ten
■ ■ ■
This is the design of the Maker: Woman is put into man’s care. He is to treasure her, protect her, cherish her sons. He should ask nothing of her that is not her proper duty.
—Fourteenth Homily, The Book of the Second Prophet
Zahra took what Asa brought, went alone into her cramped office, and shut the door. She dropped her cap and veil on the extra chair and sat behind her desk. It was empty except for her reader and a neat stack of discs and handwritten notes. Zahra laid Iris’s discs, still in their plastic sleeve, in the very center. They were silver circles with purple bands, the patients’ names hand-printed in white on tiny blue labels. Zahra could read them clearly through the translucent envelope.
A. Maris. T. Maris.
A terrible lassitude seized Zahra as she stared at them, a weariness that spread from her spine outward, tugging her shoulders down, weighing at her eyelids. She stared at her fingers lying limply, reluctantly, beside the discs.
Asa, faithful Asa, had handed over the discs with an air of triumph, of having overcome all obstacles, solved all difficulties. But Zahra sensed, deep in her soul, an awesome change in the pattern of her life.
Kalen’s frantic pleas for her daughter had begun it. And Rabi’s frightened eyes when she came for her exam, those wide, uncomprehending, vulnerable eyes. They only resembled Ishi’s in their innocence, but that was enough. They were children still, Ishi and Rabi. Zahra had no more power over Ishi’s future than Kalen did over Rabi’s, and the idea was unbearable.
“O Maker,” Zahra muttered. “What journey begins here?”
She picked up the plastic sleeve and turned it over. The little silver discs spilled into her palm.
Lili stared as Zahra, freshly showered, put on a clean dress instead of a nightgown. A veil lay ready on her dressing table.
“Are you going out, Medicant?”
Zahra had felt the anah’s eyes on her all the afternoon, and no wonder. As she brushed her hair before the mirror, she saw that her face was pale, her shadowed eyes darkened to indigo.
Ishi had been affected, too, hardly leaving her side the whole day. She had followed her every step as if afraid to let her out of sight. Ishi was tucked into bed now, her brown eyes anxious. Zahra bent to kiss her, letting her lips linger on the smooth cheek. She pressed another kiss on Ishi’s fragrant hair.
Ishi seized her hand. “Zahra, it’s late! Where are you going? What’s wrong?”
Zahra tried to smile down at her, forcing her stiff features to curve. “I’m going to see Qadir, Ishi,” she murmured gently.
“But—” Ishi began.
Lili interrupted. “Ishi, hush!” She came to fuss with Ishi’s pillow, her quilt. “Married people must sometimes have time just for each other!”
Ishi fell silent, fingers clutching her flowered quilt.
Lili bustled to the dressing table, and then to Zahra with a bottle of scent in her hand. She touched the stopper to one finger, and stroked the perfume on Zahra’s throat and wrists. “This is good, Zahra,” she murmured, “that you go to Qadir without being asked. This is good.”
Zahra had no answer. She settled her veil over her head, buttoned the verge, adjusted the pleats of the drape. On a rare impulse, she bent to embrace her anah. “Always the optimist, Lili,” she whispered.
“What? What was that?” Lili asked.
Zahra only shook her head. She looked back at Ishi, the girl sitting up now, her slender brows drawn sharply together and her little pointed chin creased.
“Sleep now, Ishi,” Zahra said. “I’ll be back soon.”
She felt their eyes on her back, one pair worried, one hopeful, as she went out. She couldn’t explain to them, nor was there any point. There was no one to help her carry this burden.
■ ■ ■
The look of pure pleasure on Qadir’s face when he saw Zahra stabbed her with remorse. He came quickly in answer to her knock, obviously still working, though he had his dressing gown on. His brusque “Yes?” was cut off, and his fierce frown, behind half-rim glasses, immediately transformed into a smile of welcome. He seized her hand and drew her into the brightly lit room, dropping his glasses into his pocket.
How was it, she wondered, that she could so rarely bring him joy? And now, when he assumed so willingly that she had come here for his sake, how could she disappoint him again?
“Zahra,” he exclaimed. “I can’t remember the last time . . .” He hurried to turn off his desk reader, and to dim the lights. He pushed his chair under the desk, signifying his instant readiness to put an end to the day’s work. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m glad to see you.”
Qadir came to put his arms gently around her. As always, he smelled of fragrant soap, and his lean face was clean-shaven. The silk of his dressing gown was smooth and cool on her cheek.
“Qadir,” she began.
He put his brown finger against her verge, silencing her. His eyes were bright, slightly bloodshot, crinkled now with his smile. “Shh,” he said. “A wife hardly needs to explain why she comes to see her husband!”
He unbuttoned her verge and lifted her cap and veil from her head, running his fingers down the cascade of her hair to the small of her back. His palm found the curve of her buttock and caressed it with gentle appreciation. In the circle of his arms, Zahra bowed her head and shut her eyes tightly.
For Kalen, for Rabi. She would try. She would try to please Qadir. Slowly, she lifted her arms to put them around his lean waist. His body pressed against hers, instantly ready, and his breath came quickly against her neck.
Zahra felt a flicker of something, a warming, a response in her own body. But when Qadir led her to his bed, drew back the sheets, and pulled her down beside him, the image of Rabi, being pressed down just so by Binya Maris, sprang unwelcome into her mind. The faint flame of her desire sputtered and died.
Zahra tried. She forced herself. She pretended. But she felt nothing.
■ ■ ■
Afterward, Zahra knew she would have to wait until morning. She left Qadir’s room only after he had fallen asleep. She covered him with his blankets and turned off the lights before she slipped out, unveiled, back to her own bedroom. She showered a second time before she went to bed.
In the morning she took care with her appearance, and she asked Lili to take Ishi to the kitchen for her breakfast. Lili glowed approval of this evident wish to be alone with Qadir. She fussed over Zahra’s dress, brushed her hair for her, hurried Ishi away. Zahra watched them go as she fastened her rill over her nose and mouth. She checked the mirror to ensure that she was a model of feminine propriety. Foolishly, as if it would help, she used a little of the perfume Lili placed such faith in.
When breakfast had been served to her and to Qadir, she addressed Asa and Diya. “I must speak alone with the director,” she said. Diya stiffened, frowning, but Asa moved as quickly as he was able to the door of the dayroom, holding it open for the secretary, making it hard for him to refuse.
Qadir lifted one eyebrow and smiled at Zahra. “You’re bent on surprising me, it seems,” he said. When the door had closed firmly behind the others, he took her hand and brought it briefly to his lips. “I like this side of you, my Zahra,” he murmured.
She bent her head. She had not yet unfastened her verge, and she deliberately raised her eyes to his, knowing how large and vivid her eyes could be above the creamy silk. “I need your help, Qadir,” she said in a very low tone. “I’m desperate.”
Qadir’s smile faded immediately, and his eyes hardened. He did not drop her hand, but laid it down on the table with delicate finality. “And so,” he said, slowly, as if it hurt him to speak. “You came to me last night to prepare me.”
Zahra felt her cheeks flame. “No, Qadir, no, I did not,” she protested. “You must believe me. I came to speak to you, and then you—you were so pleased to see me. . . .”
Zahra saw her husband’s eyes flicker, and his gaze left hers, wandering to the windows that looked out over the drooping mock roses. A muscle moved under the skin of his jaw, and he reached into his pocket for his glasses. Some instinct kept her silent at that moment, kept her waiting.
Qadir took a ragged breath. “It’s true, Zahra,” he said. “I was pleased. I hoped—well, never mind. I must often seem a fool to you.”
Zahra answered him swiftly. “Never,” she breathed. “You have never, Qadir, not once in our nineteen years together, seemed a fool to me.”
He brought his eyes back to hers. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then he gave her a bleak smile. “Well, my dear,” he said. “Now that we understand each other. What is it that you need from me? What is making you desperate?”
Zahra felt Qadir’s pain as well as her own. She wished she could have waited, found another time, somehow not hurt him in this way. But Rabi’s cession was less than fifteen days away. She took a deep breath and began.“Qadir. Gadil has ceded Rabi to Binya Maris.”
Qadir watched her, waiting.
“Binya Maris has had two wives already. Both died.”
“Yes?”
“He—he hurt them, Qadir. One died of her injuries, and one—she was only sixteen—she ran away, and when they caught her, she went to the cells.” “Of course I know that Maris’s second wife died in the cells, Zahra,” Qadir said. “It was a terrible thing. But we can’t have women fleeing their duties, any more than we can have young men running from the mines.” He took off his glasses again and rubbed them on the napkin beside his plate. After a moment, he said, “Except for that, these are only rumors. There were no charges against Maris. We don’t know anything.”
“I do, Qadir.” Zahra clenched her hands together in her lap. “1 found out.”
Qadir frowned deeply at her, replacing his glasses. He passed his hand over his bare scalp. “How could you find out?”
She forced her hands apart, and brought them up to the table to lie, palms up, before her. “A sister medicant has informed me. I’ve seen the files, I know what happened. In detail.”
The familiar distaste flickered across Qadir’s narrow features. Zahra held her tongue. She mustn’t say anything to drive Qadir further away from her.
There was an extended silence before he spoke again. “Zahra, I have a feeling you’ve broken some rule, but I’ll let it pass. I know you’re concerned for Rabi.” He folded his arms and regarded her. “In truth, Zahra, so am I. Actually, I spoke to Gadil—1 asked him if he couldn’t find a husband more suitable for his daughter. Someone without such—such a history.”
“Oh, Qadir,” Zahra breathed. “What did he say?”
Qadir sighed. “He said it was already done, all arranged. Gadil married very late, and he’s eager to see Rabi settled.”
“Settled!” Zahra cried bitterly.
“So he said. And Binya Maris is a team leader, outside of my authority. The problem is that no complaint was filed.”
“There was no one to file it!” Zahra hissed. “He killed his first wife with his fists and his feet—he smashed her larynx, and she couldn’t breathe, and he let her suffocate rather than get her to a medicant!”
“Zahra!” Qadir snapped.
“And the other one! Who listens to a sixteen-year-old runaway girl? No one would listen, and he let them put her in the cells! Do you know whathappens to people put in the cells? They die of exposure, of terrible thirst! Their tongues are so dry they cling to their cheeks, and close their throats! It hurts, that death, Qadir, they die slowly, horribly, without—”
“Zahra!” he said again. “Insulting me with these details will not help!” Zahra pressed her shaking hands to her mouth, and shook her head, hard. “I know, and I’m sorry, Qadir—forgive me! You must! I’m beside myself with fear for Rabi, and sorrow for Kalen. Can’t you help me, somehow? Help us? Help poor Rabi?”
Qadir stood, and reached out for Zahra’s hands. He pulled her to her feet. Her eyes were dry, but she trembled. Qadir drew her against him, patting her shoulders, stroking her back.
“My dear,” he said softly. “I wish I could do something. I’ve already risked offense to Gadil by questioning his choices for his own family. There’s nothing more I can do.”
“Rabi—Qadir, Rabi’s only a year older than Ishi! Please, try to imagine— imagine Ishi with Binya Maris! He’s an animal, a leptokis!” It was the worst thing she could think of to call him. She wished he were a leptokis that she could exterminate without a thought. She was suddenly seized by a deep, dark rage that made her whole body blaze with heat, then shiver with cold.
Qadir released her and stepped back. “You must trust me, Zahra, that I would never allow a member of my household to be placed in such a situation. Ishi is mine to protect, and I will protect her, always. I swear it.” Zahra said icily, “But who will protect Rabi?”
“It’s out of our hands.” Qadir dropped his napkin beside his untouched breakfast. “We must trust in the One. Ishi is in our care, but Rabi is not.” Zahra watched Qadir pick up his case and his cap from the sideboard, straighten his tunic, turn to leave. There was nothing else she could say. There was no plea she could make.
At the door of the dayroom, he looked back at her. “Zahra, you must leave it as it is.” His voice was gentle, and his face, although stern, was not angry. “I don’t want you involved.”
“But Kalen is my friend,” Zahra said through frozen lips. “I’m already involved.”
“I don’t want Medicant Zahra IbSada involved,” Qadir ordered. “You’re the wife of the chief director. Remember that I’m responsible for you. What you do reflects on me, on my household, and on my office. Is that clear?” Zahra stared at him, and didn’t answer. Qadir crossed the room to her, to kiss her forehead, and then he was gone.