Virgins of Paradise

by Wood, Barbara

  The day he had left the village, after making love with Sahra on the canal bank, Abdu had been dogged by feelings of remorse. He had taken her virginity; no blood would have been spilled on her wedding night. But when he had recalled how hungrily the old sheikh had looked at her, and what a large bride-price he had offered her family, Abdu had decided that Hamid was one of those men who, in order to get the woman he wanted, was not beyond resorting to subterfuge, a pinprick to his own finger before wrapping the handkerchief around it—a trick as old as the Nile. By the time Abdu had arrived in Cairo and found the address that had been given to him, he had been so overwhelmed by the city called the Mother of Cities, and the passion and determination of the Brotherhood, that all other thoughts had vanished. Sahra became a sweet memory.

  His whole earlier existence was now like a distant dream. He sometimes thought about that youth who toiled in the fields, or played backgammon in Hadj Farid's cafe, or made up verses for Sahra, and wondered who that young man could have been. That wasn't the Abdu he was now, the Abdu who had been born the night he arrived in Cairo and began to listen to the word of God for what seemed like the first time. The frail old village imam, whose weekly preachings in the mosque put most people to sleep, had none of the fire and inspiration the Brotherhood leaders did. The village preacher taught the same Koran, the same holy message, but the Brethren spoke the verses in such a way that Abdu seemed to feel them, taste them; they seemed to feed his hungry soul as if they were bread and meat. How clear it all was to him now, how bright and narrow and straight the road of purpose stretched before him—to bring Egypt back from the brink, back to God and His grace.

  The leader directed the mob to a halt, pulled himself up on a lamppost, and began a fiery speech. They were going to show the world that Egypt would no longer suffer an imperialist overlord, he said. The British were going to be driven out in their coffins!

  The young men cheered and brandished their homemade weapons. "La illaha illa Allah!" they cried. Abdu shouted as loudly as the rest of them. "There is no god but God!" And when the leader cried, "To the Turf Club!" the mob surged like a tide down the next street, Abdu running at the head of them, his heart pounding, his green eyes ablaze with glory.

  The commander-in-chief of the British Army stood up, raised his glass and said, "Gentlemen, to the new heir to the throne!"

  As the six hundred men at the banquet tables drank a toast in honor of the prince, Hassan leaned over and murmured, "What we're really toasting is the royal poker, you understand," and Ibrahim smiled.

  The banquet at Abdin Palace was to celebrate the birth of Farouk's son, and a congenial mix of foreign dignitaries, officers of both the Egyptian and British armies, and government officials was in attendance. They sat beneath blazing chandeliers and feasted on asparagus, cold cucumber soup, duck à l'orange, raspberry sherbet, roasted gazelle, and cherries flambé, all served on gold plates accompanied by imported wines and brandies and heavily sweetened Turkish coffee. But despite the amicable talk and gentlemanly laughter, Ibrahim sensed that an undercurrent of unease flowed among the tables. Some of the laughter sounded forced, some of the conversations too loud. Arab and Briton smiled at one another, but there seemed to be more diplomacy than genuine friendship in those smiles. Everyone knew that, given the unrest in the city brought on by the Ismailia massacre, His Majesty had been advised to postpone today's celebration. But Farouk wouldn't hear of it. If anyone had need to worry, he assured them, it was the British. He had nothing to fear.

  The king had never looked so happy. When Queen Farida failed to produce a son, Farouk had divorced her, publicly reciting three times the formula, "I divorce thee," after which he had married a sixteen-year-old virgin whom he had wooed with an extravagance that had been faithfully chronicled in gossip magazines around the world. For every single day of their courtship and honeymoon, Narriman had received a gift—a ruby necklace one day, Swiss chocolates the next, her favorite orchids, a kitten. In return, she had given Farouk his first son. Neither massacres nor rumors of revolt were going to spoil today's celebration.

  Ibrahim sat a few seats down the head table from Farouk, close at hand should the royal body suffer from a sudden attack of indigestion. Although slim and handsome a mere sixteen years ago, on this January afternoon Farouk weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, and ate with a voracity that still astonished his friends—three courses to another man's one, and ten orange fizzes by latest count.

  As he watched the king signal for yet another helping of fish, Hassan leaned over to Ibrahim and said, "What baffles me is, how do he and Narriman manage it? In bed, I mean. The old boy's stomach must stick out farther than his—"

  "What was that?" Ibrahim said, interrupting him. "Did you hear something just now?"

  "What?"

  "I don't know. It sounded like explosions."

  Hassan looked around the vast banquet hall where the six hundred men enjoyed themselves amid an Eastern opulence that had lately been coming under attack. Tall windows framed by brocade draperies admitted a soft winter light that illuminated gigantic marble columns, velvet-covered walls, and gold-framed paintings. Noticing that none of the other guests seemed to have heard anything unusual, Hassan said, "Must be firecrackers, honoring the prince."

  Hassan thought for a moment. "You don't really think there's going to be a muck about this Ismailia thing, do you?" He was also thinking about the string of alarming events that had occurred since Egypt's humiliating defeat in the Palestine war, four years ago. First a police commandant was assassinated, and then the governor of the Cairo province, and finally the prime minister had been shot while walking into the Ministry of the Interior. The streets were rife with demonstrations and strikes and riots to protest the continued British presence in Egypt. Only last year, people were killed during a demonstration in front of the British Embassy. And then, yesterday, there had been that ghastly massacre at Ismailia ...

  But Ibrahim reassured his friend with a smile. "Egyptians might be a passionate and sometimes irrational species, but we aren't mad enough to come right out and attack British citizens. Besides, all this talk about revolution is merely an exercise in futility. Egypt hasn't been ruled by Egyptians in over two thousand years. You certainly don't think things are going to change now? Look, His Majesty isn't the least bit troubled, and now there's an heir to the throne. This unrest will die down, it's just another passing fancy. Tomorrow the mob will be agitating for something else."

  "You're right!" Hassan said, suddenly cheered. He drained his champagne glass and it was instantly refilled by the footman who stood behind his chair. There were footmen attending to the individual needs of each of the six hundred guests, silent servants who stood in long white galabeyas, red fezzes and turbans on their heads, white gloves on their hands. "I wonder if the test match results are in," Hassan said, helping himself to crusty French bread and soft, warm Brie. "Manchester was favored ..."

  But Ibrahim wasn't listening. He was thinking of the delicious surprise he had for Alice: a trip to England.

  She missed her family very much, he knew, especially her brother, Edward, with whom she had once been very close. And since the loss of their second baby to summer fever, Alice had been so depressed that Ibrahim had tried to think of ways to cheer her up. He had even taken her along on Farouk's honeymoon, said to be the longest and most extravagant honeymoon in history, consisting of a party of sixty traveling on the royal yacht, all wearing matching blue blazers, white trousers and nautical caps. They had disembarked at various ports in a fleet of Rolls-Royces, and stayed at the best hotels. Farouk showered his new queen with priceless jewels, masterpieces of art, haute cuisine and haute couture, and indulged in his passion for gambling, losing $150,000 to Darryl F. Zanuck at a Cannes casino in the course of a single game. It had been a magic-carpet journey that had had the whole world buzzing, but the pregnancy Ibrahim had hoped would result from the trip had not materialized.

  Hassan leaned over and said quietly, "Loo
k lively, old boy, here comes the royal brat."

  A nanny brought the baby out, wrapped in a chinchilla blanket, and when the six hundred officers and dignitaries rose from their seats to honor the heir to the throne of Egypt, Ibrahim thought of his own son, Zachariah.

  No one had questioned the sudden appearance of the infant; men frequently had wives they told no one about. Even Hassan had broken down and married a blond, who would not have let him touch her if he hadn't, and whom he now kept on his houseboat, his Egyptian wife knowing nothing about her. Ibrahim had simply informed everyone that he had divorced the baby's mother, and then Amira had quietly installed Sahra as a servant in the house. Little Zakki was now six years old, a charming but frail boy who tended toward dreaminess. What astonished Ibrahim was that the child actually bore a vague resemblance to himself, an observation which reconfirmed for Ibrahim that God indeed had been guiding him the night he had adopted the boy, despite Amira's concerns. He chose to ignore her warnings—there was no curse on the Rasheed family, not with Egyptian cotton selling at record high prices, and Ibrahim's cotton farms producing such a high yield that he could hardly keep track of his rapidly multiplying bank balance, which was why everyone was referring to cotton as "white gold." The family was happy and healthy, and Ibrahim lived a life of comfort and ease that surpassed even the life his father had enjoyed.

  And soon he and Alice would be on their way to England. Perhaps they would take Yasmina with them. After all, she had a grandfather there, and aunts and cousins. Yes, definitely, he thought, suddenly pleased with the idea, imagining the fun he and his five-year-old daughter were going to have on board ship.

  A courier came into the banquet hall and engaged in a whispered conference with the king and his commander-in-chief. Ibrahim wondered if something was up, if perhaps trouble really was brewing in the city. If so, and with such anti-British feeling gripping Cairo, he thought about Alice at home, and wondered if private citizens might be targets of revenge.

  As Edward's taxi made yet another turn, they saw more flames and more smoke, men breaking windows and throwing fire bombs, more buildings on fire. Having tried different routes to get to Garden City but finding the way always blocked, the driver finally said, "I take you to a safe place, Sayyid," and he steered the car down a narrow alley. A minute later they pulled up in front of the Turf Club. "All English in here," he said, reaching over the seat to open Edward's door. "You are safe here."

  "But I asked you to take me to Virgins of Paradise Street. What the deuce is going on? Is it a riot?"

  "Please go inside! Cairo is very dangerous place for you! Go inside, you are protected in there, inshallah!"

  Edward got out with some reluctance, stunned by the stench of smoke in the air. He regarded the entrance to the Turf Club for a moment, then, deciding it was better to press on to his sister's house, turned to get back into the cab. But the taxi was already speeding away from the curb and around the corner. With all his luggage.

  When a nearby explosion rocked the street, Edward ran up the steps of the club and found the place in turmoil. Members were pouring into the lobby, knocking over furniture and potted plants, men in white cricket flannels, ladies in swimsuits and sun hats. Even the native porters in long galabeyas and fezzes were pushing to get out.

  As Edward forced his way through, trying to locate someone in charge, getting elbowed in the ribs and his toes stepped on, he saw a jeep pull up at the front; a group of men jumped down and ran up the steps with cans of gasoline and crowbars. Edward stared in horror as drapes and furniture were doused and then set aflame. As everything caught fire, including the overhead ceiling fans, another mob came swarming in, and when the panicked club members tried to get out, the rioters struck them down with iron bars. Screams filled the air, and blood began to flow.

  Edward tried to find his way in the smoke, dodging flying glass as liquor bottles exploded behind the bar. He managed to stagger to the reception desk, which had been abandoned, and from there he could see, through the open doors, firemen out in the street with hoses. But as soon as the water began to hit the burning building, rioters attacked the hoses with knives, slashing them until no more water came.

  As he tried desperately to find a way out through the smoke, he saw Britons in fashionable sporting clothes sprawled on the floor, their blood staining the tiles. Fighting down his own rising hysteria, he searched for an exit. The front was blocked by a mob, and curtains were ablaze. And then he thought: the swimming pool! But as he fought his way through the lobby toward the open terrace doors, his path was suddenly blocked by a young Egyptian in a long galabeya. Edward found himself gazing into a pair of green eyes that blazed with something more than a reflection from the fire. He thought for an instant that he might try reasoning with the fellow, after all, he wasn't one of these resident Englishmen, just a tourist, only arrived today. But a pair of brown hands grabbed for his neck, and Edward found himself struggling with the stranger, and thinking how absurd this all was.

  Finally his attacker reached for a vase, and as it came crashing down on Edward's skull, the odd thought entered his mind that Alice was going to be disappointed.

  The kitchen was a big sunny room with marble walls and floor, warm enough to keep out the January cold while the cook, a Lebanese with red cheeks and fly-away hair, oversaw the work of her four assistants at the two stoves and three big ovens. The population of the mansion on Virgins of Paradise Street varied from year to year, as girls got married and moved away, elderly members died, new wives were brought in, and babies were born. On this crisp Saturday in January, twenty-nine Rasheeds were in residence, from newborn to elderly, as well as twelve servants who lived on the roof; the kitchen was busy day and night. The women chatted as they worked, and the radio was turned to a musical program, the distinctive voice of Farid Latrache filling the air with love songs. In the midst of such industry, Amira prepared glasses of lemonade to take out to the garden, where several of the women and children were enjoying the fresh winter sunshine.

  As she added a bowl of sugared apricot balls to her tray, Amira glanced at Sahra, who was peering through one of the windows as she pounded lumps of dough into flat rounds of bread. Amira knew what the girl was looking at. In the nearly six years since Ibrahim had brought Zachariah into the house, Sahra watched the boy whenever she could. And although the fellaha had promised that she would never tell anyone that she was really the boy's mother and that Ibrahim was not his father, the danger was still there. So Amira kept a close watch on her.

  As Amira carried the tray down the steps into the garden, she looked up at the sky. Was that distant thunder she had just heard? But the sky was clear. Alice was quietly reading as she watched the children. Six-and-a-half-year-old Camelia was dancing with her eyes closed, to a song only she could hear. She had once said to Amira, "Wasn't it nice of God to give us dancing, Umma?" Amira often thought that inside the little girl with the dusky complexion and amber eyes was a spirit that soared, that was set free; Camelia could dance like a fluttering bird, or like a rose opening its petals. Amira had already decided that when the girl was older she would be given dancing lessons.

  And there was Yasmina of the creamy white skin and dark blond hair, stretched on the grass, deeply engrossed in a picture book. At five and a half, she was already exhibiting a thirst for knowledge; she had once said that books were so wonderful because every time you turned a page, there was something new, something you didn't know before. Yasmina was ahead of the others in her alif-ba's, even though she was the youngest.

  Tahia, who was the same age as Camelia, was playing on the lawn with her dolls. She had already declared that, when she grew up, she wanted to have many babies. So unlike her mother, Amira thought, wondering how to get Nefissa to marry again.

  Finally there was Zachariah, a pretty child, gazing dreamily at a butterfly. Amira frequently marveled about this boy who, by some strange workings of God, resembled his adopted father. But in physical appearance only; Zachariah
hadn't Ibrahim's fondness for personal comforts and simple, direct thoughts; the boy liked to ask about angels. He would stare up at the sky and wonder aloud what God and heaven looked like. A strange, blessed child, Amira thought. Only six years old and already he could recite twenty suras of the Koran. You would say, "Zakki, recite sura four, verse thirty-four," and he would promptly say, "'Men have superiority over women because God has made the one superior to the other.'"

  Omar, Nefissa's first child, came into the garden, a chubby ten-year-old who looked as if he were constantly searching for mischief. Amira tried to be patient with the sullen boy; it wasn't his fault that his mother had never disciplined him properly. Amira sighed. Another reason why Nefissa should marry again.

  "Mother Amira," Alice said, as she bit into a sugared apricot ball, "do you smell smoke?"

  "Perhaps fellaheen are burning off fields on the other side of the Nile."

  Omar suddenly shoved little Zachariah out of his way, causing him to fall on the gravel path, and Camelia and Yasmina immediately rushed to pick him up. If only there were more children! Amira thought. A house of this size should have many children playing in the garden. Amira longed for more grandchildren of her own.

  But Nefissa refused to remarry, no matter how many eligible men Amira tried to match her with, and, so far, Alice had produced only one living child for Ibrahim, Yasmina.

  "Look at me!" cried Camelia as she trailed dried papyrus stalks behind her, "I'm a peacock!"

  Amira froze. Suddenly, she saw a peacock—not her granddaughter pretending, but a real bird, as blue and shimmering and alive as if it were actually there, strutting before her.

  It was a memory, she realized. She was remembering a peacock from somewhere long ago.

  She sat down suddenly. She never knew when memories like this would come, whether in dreams, or when she was awake, as she was now, sitting in her garden with the past overwhelming her like the ocean swells she had once observed from the seaside villa in Alexandria. It was the same each time: an unexpected memory would suddenly wash over her, illuminating a long-ago moment in such stunning detail that for an instant it was totally real. And then it would pass, leaving her breathless.