Free NanoStrike by Pete Barber

and left a message that he’d arrived.
     
    That evening, his uncles and aunts threw a family party in his honor. More than sixty guests crammed into his uncle’s small, whitewashed tenement home and spilled outside into the dusty yard. The kitchen counters were laden with a colorful mezze of olives, warm pita and humus, baba ghanoush, and crisp, fresh salad. Everyone wanted to speak to Abdul, to shake his hand, to impress him with their plans and dreams. His family was big, and loud, and, he thought, wonderful.
    Several young women, blatantly brought as potential mates for their English cousin, stood in a group, shyly sneaking glances at him and giggling behind their hands. His father had warned him this might happen. He successfully avoided them until a second uncle on his father’s side cornered him.
    “Abdul-Haqq, allow me to introduce my daughter, Adiba.” The man enunciated his words slowly and carefully. All night, Abdul had struggled with how fast his family spoke their Arabic. Word of his handicap must have spread.
    In contrast to her father, a squat dark-skinned man with a stubbly chin, Adiba reminded him of a perfect little doll. She wore form-fitting blue jeans and a simple embroidered cotton top. Her head was covered by a hijab —an elegant scarf that framed her face and wrapped around her neck. The fringes of the hijab matched her blouse. Head slightly bowed, she turned large brown eyes up to meet Abdul’s. The effect befuddled him. She held out her hand. Abdul resisted a strong urge to bend and kiss it, something he had never considered doing in his life. Instead, he gave her a formal handshake and felt color rise in his cheeks.
    “I’m pleased to meet you, Adiba.”
    “Adiba is a writer, like you, Abdul-Haqq.” The uncle grinned and showed a row of crooked teeth.
    Adiba gave the man a gentle punch on the arm. “Father, please, don’t.”
    “Well, a young woman should learn a trade in these modern times.”
    Now it was Adiba’s turn to blush. This had been a common theme. His relatives desperately wanted to show they were forward-thinking people.
    Adiba shook her head. “As usual, my father is confused.” She produced a mock frown and wagged a finger in her father’s face as if scolding him. “Abdul-Haqq, I assure you rumors of my writing are greatly exaggerated.”
    Abdul laughed at the cleverness of the comment.
    “Of course, we have met before,” she said. “Like that.” She pointed to four children playing hide-and-seek under the kitchen table.
    “I’m sorry. I remember little of my previous visits here.” On this trip, Abdul had expected a feeling of returning home; instead, he felt foreign and out of place.
    “That’s okay, I don’t remember either. My father told me we played together. But that may be another exaggeration.”
    She gave her father a quizzical look. He shrugged and excused himself, leaving Abdul and Adiba alone. The look on the man’s face clearly said, “Mission accomplished.”
    Abdul was pleased when Adiba made no move to follow him. “Are you a writer?” he asked.
    “I study English online. We can’t afford for me to attend college. I am grateful, though, that my father is liberated enough to encourage me. Abdul-Haqq, you must be exhausted. Between jet-lag and this crazy crowd bantering you, have you had any time to yourself?”
    “Well, everyone here has been wonderful, but I confess I didn’t realize how large my Palestinian family was until I saw them together in the same house. I plan to spend time in the Old City tomorrow.”
    “If you wish,” Adiba said, “I could show you around, act as an unofficial guide.” Her hand touched his arm, delicately, light as a small bird. “But if you prefer to experience the city alone, I will not be offended.”
    “Wow, that would be wonderful.” Abdul’s cheeks burned. His instantaneous reply must have telegraphed how enthusiastic he was to spend more time with her.
    “I’ll come to your hotel at