“Then why be a Sufi?” Sonia asked. “Why not sink into drunkenness and lechery and forget the whole thing?”

“I do sink into drunkenness and lechery,” cried Ismail. “I do. But that only makes me remember the more, not to forget.” He gave Sonia a grin that demonstrated the latter vice. “And as my murid will you warm my bedroll in the cold of the hills, as a good murid should? Perhaps you have a bottom like a ripe peach.”

“If you like,” replied Sonia, and he laughed in delight.

“But,” he said, “we must first supply you with a thing which, once seen, will establish your identity as a boy beyond question. All boys love to shoot their stream off bridges and down precipices, and so must you. Therefore we must visit the false-penis-wallah and have one made.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“In Lahore? City of utter depravity? Of course, and his name is Harun Elahi, and if you let him, he will tell you how his ancestors made such things for Babur Moghul at the beginning of history.”

“So I conclude that when I have been fitted with this item you will take me as your murid.”

“I will. It is our fate, just as it was my fate to be at the shrine of Hazrat Shah Azar Basmali with my heart twisted and full of poison, where God was waiting for me like a cobra on a rock and struck me in the heart and filled it with His love. All my life since then I have been trying to recover that moment. I think that at the next shrine He will be waiting again, or the next. In the meanwhile, I struggle to wear down the poisonous nafs with the exercises and devotions of my order. These I will teach you, Sahar, my murid, and, God willing, by the time we arrive at the sacred place, He will have mercy on both of us.”

“Where is the sacred place?”

“In Chechnya.”

“Wa-illa! That is a long way.”

“Longer than you think, murid, for we must retrace my journey in a great circle and pass through all the Muslim lands now under the Russian boot. Do you still want to go?”

She did; and she went.

Her reveries are interrupted by a change in the motion of the truck. They seem to have moved onto a smoother road, they are traveling faster, and there is a wonderful hot dusty breeze coming up through the holes in the truck’s floor.

The truck stops several times and they hear the voices of men and the sound of other motors and once the unmistakable clanking of an armored vehicle. They are passing through military checkpoints. It grows hot, then roasting, in the narrow space. The road grows rough again and the angle of the truck changes so that they slide against their restraints, first one way, then the other. The heat diminishes and then the light. It is nearly dark again when they stop at last, and they hear the sounds of male voices and movements of the truck’s load. The false floor is lifted and the prisoners are dragged off the truck. None of them can stand but all have survived the journey. They have all pissed themselves, and there is a distinct odor of human waste in the chill air. They are unbound, and armed men half-carry, half-drag them into a building.

But the two women are not touched at all; they are allowed to support each other and totter down a dark hallway and into a small room. The door is shut behind them and they hear the squeak of an antique lock turning. Sonia is shining a penlight around the room.

“Where are we?” Annette asks, and then, startled, “Where did you get that light?”

“I have pockets sewn into my clothing,” she says. “An old traveler’s trick.”

The thin beam shows them a room about eight feet by ten, with tile floors and roughly plastered stone walls. The ceilings are high and there is a tall window closed with thick wooden shutters. The only furnishings are two wooden rope beds-charpoys-with quilts and, in one corner, a galvanized bucket. On a shelf sit a brass kerosene lamp with no chimney and a brown earthenware basin. A large brass ewer with a long spout squats on the floor nearby.

Sonia turns off the penlight, retrieves a match case from a pocket, and lights the wick; the lamp yields a dim and smoky flame. Sonia says, “Well, that’s better. We can see where we are.”

“Where are we?”

“We’re in a hujra, a village inn, probably somewhere in the Northwest Frontier Province, up by the Afghan border. We certainly were on the road for long enough. My God, you look terrible; your face is all banged up. Come here by the light.”

Sonia uses a corner of her dupatta and water from the brass ewer to clean the livid bruises on Annette’s face. After this, Annette breaks down and Sonia holds her while she cries. It is a fairly short breakdown, given what has happened to her, and after she has recovered herself she asks, “How come you didn’t get banged up? Your face looks fine.”

“Because I wasn’t tied up. I could brace myself with my hands.”

“How did you do that?”

“My dad was a circus magician. He had an act where he’d get some guy in the crowd to tie him up and he’d get free. It’s not hard if you know how, and if the person who’s tying you up is in a hurry and working in the dark. Excuse me, I’m dying for a pee.”

Sonia uses the bucket and the ewer, washing in the manner prescribed for Muslims. Annette uses the bucket too, and afterward says, “I hope we don’t have to do everything in that.”

“No, there’s going to be an earth closet somewhere on the premises, and we’ll be taken to it. These people may kill us, but meanwhile you can expect them to obey all the traditional sanitary laws of Islam to the letter.”

There is a pause. Then Annette asks, “Do you think they will kill us?”

“They’re certainly prepared to. That’s why we’re in a hujra and not in someone’s house. The hospitality laws of the Pashtuns would make us guests, and guests are sacred to them.”

They both start as the lock squeals and the door swings open. They see a dark figure appear for a moment and lay a tin tray on the floor and then the door is shut and locked again.

“Speaking of which,” says Sonia, “there’s our dinner. By God, I’m starved!”

They eat ravenously, scooping up clots of dal with chunks ripped off book-sized loaves of naan, topped with yogurt and washed down with milky tea.

After they finish, Annette laughs and says, “What was that, a hearty meal for the condemned?”

“No, just what they usually eat in places like this. I don’t think they intend to starve us. We’re probably quite valuable to them in one piece. By the way, don’t eat with your left hand. It’s vile.”

“I forgot. I’m sorry.”

“You’ve never worked in a Muslim country before?”

“No, we’ve only been in Latin America and the Christian parts of Africa. Are you really a Muslim or is that an act?”

“No, it’s real, although I’m not a very good one, theologically. I try to make up for it by being scrupulous about prayer and the various prohibitions. The Prophet, may he have peace, was very big on prohibitions. It’s an interesting religion, very simple and pure. I enjoy it when I’m feeling that way. I assume you’re a Christian.”

“Yes, but not a very good one, theologically.” Here a nervous laugh. “I come from an evangelical background. I was saved when I was fourteen but I drifted away in college, not that I lost my faith, really, but I got turned off by the way the evangelical kids on campus behaved, a lot of looking for the mote in their brother’s eye, and of course politically they were all to the right of Attila the Hun. Then I went to South Africa with a do-good operation, teaching in these unbelievably poor townships, kids sharing pencils and so on, and that’s where I met Porter.”

“And fell in love.”

Annette bobbed her head and let out a surprised giggle. “Yes, you could say that, although he’s not very romantic and, you know, he’s quite a bit older. I was impressed by his devotion to helping all the suffering, trying to stop people fighting, and I guess I wanted to share that life. And also… well, he really needs my help. I mean he’s a wonderful speaker and much better with people than I am, you have no idea, he just looks for the best in people and most of the time they respond. But he can’t cross a street without getting lost and he forgets things and his papers would be a mare’s nest if someone didn’t keep them in order. He’s a Friend, you know, what you call Quakers, and I suppose I’m a Friend now too. Also a very simple religion, which consists mainly of being quiet a lot and working for peace.” She sighs and chews on her lip. “I’m so worried about him. He must be devastated that this happened, and those nice boys shot down in front of his eyes. Do you think they’ll let me see him?”