She looked around for him as she entered the tiny village square, where farmers were spreading out produce for sale; he sometimes helped to bring in the crops. A group of women came over, laughing and gossiping; the loose black caftans they wore over their dresses showed they were married, and Sahra was surprised to see her sister among them. As she watched her inspect a crop of onions, she realized that, in strange ways, her sister had changed. Only yesterday she had been a girl like Sahra, but this morning she was a woman. Her sister had gotten married the night before; Sahra recalled how she had watched her sister undergo the virginity test. "The most important moment in a girl's life," Sahra's mother had called it.
So important, that it had been accompanied by a big celebration, which the entire village had attended. But what was it about losing virginity? Sahra wondered, as she marveled at the change in her sister. When the women had arranged the bride on the bed last night, drawing up her dress and exposing her legs, Sahra remembered a night when the women had done a similar thing to her. She had been only six, asleep on her mat in the corner, when, without warning, two aunts had taken her out of bed and lifted her galabeya as her mother held her from behind. Before Sahra had been able to utter a sound, the local midwife had appeared, a razor in her hand. One swift movement, and Sahra had felt a searing pain shoot up through her body. Later, lying on her mat with her legs bound together, forbidden to move or even to urinate, Sahra had learned that she had just undergone her circumcision, a cutting that happened to all girls. It had been done to her mother, to her mother's mother, to women all the way back to Eve. Sahra's mother had gently explained that an impure part of her body had been cut away in order to cool her sexual passion and make her faithful to her husband, and that without such an operation no girl could hope to find a man who would marry her.
But, last night, the midwife had not been present for her sister's test of virginity and honor, nor had there been a razor. The young bride's new husband had performed his duty with a white handkerchief wrapped around his finger, while the assembled family and wedding guests watched. The bride had cried out, and the young groom had jumped up, displaying the bloodied handkerchief. Everyone had burst into cheers and the women began the ear-splitting zaghareet, trilling their tongues in their mouths, a sound of joy and celebration. The bride was a virgin; family honor was safe.
And now, this morning, Sahra's sister had been miraculously transformed into a woman.
Sahra hurried on to the coffeehouse, glancing inside, hoping to see Abdu, who often helped Sheikh Hamid set up the tables. The older men of the village were already there, puffing on water pipes and contemplating glasses of dark tea. As she searched for the young man, she heard Sheikh Hamid's croaking voice talking about the war, and how the rich in Cairo were celebrating the end of it. But the lot of the peasant hadn't changed, the old sheikh complained, they had nothing to celebrate. His voice lowered as he brought up a dangerous topic—the Muslim Brotherhood, a secret group of over a million men dedicated to overthrowing the lordly pasha class, who numbered, Sheikh Hamid declared, a mere five hundred.
"We are the richest country in the Middle East," said Hamid who, being able to read and write and owning the village's only radio, was looked upon with great respect, and regarded as the village's main source of news. "But how is the wealth distributed? The pashas number less than one half of one percent of all landowners, and yet they own a third of all land!"
Sahra didn't like Sheikh Hamid. Not only was he very old, he was very dirty. Despite being a learned man, and thus earning the respectful title of sheikh, his galabeya was filthy, his long white beard was tangled and stained with coffee and tobacco, and he had disgusting habits. He had been married four times, being left each time a widower because, the village women whispered, he literally worked his wives to death. Sahra didn't like the way he had started gazing at her breasts whenever she was sent to his shop.
Suddenly remembering the scarf the rich man had given her, she hid it in a fold of her dress. Surely he had been a pasha, a lord, one of the very men Sheikh Hamid spoke against.
Finally she saw Abdu, and when she heard his odd, distinctive laugh and saw the width of his shoulders beneath his striped galabeya, she wondered what was it going to be like on their wedding night. Will he hurt me? she thought, recalling how her sister had cried out when her husband had performed the virginity test. Sahra knew the test must be done, otherwise how did a family prove its honor, which lay in a daughter's chastity? She thought of the poor girl from the next village, who had been found dead in a field. She had been raped by a local boy, her family dishonored. Her father and uncles had killed her, as was their right because, as the saying went, "Only blood washes away dishonor."
Sahra signaled to Abdu and then hurried away before the men saw her. She went to the stable behind the small house she shared with her parents, and slipped inside the little four-walled, roofed shelter made of bamboo, palm fronds, and cornstalks plastered with mud. On very hot days, the family's buffalo would lie here, her jaws constantly moving as she chewed her cud, and Sahra would sit with her. It was her favorite place, and she came here now to relive the meeting with the stranger, to bring the silk scarf out and draw its softness through her fingers.
As she settled down on the straw, noticing that the sun was climbing high, bringing a fresh new day to the village, she knew she should go to the river and refill her jug, but she wanted to be alone, for just a moment, with her wonderful memory. The rich man had said God would bless her! She prayed that Abdu had seen her outside the coffeehouse and had followed her, she so badly wanted to tell him of her adventure. Since he had started working in the fields with his father, and Sahra had been more and more restricted to the house, their childhoods seemed over; no longer permitted to play with each other, but forced to join the separate gatherings of men and women, they had had few moments together. As children they had roamed freely, playing at the river's edge or riding a donkey, Sahra with her little arms around Abdu. But adulthood had brought such freedom to an end. The onset of Sahra's monthly cycle had meant long dresses, a scarf to hide her hair, and modest demeanor at all times. No more running or yelling, no allowing so much as a glimpse of her ankles. After years of freedom such sudden restriction was almost unbearable, especially when she and Abdu attended family reunions and were kept apart.
Why did parents seem so afraid for their daughters? Sahra wondered. Why did her mother watch her so closely all the time now, and make her account for every minute of her whereabouts? Why was she no longer allowed to go to the bakery or to the fish-seller on her own? Why had her father started glowering at her as they sat eating bread and beans, watching her with a ferocity that sometimes frightened her? What harm was there in talking to Abdu, or sitting by the river as they had when they were children?
Did it have something to do with the strange new feelings she was experiencing lately? A kind of all-over hunger that made her so restless? She would be washing clothes in the canal, or scrubbing the pots, or spreading dung patties on the roof to dry, and she would forget what she was doing and start daydreaming about Abdu. Usually she received a harsh rebuke from her mother, but there were times when her mother wouldn't get angry, just sigh and shake her head.
Finally, Abdu did come to the stable, and Sahra jumped up, her first impulse being to throw her arms around him. But she held back shyly, just as he did. Boys and girls were not allowed to touch; it wasn't even proper for them to speak together, except at private family gatherings. Modesty had replaced playfulness; obedience, freedom. But the yearning was still there, no matter what the rules said. Sahra stood in the morning sunlight that filtered through gaps in the wall, listening to the drone of flies, the occasional grunt from the buffalo. She gazed into Abdu's green eyes and thought: It was only yesterday that he chased me and pulled my braids. Now, her braids were hidden beneath a scarf, and Abdu was as polite as a stranger.
"I have composed a new poem," he said. "Would you like to hear it?" Sinc
e he was illiterate, like everyone else in the village, Abdu could not write down his poetry. Each piece that he composed he committed to memory, and over the years he had made dozens, to which he now added his latest:
"My soul thirsts to drink from thy cup, My heart yearns to taste thy clover. Away from thy nurturing bosom I perish and die, Like the gazelle lost in the desert."
Thinking that the poem was about her, Sahra was so overcome she couldn't speak, not even to say, "Oh Abdu, you are so beautiful, you look like a rich man!" But when they went down to the Nile to fill her water jug, she told him about the stranger at the canal, and showed him the white-as-clouds scarf he had given her.
Curiously, Abdu expressed little interest. He had much on his mind, although he could share none of it with Sahra, because he knew she wouldn't understand. He had hoped his poem would help her to see what was in his heart, his deep love for Egypt, but by the look on her face he realized that she had mistaken its meaning. Abdu had been in the grip of a strange uneasiness ever since a man had come to the village to speak about the Muslim Brotherhood. He and his friends had listened to the stranger's passionate speech about the need to bring Egypt back to Islam and God's pure ways, and the youths had felt their souls become inflamed. They had sat and talked late into the night, asking themselves how they could continue to work the rich men's land like donkeys, how they could kneel meekly beneath the heel of the British overlords. "Just because we are fellaheen, are we not also men? Do we not have souls? Were we not fashioned in God's image?" Suddenly they had seen a vision that went beyond the village and their small stretch of river; Abdu knew he had been created for a greater purpose.
But he kept his new thoughts to himself, and finally he walked Sahra back to her parents' house, where he paused in the sunlit lane and spoke to her silently with his eyes. Overwhelmed with love for her, he felt again the war waging within his breast: whether to marry her, live and grow old with her, or to heed the call of the Muslim Brotherhood to serve God and Egypt. But Sahra was so lovely in the sunlight, her face so perfectly round, her little pointed chin so charming, that he had to fight the urge to kiss it, her body ripening so quickly that already her galabeya hugged promising hips.
"Allah ma'aki," he murmured. "May God be with you." And he left her there, in the golden sunlight.
Sahra hurried inside, eager to tell her mother about the stranger. She had already decided to make a gift of the scarf to her mother, who had never owned anything so lovely in her life, even though Sahra had caught her looking longingly at the pretty fabrics that were sometimes on sale in the market. She was afraid for a moment she was going to get a scolding for coming so late from the river with the water, so she was ready with an excuse about searching for a stray goat. But, to her surprise, her mother received her excitedly.
"I have wonderful news!" she said. "God be thanked, you are to be married within the month! And your match will outshine even your sister's, which everyone declared has been the best match in the village in years!"
Sahra drew in a breath and clasped her hands. Her mother had spoken to Abdu's parents! They had finally agreed to the match!
"Praise God, it is Sheikh Hamid who has asked for you," her mother said. "You lucky, lucky girl."
The beautiful silk scarf slipped from Sahra's fingers.
THREE
W
HAT IS TROUBLING YOU, AMIRA?" MARYAM ASKED, AS SHE watched her friend snip rosemary leaves and put them in her basket.
Amira straightened up and slipped the veil off her head, exposing glossy black hair to the sun. Although she was in her garden harvesting herbs, she was dressed to receive visitors, her expensive silk blouse and skirt entirely black, out of respect for her husband, Ali, and also for her recently deceased daughter-in-law. But, as always, she wore the latest style, made from patterns her dressmakers imported from Paris and London. Amira had also spent time and care on her face—her eyebrows were shaved off and painted in, Egyptian fashion, her eyes outlined with kohl, her lipstick a dusky red. A black veil was draped around her shoulders; if a male visitor should call, she would cover the lower half of her face and wrap her right hand in a corner of the veil before shaking his hand.
"I am worried about my son," she said finally, adding some blossoms to her basket. "He has been acting strangely since the funeral."
"Ibrahim is grieving for his wife," Maryam said. "She was so young, so lovely. And he was in love with her. It has only been two weeks since she died, he needs time."
"I hope you are right."
They were in Amira's private garden, which had been planted long ago by Ali Rasheed's mother, who had patterned it after King Suleiman's garden in the Bible, filling it with camphor, spikenard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon, myrrh and aloes. Amira had added imported plants with healing properties: cassia, fennel, comfrey and chamomile, from which she made her own medicinal decoctions, syrups, elixirs, and salves.
It was the time of the siesta, when all the shops and businesses in Cairo closed for the afternoon, the time when Amira received visitors, and also when Maryam Misrahi, who lived in the big house next door, usually came to call. Taller than Amira, Maryam did not hide her rich red hair beneath a veil, and her bright-yellow sundress caught the attention of a curious hummingbird.
"Ibrahim will heal," she said, adding, "by God's grace." This she said in Hebrew, because Maryam, whose last name, Misrahi, meant "Egyptian" in Arabic, was Jewish. "But there is something else troubling you, Amira. I have known you too long not to know when you are not at peace."
Amira waved a bee from her face. "I would not burden you with it, Maryam."
"Since when have we not shared everything, every joy and celebration, and even tragedy? We helped bring each other's children into the world, Amira; we are sisters."
Amira picked up her basket, filled with pungent herbs and fragrant blossoms, and looked toward the gate in the garden wall; it stood open, for guests. Amira never left her house—she had not set foot beyond the wall since Ali brought her here as a bride—and anyone wishing to see her had to come here, to the house on Virgins of Paradise Street. And often, there were many. Long ago, feeling sorry for the young wife whose old-fashioned husband kept her sequestered, Maryam had introduced her own friends to Amira; over the years, the friendships had multiplied, as had Amira's reputation as a healer, one who knew the ancient remedies. There was rarely an afternoon in which visitors did not come.
"I can keep no secrets from you!" Amira said with a smile, as she and Maryam walked back along the flagstone path. She smiled to hide her falsehood—Maryam knew all Amira's secrets except one: She did not know about the harem on Tree of Pearls Street. "I have not been sleeping well. My dreams disturb me."
"The dreams about the desert encampment, the men on horses? You have that dream every time a baby is born into this house, Amira."
But Amira shook her head. "No, I am talking about new dreams, Maryam, dreams which I have never had before." She stopped and faced her friend. "I am having dreams about Andreas Skouras, the minister of culture."
Maryam gave her a startled look, then laughed and linked her arm through Amira's as they walked in the shade of the old trees. Ali Rasheed Pasha had years ago planted his garden with lemon, lime, orange, and tangerine trees, as well as the feathery casuarina and shady sycamore, and the native figs, olives, and pomegranates. A Turkish fountain dominated a flower garden filled with wild lilies, poppies, and papyrus; an ornate sundial inscribed with the verse from Omár Kháyyám about time's hasty passage stood in a bright corner; and grapevines graced the walls.
"Mr. Andreas Skouras!" Maryam said with delight. "If I were not married, I would dream of him myself! Why does this bother you, Amira? You have been a widow long enough. Didn't Ali express his wish that you should remarry? You are still young, you can still have more children. Mr. Skouras! What a delightful prospect."
Amira could not put into words why dreams of the attractive minister should distress her. If asked, she would say
that she would not expect a man to marry a woman who did not know her real family, who did not know where she was born, her background or lineage. But when Amira searched her heart, she found a darker reason for fearing these new dreams about Mr. Skouras—it was the shadow of guilt that caused her anxiety, guilt over the fact that she had fallen in love with Andreas Skouras while Ali had still been alive.
"And how does he feel about you?"
"Maryam, he doesn't feel anything about me. I am simply the widow of his friend. Since Ali died, may God make paradise his abode, I have seen Mr. Skouras only four times. The last time was two weeks ago, when he came to the funeral for my son's wife, God rest her. Before that, it was for Ibrahim's wedding, and before that, for Nefissa's. And before that, Ali's funeral. Four times in five years, Maryam. Hardly the attentions of a man who has a special regard for me."
"Maybe he is simply respectful of your widowhood and honors your reputation. I saw him here two weeks ago, and it seemed to me he paid particular attention to you, Amira."
"I had just lost my daughter-in-law."
"God rest her. But Skouras's eyes followed you."
Amira felt her heart leap, and simultaneously felt another pang of guilt, of shame. How could she, with her young daughter-in-law so recently laid to rest, and her son so unhappy, their baby left motherless, be thinking of romance? She recalled the day she had first met Skouras, when Ali had brought him to the house. Amira had shaken his hand, her own wrapped in her veil as custom required, but even so she had felt a shock pass through the fabric from his hand to hers. And had his eyes rested a moment too long on her face, or had she imagined it? At that moment she had felt she had dishonored her husband, if only in her heart. And now, as she walked through Ali's magnificent garden with her best friend, she felt as if she were dishonoring her children. She must not think of Skouras. And she must find a way to stop those disturbing dreams.
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