The Prophet's Ladder Read Free

they doing all right? Making do in the walled quarter still? How cramped it must be there. Not like here!” Hassan gestured casually around the air with one hand as he poured the coffee.
    “They are well sir, though my mother still has a cold, as before. I may take her to see the doctor before long if she doesn’t feel better soon.” Ali accepted the coffee gratefully, and sipped it. It was extremely hot and spiced with cloves, ginger, and cinnamon.
    “Well, were you true family I would offer to have my daughter take your mother to the clinician's, just around the corner. Any more thoughts on that front?”
    “Of course sir. Once I am able to afford my own place…”
    “Well I’d help out in that respect, it goes without saying,” replied Hassan, a rapid-fire response.
    “Thank you sir. That is very generous of you.” Ali noted that Amina's father was in a congenial mood this evening, mercifully.
    The two men continued to talk and sip their coffee for another thirty minutes or so, speaking of Tunisia’s performance in yesterday’s CAF Confederation Cup football qualifier and of the recent tragic industrial accident in Turkey, the second in several months. Finally, Amina and Mohammed entered the living room carrying a washing bowl, a towel, and a pitcher of water so those partaking of dinner could rinse their hands before eating. Najwa entered then with the couscous and soup bowls carried on a small, round, knee-high serving table.
    Ali washed his hands and greeted the rest of the family. He turned to his beloved.
    “Hello Amina. Peace be with you.” She smiled as he spoke; she was always so beautiful, and she looked at him with an amused, penetrating light in her eyes.
    “Yes indeed.” Hassan turned to his daughter. “Ali and I were just discussing the matter of your impending matrimony.”
    “Dad! You were speaking of nothing of the sort!” Amina replied as her father laughed. “I could hear you both from the kitchen.”
    Hassan's laughter was contagious, and soon everyone was smiling and laughing along with him. They all partook of the delicious vegetable couscous, using spoons to eat out of the communal central dish. The family inquired about Mohammed's schooling, and Amina's newest graphic design work for the bank.
    As the evening wore on and various individual conversations were taking place across the table, Amina asked Ali if he had worked at all on his blog. "Yes, a little this morning," he replied cautiously. Amina's father pounced on the subject immediately. 
    "What's this about a blog?" Hassan asked.
    "Oh, it's nothing. Just a side project. I've been working analyzing historical trends in North Africa, that sort of thing. Nothing that exciting." Ali equivocated.
    "Really?" Hassan's eyes probed Ali's face. "Well I hope it isn't anything too inflammatory. This country barely survived the ar-rabīˁ al-ˁarabī. You were both teenagers then. You don't remember what it was like."
    Amina protested. “Dad, Ali and I were both nineteen then. Of course we remember. We marched and protested along with lots of our friends.”
    Hassan continued to probe Ali about his blog. “Ali, you aren’t writing anything, heretical are you? I remember that column you wrote about that Imam several month’s back…”
    “With respect sir, that gentleman was embezzling funds, charitable contributions from the faithful.”
    Amina’s father’s voice took on a darker tone. “I don’t recall anything ever being proven in the courts concerning his alleged abuses. Just you be careful. Not all Tunisians are as understanding as Najwa and I when a man goes and questions God’s will. Perhaps I will read up on this ‘blog’ of yours.”
    The dinner took on a muted tone, and the family finished their meal in moody silence. Ali thanked his hosts and bade farewell to Amina before beginning his long walk home. He felt embarrassed and slightly ashamed. He’d done his best to be cheerful and gregarious: a suitable fiancé