Chapter 3

MARYAM

December 29, 1996

He stumbled to the bedroom and undressed in the darkness. Maryam had heard his keys and spare change jingling. She turned on the light next to their bed.

“What time is it?” she asked in a wave of fatigue.

“It’s one in the morning. Shhh. Go to sleep. Turn off the light.”

“Then how will you undress?”

“I can undress fine.”

He crawled into the bed beside her. Maryam turned off the light.

“You’ve been drinking again. I can smell it.”

“I know. I know. I shouldn’t, but business is so rough these days. Everyone’s out to get me.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Sure, why not.”

She felt his arm sliding underneath her back.

“How’s the baby?” he asked.

“Mustafa is such a beautiful child. When you were gone, I just held him, and he burped, can you believe it? His first burp. He cried a little, so I made him some warm milk, and then he slept in my arms. I kept thinking how great this child will be, and yet now he’s so helpless. He needs me, and more than anything, he needs you too.”

“I’ll spend some time with him tomorrow. We have plenty of time.”

“But you must cut out the drinking. What would Mustafa say about the drinking?”

“He’s not old enough yet. Give me some time. I could drop it any time if I wanted to, it’s just that things at work have gotten really out of hand.”

“Like what? What’s happening?”

“Oh Maryam it’s too technical for you ... Listen, I was wondering, do you need anymore money for the baby? I know we need tons of food, and it’s important we get a pediatrician. Doesn’t he need to have his shots and stuff? That’s what the bavasaab said.”

“I’m taking care of all that,” she said. “Oh how I love it when you talk responsibly.”

“I’m a very responsible man.”

Maryam rolled into him, and the two snuggled for a bit. Queresh then kissed her lips and messaged her back.

“Oh that feels good, Queresh. I’m still so tired and grumpy from the flight...”

“So am I.”

Queresh knew it risky, but he slid his hands down to her breasts. Maryam removed them.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I’m not ready.”

“Ready for what? I’m not doing anything.”

“You know exactly what you’re doing. You’re trying to seduce me.”

“Is it a crime? Seducing your own wife?”

“I’m not ready. I’m just not ready. I know we’ve had our troubles, and now these troubles seem to be over, but I’m not ready. It doesn’t feel right.”

“When will it feel right?” demanded Queresh.

She lay in silence. Sex, after the miscarriage and loathsome depression did not appeal to her. She had escaped just barely from the torment of a personal hell, a mental journey where one travels alone, without any defense. When she emerged from that living and breathing nightmare, she freed herself of complications, even the complications of pleasure. She had been so alone in that journey. She had trouble associating with other people, even her own husband. At one point she slept for nearly fifteen hours a day. How blissful sleep becomes, not only for purposes of rest, but for purposes of avoidance. Maryam never spoke of her journey to anyone, not even her appointed psychiatrists, and yet such a journey, even after being pulled out of it, consumed her thoughts and affected her simplest behaviors.

She felt a foreign hand on her breast and immediately removed it. She could think only of protecting her small baby from the encroaching elements of that hell. It’s not the case that life appears rosy after a walk through hell. Even after the walk, even after the stale coldness and the unmerciful heat which freezes and scathes the soul, hell still appears in the rains which fall, in the snow which sways plaintively, in the winds which burn and bite. The journey returns in the form of its apparitions. Elements of that hell reappear in the faces of men, in the night skyscrapers, and with a foreign hand on her breast.