It sounded like a hailstorm inside the Good Woman net café, twenty women bent over their keyboards click-clacking away, another half dozen standing around waiting their turn. All of them wore chadors, many of them black, but plenty of brighter colors on the younger women. Sarah had unhooked her veil for the freedom of an open face. Most of the time she ventured out dressed as a modern, or a Catholic, in jeans or slacks, her hair loose, with a touch of makeup. When she checked the net, she wore the chador. A fundamentalist café, where the site access was rigorously screened and even potentially inappropriate Web addresses were blocked, was the perfect place for coded contact.

The woman at the next computer, a girl of no more than seventeen, was humming a current pop song as she typed. A song about two teenagers attempting to ski their way to Canada who freeze to death in each other’s arms. If the girl’s father heard her singing the song, he would beat her until she couldn’t walk. Would search her room and see if she had altered her radio to receive obscene stations. The girl had loosened her sky blue chador, her blond hair spilling out. Like all the women in the café, she wore a clearly visible plastic card around her neck from her father or husband granting her permission to be outside the house. Sarah wore one too, a forgery she had bought in the Zone months ago. The permission card felt like a millstone.

Sarah waited for the site to boot up. The computers in the café didn’t allow photographs to be viewed, of course, but all the filters made them incredibly slow. Slogans and homilies were written across the walls in pink script: Obedient Children Are a Mother’s Gift to God; Many Children = Happy Heart, Honor Your Husband; A Stern Brother Is a Sword Against Sin.

She listened to the women chattering away, sensed their limitations, their proscribed life. They seemed happy, though, connected in a way that neither she nor any of her modern friends were. She said prayers daily, went to mosque at least on Friday, but faith was merely the trappings of her life, it wasn’t the spine and soul of her existence. She was a professional, a free-range academic, but her work didn’t give her the deep reservoir of serenity that she saw in the faces of the faithful, the certainty that all things were in the hands of Allah. Just the opposite. In these last few days she had found an odd comfort in the modesty of the chador and head scarf, a joy in the anonymity of the veil. It was embarrassing, and she would never admit it to anyone, even Rakkim, but sometimes she thought she paid too high a price for her intellectual rigor.

Welcome to The Devout Homemaker flashed on-screen in gold letters, startling her.

Sarah scanned the list of recent entries, looking for a question about the proper preparation of a holiday meal involving rabbit, sweet potatoes, and victory radishes. There were plenty of questions on similar topics but none mentioned victory radishes, a term that was twenty years out of date. She rechecked the list. The question, had it been found, would have contained a code that would tell her exactly another site where they could have a private conversation. Still no entry about victory radishes.

Sarah clicked on Post Question.

My mother, blessed be her memory, has a recipe that calls for victory radishes, but I am unable to locate them at my market. I would be most interested in anyone who could tell me where to find such vegetables, if that is what they are. I am most interested in honoring my mother’s memory by serving this dish to my esteemed father.

The door to the café opened as she hit Post, a ripple of anxiety whispering through the room. Sarah looked up, then quickly down, breathing hard now. She faced the computer, slowly lifted her veil into place. She watched the Black Robe pace the room, a short, stout man with small, round glasses perched on the tip of his nose. He would have been comical without the long, flexible cane in his hand, and his aura of power.

Whip. Whip. Whip. The Black Robe flicked the cane back and forth as he walked the aisles. The room was completely quiet now save for the sound of the cane. Whip. Whip.

Women tugged their chadors down, making sure their ankles and wrists were covered. The girl next to her quickly pulled up her head covering, tucked in her hair.

“Sister?” the Black Robe said softly.

An older woman glanced over at the Black Robe, her lower lip quivering.

The cane flicked an inch from her nose. “This site you are visiting is an insult to your husband.” The Black Robe’s voice was high and reedy, as though strained through his thick, black beard. “‘The Marriage Bed’…this is filth.”

“The advice is offered by the imam of Chicago,” whispered the woman.

The Black Robe struck the monitor. “The imam of Chicago countenances abominations.”

The woman slid onto the floor and kissed the hem of the Black Robe’s garment.

Sarah stared straight ahead as the Black Robe approached. Her stomach hurt from holding herself rigid. He stopped in back of the girl next to her.

The cane tapped the floor.

The girl folded her hands in her lap, shaking so hard that her chador seemed to shimmy.

The cane lifted a lock of her long, blond hair that had slipped out of her head covering. She attempted to tuck in the errant curl, but the Black Robe smacked her hand with the cane, made her cry out. “You flaunt your hair for the world to see,” he hissed. “Are you a Catholic whore or a devout Muslim woman?”

Weeping, the girl shoved her hair under the head wrap, a red welt across her hand.

The Black Robe must have felt Sarah’s angry eyes on him. He glared at her. “Allah, the all-powerful, despises an insolent woman.”

Sarah lowered her gaze. Grateful for the veil.

The Black Robe jerked the permission card off her neck, almost pulled her out of her seat. “Abu Michael Derrick,” he read, his eyes huge behind his glasses. “Your husband has been neglecting his duties. You are dressed modestly, veiled as befits a proper Muslim wife, yet your eyes betray your true nature. Do you disrespect the Prophet, blessed be his name, or only those who humbly seek to enforce his laws?”

Sarah bowed her head, furious with herself for her lapse in character. Frightened too. The Black Robes’ power over moderns was limited, but Sarah was dressed as a fundamentalist. He would be within his authority to drag her out of the café, to whip her in the street and bring her to her husband for further chastisement.

“What is your mosque?” demanded the Black Robe.

“Holy Martyrs of the Motherland,” Sarah said, eyes downcast.

“An honorable mosque. Imam Plesa is well schooled.” The Black Robe tapped the back of her chair with the cane. “Does your husband beat you?”

“When I need it,” said Sarah, acquiescent.

“A good answer, sister, but its merit depends on the strictness of your husband.” The Black Robe stood over her. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah could see his grip tightening on the cane. The cane snaked out, lifted her left hand, drew it closer for him to examine without having to touch her flesh. She was grateful that she had removed all trace of the clear polish she usually wore. Grateful that she had remembered to slip on a wedding band. She had thought of Rakkim as she did so. “Your hands are soft. The hands of an idle, self-centered woman. A woman of many servants, or a woman who does not care about the state of her home.” He let her hand fall, disgusted. “Your husband indulges you. Have you manipulated him with your female wiles? Are you a beauty, sister?”

“If my husband finds me so, all glory goes to Allah, the merciful, who created us.”

“Another good answer.” The cane swished. “Are you an educated woman, sister?”