The solitary woman who joined the end of their queue seemed to have barely survived some terrible ordeal. She wore a sheepskin coat and heavy shawls, far too warm for the morning, and carried nothing but a leather satchel that she clutched as though it might be torn from her by force. Her face was waxen pale, save for wind-burnt cheeks, and she trembled from head to toe. Are you ill, miss? someone asked her.
Sophia shook her head, but couldn’t speak. She closed her eyes—and she was in the whirlwind again, suspended high above the mountains, the wind slicing to her marrow. She wavered and fell.
At first the jinniyeh didn’t notice. Drained from her own efforts, she hung limply above the émigrés, staring at the curving, foam-capped sea and the unthinkable length of steel that pierced it like a poisoned thorn. How, she wondered, could there be enough iron in the world for such a monstrosity? Was it the only one, or were there more? And Sophia meant for them to travel upon it?
She heard the commotion then, and saw Sophia sprawled upon the ground. Others had gathered around her, and were stripping her of her heavy coat and woolen shawls while Sophia batted at them, her tremor worsening.
I could leave her here, and go back to the Cursed City, the jinniyeh thought as she watched. I could forget that I ever saw her. But the thought was feeble, fleeting. She would ride the monstrous steel ship across the killing waters; she’d find the iron-bound jinni and bring him home again. She had a purpose now, and it was stronger than her fear.
A moment later, a small green gecko landed upon Sophia’s chest and darted beneath her collar, out of sight. An impossible warmth spread outwards from its tiny body.
Within minutes the woman was able to stand again. She thanked the others for their concern, and collected her coat and shawls with hands that hardly shook at all. Only when they’d all taken their places in line again did she dare peek down at the gecko that sat upon her collarbone, staring up at her with one jet-black eye.
The line shuffled forward, and at last they reached the Des Moines’ gangplank. A navy serviceman, no older than nineteen, peered at her mussed braids and meager leather satchel and then at her passport, stained and creased from years of travel. “Winston, huh?” he said with a grin. “Any relation?” And he laughed and waved her through, not waiting for an answer.
She found a place at the rail among the others, many of whom were sobbing, or praying for safe passage. The ship’s horn blasted a warning—beneath Sophia’s shawls, the gecko tightened its grip—and the Des Moines pulled away from the dhows.
Excerpt of letter from T. E. Lawrence to D. G. Hogarth
Cairo War Office, February 1915
You’ll have heard about the recent trouble at the Suez. One almost has to pity the Turks—all that time and preparation made for a poor showing in the end. Of course they’ll be back to have another go, but no one expects anything to come of it.
Here is something unexpected: Last night, whom should I pass in the street but Sophia Williams, the American girl you’ll remember from Carchemish. She’d tried to weather the storm in Syria—I’d thought her more sensible—but gave up and retreated out of Jaffa, by the skin of her teeth. She was in Cairo for the day to outfit herself before sailing for home. I bought her dinner at Shepheard’s, and gave her a bit of money when I left—she seemed to need it. Now she is off to Port Said—and in her wake I feel my confinement more painfully than ever, here in my stifling office with pen in hand from dawn to dusk. Currently I’m at work on a précis about the divisions in Syria’s interior: race, language, tribe, religious feeling. But I doubt that many will read it, and doubt even more that those who do will learn its lessons.
T.E.L.
14.
The morning fog pressed itself upon Little Syria, sneaking through the gaps in the window-panes, weighting the air and dulling the senses. Mothers stood half asleep at their stoves, their pots of rice and lentils threatening to scorch. On Washington Street, the newsboys called out halfheartedly about Allied losses at Gallipoli, German deaths near Verdun.
In the kitchen of the Faddouls’ coffee-house, Maryam warmed the day’s first coffee-pot while Sayeed scooped the beans and cardamom into the grinder.
“I forgot to tell you,” Sayeed said as he worked. “I stopped in at Faris and Habiba’s yesterday, when I was in South Ferry. They told me they’re moving to Detroit. There’s a grandchild on the way.”
“Oh, how wonderful! Habiba will be such a happy grandmother. But—what about the restaurant?”
“They’ll have to sell it, or find someone to take over the lease. He asked if we were interested.”
Maryam glanced at her husband, startled. Was he suggesting that they move to Brooklyn? “What did you tell him?”
“That I didn’t know, myself—but that I’d ask you.” His eyes were on his work, but she could read his worry for her as clearly as if he’d spoken it aloud: How long can you go on like this?
A pause. Then, “No,” Maryam said. “It’s a lovely thought, but no.”
“It’s a good location,” he said quietly.
“It is. And someone will be lucky to have it.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s time. I’ll get the door.” She squeezed Sayeed’s arm as she left: an acknowledgment of his concern, and a plea for understanding. Away from his eyes,
