In the Language of Miracles Read Online Free Page B

of each in a way Samir had never experienced before.
    Glancing behind him, he smiled at Nagla, who sat in the backseat next to a squirmy Hosaam, too busy to see Samir watching her. He looked as she tried to comfort their ten-month-old son and knew, right then and there, he would do anything to give them the life they would never have had a chance at, back in Egypt.
    â€œSo when do you get to start?” Loula asked. Over the phone a few weeks earlier, Samir had told her about the medical training he was to start in Brooklyn, only two hours from her home.
    â€œNot until July. But I wanted to get Nagla settled in first.”
    â€œDo you know where you’ll be staying?”
    â€œThe hospital has a couple of buildings they rent out of. I’ll get in touch with them tomorrow and see what they can do for me.”
    â€œYou should talk to Ahmed first,” Loula said. “He might know someone who could get you a cheaper place. Sometimes these places they recommend cost an arm and a leg.”
    â€œI don’t need a cheap place.”
    â€œJust to save up, you know.”
    â€œThanks, but I think we’ll be fine.”
    Loula did not answer. Born in Brooklyn to an American mother, she was Samir’s first cousin whom he had seen only intermittently when she vacationed with her parents in Egypt. He suspected she was taking them in only because his uncle had insisted. Months earlier, Uncle Omar had assured Samir that he would have welcomed him in his own home had he not lived in Detroit. Loula was the only person Uncle Omar knew who might offer Samir temporary shelter.
    Ahmed, her husband, Samir had met only once, and he had detested him. Tall and lanky, Ahmed had sat down in Samir’s father’s living room, legs crossed, the heel of his shoe facing Samir’s father in unabashed neglect of Egyptian manners, and had spoken in an Arabic scattered with unnecessary English expressions that his then six-year tenure in the United States did not warrant. In contrast, Loula had talked almostexclusively in Arabic, stuttering as she searched for words, pronouncing the letters in a heavy accent that belied her features, so Egyptian she seemed fit to play the role of Cleopatra. Considering that she was born and raised in New York, Samir had found it fascinating that she could even converse in the language. He did not understand how she had ever ended up with Ahmed.
    In the station wagon, Samir tried to let Om Kalthoum’s voice soothe him again, but he failed. He did not know what had offended him more: Loula’s implying that he would not be able to afford the hospital housing (which, to be honest, he was not entirely sure he could), or her suggestion that he ask her husband for help, a man who, Samir suspected, knew nothing more about Brooklyn than he himself did. Whatever knowledge Ahmed had amassed in his years spent in the United States, Samir was sure he would be able to catch up on shortly. He did not need help from anyone, and certainly not from other Egyptians whose only claim to expertise on all things American lay in the limited experience a few years had to offer. Closing his eyes, Samir reminded himself he would have to veer away from any unpleasant confrontations with Ahmed during the days or weeks he’d have to spend at his home, and, most important, he’d have to make sure he got out of there as soon as possible.
    To his chagrin, however, he and Nagla ended up staying with Loula and Ahmed for three months. Only a day after their arrival, the human resources lady at the hospital, portly and with too-blond hair, had looked at Samir over her reading glasses and told him, one more time, in a slow English that implied he might have had trouble understanding the language, that housing for the residents was currently full. He’d have to wait until June 30, when the senior residents would move out and make room for incoming interns. Samir, explaining again that he had been told