She entered one of the coffee shops and sat at a small table in the corner, reading her newspaper and sipping the bitter Turkish qahwa from the small, enameled cup. The boy shot in the riots yesterday had died last night. There were expansions planned for six more settlements, four in the West Bank. The Boutique Shahrazad was announcing another sale on evening gowns.

“May I join you?”

She looked up and saw Linen Blazer bent slightly over her table, staring eagerly at her.

“No.”

With a chuckle, he sat down anyway. He ordered coffee for himself with an imperious wave of his hand. The other men in the café stared at them curiously, stopping their conversations to see who was this Amerkani sitting with the eldest daughter of Doctor Abdallah al-Medani. Aware of their scrutiny, Siham stood up and left.

What an ill-timed first meeting!, she thought to herself now. She’d dismissed him as a self-centered piece of fluff who had become lost among the casinos and dance clubs of America. Thank God he’d sought her out, asked people about her. He came to her parents’ house and entertained her family by bringing boxes of sweets, giving her little sister Nadia rides on his shoulders, and by singing—he had such a deep, wonderful voice. He had especially charmed her mother by complimenting her cooking, the spice in her falafel, and the texture of the laban in her mansaff. One month later, after he and his family had formally asked for her hand in marriage, Siham applied for a visa to the States. Nader had recently become a citizen himself, so she filed happily as “spouse of U.S. citizen.” They were going to wed. To marry. I marry. You marry. We marry.

She strolled toward Ellsworth Avenue and entered the lobby of the Lebanese Maronite church. Inside, Siham saw the two old Lebanese widows who volunteered to clean, polishing pews and vacuuming the dark, wine-colored carpets. Giving their free time to God, good hearts. They reminded her of her mother, who prowled around in her loose housedresses, attacking dust in every corner of their home. She and Nader had talked about eventually sponsoring her entire family to come to the States, because the economy was slipping faster than before and people couldn’t even afford doctors. One of the widows kissed the image of the Virgin Mary as she dusted the base of the statue. Approaching the prayer stand in the foyer, Siham lit three candles, driving the slim, white tapers deep into the sand pile. One for her family, especially her mother, back home. One for Layla, to help her overcome her grief and to have another child soon. The third one for Nader, to keep him safe.

As she walked home, she thought how Nader would smile indulgently at her “voodoo,” as he called it. When they’d first moved into the apartment, she had immediately set about sprinkling chrism on each wall. Mrs. Donato had nodded approvingly when she heard about the incident. “A good, good girl. Fears God,” she’d said. But all Nader had wanted to do was make love in their new bed, though Siham had insisted on first driving a small nail in the wall so that she could hang a charm above their heads. It was a blue glass stone, with an eye painted on it, a charm that hung in every home in Jerusalem. “To ward off the Evil Eye,” she announced proudly, as Nader tugged at her arm, pulled her down.