Madame talked only to me. "You don't have to do that. I'm in charge of her. I can buy her a big bag."

"It's OK, I wasn't using it."

"I'm in charge of her. I was going to buy her a big bag next year, when her contract is up. But, here it's in the way. The children can't get to their closet."

I went with Madame to drink water from the bottles that we had filled before bed. In the hallway, the ironing sat in piles, and the iron balanced neatly on its board, where Nisrine had left it.

Madame gave me her bottle to hold. "Look, Bea, it's still plugged in, do you see that? She's dangerous. She wants to kill us. First the gas, then this." She unplugged the iron.

I said, "It was off. It was plugged in, but it was off."

"You don't understand because you don't have children. Maybe someday you'll understand. I have a responsibility to be safe. You see how before we eat, I wash the parsley with iodine? That's to kill the toxins, to be safe, they put sewage on the parsley, they irrigate with sewage here. I don't know when I'm not looking if she really washes the parsley, or maybe sometimes she mistakes iodine for bleach, I don't know with her anymore. I can't trust her." Madame shook her head. "You don't have children, Bea. You don't know what it takes to build a family, and then some stranger comes and messes it up."

Madame had wanted Nisrine to leave. She had complained ever since she and Baba brought her back. But, she wanted Nisrine to leave on her terms.

Nisrine had loved a policeman, and he had fought Baba, and this, we worried, had been the last straw, it decided Baba about the doc.u.ment. If he was going to fight, then it would be for signing, something he was proud of.

Madame found she could do nothing about this. Adel had fought because Nisrine wanted to leave, and now Baba had gone to sign, which meant he would be in more danger.

It was not just Nisrine's fault: if Baba signed, that was his choice, not hers, not mine, not Adel's.

About a bag, Madame could do something.

I helped Madame drag my bag back into our bedroom and put it high on the top shelf, where you needed a ladder to get to it, for next year, when Nisrine's contract was up and she could leave.

WE DID NOT TRY to talk to Adel; Madame was watching. Though I wanted to, I did not try to talk to Nisrine.

That night, I dreamed of Imad. In my dream, we were both in America, where Imad fit in and spoke perfect English. Here, I stood out with my messy hair and loose jeans, but not Imad. He dressed perfectly and, as I dreamed, he grew with my culture, like Qais who grew into the name Crazy for Leila, or like the small scar on my finger that I got from a scissors when I was young: separate, but a part of me.

I woke in the middle of the night to Baba's hand on my shoulder. "Bea, phone call."

So, he had come back to us. He smelled of smoke and old men.

I untangled myself from Lema's legs and followed Baba, soft as dust, down the hall to the living room, where he handed me the house phone. My father was on the line. He'd tried my number and couldn't get through. He didn't call often. He didn't realize that here, it was two a.m.

On the phone, my father said, "How are things, Bea?"

"Fine."

Baba sat down across from me. In the dark, his hunched back looked like a lone mountain.

My father said, "Your mother says you're thinking you might come home early."

I had been thinking about it. But when he said it, I suddenly didn't want to admit this to him. "Well, there's that reunion."

"That might be a good idea. It sounds like your mother wants you to come home."

I sat near Baba in the dark living room with my legs curled under me. In the United States, my father was making dinner. I could hear him slice tomatoes and grate cheese. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had tomatoes with grated cheese. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was in the United States, with my father. I tried to listen past his words, to the sound of the grating.

He asked, "Why so silent tonight? Is everything OK, Bea?"

If I wanted, I could describe every move my father was making as if I were standing next to him; I'd spent every summer since I was small with him, and I'd watched him make dinner a hundred times this way. But he wanted to talk about how far away we were from each other, and did I miss home? He missed me, did I miss him? So, I stopped pretending we were close and there were no countries between us, and instead I sat on the sofa knowing I was speaking to my father out of nowhere, because he had no idea what this sofa or this city looked like, he would have no idea about what to do with a maid who was unhappy, or a policeman, or a doc.u.ment calling for an end to censorship and free elections; he wouldn't understand these things, like he didn't understand this city.

When I hung up, Baba said, "You're going to leave us, Bea?"

I didn't know what I was going to do. I wanted to ask Baba if he had signed.

I opened my mouth, but he said, "Amal wants me to leave."

"She does?"

"She's worried about my interview. She thinks I went too far, I insulted a policeman." He didn't mention Nisrine's and my connection. "I go to the Journalists' Club; this, too, is dangerous-it's a place for resisters, where we keep the doc.u.ment. Amal worries the police will find this place, I might be taken. I have a sister up north who said I could stay."

North, the place where they had once burned a river.

"Will you go?"

"Here are my people, I stay with my people."

Silence. All around us were dark blobs, the signs of disorganized life at Madame's. Crumbs like black dots on the end table, a pile of laundry, two tea gla.s.ses not in the sink. These were such small, ordinary objects to surround us. They felt like charms. With a pile of undone laundry beside us, how could Baba ever be forced to leave? I closed my eyes, and hoped to charm away trouble.

I thought, Maybe Adel can still help. Maybe there's still time.

Baba said, "You don't talk much about your father, Bea. What does he do?"

"He works in a bank. My mother's a veterinarian."

Baba nodded. "I like animals. Amal doesn't, though."

I already knew this. Madame was always complaining about stray cats that got in.

Baba said, "You know Amal was engaged to my brother?"

"She was?"

Baba nodded. "When I went to jail, he took over my business, but he was a profligate. G.o.d provides for us. When I came back, he'd ruined my business, and he liked many women."

"So, what happened?"

"G.o.d sees everything."

I didn't understand.

"He was young and liked women. Forty days after I came back, they took him to the hospital and he died."

"G.o.d rest him," I said.

"G.o.d rest him."

Baba said, "Amal was very in love with him. Her ident.i.ty card was written in his name. He was in love with her, too, and when he died I brought her the ident.i.ty card and all the papers, and I told her he had pa.s.sed away, and then we began to talk and later I asked if she would like to marry me instead, and she accepted."

I thought of Madame, who liked to skin good meat; who boiled milk, then chilled it to separate the cream, but wouldn't let anyone eat it, because it was fattening; who gathered all the children together to suck the marrow from the bones when she cooked them; who put one bone aside in a plastic bowl for Baba to suck, even though it was cold when he got home. I asked, "Are you and Mama happy together, Baba?"

"We're happy. Amal saved my life. When I came back from jail, I had nothing, no one. She gave me something to set my heart on, to make me feel whole. We've created our own language together." Their own language. I wondered what it was, how they came to decide on certain meanings.

Love: something to set your heart on.

Baba got up. "Well, it's time for bed." He picked up the tea gla.s.ses to leave in the kitchen.

I asked Baba, "You know your interview-"

He looked at me. "He's a donkey, Bea. Remember that. Police are all donkeys. Nisrine should, too, she should remember."

I nodded.

He patted my arm, then sighed. "It doesn't matter, it's nothing. I've been to jail."

It was nothing. Today you were here, tomorrow you took a plane and it all became nothing. Except, Baba and Nisrine couldn't just decide to take a plane, only I could.

"Baba, did you sign the doc.u.ment?"

"Yes."

Silence. After a while, he said, "It's not the interview's fault, Bea. I was going to sign, anyway. I have to, to keep my honor."

Honor, that word again. I had always loved Nisrine and Baba because they were brave, and stuck by their honor. But, I was beginning to realize the sacrifices behind bravery. Sometimes, honor isn't a blessing; sometimes, it comes between you and your family; or you, and all that you love.

"Bea, Bea, Bea," Baba said. "Did you know your name has a special meaning?"

"It does?" I knew my name as a preposition: on, or around, or in.

Baba nodded. "In," he said, "as, In the name of G.o.d,' the first word in the Quran." I was not particularly religious, but I respected religious books. Baba continued, "The Quran is a circular text. That means it keeps returning over and over to the same important points. There are some scholars who say its whole philosophy can be summed up in its first word. Bea: in, inclusive. It evokes a presence with G.o.d and the world, a sense of togetherness."

I stared at Baba. I loved Arabic for its meanings, but I had always thought my name was unimportant. Now, Baba had given it special significance like a new present, or a hidden world. Togetherness. I wanted to live up to my name in this house.

Baba asked, "Have you heard of the poem A Garden Among the Flames,' Bea?"

I had. It was the last poem I had read with Imad, about a man's green heart.

He nodded.

"I'm not surprised, it's quite famous. I know this isn't the most popular way to look at that poem, but I always thought of the garden as a blessing, and a curse."

"Why's that?"

"The man finds his heart is a garden, but you know he had to go through flames to get to it."

I thought about Baba's flames: jail, his lost first family.

I asked, "Do you have a garden, Baba?"

He looked around him. "This is my garden."

At Madame's, we rarely showed affection to men. I had made trouble, here; I had talked to a policeman, and it had led to a fight.

Now, I did what I could. I leaned over and gave Baba a big hug; I could feel the bones of his back through his stiff shirt.

He patted my shoulder. "Thank you, Bea. That means a great deal to me."

It was such a small thing, not even words of encouragement. But it did to me, too.

I remember the first week I lived at Madame's, Baba got his gallbladder removed. He left in the morning. Afterwards, he brought the gallbladder home in a plastic cup for Dounia to play with. It still had its wet blood.

Madame talked about how she wanted to have surgery on her leg next.

"If I did, I would make them put me to sleep. I couldn't do it watching like Ha.s.san did."

After his gallbladder surgery, Baba kept pacing around. He did the dishes.

Madame said, "Ha.s.san, must you tire yourself by pacing? Go lie down," but he wouldn't.

Of course, Baba didn't need to be put to sleep. It is nothing to watch them remove your gallbladder when you have been tortured for ten years. I thought about what Baba once told me, that after jail he knew he could live through anything.

A half hour after coming home from surgery, he didn't need to rest; he paced around and did the dishes, his resiliency the blessing and curse of a man who could live through anything.

Of course. He was always going to sign the doc.u.ment.

I DIDN'T GO BACK TO BED with Lema. I sat up watching the window until Baba fell asleep, wondering how much trouble he was in, and if I should make a plan. Trying to think of one. I needed to talk to Nisrine.

Eventually, I took the cordless phone to the kitchen and, even though it was very late, I called Imad.

"Arabic Hair," Imad said when he answered. This was becoming his nickname for me.

"Were you asleep?" I asked. "Did I wake you?"

"Yes. It's OK, though, I'm glad it's you. For a moment I thought it might be Security."

We both laughed. On the phone this late, his mistake seemed very funny.

Imad asked, "What is it, Bea? You can't sleep?"