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didn’t mean anything, just that he’s always so critical. Look, Osama, you know I love you. You know that. But you’re forever disapproving. You make it seem that you feel superior to all of us.”
    I took a deep breath, tried to sound measured and contrite. “From now on, I will watch what comes out of my mouth.”
    Lina grabbed me by the arm and pulled me aside. “Walk.” We walked past the guard and down the hall. “Speak,” she said.
    “I’m fine. What gets me is the ‘You’ve become American’ part. That’s what everyone says instead of ‘You’re fucked up.’ They might as well say they hate me.”
    My sister burst out laughing. “Sweetheart, you’re such a treasure. They don’t hate you.” She began to walk me back to the room, a mother hen who instinctively knew she’d been away from her chicks for too long. “They hate me . You’re not that important.” She chuckled. “You’ve lived in America for twenty-five years, what are you supposed to become? An orangutan? They’re just saying you’re different.”
    “I was different before I left here. And so are you.”
    “Of course. Me they call the crazy one. They called my mother the bitch. You’re just the American.”

    And on the sixth night, Khayal said, “My lovely. We are but a day away from your destination. I fear I have little time, and I regret how much I wasted of it. It seems that I do not have the ability to charm you, nor have I any skills in seduction. Let me try to convince you by telling you the story of the poet and Aslam.”
    “I love stories.”
    “This is a well-known story, which I have read in Ibn Hazm’s treatise on love, The Ring of the Dove . In the Arab lands of Andalusia, there was a literary man, Ahmad ben Kulaib al-Nahawi, a poet of great stature, well known for his verse, especially his poems about Aslam, the boy whose name means ‘to surrender.’ Students from all over Córdoba went to al-Nahawi’s house to study with him. The boy was one of the students. He was beautiful, refined, well read, earnest, and talented. The teacher fell in love with the student, and soon patience deserted the once-stoic man. He began to recite love poems to him. Tongues wagged. His witty verses of surrender to Aslam were repeated at gatherings in the red city.
    “When Aslam heard of the gossip, he stopped visiting his mentor, cut off all classes of any kind. He restricted himself to his house and his stoop. The teacher stopped teaching, did nothing other than walk the street in front of Aslam’s house, hoping for a furtive glimpse of his beloved. The dust of his footsteps rose every day and settled only in the evening. Aslam no longer sat on his stoop in daylight. After sunsetprayers, when darkness melded into the evening light, overpowering it, Aslam would venture just under the doorjamb for his fresh air.
    “When he could no longer lay eyes upon beauty, the poet resorted to guile. One evening, he donned the robes of peasants, covered his head the way they did, took chickens in one hand and a basket of eggs in the other. He approached Aslam, kissed his hand, and said, ‘I have come to you, my lord, to deliver this food.’
    “ ‘And who might you be?’ Aslam asked.
    “ ‘I am your servant, my lord. I work for you at the farm.’
    “Aslam invited the man into his home, asked him to sit for tea, had his slaves take the eggs and chickens into the kitchen. He asked the poet whether the farm was in good shape. The poet replied that all went well. But when Aslam began to ask about the farmers and their families, the poet could not answer.
    “And Aslam looked beneath the disguise and saw his nemesis. ‘O brother,’ he said. ‘Have you no shame? Have you no compassion? I am no longer able to attend classes. I have not left my house for the longest time. Is it not enough that I am unable to sit on my own doorstep during the day? You have deprived me of everything that gives me comfort. You have turned me into a