Her paleness contrasted with his darkly tanned skin. Her lips parted to say something but words failed her. Her heart wouldn’t let her say out loud what she was thinking. She forced the words, and her voice came out with a strange rattle, like that of a rusty tin can left to the wind. ‘She’s working with the Americans. Zeina’s working with them.’ ‘Khala, everyone works with the Americans these days.’ ‘No, Haydar, my sweet. That’s not true. None of our relatives or neighbours work with the occupation.’ ‘But she’s American herself. She left here when she was a young girl and she became American.’ ‘So Americans forget their roots?’ ‘No, but Zeina was brought up in a world different from ours.’ ‘We will bring her up from scratch, this ignorant girl. Right, Haydar, my dear? We won’t leave her to her ill manners.’ She said the last two words in Turkish for effect: ‘tarbiya siz’. Haydar quickly put his palm to her mouth. ‘Shush, you shouldn’t say that.
What do You think about The American Granddaughter?
