Heaven

Temptress

I began to see Alabana everywhere I went. And not just in my mind—though she was frequently there—but I ran into her every two or three days. In the street outside my house, in the souk, in church—she was inescapable. Meeting her that first day was a welcome change in my increasingly mundane life, but now even her presence had become ordinary. I thought it was funny that, when I first saw her, I was afraid I’d never see her again.

Her omnipresence seemed impossible given that I’d never seen her before; apparently her move to the Azara put her on a schedule that was similar to mine. Whenever we saw each other, we’d stop and talk politely for a minute or two, our conversation soaked in the unspoken awkwardness caused by my leaving abruptly that time in the garden.

Things didn’t seem to be getting any better. My mind was at war with itself: Part of me wanted to get closer to Alabana, but the other part thought it was a betrayal against Sofia. Another woman could never occupy the same place she had occupied, could she? Not the same place—the other side of my mind replied—but a place nonetheless. Why should I deprive myself of love just because I’d loved and lost? 

Because I saw Alabana almost every day, I had innumerable chances to redeem myself. But that only made the whole thing more painful because it meant innumerable resurgences of this mental struggle, repetitions of the viking invasion of Cracovia—violent images flashed before my eyes—seeing the terror in Sofia’s eyes as I left her behind, running for my life with Ania in my arms. Every word from Alabana caused a chain-reaction from which I thought I’d never recover. 

Honestly, I wasn’t sure why she continued talking to me at all. Though I was polite on the surface, the stubborn half of my mind made it clear that it wanted to have nothing to do with her. But she seemed unfazed. After a while, her insistence gave me the impression that it wasn’t that our schedules aligned but that she was explicitly seeking me out whenever she could. In a way, I was grateful—rather, part of me was grateful. 

As had happened so many times, we met in the street one day when I was on my way home from the souk. 

“Adam,” she said.

“Hi, Alabana.”

“I’m so glad to see you. How are you today?”

“Pretty good, the usual. I can’t complain.”

“How is your work going?”

“Oh, just fine. Same as always.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Hey, I’m in a bit of a hurry, so I should be going.”

“Right, me too,” she said. As I began to move past her, she stopped me. “Oh, wait,” she said. “I wanted to give you this.” She grabbed my hand with both of hers and—before I could protest—thrust a small piece of paper into it. “There we go,” she said, closing my hand around the paper before scurrying off. 

After the shock of something unexpected finally happening wore off, I unfurled the paper in my hand. It was a short message written in a delicate, purposed calligraphy—much more beautiful than anything I’d managed to scratch in my Arabic calligraphy classes. I spent a few moments admiring the letterforms and flow of the ink, transfixed, before remembering that there was a message encoded amidst the swirling black. 

“Tonight after the nighttime prayer call. Your favorite garden. A.” 

I stared at the note for several minutes, still standing in the street. I probably would have stood there all day if a voice didn’t shake me from the spell. 

“What are you doing, Adam?” It was Jakob.

“Oh, nothing.” I shoved the paper in my tunic, hoping he didn’t see.