He peers at me, then murmurs something,kaishta, I think. I have no idea what the word means, and I don’t have a chance to ask before he says, “What’s your name?”
“Elise.”
“I’m Mati.” His accent makes the syllables sound likepitter-patterraindrops:Mati. Gentle, genial, a name that clashes with his ruggedness,his solemnness. He climbs up a step and leans forward to pat my dog. “And who is this?”
“Bambi.”
The slight curve of his mouth pulls into a genuine smile. “Like the little deer?”
“Yep. My three-year-old niece named her. Watch a lot of Disney movies, do you?”
“Among others. They help me with my English.Bambimight be a secret favorite, though.”
And I’m grinning, just like that.
My dog lets out an impatient whine, and Mati gestures up the stairs, toward town. “Do you need to go?”
“Oh—yeah.” And then I just turn away, like the freak show I apparently am, and start up the stairs. No goodbye, not even a parting glance. Bambi trots after me, snuffling my legs like,What the heck are you doing?
“Elise?”
My heart cartwheels as I turn to the sound of his voice.
He’s regarding me with an expression like indecision, like he’s not ready to say goodbye but knows he probably should. His eyes are spectacular—gilded, almost luminous. “I’ll be here tomorrow. Look for me.” And then, with uncertainty, “Yes?”
I wait a moment before responding, reluctant to sound too eager, though my answer requires zero deliberation. “Yes.”
MATI
Devout Muslims pray five times a day.
In the early morning,
I pray before the sun crests the horizon.
I pray midday, too,
when noon has passed its pinnacle.
I pray in the afternoon,
hours before darkness,
and at twilight,
while the sky is lavender and sunless.
I pray at night,
under a dusting of stars.
Prayer is like a song:
melody, refrain, concentrated rhythm.
A recitation of verses from the Quran,
a chorus of voices praising Allah.
