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Overview
For years, Amira—a recent convert to Islam living in Rome—has gone to work, said her prayers, and struggled to piece together her husband’s redacted letters from the Moroccan black site where he is imprisoned. She moves as inconspicuously as possible through her modest life, doing her best to avoid the whispered curiosity of her community.
Meanwhile, Mel—once an activist—is trying to get the suburban conservatives of her small North Carolina town to support her school board initiatives, and struggles to fill her empty nest. It's a steady, settled life, except perhaps for the affair she can't admit she's having.
As these narratives unfurl thousands of miles apart, they begin to resonate like the two sides of a tuning fork. And when Mel learns that a local charter airline serves as a front for the CIA’s extraordinary renditions—including that of Amira's husband—both women face wrenching questions that will shape the rest of their lives.
Written with piercing insight and artistry, Planes is a singular, assured, and indelible first novel that announces a major new voice.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780593314494 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 06/20/2023 |
| Pages: | 256 |
| Sales rank: | 677,294 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.16(w) x 7.94(h) x 0.72(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Amira
On Tuesday, after she’s walked for hours, she decides to sit at a coffee bar and order a cappuccino in her husband’s honor.
On one of their earliest dates, the third or fourth, he took her to the Appian Way Park, the Tor Marancia section. During the bus ride, and even more so once they arrived, he was visibly proud to be showing her—a native Italian—a piece of Rome she didn’t know. Afterward, they sat in a charming nearby coffee bar with outdoor seating. Even though it was already late afternoon, Ayoub ordered a cappuccino. When the waiter sniggered, she felt a mix of pity and embarrassment. But Ayoub wasn’t bothered. He couldn’t help it, he explained, he loved cappuccino too much to limit himself to having it only in the morning, the way “real Italians” did. “They can call me a dumb Arab if they want,” he said.
“They can laugh. But I know I’m a dumb Arab with a delicious drink. Sorry if I embarrassed you, though.”
“No,” she said. “Not embarrassed.” Saying the words made them true. She called the waiter back and changed her order to a cappuccino. From then on, late-in-the-day cappuccinos were one of their rituals. At the coffee bar by the Appian Way Park, they became friendly with the owner, who cheered them on. “Maybe you Arabs could teach us something about being Italian,” he said. “If everyone was like you, I could sell cappuccino all day and make more money.” Arabs. Plural. They never corrected him, opting instead to smile softly at each other and enjoy the moment. Now each cappuccino she drinks alone is money she could be putting away toward rent. She knows that. But she needs to keep the ritual alive.
She’s walking home when her phone starts to vibrate in her purse. SARAH LAWYER OFFICE. It takes her more than one try to accept the call, her hands are shaking, she keeps missing the button.
They have a system. Sarah uses it with many of her clients. For most updates, she uses email. If she has information that is not urgent but, for whatever reason, cannot go in an email, she sends an email or text proposing three possible times for a call. She makes unscheduled calls only if she has truly urgent news, news she knows Amira needs to hear right away. The threshold for needs to hear right away has never been defined, and Sarah has crossed it only twice. The first time was to tell her that Ayoub seemed to no longer be in Pakistan—but that no one knew where he was, or why. The second time was two weeks later, to tell her that, apparently, he’d been held by the Pakistani secret police but was now almost definitely in Morocco. It was in this conversation that Amira first heard the words Temara Prison. Until then, she’d thought it most likely he was lying in a hospital where for some reason they couldn’t identify him, maybe his wallet had been thrown from his body in a car crash and he wasn’t yet conscious. Sarah’s system is supposed to save her clients stress by reducing the number of times they have to hold a ringing phone in their hands, suffocating under the weight of every terrible thing they might be about to learn, all the possibilities they cannot help having read about in the newspapers or online, plus all the permutations of those possibilities their minds can’t help generating. The system is also supposed to make it less stressful to check (or not check) email: one can always know that if it’s something truly urgent, Sarah will already have called.
She leans against a lamppost. Whatever she is about to learn, dozens of people walking down the street will witness her learning it.
“Hello, Khadija?” It’s Sarah, but for some reason she’s speaking English.
“Excuse me?”
“Khadija, can you hear me? It’s Sarah.”
“No, this is Amira.”
“Amira? Oh God, I’m—”
“What is it? What happened?”
“No, nothing, Amira.” She switches to her broken Italian. “It is a nothing. I’m sorry. I call the wrong number. I mean to be calling someone else. I am sorry, so sorry, very extra sorry. There is no information that is new. I am so sorry. I am… tired. I make a mistake. I am sorry.”
“Oh.” The sickening chemical collision of relief and panic in the gut.
“I am tired and I call the bad number. The not-right number.”
“That’s okay. It’s okay, Sarah. Khadija is… another client? The wife of another client, I mean?”
Sarah sighs. “Yes, the wife of a client.”
On the way home she cannot stop herself from going into the Somali internet cafe and googling: Khadija rendition wife, Khadija rendition Sarah Mayfield, Khadija CIA rendition, Khadija Guantanamo, Khadija husband Guantanamo, Khadija husband Temara. She finds nothing—nothing she hasn’t seen before, nothing specific to Khadija, whoever she is. She should stop but she doesn’t: Ayoub Alami, Ayoub Alami Temara, Arsalan Pakistan prison, Arsalan CIA detained. And so on. Until she can’t bear it.
She has an email from Mourad, Ayoub’s best friend from childhood, asking the same questions he always asks in his emails: if there is any news, if there is anything he can do, if she needs money (though he never puts it so directly), if she wants to come and stay with his family in Madrid, for any amount of time. I know Ayoub would do anything for me, and I will do anything for him.