He had an appointment with the headmaster-a pleasant fellow in his sixties, who appreciated very much the iPod Bishop had brought him as a gift, loaded with the Sami Yusuf tunes he said he enjoyed. Bishop wondered if he would have to listen to that music.
Of course you will, he thought. Just as he had to listen to Miley Cyrus and Shane Harper for a year or so.
Together, he and the headmaster went to get Kamilah Fazari from her biology class. They stood outside the building, in the shade, waiting for the class to end. The teacher-a woman in a head scarf-brought the thin, tall girl over.
The twelve-year-old was well dressed, well mannered, and looked like her mother. Her expression wasn’t neutral, as it was the first day Bishop had seen her, but she had the same poise, the same strong mouth, the same intense eyes, which were studying Bishop with a blend of interest and suspicion.
She had been crying fairly recently. Bishop recognized the look from his own reflection in the mirror. He knew that she had been informed by Akila Fazari that Yasmin Rassin was killed in an accident, but that was all she knew.
The headmaster explained-pausing to translate for Bishop-that this man was an acquaintance of her mother and wanted to take her to America to live and to study.
“Why would he do this?” she asked through the headmaster.
“Because your mother wanted you to have opportunities she never did,” Bishop explained. When that had been translated, he added, “And because you might fulfill the promise and potential of one who was taken from me, just as your mother was taken from you,” he said.
“A daughter?” she asked through the headmaster.
Bishop nodded.
“That is a big responsibility for a young girl,” the headmaster told him, a trace of concern in his eyes.
Bishop nodded again. “Please tell her that I have no expectations and make no demands. All I have is the hope and a belief that we can set some kind of example for people who want to tear nations apart. But I want you to know-as a surrogate father to so many-that while I am prepared to give a great deal, I will never ask anything she is not prepared to give.”
The headmaster smiled approvingly and explained to Kamilah. It was the first time that Bishop saw her smile. It was a radiant smile, untainted by the world outside. He imagined that once, long ago, her mother had smiled like that. He hoped so. He knew now that he was doing the right thing.
“As you can understand, Mr. Bishop, she is scared but appreciative. She would like to talk to her godmother about it,” the headmaster said.
“I’ll find lodgings in town and await her answer,” Bishop said. “Please tell her that I would be honored if she and her godmother would join me for dinner.” The headmaster hesitated. Bishop grinned. “And you, too, of course.”
The headmaster translated.
Kamilah thanked him and told the headmaster to give him Akila’s address. She asked him to come by at five. Bishop said he would be there.
When she left, the headmaster studied the American. “I think she will go with you,” he said. “That girl has a very adventurous spirit.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bishop said.
“I know Akila wants the best for her, as well. You say you knew her mother?”
“I did, briefly.”
“I only saw her once, for less time than I’ve seen you. I have often wondered, what was she like?”
“Complicated,” Bishop said.
“She was successful in her work, I am told.”
“She was,” Bishop agreed, “but she kept all that to herself.”
“Why?”
Bishop looked out at the sunbaked street, at the old cars and the occasional cow and sheep. “She had her reasons,” he said. “But I can tell you she loved her daughter more than anything. And I think, in the end, that’s a fitting epitaph for anyone.”
The headmaster considered that as Bishop thanked him, shook his hand, and went off to find a place to spend the night.
And to buy two bus tickets to Islamabad.