“Oh, but you must,” Djimlah declared. “You wouldn’t like to disappoint him, would you?”
“I don’t belong to him,” I asserted passionately. “I don’t belong to him. I belong to God, so I don’t care whether I disappoint Allah or not.”
“Djimlah,” interposed her grandmother, “you must let the little hanoum do as she likes. You and I can pray alone.”
Djimlah stood before her grandmother, her face tilted upward, her hands outstretched, palms upward.
“Allah, the only true god of heaven and earth, be praised! There is no other God but God, the great, the wonderful, the just. Allah be praised!”
She kissed her grandmother and me, and the old lady kissed us both, and put us to bed. No sooner was she out of the room than Djimlah said:
“Baby mine, I believe the storm has upset you. You have been so quiet all the afternoon—and now you don’t even pray.”
“I am upset,” I replied. “But it isn’t the storm—it’s you.”
She sat up in bed. “Now what have I done to offend you, when you are under my roof?”
“It wasn’t under your roof. It was when we were in the open, during the storm.”