"She interrupts him by holding up a finger. He recognizes this gesture and is silent. 'Tell me about the rug, Ushman.'
"She does this when she is nearly settled on her choice. But it is not so simple as choosing. Ushman must earn the sale. He must tell her about the rug so that she attaches to it, emotionally, as if it were a child in an orphanage.
" 'This arch is called a mihrah. It should be oriented towards Mecca when you pray. But for decorative purposes, it is irrelevant. This rug was woven in a mountain village in western Turkey just before a massive earthquake destroyed the workshops in 1905. It is in excellent condition. A semi-antique, obviously. Its seven-row border symbolizes the seven steps of the ascent to Paradise.'
" 'And would you pray on it?'
" 'Of course. Absolutely. Five times a day,' Ushman says, smiling.
"Mrs. Roberts does not smile. She is still staring at the rug. 'No,' she says. 'I mean, would you, now. Pray for me.'
"Ushman's smile fades. 'I don't understand . . .'
"For a moment her face is serious, expectant. Then, quite suddenly, she laughs. 'Not literally, Ushman. I simply want to see how it's done. You know. Should me how a Muslim would approach this rug, at a time of prayer.'
"Ushman does not look at her face. But he knows, she has that familiar look in her eyes. The desire, the longing.
"He has a knot, suddenly, in his throat. Without understanding its purpose, Ushman feels that her request must be some form of subjugation. Some reminder of his relation to her and her country. A reminder that here, in his shop, she still wields the power. A reminder of what she remembers of that morning in June.
" 'I'm sorry,' she says, when his silence fills the room. 'I certainly didn't mean to offend you . . .'
" 'Certainly not, Ushman says, knowing that he is beholden to her. She is his customer.
"For the sake of a sale, he will show her salaat. He has not prayed since Ramadan last year. The ritual no longer feels like it transports him to a place where he is whole. Instead, it only reminds him of how much he has lost. So he is hesitant to begin. And Ushman is not a performer; there is no sense of drama in his chemistry. His motions are small and subtle.
"He first steps out of his shoes and stands on the niche in the rug. With his legs slightly spread, he brings his hands to his ears, with his palms forward and his thumbs behind his earlobes. Under his breath, he recites the words. She does not hear them. He hardly hears them himself. But she watches his lips move as he truncates the prayer and bends quickly onto his knees, where he knows she wants him. Ushman does not truly pray. Instead, he looks up at her, to see that she is watching, to see that she understands his shorthand, to make it known that this demonstration is not sacred, and her observation of it is not intimate.
"Her eyes, though, do not acknowledge this distinction. She is rigid with respect for this display. She clearly considers it to be an honor. This invitation into a world she does not know. Into a world she's seen as a tourist from expensive sailboats and chartered planes, but never really noticed. Never found particularly charming or accessible or even very remarkable. Ushman sees in her gaze a kind of distant epiphany. As though she is recalling things she might have seen while on elegant tours of Cairo or Istanbul. And as though the things she has seen are just now becoming relevant to her life. Because of Ushman on his knees in front of her. She beginning to see the world more broadly. To understand that even as she strolled through the bazaar, looking for a trinket for her son, avoiding the eyes of local merchants who studied the expensive golden highlights in her hair and sparkling studs in her ears, Ushman or someone like him was there. A man who may have spread a carpet beneath himself and said these very words, believing in Allah, believing in his faith and his country with a vigor and conviction that she now covets. Because this kind of devotion requires desire. And this sensation of yearning seems to be, still, out of her reach.
"Ushman stands and wipes his face with his palms. 'You see?' he says, smiling casually. 'It is a beautiful piece, with sacred intentions.' Ushman is no longer desperate to sell this, or any, rug. He doesn't believe his life will ever change.
"Mrs. Roberts is still looking at the rug. 'What does Islam say about the afterlife, Ushman?'
" 'That for those who believe and live a good life, it is Paradise.'
" 'And for those who don't, there is hell?'
"Ushman nods.
"She smiles briefly. 'Always there must be the faith. Belief. Never is it good enough just to behave.'
"Ushman shrugs. He looks down at the rug again. 'The mihrah, the archway, is representing the doorway to Paradise. Symbolically speaking there are — '
" 'I'm not speaking of symbols,' she says, interrupting him, her voice quiet and flat. 'They don't interest me. I'm interested in what is real. In what is urgent and absolute.' Her eyes are fixed on his face, as though she were deciding whether or not it, not the rug, would be right in her den. As though something in his face would either match her décor or not. As though she might truly buy a forty-thousand-dollar rug based on his reply.
"Ushman starts to shrug, but thinks better of it, so that his shoulders pull up toward his ears and stay there, like a turtle backing into its shell. 'I think faith is required to protect religion from reason. After all, it is not a science. Allah, or God, wants your heart, not just your mind. Your heart must believe. Our actions can be . . . what is the word . . . hollow. Adequate, but hollow. Your actions cannot substitute for the contents of your heart.' "
"Then, as he's finished speaking, Ushman allows his shoulders to drop, slowly. As he does so, Mrs. Roberts looks away, back to the floor and the rug just beyond her feet.
"He lets her look a moment longer and then Ushman folds the rug over on itself. 'Perhaps it is not the right rug for you,' he says, noticing the tenor of the horns escalating outside, indicating that the afternoon is nearly gone. 'Perhaps there will be one next month.'
" 'I want it,' she says, her voice still flat. 'You'll bring it now?'
"Ushman looks at his watch. He closes his eyes and then nods, extending his arms toward her. 'Whatever you like.'
" 'I won't be there. I'm on my way out. But my girl is there. She will let you in.'
"Ushman follows her to the door, still nodding his head. 'Of course, of course.'
"She stops in the doorway and pulls on her black leather gloves that have a strong aroma of cedar to them. 'And Ushman, make sure the arch faces the right way. Towards Mecca, you know.'
" 'As you wish,' Ushman says, closing the door behind her and looking at the Ghiordes prayer rug, folded over on itself, looking meek and sloppy, like a child trying to avoid being chosen for a difficult chore."
