The Butterfly Mosque by G. Willow Wilson Page B

silent agreement. From that moment, we were allies and coconspirators. The painting I admired would arrive wrapped at my doorstep several weeks later, with one addition: the bouquet of flowers I gave Amu Fakhry had appeared on the table near the subject’s elbow, picked out in daubs of pink and green.
    It’s very easy to keep secrets from people who live thousands of miles away. It’s much less easy to keep them from your roommate. I wanted to talk to Jo about my news, but I was a little afraid of her reaction. If I told her about the engagement, I’d have to tell her about my conversion as well, and that was a conversation I was not yet prepared to have with anyone whose opinions about religion were as strong as hers.
    â€œEvery time I see the word
God,
my brain shuts down,” she told me one afternoon as we were walking in Maadi. After the news of a death in Jo’s family, a colleague at school had given her a book of inspirational essays and sayings. She had read it dutifully, but it didn’t stick. “It makes me suspicious of the whole book, even the parts I like. There were some beautiful ideas in there. But I just can’t see God, God, God, and take them seriously.”
    â€œWhy not?” I asked. We were walking along a street we’d named Dead Cat Road, in honor of the bloated tabby carcass that had been lying in the median for weeks. We stepped into the street to avoid him.
    â€œThe word doesn’t mean anything positive to me,” Jo said. “I’m not religious, and I feel like God is forced on me in a way that seems dishonest and manipulative.”
    â€œNot everyone thinks of God as a big white guy who floats on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel pointing at people,” I said irritably. “You could think of Him as something more pervasive and universal.”
    This got a smile. “I could,” she said, “but that forces me to work too hard as a reader, which means the book isn’t written well enough to catch my attention without using the word
God
as a crutch.”
    â€œWhat?
” I squeaked. A
boab
in the doorway of a nearby apartment building stared at me. I ignored him. “Are you saying that if a book contains the word
God,
it’s
badly written?
”
    â€œYes,” she said. “That’s what I’m saying.”
    I took a breath, caught a yeasty lungful of cat, and began coughing. We continued down the road in philosophical silence.
    A few days later, Omar invited us to observe a lesson at Beyt al Oud, the music school where he studied with Iraqi lute maestro Naseer Shamma. The school operated out of an eighteenth-century house built in the traditional Arab style—there was an open courtyard called a
salamlek,
where concerts and group lessons were held, and above it a screened series of rooms used for practice, formerly the harem. While Omar chatted with Naseer and his students, Jo and I explored the house, admiring the high, painted ceilings andnarrow stone stairs, and the latticework balcony where women of the house would sit to observe the men, centuries ago. We were lingering in the balcony when I told Jo that Omar and I were engaged. A lesson was in progress below us in the
salamlek,
and little melodies drifted up one by one, playful and sad. Omar chatted with Master Naseer near a dry tile fountain. Secluded behind the lattice, we could see everything without being seen. Jo squeezed my hand and said nothing. We listened to the music for a few more minutes before heading downstairs arm in arm.
    When we were alone back at the apartment, the questions began.
    â€œWhat about all the religion stuff? Don’t you think that’s going to cause problems between you?”
    â€œI’m a Muslim.”
    Jo immediately looked worried. “You converted for him?”
    â€œNo, I converted before we ever said anything to each other. He had no idea I was a Muslim until we had the getting-married