“I whipped off the napkin and rushed into the living room. “Salaam aleichem,” I said for the fourth or fifth time to the man who was pacing in front of the windows facing the street. He jerked around to glare at me, one end of his black turban quivering above his head, the other twisted in his hand. Then he brushed past me to stomp upstairs so that he could stare at the street from the window in his room. A few minutes later he stomped back down, went outside, and jerked the gate to the street o...pen. He spoke to our chowkidor, who shrank back against the wall as if the black-turbaned man were breathing fire. Then someone from the Ministry of Commerce called. “The business seminar ended late,” the woman on the other end of the phone said. “Traffic is pretty bad, too, so Nahida won’t be home for a while.” “What do I do about her husband?” I asked. “He’s going nuts.” “Calm him down!” she said. “Get someone to explain it to him, or he’ll beat her.” “He’d beat her right in front of me?”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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