Chapter 9 · Untitled Chapter

The screen came in before the coffee did.

Two of the house men carried it, and it was older than the majlis it was being set into — dark wood, cut into a lattice so fine that a woman behind it became a rumor of a woman. They put it at the head of the room, past the Sadr, where the high window laid its light on the carpet.

My cushion went behind it. The same cushion. The same brocade, worn thin at one corner from years of me.

Nobody told me. That was the courtesy of it. A seat is not taken from a person. A seat is moved, and the person is expected to follow it and be grateful that it was carried.

I followed it. I sat. The lattice laid a grid over the room, and the room became a thing I watched instead of a thing I was in.

The men came in and left their shoes at the door, and the carpet filled with bare feet, soles turned away from the elders.