She took one look at Al Shei. “That was not good news, whatever it was.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Al Shei agreed as she got to her feet. “Time to pray hard, Cousin.”
“As you say, oh-my-mistress.” Resit’s side way’s glance said that she really wanted to know what was going on and it was nothing short of piety that was keeping her from starting what could be a very long conversation.
Al Shei went into the bathroom, stripped off her hijab, sat down on the toilet and went through the careful washing: rinse the hands, rinse the mouth, clear the nose, drench face, arms, quick pass over the head and down the back of the neck, both ears, the nape of the neck and finally the feet.
“I bear witness that there is no god but Allah,” she said, wrapping her veil back around her and wishing she felt as clean inside as she did outside. “And He is one and has no partner and I bear witness that Muhammad is His servant and messenger.”
She pulled her shoes back on and rejoined Resit.
“Which way is Mecca today?” her cousin asked.
Al Shei did a quick calculation of the relative direction of Earth from the Pasadena. “This way.” She pointed to the corner where her pillows were piled. She knew some shipper Muslims who would literally stand on the ceiling if that was what was required. She and Resit had never gone quite that far. She got her prayer rug out of its drawer and laid it down next to Resit’s.
They faced the proper corner and raised their hands. Al Shei took a deep breath and put the day behind her. This was not the time for her troubles. This was the time to go beyond them, to the infinite and the permanent.
“Allahu Akbar,” she and Resit chorused. God is great. They folded their hands below their chests. “Oh, Allah, glory and praise are for You and blessed is Your name and exalted is Your Majesty and there is no god but You. I seek shelter in Allah from the rejected Satan.”
As Al Shei went through the motions of the salah, she felt real calm returning to her. When the regular prayers were finished, she added the sajdatus sahw, for forgetfulness, since she’d been elbow deep in a maintenance hatch with a bundle of fresh wiring in her fists when afternoon prayer came around.
After she straightened up, she faced Resit and raised her right hand, Resit raised hers. Simultaneously, they each reached out and yanked off the other’s veil. Resit’s hair fell down around her shoulders in a black cloud. This was not part of the salah. It was done in memory of the time when prayer was dangerous and the women who had survived the Fast Burn sometimes had to stop in the middle and hide their veils because vigilantes or the police had broken in the door.
“Dining in peaceful solitude tonight, Cousin?” Resit nodded to the hot box as she settled her kijab back over her hair and pinned it under her chin.
“I felt I needed a little peace and quiet.” Al Shei folded her own hijab over her arm and opened up a drawer. “It’s actually been a pretty busy few days.” She laid the hijab inside.
“Hasn’t it just.” Resit picked up her carpet. “Are you going to perhaps tell me what’s going on with Schyler?”
“Not yet.” Al Shei bent to roll her own carpet. “I’ll know more tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh. Should I be worrying about my air supply, Katmer?”
Al Shei straightened up and stowed the carpet back in its own drawer. “It’s not that kind of problem, Zubedye.”
“Well, that’s something anyway.” Resit opened the bathroom door. “I will be talking to you in the morning, Katmer.”
“You will.” Al Shei held the door open for her. “I promise.”
Resit crossed the bathroom into her own cabin through the opposite door.
When she was gone, Al Shei sealed the door to the hallway and touched the key beside it to signal anyone who might be walking by that she was not to be disturbed. No matter what her door said, she was always on immediate call for engineering. The Pasadena itself could summon her if any of half a dozen emergency switches were tripped.
With her door sealed, she finally let the weight of the day pull her shoulders down. That brief conversation with her cousin had robbed her of most of the calm that prayer instilled. She ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it out and letting the slight breeze from the ventilators dry the film of dampness near her scalp. Unlike Resit, she had no cloud of long hair to shake down. She’d kept hers cut to a bob that would not get in her way. She stripped off her work clothes and debated a moment before tossing them into the laundry drawer. She slid her forest green kaftan over her bare shoulders and sighed contentedly. The kaftan had been a gift from Asil. It was real Earth-grown cotton. Cotton was grown only by permit on Earth. Most textile fibers came from vat-bred clones.
As she smoothed the kaftan down, Al Shei studied her face in the mirror. It was a good face, all and all, she admitted. Her brow was wide and clear, even though the worry wrinkles were beginning to etch themselves in deeper every year. Her aquiline nose was not too big, and her chin was not too pointed. She had an expressive mouth with lines around it that spoke more of smiles than of sorrows. Resit teased her that the real reason she wore the hijab was not just to hide the fact she’d cut her hair, but to emphasize her wide, almond-shaped eyes. Asil sometimes said it was her eyes were that had bewitched his heart.
Vanity, vanity, she chided herself with a small laugh and turned away. What are you doing? Seeing if the news about Tully has added any new lines?
Al Shei folded her bed down from the wall and sat on the emerald faux silk coverlet, crossing her legs. She opened her hot box and detached the fork from the cover.
“Intercom, playback,” she said to the walls as she dug into the chicken curry and rice. “Asil Day Book, entry one.”
There wasn’t even a beep in response. Al Shei had taken them out for this command sequence. Instead, her husband’s, clean, deep voice filled the empty spaces between her in-flight possessions and her inmost heart.
“Good morning, Beloved. Not much to report from yesterday, Katmer. It’s a week before the rains are scheduled to begin and we had six hours of outside time left in the ration, so we had dinner on the terrace…”
Al Shei set the fork down, closed her eyes, and let her mind drift with the recorded voice. Her imagination was so trained for this that she could see every detail. The low wooden table on the clean white stone, surrounded by piles of blue and green cushions that would have been tossed into place by Muhammad and Vashti. The children would have taken the opportunity to inflict an impromptu pummeling on each other, halted by mock threats from Asil. He would have set down the broad dish of imam baldi and flat bread. Asil was a traditionalist as far as food was concerned. The children, their hair blowing in the gentle breeze scented with the smells of living trees and roasting garlic would scurry to the table and be told to calm down before helping themselves. They would, for about thirty seconds, then they’d begin digging each other in the ribs…
“…Vashti told me she wants to try out for the soccer team next semester. Muhammadis talking seriously about summer classes for his astronomy. Looks as though the banks are going to lose another one, Katmer…”
Al Shei smiled and let the voice wash over her. This was how they kept together. Everyday he made an entry in the verbal diary, just as she did. When she came home to stay, of course they talked. They told each other everything, delighting in conversation. But on the last day, before she left again, they would solemnly exchange diaries. At home, in his own room, come back from his prayers, Asil would be listening to her voice reeling off an account of the first day of her previous flight. Although she knew, by now, that Vashti had made the soccer team and that Muhammad had been accepted to an academic camp in Tel Aviv, the Asil in the recording did not. His voice made it all new again and gave her those days that were the other half of her life, as Asil would have hers.