The Reluctant Fundamentalist Read Online Free

Its cities were fortified, protected by ancient castles; they guarded against the Turks, much like the army and navy and air force of modern Greece, part of a wall against the East that still stands. How strange it was for me to think I grew up on the other side!
    But that is neither here nor there. I was telling you about the moment when I was forced to stare. We were lying on the beach, and many of the European women nearby were, as usual, sunbathing topless—a practice I wholeheartedly supported, but which the women among us Princetonians, unfortunately, had thus far failed to embrace—when I noticed Erica was untying the straps of her bikini. And then, as I watched, only an arm’s length away, she bared her breasts to the sun.
    A moment later—no, you are right: I am being dishonest; it was more than a moment—she turned her head to the side and saw me staring at her. A number of possible alternatives presented themselves: I could suddenly avert my eyes, thereby proving not only that I had been staring but that I was uncomfortable with her nudity; I could, after a brief pause, casually move my gaze away, as though the sight of her breasts had been the most natural thing in the world; I could keep staring, honestly communicating in this way my admiration for what she had revealed; or I could, through well-timed literary allusion, draw her attention to the fact that there was a passage in Mr. Palomar that captured perfectly my dilemma.
    But I did none of these things. Instead, I blushed and said, “Hello.” She smiled—with uncharacteristic shyness, it seemed to me—and replied, “Hi.” I nodded, tried to think of something else to say, failed, and said, “Hello,” again. As soon as I had done this, I wanted to disappear; I knew I sounded unbelievably foolish. She started to laugh, her small breasts bouncing, and said, “I’m going for a swim.” But then, as she walked away, she half-turned and added, “You want to come?”
    I followed her, watching the muscles of her lower back tense delicately to stabilize her spine. We reached the water; it was warm and perfectly clear, round pebbles and the flash of little fish visible below the surface. We slipped inside, she swam out into the bay with powerful strokes, and then she treaded water until I had caught up with her. For a time we were both silent and I felt our slippery legs graze each other as we churned the sea. “I don’t think,” she said finally, “I’ve ever met someone our age as polite as you.” “Polite?” I said, less than radiant with joy. She smiled. “I don’t mean it that way,” she said. “Not boring polite. Respectful polite. You give people their space. I really like that. It’s unusual.”
    We continued bobbing face to face, and I formed the impression that she was waiting for me to say something in reply, but words had abandoned me. Instead, my thoughts were engaged in a struggle to maintain a facial expression that would not appear idiotic. She turned and began to swim back to shore, keeping her head above water. I pulled alongside and—claiming victory at last over my cowering tongue—said, “Shall we return to town for a drink?” To which she replied, with a raised eyebrow and in an accent not normally her own, “I would be delighted to do so, sir.”
    On the beach she put on a shirt—a gentleman’s shirt, I still remember, blue and fraying at the tips of the collar—and stuffed her towel and bikini top into a bag. None of our companions wanted to join us, there being at least another hour of tan-inducing sunlight remaining in the day, and so we two made our way to the road and caught a bus. As we sat side by side, I could not help but notice that her bare leg was less than an inch from where I was resting my hand on my thigh.
    It is remarkable, I must say, how being in Pakistan heightens one’s sensitivity to the sight of a woman’s body. Do you not agree? That bearded man—who even now, sir, continues from time