’d been looked at with such deep, soulful revulsion that I was transformed—the object and subject of Hatred, capital H. A little time in Deena’s company was enough for me to know that she deserved the look she’d gotten. What made me afraid was knowing that the look I’d gotten was also deserved. Her question reminded me of why I’d come here, to her house, something I’d forgotten in the act of listening.

Then the suspended silence between us was broken as the grinding noise of a garage door opening jolted us both out of the moment.

Deena looked at the clock on the mantel and exclaimed, “Oh, my! Is that the time? That’s Umar. Home from work. And I haven’t even begun to prepare the ifthar!”

As she spoke, I heard the door of a car slamming shut, the opening and closing of another door, leading into the house, followed by footsteps. I sat up straighter, eager to see the face of the man who had looked at Deena with such longing. He came into the room, stopping short when he saw me sitting on the couch across from his wife.

Deena stood and turned, repeating, for his sake, “Oh, Umar! I have not even begun to prepare ifthar. See? I had an unexpected guest. Umar, this is Jo. You remember Angela? Connie’s stepdaughter? She was my fr—no—Sadiq’s friend,” she finished, on a bit of a broken note. Then said, “Well, Jo is Angela’s daughter. She came. And I’ve been talking and talking.”

Umar smiled and finished his way into the room. “Oh. Yes,” he said, putting his hand out, taking mine in a firm hold. Shaking it. “Connie and Deena are very good friends.”

He turned to Deena. “Don’t worry. There’s another half hour until ifthar. I’ll get it ready.”

“No! Together. We’ll do it together.”

That’s when it hit me. What they were talking about. “It’s Ramadan? Are you—are you fasting, Deena?” I thought about the tea she’d served when I got there. The cookies she’d brought out at some point. That was why she hadn’t had any herself. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want to intrude. I should go.”

“Sorry? Go? No! Why? There’s no reason for you to go.

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