Page 213 - A Woman Is No Man

Isra wondered if Sarah was serving the Turkish coffee first on purpose,
the way she had done years ago, or if she really didn’t know better. “Just
arrange the teacups on a serving tray,” Isra said. “I’ll brew the chai.”

Sarah leaned against the counter, arranging glass cups on a serving tray.
Isra counted them in her head: Fareeda. Khaled. The suitor. His mother. His
father. Five in total.
“Here,” she said, handing Sarah a tray of sesame cookies. “Go serve
these while I pour the tea.”
Sarah stood frozen in the kitchen doorway. Isra wished she could do
something to help her. But this was the way of life, she told herself. There

was nothing she could do about it. Her powerlessness even comforted her
somehow. Knowing that she couldn’t change things—that she didn’t have a
choice—made living it more bearable. She realized she was a coward, but
she also knew a person could only do so much. She couldn’t change
centuries of culture on her own, and neither could Sarah. “Come on,” she
whispered, nudging Sarah down the hall. “They’re waiting for you.”

That night, Isra couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that

Sarah would be gone soon. She wondered if they would still be friends after
she left, if Sarah would be able to visit still, if she would miss her. She
wondered if she would ever read again. Isra had grown enough now to
know that the world hurt less when you weren’t hoping. She had even
started to think that perhaps her books had done more harm than good,
waking her up to the reality of her life and its imperfections. Maybe she
would have been better without them. All they had done was stir up false

hope. Still, the possibility of a life without books was far worse.
In the sala the next day, Fareeda waited for the suitor’s mother to call
and announce her son’s decision. Isra flinched every time the phone rang—
at least half a dozen times in the course of the afternoon. She studied
Fareeda’s expression as she answered each call, a rush of panic rising in her.
Sarah alone seemed undisturbed. She sat cross-legged on the sofa, her face

in a book, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
The phone rang again, and Fareeda rushed to answer it. Isra watched as
she muttered a lively salaam into the phone, noticed how quickly she fell
quiet. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth hung open as she listened, but she
didn’t say a word. Isra bit her fingers.