Free Minaret: A Novel by Leila Aboulela Page B

not harmless. I start to recite Say: I seek refuge in the Lord of Daybreak. I recite it again and again.
    As they walk past to the back of the bus, one of them looks at me and says something to the others. I look away out of the window. I tell myself that Allah will protect me so that even if they hurt me, I won't feel it too badly; it will be a blunted blow, a numbed blow.
    Laughter from behind me. Something hits the edge of the seat next to me and bounces down the aisle; I don't know what it is. He has missed his target this time. Will they move closer, and what if they run out of things to throw? I look up at the bus driver's face in the mirror. His eyes flicker and he looks away. I stare out of the window but I see my reflection staring hack at me. It is best to look down at Iny shoes. The smooth night traffic means that the bus moves fast. It shouldn't be long now, a couple more stops. I hear footsteps come up behind me, see a blur of denim. He says, You Muslim scum', then the shock of cool liquid on my head and face. I gasp and taste it, Tizer. He goes hack to his friends - they are laughing. My chest hurts and I wipe my eyes.

    The bus stops and the doors swing open. A couple walk down the stairs and towards the exit. I make a quick decision and follow them out of the bus. The wind hits against my wet scarf, it makes my scalp feel cold. I use the dry edge of the scarf to wipe my face. I breathe in and out to make the anger go away, to let it out through my nose. My cheeks are sticky. I hire my lips and they taste sweet. It Could have been beer but I've been lucky. I blink and that's uncomfortable because my eyelashes are twisted and stuck together. I didn't know that eyelashes Could ache. I walk the rest of the way home thinking about my eyelashes and that I will have to wash my hair. I don't like washing it at night. My hairdryer doesn't work anymore and I don't sleep well with wet hair. It irritates me, damp and sprawling over the pillow.

     

Eleven
    y second day of work and I almost arrive late. I reach the door of the flat to find Lamya already on her way out. Doctora Zeinab is at the door too, wrapped in a dressing gown, bright blue under the light of the hall. Lamya lifts her hair out of her jacket, bends to pick up her umbrella. I stand outside the doorway, waiting for her to leave so that I could enter. She has those same sleepy eyes and slow movements I remember from yesterday morning. Her eyes flicker over me, without expression. It must be that she is an evening person, not at her best in the morning. She kisses and hugs her mother, rubs her back in a friendly way. I remember that Doctora Zeinab is leaving this afternoon for Cairo.
    When Tamer takes you to the airport,' Lamya says to her, `don't forget to give him your set of keys.'
    `I will. He shouldn't be missing his lectures. I can go on my own.
    Lamya shrugs. `Don't forget to order the taxi. Early.' She kisses her mother again and sweeps past me. Doctora Zeinab stands still for a few seconds watching her daughter walk down the stairs. The goodbye seems to have made her subdued, flabby. `Come in, Najwa,' she says and shuffles back to the sitting room.

    I close the door of the flat behind me, take off my shoes and put them near the side of the door. I roll my coat and put it over my shoes. The clay begins, less daunting than yesterday, the tasks more familiar. Mai remembers me in a grudging sort of way. I smile and act the clown for her. My work will he easy when I win her trust. I talk to her about going to the park, jog her memory of how yesterday I pushed her on the swings. She is still in her pyjamas so I change her, take her to the toilet and cajole her into brushing her teeth. I discover that, Unlike yesterday, Lanlya hasn't given her any breakfast. I pour hot milk over Weetabix and sprinkle a bit of sugar. The Weetahix softens into a smooth paste and I scoop one teaspoon after another into her mouth. She drinks milk by herself from a special