Chapter Eighteen

Al-Ghazzali had written "The Alchemy of Happiness" a thousand years ago, a long pamphlet or short book that a Sufi friend had asked her to read. Abigail was awake now, and knew she wouldn't fall asleep easily if at all, and there were four hours to go before landing at Heathrow.

Her neighbor in the aisle seat was contorted around away from her, which seemed fine except that it meant that, in her sleep, she kept kicking back at Abigail's ankles. That alone meant she wasn't going to try and doze again.

The extended essay was on her Kindle now, and she idly tapped it open. "Knowledge of self," "knowledge of God." The section headings were not encouraging.

Abigail had many friends, or at least recurring acquaintances from her time in Pakistan. She had made all of one venture into Afghanistan, and felt no need to return: that wasn't where this story, or the action was. If her reporting had told her anything as she inquired and appealed and asked questions across the various women and a few men she had interviewed, it was that Afghanistan may have been the hinge of Islamic extremism over a decade ago, but today the activity and education and motivation for radical Islam was all rooted deeply in Pakistani soil.

The men, so typically, always asked if she had a husband, a fiance, a suitor (or if she wanted one). Even the most liberal, enlightened, progressive Paki men would go to that subject the moment business ended and the conversation became more personal. And conservative men simply would not talk to her.

Among women, it was more complicated, but still marriage and the need to have a clear attachment to a male was still the heart of things for them. It was a fun-house mirror version of Jane Austen, she thought for the twenty-ninth time. Her marriageability, her prospects, her plans -- it was the same as talking to an American male during football season and everything was about their teams and the upcoming game of the decade.

Or century. Anyhow.

She knew she was not happy, but she was profoundly skeptical that it was a man who would make her so. But the subject of happiness was certainly of interest to her. Opening the first section, Abigail read:

"KNOWLEDGE of self is the key to the knowledge of God, according to the saying: "He who knows himself knows God..."

She had read the Qur'an, in various English translations as well as in Arabic, and had dealt directly with the reality that the Arabic of the Qur'an made Shakespearean English seem like a mere shimmer on the face of clear, easily plumbable language. The ancient, classical Qur'anic Arabic shone and reflected and redirected the reader to where it was understandable only that you needed a guide, an imam, to help you read it with understanding. No doubt somewhere in the Qur'an was a statement that could, with a little effort, be read as "He who knows himself knows God." Or she.

A little further down: "The first step to self-knowledge is to know that thou art composed of an outward shape, called the body, and an inward entity called the heart, or soul."

The outward shape she had, if not as in shape as she would like. A few weeks back in London, with gyms and weights and some yoga at hand, would return most of that shape to where she thought it belonged. But the "inward entity." The heart, the soul. Did she have one?

With that question turning over and over in her mind, Abigail fell asleep. Until her neighbor kicked her again.