‘It’s as though nothing has changed for your people in the last one hundred years.’
She lifted her shoulders. ‘And Ishkana is so different?’
He stared at her as though she had lost her mind. ‘Yes, Ishkana is different. You’ve seen the facilities we’ve created. You’ve heard me talk about the importance of books and education for children. Have you heard me say, at any point, “for boys”, as opposed to “children”?’
She didn’t speak. Her eyes held his, and something sparked between them.
‘My grandfather made inroads to gender equality, but he was hampered—if you can believe it—by public opinions. By the time my father was Sheikh, the Internet had been born, and a homogenisation of attitudes was—I would have thought—inevitable. My mother was progressive, and fiercely intelligent. The idea of her skill set languishing simply because women weren’t seen as having the same rights to education as men...’
‘I am not languishing,’ she interrupted. ‘I get to represent causes that matter a great deal to me.’
He stared at her, not wanting to say what he was thinking, knowing his assessment would hurt her.
‘What?’ she demanded. ‘Say what you’re thinking.’
Surprise made him cough. How could she read him so well? What was this magic that burst around them, making him feel as though they were connected in a way that transcended everything he knew he should feel about her?
‘Only that it sounds to me as though your representation is more about your position and recognisability than anything else.’
She jerked her head back as though he’d slapped her and he instantly wish he hadn’t said such a cruel thing. He shook his head, moving a step closer, his lips pressed together.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t.’ She lifted a hand to his chest, her own breathing ragged. ‘Don’t apologise.’
They stood like that, so close, bodies melded, breath mingling, eyes latched, until Johara made a sort of strangled noise and stepped backwards, her spine connected with the firmness of a white marble wall.
‘Don’t apologise,’ she said again, this time quieter, more pained. He echoed her movement, stepping towards her, his body trapping hers where it was, his own responding with a jerk of awareness he wished he could quell.
‘You’re right.’ She bit down on her full lower lip, reminding her of the way she’d done that in the maze, and the way he’d sought it with his own teeth. ‘I’m ornamental. Unlike your mother, I’m not fiercely intelligent. I can’t even read properly, Amir. Educating me in a traditional way would have been a waste of effort. So my parents focussed on what I was good at, at my strengths—which is people. I serve my country in this way.’
He could hardly breathe, let alone speak. ‘You were not even taught to read?’
‘I was taught,’ she corrected. ‘But not well, and it didn’t seem to matter until I was much older. At twelve, I sat some tests—and was diagnosed with severe dyslexia.’ A crease formed between her brows. ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference if they’d discovered it earlier. It’s not curable. My brain is wired differently from yours. I can read—passably—but it takes me longer than you can imagine and it will never be what I do for pleasure.’ Her eyes tangled with his and she shook her head. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’
‘How am I looking at you?’ he interrogated gently.
‘As though you pity me.’ She pressed her teeth into her lip once more. ‘I still love books—I listen to recordings whenever I can—and let me assure you, I derive the same pleasure from their pages as you do.’
He listened, but something was flaring inside him, something he hadn’t felt in such a raw and violent form for a very long time. Admiration. Respect.
‘This is why you founded the literacy initiative in New York?’
‘Yes.’ Her smile, as he focussed conversation on something that brought her joy, almost stole his breath. ‘To help children. Even children like I was—if a diagnosis can be made early enough—will be spared
years of feeling that they’re not good enough, or smart enough.’
‘And you felt these things.’
Her smile dropped. His anger was back—anger at her parents, and, because they were dead and no longer able to account for their terrible, neglectful parenting, anger at the brother who hadn’t troubled himself to notice Johara’s struggles.
‘Yes.’ Her eyes held defiance. ‘I used to feel that way. But then I moved to America and I came to understand that the skills I have cannot be taught. I’m great with people. I’m great at fundraising. I can work a room and secure millions of dollars in donations in the space of a couple of hours. I can make a real difference in the world, Amir, so please, for the love of everything you hold dear, stop looking at me as though I’m an object of pity or—’
Something in the region of his chest tightened. ‘Or?’
‘Or I’ll... I don’t know. Stamp my foot. Or scream.’ She shook her head. ‘Just don’t you dare pity me.’
He gently took her chin between his finger and thumb. ‘I don’t pity you, Johara.’ His eyes roamed her face and, in the distance, he could hear the beating of a drum, low and solid, the tempo rhythmic and urgent all at once. It took him moments to realise there was no drum, just the beating of his heart, the torrent of his pulse slamming through his body.