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Ibrahim

Chapter 33

The Lesson

Two quick knocks, clean and crisp, on the front door to my apartment.

I opened it to find Nadir on the step, the mid-afternoon sun shining behind him. He gave me an even smile, one hand gripping a gray leather-bound book and the other holding tight to his son, who in turn gripped a cane.

"Good afternoon, Ibrahim." He looked down at the little boy next to him. "What do you say, Reza?"

"Good afternoon, M. Jahandir."

"Hello," I responded to both.

"Is Azizah at home?" asked Reza, blind eyes wide and hopeful.

I remained watching his father. "She is. Here to offer her French lessons, I presume?" I tried to hide the acidity in my voice. I'd told my sister I'd be nice.

"I am." A long pause, where I stood in the doorway without moving. Nadir coughed into the hand that held the book. "May we...come in?"

I exhaled through my nose and stepped aside to allow them entry. "Is Reza here to offer lessons as well?"

"No, Reza is here to give his nanny a break."

"You seem to give her a lot of breaks - you take that child everywhere you go."

His eyes slid to mine as I closed the door. They held sudden ice. "Yes. She deserves it. Your point?"

I shrugged, finding my nails suddenly interesting. "I don't know. It's no secret that men who tote their small children around generally want women to perceive them as gentle and kind." I picked at my cuticles. "Whether they are or not."

His lips twisted ever-so-slightly in displeasure. "Still more to say, former Grand Vizier?"

"Not at all, former Daroga." I smiled. I doubted it reached my eyes. "You know where the dining room is. She's right in there, waiting with her tea." He walked in front, and I followed behind. "Oh, do let me know if you'd like some too. Since I'm apparently otherwise useless, it's the least I could do."

His voice was soft. "Now, who ever said you were useless? I haven't, and I doubt Azizah has. Did Erik? Christine? Gustave? No?" He stopped, turned, and his volume dropped to a near-whisper. "I think there's only one person left." His hand lifted Reza's. "And it's not my son."

He turned once more and walked.

I remained standing in the hall, burning as the oil lamp on my right.

"We will start with the western alphabet, then." Nadir opened the book to the very first page. It was, indeed, filled with the letters found in the French language and their corresponding sounds written in Persian.

She stared doe-eyed at the page. "I cannot read any of it."

Nadir didn't look surprised, probably because he wasn't. His late wife had been unique in her ability to read - Nadir himself had apparently taught her. My mother hadn't had that skill, and thus, neither did my sisters. Dear Father thought it frivolous and unnecessary for girls to learn it. I hadn't ever really had an opinion on the matter.

Until now, as I watched her embarrassed expression with shame. She'd seen Christine's ability to understand the words on a page, and thus knew that if she wanted to fit into European society, this was an important skill to have.

"Quite all right," said Nadir kindly, and smiled. At that, Azizah visibly relaxed. "We will practice with just the sounds. Your first spoken language will be different than your first written language. I'd say that's quite different in the best way - impressive, even."

To my right, Reza picked up his glass of milk and drank. It was the small sort of distraction I needed to keep from gagging at his false sincerity.

Never - and I do mean never - had he ever been this gentle with anyone in my presence.

"Can we please get to the lesson itself?" I said in French.

Nadir ignored me.

I crossed my arms.

"This letter is A," he explained. "It makes the 'ah' sound in French."

Azizah mimicked the sound.

"This is B." He made the sound. She repeated it. When he smiled, so did she.

My foot began tapping of its own accord.

"This is C. Sometimes 'kuh'. Or 'ss'."

"ss," she tried it on her tongue, then giggled. "Like a snake."

"Exactly so. Let's stop for a moment - go back. What does this first one sound like?"

"Ah." She paused. "And the next is 'buh', then 'kuh' or 'sss'."

"Wonderfully done. You're a quick learner."

I searched his tone for patronization, but found none.

That shouldn't have irritated me the way it did. I shouldn't have wanted to smash his glasses for being so soft with my sister.

Azizah's eyes lit at the praise. She looked actually, genuinely happy. Comfortable.

"You're practically a French expert," added Nadir, noting her expression. I stared at him. By Allah, he was joking - with kindness. "All we need is some fine tuning. Say, the rest of the alphabet and all of the words. Then it will be truly polished."

She laughed.

I stood as emotion, strong and strange, bubbled in my stomach. "Excuse me," I said, as the two before me watched me get up. "I would like some tea. Would you like any, M. Khan?"

"No, thank you." He eyed me, hardness in the gaze.

"The pot is still hot," said Azizah warily. "On the stove. There's enough for one or two more cups-"

"Thank you." And I was into the kitchen before I could flip the entire table. I remained there the rest of the lesson, slowly picking at fruits while I heard his irritatingly soft and kind tones, the sort he likely hadn't used since his wife's passing; while I listened to her laugh and speak with confidence. The kind of confidence she'd had before she'd married - before I'd allowed her to marry - her husband.