The Calligraphy Lesson | درس الخط
"An American student learns Arabic calligraphy from a master in Fez. The ink stains her fingers—but his touch stains her deeper."
The Calligraphy Lesson
درس الخط
The riad in Fez's medina is over four hundred years old.
I'm here on a fellowship—six months to study traditional Arabic calligraphy. My teacher is Ustaz Karim, master of the Maghrebi script.
He's also devastating.
I'm Grace.
Twenty-nine, American, convert to Islam since college. Arabic calligraphy has been my passion since I first saw a Quran page illuminated in gold.
Now I'm studying under the best.
And trying not to stare at his hands.
Ustaz Karim is fifty-two.
Divorced twice—"art doesn't make a good husband," he jokes. His beard is grey, his eyes are kind, and when he demonstrates a stroke, I forget to breathe.
"Like this," he says, guiding the reed pen. "Alif. The first letter. The beginning of everything."
I try to focus on the ink.
I fail.
"You're not watching the pen."
Week three. He's caught me—again.
"I was—"
"You were watching me." He sets down his tools. "It's distracting."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just... be careful. Students fall for their teachers. It never ends well."
"Is that what you think? That I'm falling for you?"
"Aren't you?"
I should deny it. Should protect myself, my fellowship, everything I've worked for.
"Yes."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"You're young. Beautiful. Passionate about the art. I'm an old man with two failed marriages and ink-stained fingers."
"You're the most brilliant artist I've ever met. And the kindest teacher. And yes, I notice your hands. I notice everything about you."
"Grace—"
"Tell me you don't feel it too. Tell me, and I'll stop."
He doesn't tell me.
"This is wrong," he says, even as he closes the distance.
"I know."
"I'm your teacher."
"I know."
"You're half my age."
"I don't care."
The first kiss is ink-flavored.
He's been working all day, and I taste the residue on his lips. It's perfect.
"We should stop," he murmurs.
"We should."
Neither of us stops.
We become experts at deception.
The lessons continue—proper, professional—but afterward, the doors lock. The windows close. And we learn things not found in any textbook.
"Show me how to make a nun," I say.
He traces it on my skin instead of paper.
"You're getting better," he observes one afternoon.
My calligraphy. He means my calligraphy.
"I have an excellent teacher."
"You have a corrupt teacher. One who can't keep his hands off his student."
"Maybe corruption is what I need."
The first time, it happens in his studio.
Paper everywhere, ink jars threatening to spill. He lays me down on his work table.
"We'll ruin everything," I gasp.
"Some things are worth ruining."
He undresses me slowly.
Like he's unwrapping a manuscript—carefully, reverently. When he sees my body—larger than Moroccan standards prefer—he doesn't flinch.
"Subhanallah," he breathes. "You're art yourself."
"Karim—"
"Let me paint you."
He does paint me.
With his tongue. Down my neck, across my breasts, along my belly. When he reaches between my thighs, he works with the same precision he brings to his letters.
"Oh God—"
"Arabic. Practice your Arabic."
"Ya Allah—masha'Allah—astaghfirullah—"
He laughs against my clit and makes me come with his name in my mouth.
"Inside me," I beg. "Please."
"Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He enters me on the work table.
Ink bottles rattle. Papers flutter to the floor. I don't care—I only care about the feeling of him inside me, this forbidden union in a city of ancient rules.
"Ya Rabbi—Grace—"
"More. I need more."
He gives me more.
We sin until sunset.
Then clean up the studio, collect the scattered papers, pretend nothing happened.
"Tomorrow?" I ask.
"Tomorrow we work on ta marbuta."
"And after?"
"After..." He smiles. "We'll see."
Three months pass.
My calligraphy improves exponentially. So does my knowledge of his body.
"I don't want to go back," I say one night.
"Then don't."
"My fellowship ends in six weeks."
"Marry me. Stay."
"You've been divorced twice."
"Because I married the wrong women. Women who wanted me to choose between them and my art."
"And me?"
"You are my art. The living expression of everything I've tried to create."
We have nikah in his studio.
Two witnesses, an imam, and walls covered in my attempts at beauty.
"Qabiltu," I say.
"Qabiltu," he responds.
Our wedding night, he paints Quranic verse on my body.
Real ink. Real brush. Bismillah across my collarbone. Alhamdulillah down my spine.
"You're my masterpiece," he whispers.
"I'm your wife."
"Same thing."
Five years later
We teach together now.
Students come from around the world to learn from Ustaz Karim and his American wife. Some whisper about the age gap. Most don't care.
"Show them the alif," he says during class.
I demonstrate. He watches with the same intensity as that first day.
After class, in our studio, he locks the door.
"Lesson time."
"I thought I was the teacher now."
"You're always my student." He kisses me. "And I'm always learning from you."
Alhamdulillah.
For ink that stains.
For lessons that last.
For calligraphy that became love.
The End.