this misrepresentation of his people's ways. A few days after the attacks, Laila and Tariq are in the hotel lobby again.
On the TV screen, George W. Bush is speaking. There is a big American flag behind him.
At one point, his voice wavers, and Laila thinks he is going to weep.
Sayeed, who speaks English, explains to them that Bush has just declared war.
“On whom?” says Tariq. “On your country, to begin with.” “It may not be such a bad thing,” Tariq says.
They have finished making love. He's lying beside her, his head on her chest, his arm draped over her belly.
The first few times they tried, there was difficulty. Tariq was all apologies, Laila all reassurances.
There are still difficulties, not physical now but logistical. The shack they share with the children is small.
The children sleep on cots below them and so there is little privacy.
Most times, Laila and Tariq make love in silence, with controlled, muted passion,
fully clothed beneath the blanket as a precaution against interruptions by the children.
They are forever wary of the rustling sheets, the creaking bedsprings.
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