the train-these are newer, but like the floor of the Moussin they are unevenly worn, sagging in the centers from the weight of this crowded city. What would it be like to cross the sea and go north? To go to Spain ? I used to want to travel, to go to a place where people had yellow hair, to see whole forests of trees. Cross the oceans, learn other languages. I told Ayesha that I would even like to taste dog, or swine. She thought I was showing off, but it was true, once I would have liked to try things.
I’m excited, full of energy and purpose. I can do anything. I can understand Fhassin, standing in the street with his razor, laughing. It is worth it, anything is worth it for this feeling of being alive. I have been jessed, I’ve been asleep for a long time.
There are people on Mbarek’s street. I stand in front of the house across the street. What am I going to say if someone opens the door? I’m waiting to meet a friend . What if they don’t leave, what if Akhmim sees them and doesn’t come out? The sun bakes my hair, my head. Akhmim, where are you? Look out the window . He’s probably waiting on the mistress. Maybe there is a bismek party and those women are poisoning Akhmim. They could do anything, they own him. I want to crouch in the street and cover my head in my hands, rock and cry like a widow woman from the Nekropolis. Like my mother must have done when my father died. I grew up without a father, maybe that’s why I’m wild. Maybe that’s why Fhassin is in prison and I’m headed there. I pull my veil up so my face is shadowed. So no one can see my tears.
Oh, my head. Am I drunk? Am I insane? Has the Holy One, seeing my thoughts, driven me mad?
I look at my brown hands. I cover my face.
“Hariba?” He takes my shoulders.
I look up at him, his beautiful familiar face, and I’m stricken with terror. What is he? What am I trusting my life, my future to? O Holy One, I’m afraid. What if I die?
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Are you ill?”
“I’m going insane,” I say. “I can’t stand it, Akhmim, I can’t go back to my room-”
“Hush,” he says, looking up the street and down. “You have to. I’m only a harni . I can’t do anything, I can’t help you.”
“We have to go. We have to go away somewhere, you and I.”
He shakes his head. “Hariba, please. You must hush.”
“We should be free,” I say. My head hurts very badly. The tears keep coming, even though I’m not really crying.
“I can’t be free,” he says. “That was just talk.”
“I have to go now,” I say. “I’m jessed, Akhmim. It’s hard, but if I don’t go now, I’ll never go.”
“But you said you’ll get sick,” he says.
“I can’t live this way,” I say, and it is true. If I don’t do something, I’ll die.
“Your mistress-”
“DON’T TALK ABOUT HER!” I shout. If he talks about her, I won’t be able to leave.
He looks around again. We are a spectacle, a man and a woman arguing on the street.
“Come with me, we’ll go somewhere, talk,” I say, all honey. He can’t deny me, I see it in his face. He has to get off the street. He’d go anywhere. Any place is safer than this.
He lets me take him into the train, down the stairs to the platform. I clutch my indigo veil tight at my throat. We wait in silence. He has his hands in his pockets. He looks like a boy from the Nekropolis, standing there in just his shirt, no outer robe. He looks away, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, ill at ease. Human. Events are making him more human. Taking away all his certainties.
“What kind of genes are in you?” I ask.
“What?” he asks.
“What kind of genes?”
“Are you asking for my chart?” he says.
I shake my head. “Human?”
He shrugs. “Mostly. Some artificial sequences.”
“No animal genes,” I say. I sound irrational because I can’t get clear what I mean. The headache makes my thoughts skip, my tongue thick.
He smiles a little. “No dogs, no
I’m excited, full of energy and purpose. I can do anything. I can understand Fhassin, standing in the street with his razor, laughing. It is worth it, anything is worth it for this feeling of being alive. I have been jessed, I’ve been asleep for a long time.
There are people on Mbarek’s street. I stand in front of the house across the street. What am I going to say if someone opens the door? I’m waiting to meet a friend . What if they don’t leave, what if Akhmim sees them and doesn’t come out? The sun bakes my hair, my head. Akhmim, where are you? Look out the window . He’s probably waiting on the mistress. Maybe there is a bismek party and those women are poisoning Akhmim. They could do anything, they own him. I want to crouch in the street and cover my head in my hands, rock and cry like a widow woman from the Nekropolis. Like my mother must have done when my father died. I grew up without a father, maybe that’s why I’m wild. Maybe that’s why Fhassin is in prison and I’m headed there. I pull my veil up so my face is shadowed. So no one can see my tears.
Oh, my head. Am I drunk? Am I insane? Has the Holy One, seeing my thoughts, driven me mad?
I look at my brown hands. I cover my face.
“Hariba?” He takes my shoulders.
I look up at him, his beautiful familiar face, and I’m stricken with terror. What is he? What am I trusting my life, my future to? O Holy One, I’m afraid. What if I die?
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Are you ill?”
“I’m going insane,” I say. “I can’t stand it, Akhmim, I can’t go back to my room-”
“Hush,” he says, looking up the street and down. “You have to. I’m only a harni . I can’t do anything, I can’t help you.”
“We have to go. We have to go away somewhere, you and I.”
He shakes his head. “Hariba, please. You must hush.”
“We should be free,” I say. My head hurts very badly. The tears keep coming, even though I’m not really crying.
“I can’t be free,” he says. “That was just talk.”
“I have to go now,” I say. “I’m jessed, Akhmim. It’s hard, but if I don’t go now, I’ll never go.”
“But you said you’ll get sick,” he says.
“I can’t live this way,” I say, and it is true. If I don’t do something, I’ll die.
“Your mistress-”
“DON’T TALK ABOUT HER!” I shout. If he talks about her, I won’t be able to leave.
He looks around again. We are a spectacle, a man and a woman arguing on the street.
“Come with me, we’ll go somewhere, talk,” I say, all honey. He can’t deny me, I see it in his face. He has to get off the street. He’d go anywhere. Any place is safer than this.
He lets me take him into the train, down the stairs to the platform. I clutch my indigo veil tight at my throat. We wait in silence. He has his hands in his pockets. He looks like a boy from the Nekropolis, standing there in just his shirt, no outer robe. He looks away, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, ill at ease. Human. Events are making him more human. Taking away all his certainties.
“What kind of genes are in you?” I ask.
“What?” he asks.
“What kind of genes?”
“Are you asking for my chart?” he says.
I shake my head. “Human?”
He shrugs. “Mostly. Some artificial sequences.”
“No animal genes,” I say. I sound irrational because I can’t get clear what I mean. The headache makes my thoughts skip, my tongue thick.
He smiles a little. “No dogs, no
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