“When everyone in my family is working or at school, my teta—my grandmother—does the cooking. She lives in the apartment next to ours, and, like me, she loves to cook,” he says. “But when I have free time, I try to prepare dishes from other countries of the world. The last time I made jerk chicken from Jamaica.”
“Jerk chicken is one of Casey’s favorites,” Mom says. “We went to Jamaica for our honeymoon and I swear he ate it every day.”
“Have you been to many countries?” Adam asks.
“Just Jamaica and Germany—some of my ancestors were German—but we’ve traveled all over the United States. When Caroline was a little girl, we drove from Ohio to San Francisco, California, stopping at the national parks and monuments.”
The waiter brings a glass teapot with a red spout and gold lotus flowers painted around the belly, and pours the tea into matching glasses.
“I would like to visit America one day,” Adam says. “But I don’t know if it is possible. It costs a lot of money to travel and I have heard that Muslims are unwelcome.”
“That’s not exactly true,” Mom tells him. “There are some Americans who equate Islam with terrorism, but—”
“They are ignorant, then,” he says, cutting her off. “If they knew the truth of Islam, they would understand that those who kill in the name of Allah are not truly Muslim. They bend the scripture to fit their twisted deeds.”
“I know,” she says. “But it’s difficult to convince Americans when they are inundated with TV news about ISIS attacks. And when trying to figure out all the players in the political game gets too complicated, they throw up their hands and blame all Muslims.”
“This is unfair.”
“As unfair as being a woman out walking in Cairo,” I point out.
“It is not the same.” Adam slaps his palm against the table, rattling the glasses, startling me. I’m not afraid of his outburst, but it makes me realize he is still mostly a stranger. He blows out a breath to calm himself as he rakes his fingers through his curls. “I am sorry, Caroline, but none of those men on the street believe you secretly wish to murder them. And our politicians do not appear on television saying how they wish to keep you out of Egypt because you worship in a different way.”
I look into my tea glass, stung by his rebuke—and the truth in his words. Mom is quiet too, and a thread of awkwardness zigzags around the table, connecting all three of us. I glance at Mom, glance at Adam, but none of our gazes quite meet. We’re all embarrassed, and it seems like none of us knows how to lead the conversation back to a comfortable place.
Finally, the waiter arrives with a big circular plate filled with all the things Adam ordered, as well as a smaller plate piled with bread, and I feel a rush of relief. Adam smiles and explains to Mom, as he had with me, that it is customary to use your right hand for eating. “It is especially so when you are all dipping from the same bowl,” he says. “Also, it is okay for you to eat with your fingers.”
We sample all of the foods on the meze plate as Adam tells us the ingredients of each dish. When we try the warak enab, he shares a story about how his grandmother taught him to roll the grape leaves when he was little.
“I have an older cousin who would tease me,” he says. “Asking why do I want to learn to do women’s work. But Teta told me that many of the finest chefs are men, so I did not let my cousin bother me too much.”
Mom drags a bit of bread through the last of the baba ghanoush. “I think my favorite is the taameya.”
“Mine is the gebna,” I say, hoping Adam doesn’t think I chose it just because it’s his favorite. Gebna reminds me of saganaki, the flaming cheese we order from our favorite Greek restaurant back home. “Fried cheese is never a bad choice.”
Our gazes meet and he smiles. “Exactly this.”
The food is barely gone when the waiter whisks away the empty plates and brings another platter, this time heaped with different kinds of kebab. As we eat kofta and lamb and chicken, I envy how much easier it is for Adam to talk to my mother than to me. She is the adult—almost like a chaperone—and her presence puts him at ease.
Following dinner, we walk from the Khan to Wekalet El Ghouri, an arts center inside a sixteenth-century stone complex that also houses a mosque, a Muslim school, and a khanqah, which Adam explains is a place where the Sufi brotherhood once met. “Tonight there is a show, a tanoura dance,” he tells Mom. “If you would like to see it.”
She buys tickets with neither of us knowing what to expect.
The music begins first, mostly drums and a wooden instrument that makes me think of the recorders my class learned to play in elementary school. It has a wider bell at the bottom, and when I ask Adam what it’s called, he says it is a mizmar. Then the performers—whirling dervishes—come out, wearing white turbans and costumes with wide, full skirts decorated in a rainbow of colors. They start to dance, spinning in a way that makes the skirts flare out into circles. Round and round they whirl—how they don’t get dizzy and fall down is a mystery—song after song. Sometimes they carry props that look like bedazzled drums, and other times they hold large circles of fabric that match their skirts, spinning the circles over their heads as they whirl. I snap a few photos with my phone—the dervishes a blur—and clap along with the audience around us. My elbow bumps repeatedly against Adam’s arm, and when I glance up, I catch him watching me.
The air around us feels electric as our eyes meet, and I can’t stop myself from smiling at him. He tips his chin toward the performance, his eyes still met with mine. “You should watch the dance.”
“I should,” I say, forcing my attention back on the dervishes, but every time I sneak a peek at Adam (too often), he is looking at me.
It is late when we arrive at our apartment, the sun long gone. Mom insists that Adam drop us off at the building instead of accompanying us upstairs, but he still opens the car door for us.
“Those dancers were amazing.” Mom twirls on the sidewalk and hands him a Casey Kelly–sized tip. “Thank you for inviting me, and for giving Caroline and me more than your fair share of time.”
“The pleasure was mine.” Adam touches his hand to his chest, over his heart, and glances at me. “Good night.”
I’m following my mother to the elevator when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Will you need a driver again soon?
Over my shoulder I see Adam leaning against the car, waiting for my reply. I smile to myself as I type the answer. Yes.
CHAPTER 17
I would like to show you something different,” Adam says as I lock the front door behind me. Usually I meet him down on the street, at the car, but today he came upstairs. “But it is better to take the metro, which means we must walk to the station.”