Page 63 of Kiwi Sin
“Yes.” I went on, seizing on the first topic that came to mind, “Laila thought it was odd, once she knew about Mount Zion, that I didn’t care that she lived in a church.”
“The building, you mean.” He still sounded different. Remote, almost. Had he guessed, and now he was trying to put me off? Please, no. “Did you tell her that there’s no church, the way she thinks, at Mount Zion?”
“Yes,” I said. “A bit. That the dining hall was where the Prophet preached, and that purpose-built churches are idolatry, constructed for man’s pride and earthly desires and not for love of the real Word of God, so they don’t count as holy places. That the Prophet said so, I mean,” I hurried to add. “I’m not sure I— But anyway. She didn’t think that was as … as bad as other people do, maybe because she’s not Christian, not even a little bit Christian, the way people usually are, Outside.”
I stole a glance at him. What would I do if he thought this was bad? I didn’t know, but somehow, I needed to find out.
Laila was good. I was realizing by now that “good” and “evil” weren’t the straight lines I’d always been told, that there were all sorts of curves and twists to them, but surely, Laila was good, the same way my mum was. She was kind all the way down, not just on the surface. You couldn’t have such kind hands, couldn’t hold babies the way she did, as if she loved every one of them, and not be good.
I felt, normally, like I didn’t know anything, but I did know about mothers and fathers and babies. And surely,surely,somebody so good couldn’t be going to Hell, no matter what I’d grown up believing. “She’s Muslim,” I told Gabriel. “Like my friend Aisha, that you met. LailawasMuslim, anyway. She says she’s not sure how much she’s anything anymore. Same as me.” And then I trembled, kept my fingers moving, the five pale, overlapping needles flashing in and out amongst the soft ropes of indigo, and waited.
The yarn caught on a rough spot, and I sighed. A small sound, but Gabriel must have heard it, because he said, “What?”
“Nothing. I need to sand this needle, that’s all.”
“You used to knit with metal ones,” he said. “I remember.”
“You do?” I sneaked another look. He was smiling a little, as if he hadn’t even registered the “Muslim” thing. Not to mention, “Same as me.” I believed in God. I did. But I was starting to believe that He wasn’t the God I’d always heard about, and I didn’t know if that was blasphemy.
Goodness. That was what I wanted to believe God was. He should be what you strove for, right? Which was goodness. Mercy, and charity, and hope. If God was always angry, if He was so easily vengeful … how could that be right?
“Yeh,” he said. “Some women used the wooden ones, and others used metal. You went faster than almost anyone. As fast as the aunties.”
“You can’t go as fast with the wooden ones,” I said. “But they’re much cheaper.”
“Oh. I see. You’d have more friction with wood, at least if the metal’s smooth, and friction would slow you down.” A pause, and then he said, “I envied you, in a way. Having my hands working … that always feels better, but you can’t sit around the table after dinner with your circular saw, eh.”
I laughed, and he grinned again and said, “Could drive off your company. The noise, and the potential loss of a finger or two.”
“Almost as bad as a can opener,” I agreed.
I thought I’d gone too far, but he laughed again, the sound warm in the night. The skin crinkled around his indigo eyes, and he kept smiling at me and said, “You’re changing, eh.”
My heart, somehow, had started to beat much harder. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I love my job for Laila, and living at Gray’s is wonderful, of course. So comfortable,” I hurried to add, in case he thought I sounded ungrateful. “Luxurious, really, when he had no obligation to house us at all, and certainly not to keep doing it. There are all those flowers and vegies in the garden, too, besides the animals, and I get to help with those as well. Which is all brilliant.”
“But,” Gabriel said. No judgment in his eyes, just interest.
“But I don’t seem to be reacting the way I’m meant to,” I found myself saying. “I don’t want the right things. To do something important. To go far. My sisters want that. Four of us out here, and it’s only me who’s …” I trailed off.
“D’you wish you hadn’t left, then?” he asked quietly.
I couldn’t answer. That was because I couldn’tfindthe answer. “No,” I said at last. “I don’t think so. I know it’s better. Being able to choose for yourself, even though that doesn’t always feel nice, and I think some things that happened …”
Just go on,I told myself, when I wanted to stop.He left, too. And the Prophet isn’t here to find out.
It was so hard to go on, though. “I think some things were wrong,” I said, all in a rush.
“Hurting people,” Gabriel said, still quietly. “Hurting kids. Hurting women.” A pause. “Hurting your sisters.”
I couldn’t get a deep enough breath. I couldn’t still the beating of my heart. “Yes. I think that’s wrong. I think the Prophet is wrong to say it’s all right. And to … to force people. Not to let them out. Women, I mean, and making them get their husbands’ permission for … for anything. For everything. And not to pay people, so it’s hard for them to leave anyway, because you need money for everything Outside.” The first time I’d said any of that out loud. I hadn’t mentioned birth control, of being able to choose for yourself when you had your kids and how many you’d have. A mancouldn’tbe all right with that. Not if the woman was the one choosing. Not if the man was from Mount Zion.
Gabriel said, “So do I.”
“You do?” I was still knitting determinedly, my fingers comforted by the feel of the needles and the silky wool.
“That’s why I left,” he said. “I just wish I …”
“That you fit,” I said.
