Free An Infidel in Paradise by S.J. Laidlaw Page B

wouldn’t forgive me even if he did know, but still I expected more compassion from him. I hoped for more.
    “So, that’s it, then?” I ask. “You brought me here to do what? Teach me a lesson? Warn me?” My voice cracks.
    He looks at me steadily but doesn’t answer.
    I look away. “Well, lesson learned,” I say, still not looking at him. “I’ll see you back in class.” I turn to walk away.
    “Emma,” he catches my arm, but lightly, and immediately drops his hand when I turn to glare at him.
    “Don’t you want to blindfold me now?” His tone is friendly, but his eyes are searching. It’s the first time I’ve seen his confidence waver.
    “I don’t think that’s necessary,” I say. “You’re already blind.”
    I feel the tears starting as I leave him and begin making my way across the field. I want to go home, but not home to any one geographical location. I want to go back to a moment in time when I felt surrounded by people who knew me and loved me. I want to recapture that feeling of belonging, but right now, in this field where a man died trying to save kids like me, kids who don’t really belong anywhere, I wonder if that moment ever existed.
    We’re a long way from the theater, and I hope I’m heading in the right direction. As I had thought, we’re on the far side of the parking lot, but I can’t see any ofour classmates and suspect class resumed long ago. I keep walking and have covered some significant ground before I hear Mustapha’s voice again.
    “Emma!” he shouts.
    I stop and look back. He hasn’t moved from the stones. He’s going to be seriously late.
    “If I am blind,” his deep voice resonates across the field, “shouldn’t you guide me?”
    “You think I know the way?” I shake my head at his ignorance and turn to resume my journey. I look back once more when I reach the edge of the parking lot. He still hasn’t moved and he’s still watching me, though from this distance, I can’t read his expression. I don’t think we’ll be practicing our play today. I take the note out of my pocket and rip it into a dozen pieces, letting them flutter to the ground. A large cockroach scuttles toward me, disturbed or perhaps enticed by the flurry of paper. For a moment, I think of the appealing coolness of the theater, but I can see the greenhouse from where I’m standing, and without giving it much thought, I turn my steps in that direction.

CHAPTER 12
    I don’t see Mr. Akbar at first. He blends into the foliage like a creature of the forest. Only when I catch the movement of leaves on the far side of the greenhouse do I see a triangle of his khaki uniform.
    “Mr. Akbar?” I say, not loudly. I feel embarrassed to disturb him and wonder if I should find a bathroom to hide out in until the end of class.
    “Emma, how nice of you to come,” he says, working his way through the foliage toward me. “How is your first week going?”
    “I’m sorry,” I say, my mind a few paces behind. “I don’t mean to bother you. I should go.” I start to back away, but he smiles and starts speaking again.
    “I was just about to have
chai
. Would you be kind enough to join me?”
    I hesitate. In spite of the heat, I can’t think of anything I would rather do than have a cup of tea, here, with this man. I gratefully follow him through the plants to the very back of the greenhouse, where Ifind he has a small wrought iron table and two chairs. They seem out of place in this country, like something out of a Victorian garden, but at the same time, they suit him perfectly. I collapse into one of the chairs. A feeling of peace comes over me as I watch him crouch on the ground and lift an iron kettle off a low shelf, placing it on a small brazier already blistering with coals. He takes a clear packet off the same shelf, and the smells of cinnamon, cloves, and ginger fill the damp air as he shakes a measure of spices into the boiling water. We sit in silence for a good while, watching the