I tilted my head. “Why?”
“Because,” he said softly, “after what I teach you, Sundara won’t ever be enough.”
**********
I met Ahmad in the afternoons in the small courtyard while Zakai exercised his muscles using the pillow coverings filled with sand he’d made and hidden from Haziq. When I asked Zakai why he did it, he said he wanted to be prepared in case he was required to fight someday. “Fight who?” I had asked one morning while he hefted those bags of sand over his head, the muscles in his arms and chest straining and drawing my eyes. I knew my question was as naïve as Zakai had called me. I’d heard of the soldiers who killed Doren’s family, and the men who’d kicked Spider and left him beaten and broken in the street before Haziq rescued him and brought him to Sundara. I saw the glint of meanness in Haziq’s eyes too, and lately, I’d begun smelling the lies that buzzed around him like the insects drawn to the goat’s rears, though I couldn’t discern exactly what those lies might be. I’d seen the violence spark in his bodyguards’ eyes when one of the customers drank too much or argued with Haziq over money. There was good reason to be prepared for a fight on Sundara. I just didn’t know who Zakai’s main enemy was. He didn’t answer, but based on the stony focus on his face, clearly he believed the fight was coming soon.
I’d never hidden anything big from Zakai before, and I was filled with sadness and remorse, but also an odd . . . excitement. Nothing except my thoughts had ever been my own though Zakai was fond of telling me he could look at my face and see all the workings of my mind. Maybe that was true, but either way, I hadn’t believed I wanted anything that was solely my own, but found that once I experienced a taste of independence, I loved it. I didn’t know if that was wrong or right, but I knew that Zakai had his own secrets, ones I could not read, thoughts that made his eyes grow distant and his expression turn grim.
And now I had mine too.
In short order, Ahmad had taught me all the letters of the alphabet, both in the language of the desert and the language of the other men who visited Sundara—English—both of which Haziq had been insistent we know in order that we better please all of our guests.
At night, delighted with myself and my newfound ability, I used the letters to sound out the pictures I’d drawn so I could remember the names of the ones who watched.
I also put my collected stories into words. Admittedly, there were not many I knew how to write, but I combined the letters in ways I could grasp, and to me, it made the pictures come alive.
I tried to make words about Doren’s mother and father and the great blue whale. I sounded out ways to describe the anguish in Doren’s eyes, and how his hands would clench and his voice would wobble when he talked about his family.
As I learned more, I wrote about shy Ori with the backward feet, and beautiful Dinati with skin and hair as white as bleached linen and eyes the pink blush of dawn’s first glow.
I loved learning. It was as if my mind had suddenly turned toward a bright light, and slowly, language became more understandable and even writable. I felt alive. Excited. It was as if words were always meant to be my friend.
Ahmed said that one day I might know so many words that my stories would fill an entire notebook. One day.
Sometimes Ahmad smiled while he helped me read the stories from the books he’d smuggled to Sundara in Bibi’s basket, chuckling amiably at my mispronunciations, but other days, he sat glum and quiet as I struggled through one sentence and then another. Those were the days following the performance nights, when those who watched arrived on Sundara. Those were the days following the nights Zakai and I heard the yelps of pain from the room beyond, and the subsequent roars of laughter from the ones who watched, my heart clenching with helplessness and Zakai’s hands fisting as rage glowed in his eyes. Those were the days Ahmad would lower himself gently onto the bench, grimacing as his rear hit the stone and I would pretend not to notice. Inside I wept for him, my own anger billowing up inside in a way that was new and overwhelming to me.
Sometimes the guests hurt my family. They stayed for days, strolling the grounds, laughing and pointing, shouting terrible things about the ones who were different.
“Why are they so cruel?” I’d once asked Bertha.
“Some people like to make ugly things bleed,” she’d told me, stroking my hair and tucking a jasmine blossom behind my ear.