“That’s different. It’s not just a question of age. I have explored the world and have come back to settle. You are seeing it for the first time. I think you have come back to say good-bye. Do you see yourself being happy here?”

I cannot see beyond today well enough to answer this question. I cannot see beyond the confused longing I have felt since the first day he came to visit.

We sit in silence for an eternity.

“We must go back now,” he says. I need to say something in my defense, to make our togetherness last longer, but I cannot find any words. He turns to me and when I meet his gaze he pulls my face to his and our lips touch and cling for a moment, so gentle. I fold into his arms and feel relief as his body curls around me. Forever. Please be forever.

“I have a great deal of love for you,” he says, and pulls away. He runs his hand down my flushed cheeks. “I want you very much. I want to make love to you and to spend every minute that remains in my life with you.”

I want to stop this chain of events, to kiss his face, his eyes, his hands, but it is as though I’ve been struck dumb. I cannot find my words anywhere. He starts the car and we drive down, back through the haze and the peopled streets, none of the shouting in my head reaching my lips.

PART FOUR

PART FOUR

33 HALA Naked Underneath

33HALANaked Underneath

In the name of God, the benevolent, the merciful,” I repeat until the plane is off the ground.

My father argued with me the whole time I was getting dressed to leave. (His decision to let me go back to America broke his dam of silence and we spent our final time together on very friendly terms.) “Why must you wear that? You know it is not appropriate. You are not going to a village or for a visit to someone. You are flying to America! Miss Modern Lady Who Had Almost No Interest In Dresses Until Today, why can’t you wear your beloved jeans like you do all the time?”

It was endless, but no argument worked. I am wearing a roza that my grandmother made for my mother as part of her trousseau. My mother wore mostly western clothes—skirts and shirts or western dresses—but at home she liked dishdashes and this roza. I remember her wearing it and being happy. It is not a fancy one, but the pattern is clever and it suits me. I even imagine it still carries her scent. (I don’t tell anyone that it is so hot that underneath it I am wearing only underwear—not a T-shirt and shalwar pants as my mother would wear.)