Cities of Refuge Read Online Free PDF

as anyone knew. But Sadaf was an unlikely target, despite her past. Three hours before collecting her, Kim had received the outlines of her story from the office. Sadaf’s history was in the records, some of them in Iran, some filed with Canadian court documents. The verifiable facts were that her religious name was Zahara, her family was Shia, she’d studied Islamic law at the Something-or-other university in Tehran. What couldn’t be established for the Review Board’s satisfaction was that she had been arrested for writing human rights articles in a student paper and had had to leave the country because she caught the attention of a particular government official, or anything that had happened thereafter.
    Even at GROUND Kim had never directly witnessed real fear.The dimensions were beyond her. She had no idea how to meet it, or even its retreat.
    The knife must have just been misplaced. Of course, it would be in the utensil drawer, and she slid it open, and there it was.
    And this is what she thought: that it made you suggestible, this business of helping survivors. What she didn’t think, only came to realize, is that when you work at the nexus of a thousand bad histories, you breathe something in, some essence of dire luck. Your body knows it before your mind, but the days slowly fill with seeming accidents, nicked fingers, bad timings, a general slippage in the works, as if you’ve been forgotten in the thoughts of loved ones. The signs are everywhere, you might even be able to mark them, but their meaning will not open until it’s too late.
    Sadaf appeared at the door, wearing a
rapoosh
, was the word in Persian, unbuttoned for comfort and in the spirit of near emancipation. She’d been drawn out by the sunrise to walk and returned now with a steaming waxed paper cup of tea, and looked at Kim, a severe brow set into a dry, open face, round with thought. Kim felt herself focused upon, and she realized she was still wearing her security uniform. That first night she’d explained that no real authority attached to it, that the museum’s nighttime security guards were mostly musicians and artists who wore their uniforms somewhat ironically, but the point had been lost. Now, three days later, there was no way to recover it.
    This boarding of illegals was still new to her. Sadaf was only the third woman to stay there. None had remained for more than a week. They’d all eventually found new apartments, new bad jobs, and resumed their newly undramatic, invisible lives.
    They ate a breakfast of muffins together, sitting on the stools. Kim explained the concept of fumigation, that they’d have to vacate the apartment tomorrow afternoon. Sadaf nodded, as if at a timeless condition. She’d taken no interest in the newspaper. Out of politeness, to dispel the silence, Kim asked where she’d learned English.
    “As a girl. At home.”
    “Do you speak other languages?”
    “I speak Persian, Arabic. French, a little. What are your languages?”
    “French and Spanish. I’ve worked on Russian lately.”
    “You learned in school?”
    “They come from my father, mostly. He’s a professor of history. We lived in France and Mexico City when I was young.” Kim chose not to add that her stepfather was also a professor. But then Donald had never moved her to new countries, had never meant the world to her, so to speak, as Harold had.
    She knew from their other conversations that Sadaf had also travelled with her father when she was young. This fact complicated her view of the woman. She was educated, cosmopolitan, but as a girl during Muharram she’d worn a shroud and marched to the religious monuments.
    Kim needed sleep. She felt heavy and floating at once, dream-deprived, as if the dreams might from the sheer need to discharge themselves break through into her waking mind. Two mornings ago she’d skipped a day’s sleep, going straight from the museum to take the morning shift at GROUND , and found herself barely able