Somebody's Heart Is Burning Read Free

whether I might implode right then and there and blow away like a pile of ash.
    Then the uncle exclaimed heartily,
“Ce n’est pas grave!”
    “That’s right,” the mother chimed in. “It doesn’t matter at all. Won’t you stay for dinner, please?”
    I was so overwhelmed by their kindness that tears sprang to my eyes. For all they knew we were con artists, thieves, anything. Would such a thing ever happen back home?
    Still, with my plane leaving the next morning, I felt the moments I could share with the first Abdelati and his family slipping farther and farther away.
    “Thank you so much,” I said fervently, “It’s been a beautiful, beautiful day, but please . . . Could you help me find this address?”
    I took out the piece of paper Abdelati had given me back in Kenitra, and the new Abdelati, his uncle, and his brother-in-law came forward to decipher it.
    “This is Baâlal Abdelati!” said the second Abdelati with surprise. “We went to school together! He lives less than a kilometer from here. I will bring you to his house.”
    And that is how it happened, that after taking photos and exchanging addresses and hugs and promises to write, Miguel and I left our newfound family and walked briskly through the narrow streets with this new Abdelati as our guide, until we arrived at the home of our old friend Abdelati just as the last orange streak of the sunset was fading into the indigo night. There, I threw myself into the arms of that dear and lovely young man, exclaiming, “I thought we’d never find you!”
    After greetings had been offered all around, and the two Abdelatis had shared stories and laughter, we waved goodbye to our new friend Abdelati and entered a low, narrow hallway, lit by kerosene lamps.
    “This is my mother,” said Abdelati.
    And suddenly I found myself caught up in a crush of fabric and spice, gripped in the tight embrace of a completely veiled woman, who held me and cried over me and wouldn’t let me go, just as if I were her own daughter, and not a stranger she’d never before laid eyes on in her life.

2
    Dirty Laundry
    Sometimes I think I’ll never go back to the U.S. The words are
seductive, and once in a while I play them in my head, a tantalizing refrain:
never go back, never go back. Of course it’s all drama, because what do
you fill that “never” with? You still have to spend the rest of your life
somewhere.
    I couldn’t escape Michael. My time in Morocco, consuming as it was, had not erased the memory of our parting. He’d held me so tightly at the airport that I could feel his heart knocking against the wall of his slender chest. He wouldn’t let go until they’d called final boarding three times. When I finally managed to pull away, he ducked his head in embarrassment, his eyes leaking tears.
    I blamed myself for leaving, but I blamed him, too. In recent months, he’d started talking marriage, and talk of marriage made me extremely uncomfortable. He knew this, but he wouldn’t stop.
    After countless hours of negotiations, accusations, recriminations, and apologies, we’d agreed to leave things open while I was away. We’d stay in touch, of course, but we were free to see other people, and there were no guarantees on either side about what would happen when I returned. The length of my trip was indefinite; I didn’t want to feel constrained by the idea that he was waiting for me.
    I hadn’t counted on the wiliness of memory. I’d go almost an entire day without thinking of him, and then I’d turn a corner and there he’d be, his sudden, cheeky grin reflected in the face of a policeman or trinket hawker, his loose-limbed walk adorning a museum guard. His letters arrived at the Moroccan work camp every few days. Each one was quintessentially Michael: quirky, humorous, tender, filled with misspellings and the whimsical poetry of daily life. Although reading them made me homesick and confused, I felt anxious and impatient on days when they didn’t arrive.