It wasn’t all that difficult. She was genuinely fascinated by Paula Kyriakou’s actions. Like Rachel, Paula paid scant attention to Khattak. Her entire attention—in fact her whole body and spirit—seemed attuned not to the graces of an almighty deity, but rather to the prosaic consideration of a distinctly earthbound male. Before the prayer, other things had kept Paula busy. Rachel had tied her own headscarf this afternoon, choosing a pattern of red and pink stripes—a bit showy, but all that had come to hand in the midst of her unpacking. Paula’s eyes had made the pilgrimage to the top of Rachel’s skull. Unable to find fault, she had turned away without speaking. Secretly, Rachel was pleased. Paula was thoroughly unencumbered by the need to put others at ease. She witnessed as much again as the women’s prayer row formed. Women of all ages shuffled together, laughing a little and talking, complaining about the weather or commenting on the brevity of the khutbah and the opportunity it afforded to avoid the rush hour.
