In the Language of Miracles

by Rajia Hassib

  For the hundredth time in a week he reminded himself that no one could play by such rules, that Ehsan might have believed whatever she wanted to believe, but that some things were simply out of humans’ control. But then, as the plane climbed higher, it occurred to him that perhaps she had, in fact, managed to do things her way after all. She had died on the dawn of a Friday, at the time when angels come down to earth and bless those who are awake early in devotion to God. She had been buried that same day, in accordance with Islamic tradition; a swift interring that was the best preservation of the dignity of the dead. And, as his mother had described, her voice cracking over the phone, Ehsan had been ready for burial precisely in time for the Friday prayer, and her funeral service was performed not only by her family and friends, but by thousands and thousands of people who had flocked to the mosque for the weekly midday prayer and, finding a funeral service in progress, had rushed to perform the prayer that begged for mercy for those who have died and those who will eventually join them. Khaled, listening to his mother describe the scene, saw the prayer rugs spread in rows out on the streets and heard the whispers of attendees wondering who was this woman, lucky enough to die on the holy day and have that many people pray for her, a sure sign of her virtue. This, he was certain, would have pleased Ehsan immensely.

  But perhaps he was wrong again. Perhaps the success of Ehsan’s rules of life lay not in the time and manner of her death, but in the fact that he, sitting in an airplane high above the Atlantic, understood perfectly well what those rules entailed and still felt an insurmountable urge to go back to a country he could hardly remember, a country he felt he had never truly known. Samir was partially right, of course: flying back to Egypt two weeks after the funeral was futile, and traveling there during the Arab Spring was probably foolish, especially for a quasi-Egyptian who spoke Arabic with an American accent.

  Yet to Ehsan, who believed that the dead boasted of their visitors, such a journey would have made perfect sense. And he would go visit her grave. He would sit by it and talk to her, just as he used to see her do by the grave of his grandfather. He imagined himself sitting in the cemetery and talking to a tombstone in broken Arabic, and he chuckled. But he would do it. And he could almost hear her, boasting, trying not to sound too prideful, exclaiming, “See? My grandson flew all the way here from America to visit me. He can barely speak two Arabic words, the poor boy (though Allah be my witness, I did try to teach him), but he still knows enough to come here and sit by my grave, to try and recite the Qur’an with his heavy American accent. I taught him well, didn’t I?” And Khaled would tell Ehsan, and whoever else listened, that he still kept some of her incense tucked in one of his drawers, that he still gravitated toward the trays of stuffed grape leaves in Mediterranean restaurants, that he still thought of her often, and that, when he did, he saw her cooking. He saw himself walking into his parents’ house to the smell of eggplant musakkah and cold beef with gravy, of white buttered rice and molokheyya spiced with garlic and coriander, of hot, minted tea and mehallabeyya for dessert. And he still imagined she walked around at night, after everyone was asleep, twirling her incense holder, letting the fragrant smoke fill the air, reminding him that he was not alone.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I owe my entire professional existence to Jane Hill, my mentor and friend, who gave me the confidence to call myself a writer and the means to make it all happen. She believed in me long before I believed in myself, and for that she has my eternal gratitude and love.

  Sincere thanks and an abundance of hugs go to the incredibly generous Marie Manilla, who led me by the hand through the first drafts of this novel and who continues to guide me in everything that has to do with the writing life.

  I still smile with joy whenever I remember that Lynn Nesbit is my agent, a fact that proves I am one of the luckiest people alive and that certainly tips the scale toward the probability of miracles actually happening.

  Ann Beattie, the instigator of miracles, has my sincere thanks for her unmatched kindness.

  I am forever indebted to Allison Lorentzen, my editor, for believing in this novel and for her guidance and ardent support.

  Many thanks go to John Van Kirk both for his writing advice and for pointing out the fascinating ending of The Arabian Nights.

  Thank you, Zohreh T. Sullivan, for encouragement when I needed it most.

  My friends and former professors: Michael Householder, Whitney Douglas, and Kelli Prejean, and, of course, my amazing fellow teaching assistants for those two crazy years: Anna Rollins, Cat Staley, David Robinson, John Chirico, and Sarah Krause—thank you all for making me feel like I belong.

  I am humbled by the support of the following incredibly gifted poets and writers: Bob Hill, Mary Moore, Carrie Oeding, Rachael Peckham, Eric Smith, and Art Stringer.

  Thank you, Crystal Canterbury, for always being there for me and my kids and for having a pure, pure heart.

  My Egyptian friends, too many to list: German school alumni, architects, musicians—thank you all for the cheering that spans the globe and for the gift of lasting friendship.

  Two of my childhood English teachers hold a special place in my heart: Hoda Hamdy for visiting me when I was sick and explaining the week’s lessons to me while I lay on the sofa in my parents’ living room, and Amal El-Nayal for years of guidance and inspiration.

  • • •

  Finally, my love and gratitude go to:

  My family in the United States: my husband for decades of love, for his unflinching support, and for the gift of freedom; my kids for being who they are.

  And my family in Egypt: my father for his unconditional love and constant encouragement, my sister for her prayers, and my mother—for placing that first book in my hands, for being the first to take my writing seriously, and for a lifetime of giving. Habibti Mama: I miss you with every single breath.

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