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Authors: Pearl Abraham
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luxuriously furnished large one-bedroom in a doorman building on Brooklyn Heights’ promenade with views of lower Manhattan.
No way, John said. This is just too, way too over the top.
He saw himself—his new self—best in the ground-floor brownstone apartment, which was furnished, offered easy access with no stairs, and was located conveniently near Atlantic Avenue and only blocks from the school.
You don’t think it’s molelike? Barbara asked.
John weighed the mole description and liked it. Reading and studying is molelike. It’s a good fit, he said. Besides when I’m not reading and studying, I’ll be out doing things. Like skating the Brooklyn Banks as soon as this comes off.
All right, then, Barbara said, and the Realtor produced the paperwork for the brownstone apartment.
AT THE SHARIA SCHOOL on Montague, their next stop, ten wide brownstone steps slowed John down. Barbara took one of his crutches to allow him the use of the handrail and walked beside him patiently as he lifted up his casted leg one clumsy step at a time.
Inside, she admired the high carved dome, the circular entry hall, and the stained-glass windows. I’m very glad when visitors take pleasure in the architecture, the headmaster said, materializing suddenly out of nowhere.
He introduced himself as the Sharia’s maulana, put his palms together to greet Barbara, then shook John’s hand.
This was once a synagogue, he explained. Now it’s our own beautiful and spiritual setting for learning.
His skin was dark tan, he had a black beard, and he was dressed in almost all white: white tunic, white pants, and a white turban, but with a long buttoned black Nehru jacket and black dress shoes. Barbara, John saw, was finding the getup super attractive. She was all smile and nod. She was entirely charmed.
The maulana gave them a brief tour of the school, opened doors to classrooms, ushered them in, and they stood for a few minutes, listening. On one blackboard, John noted what looked like conjugations. The students were studying Arabic grammar. In another classroom, students were taking turns reading aloud, in what sounded to him like good accents. Barbara, he noticed, wasn’t paying much attention to the scholarship; she was noticing cultural things. Is this an all-boys school? she asked when they stepped into the maulana’s office. I haven’t seen any women.
Our late-afternoon and evening classes do have some female students, the maulana said, but the formal study of this language seems to attract more men than women. Perhaps because women are good with language and tend to learn their mother tongue at home, he finished, totally flattering Barbara.
There was a knock on the door.
Excellent, the maulana said, clapping his hands together. John, the maulana said. I want to introduce you to one of your new colleagues. Khaled has agreed to help you out your first weeks.
John stood on one crutch and shook hands with Khaled, who sized him up and smiled. They were about the same height, but compared with Khaled’s dark hair and skin, John seemed pale though he’d spent most of the summer in the sun.
They exchanged e-mail addresses. Just let me know when you’ll be here, Khaled said.
THEY TOOK A CAB back to Manhattan, to NoHo, to the little café where Noor worked. The taxi pulled up to a blue-and-white-tiled entrance on a busy sunny sidewalk crowded with people smoking, gesticulating, waiting in line. John watched from the window, delaying, until Barbara nudged him out.
Come on, she said, and led the way. A waitress, a girl with wavy dark hair, side parted and bobby pinned, listened to Barbara’s inquiry, looked up, saw John, and smiled.
You must be John’s mother, she said, and wiped her hand on her apron before offering it to Barbara. I’m Noor. And you’re the real-life John, she said.
As real as I get, John said.
Noor glanced behind her, at the tables. Let me see what I can do. Give me a minute.
Barbara turned to John. Pretty,
No way, John said. This is just too, way too over the top.
He saw himself—his new self—best in the ground-floor brownstone apartment, which was furnished, offered easy access with no stairs, and was located conveniently near Atlantic Avenue and only blocks from the school.
You don’t think it’s molelike? Barbara asked.
John weighed the mole description and liked it. Reading and studying is molelike. It’s a good fit, he said. Besides when I’m not reading and studying, I’ll be out doing things. Like skating the Brooklyn Banks as soon as this comes off.
All right, then, Barbara said, and the Realtor produced the paperwork for the brownstone apartment.
AT THE SHARIA SCHOOL on Montague, their next stop, ten wide brownstone steps slowed John down. Barbara took one of his crutches to allow him the use of the handrail and walked beside him patiently as he lifted up his casted leg one clumsy step at a time.
Inside, she admired the high carved dome, the circular entry hall, and the stained-glass windows. I’m very glad when visitors take pleasure in the architecture, the headmaster said, materializing suddenly out of nowhere.
He introduced himself as the Sharia’s maulana, put his palms together to greet Barbara, then shook John’s hand.
This was once a synagogue, he explained. Now it’s our own beautiful and spiritual setting for learning.
His skin was dark tan, he had a black beard, and he was dressed in almost all white: white tunic, white pants, and a white turban, but with a long buttoned black Nehru jacket and black dress shoes. Barbara, John saw, was finding the getup super attractive. She was all smile and nod. She was entirely charmed.
The maulana gave them a brief tour of the school, opened doors to classrooms, ushered them in, and they stood for a few minutes, listening. On one blackboard, John noted what looked like conjugations. The students were studying Arabic grammar. In another classroom, students were taking turns reading aloud, in what sounded to him like good accents. Barbara, he noticed, wasn’t paying much attention to the scholarship; she was noticing cultural things. Is this an all-boys school? she asked when they stepped into the maulana’s office. I haven’t seen any women.
Our late-afternoon and evening classes do have some female students, the maulana said, but the formal study of this language seems to attract more men than women. Perhaps because women are good with language and tend to learn their mother tongue at home, he finished, totally flattering Barbara.
There was a knock on the door.
Excellent, the maulana said, clapping his hands together. John, the maulana said. I want to introduce you to one of your new colleagues. Khaled has agreed to help you out your first weeks.
John stood on one crutch and shook hands with Khaled, who sized him up and smiled. They were about the same height, but compared with Khaled’s dark hair and skin, John seemed pale though he’d spent most of the summer in the sun.
They exchanged e-mail addresses. Just let me know when you’ll be here, Khaled said.
THEY TOOK A CAB back to Manhattan, to NoHo, to the little café where Noor worked. The taxi pulled up to a blue-and-white-tiled entrance on a busy sunny sidewalk crowded with people smoking, gesticulating, waiting in line. John watched from the window, delaying, until Barbara nudged him out.
Come on, she said, and led the way. A waitress, a girl with wavy dark hair, side parted and bobby pinned, listened to Barbara’s inquiry, looked up, saw John, and smiled.
You must be John’s mother, she said, and wiped her hand on her apron before offering it to Barbara. I’m Noor. And you’re the real-life John, she said.
As real as I get, John said.
Noor glanced behind her, at the tables. Let me see what I can do. Give me a minute.
Barbara turned to John. Pretty,
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