Virgins of Paradise

by Wood, Barbara

  As the prisoners noisily consumed their breakfast, Ibrahim went to the bars and tried to catch the guards before they left. But they ignored him and disappeared down the dark corridor.

  "Depressing, isn't it?"

  He turned to see Mahzouz, who was wiping the last of the bread around his lips before swallowing. "No matter what you say to them," the man said with a smile, "they always ignore you. Those dogs only know one language." And he rubbed his fingers together.

  "What do you mean?" Ibrahim said.

  "Baksheesh. Bribery."

  "But I haven't any money. It was taken from me."

  "This is a fine shirt, my friend. Finer, I would wager, than our new leader, Nasser, wears. How much did you pay for it?" Ibrahim had no idea. His accountant handled the tailor's bills. He walked away from Mahzouz without another word, and as he crossed the cell to his regular place, felt his irritation rise. When, a few minutes later, keys sounded in the corridor announcing an unscheduled visit from the guards, he jumped up along with the ablest of the prisoners, and tried to push his way through the excited mob. "Here I am!" he called to the guards. "Dr. Ibrahim Rasheed! I'm back here!"

  But they hadn't come for Ibrahim. Instead they led another prisoner out, a man who, by his smile, was either being released or moved to a better cell. Mahzouz had explained to Ibrahim that such things happened: A man's family bribed the prison officials and got him better accommodations.

  Ibrahim was puzzled. If that was so, then what was his family doing?

  And then he thought in alarm: What if they have arrested all of us?

  But that wasn't possible. There were too many Rasheeds, and only a few had had any dealings with the king. Besides, there were the women, his mother especially, who would surely not be arrested. And she would be working for his release.

  Although he tried to reassure himself once again that he would be out by nightfall, Ibrahim felt his confidence slip.

  When he awoke to his third dawn in prison, he decided he had had enough. In front of his barely interested audience—many of these men, like Mahzouz, had been incarcerated for so long that their minds had gone numb—Ibrahim went to the bars and began to shout for some attention. He felt weak. He still hadn't eaten. And he had cramps in his abdomen from trying to keep his bowels continent. He might urinate in the corner, because he had no choice, but he was not going to squat like an animal over those buckets.

  "You have to let me out!" he shouted through the bars. "Good God, man! I'm a close friend of the prime minister! Talk to the minister of health!"

  He began to panic. Where were his family, his friends? Where were the British? How could they allow this farce of a revolution to go on?

  "There will be serious consequences if you don't do as I say! I'll see that you're all fired! You'll be sent to the copper mines! Do you hear me?"

  He turned to find Mahzouz standing next to him, his eyes glinting with amusement and compassion. "It won't work, my friend. They don't care about your fancy friends. Remember what I said." He rubbed his fingers together again. "Baksheesh. And I recommend that you eat something. Everyone tries starvation at first. But you won't be any good dead, will you?"

  The next time the guards brought food, Ibrahim hung back and waited until the last minute to take one of the rounds of bread. Straw had been baked right into it.

  "You don't expect me to eat this, do you?"

  "You can stick it up your arse for all I care," the guard said, and went away.

  Ibrahim threw the bread down and it was immediately set upon by others. As he made his way to the back wall on unsteady feet, he thought, I must get a grip on myself. Everything will be all right. This can't go on much longer...

  He was visited by nightmares, but when he awoke he saw that he was still in a nightmare. There was no relief, either in sleep or in reality. When the food came around again he grabbed some bread and plunged it into the beans, eating ravenously. And when the need arose, he squatted over one of the buckets.

  On the seventh day, guards came for one of the prisoners, but this man did not smile. And when he was brought back a while later, he was unconscious. They dragged him into the cell and threw him down. Mahzouz came over to Ibrahim and said, "You told me you are a doctor. Can you help him?"

  Ibrahim looked closely at the crumpled figure. The man had been tortured.

  "Can you help him?" Mahzouz repeated.

  "I ... I ... don't know." Ibrahim had never seen wounds like this. And it had been years since he had taken care of an injury or an illness.

  Mahzouz gave him a contemptuous look and muttered, "Hah! Some doctor!"

  That night, when the guards came to remove the body, Ibrahim ran to them and said, "Please, you must listen to me." When one of them eyed his tuxedo shirt, which was by now sweaty and grimy, Ibrahim immediately stripped it off and thrust it at the man. "Here. Take it. It would cost you a month's salary," he said, having no idea what the man's salary would be. "Get a message to Hassan al-Sabir. He's a lawyer. His office is in Ezbekiya. Tell him where I am. Tell him to come and get me."

  The guard took the shirt without a word, and when Hassan did not appear over the next few days, Ibrahim realized his bribe had been useless.

  He began to pray in earnest, asking God once again to forgive him for cursing Him the night Camelia was born. He said he was sorry about adopting Zachariah, breaking God's commandment that no man should claim another man's son. He was sorry, sorry, sorry. "Just please take me away from here!" His pleading moved from God to the guards. "Listen, I'm a very rich man. You can have anything you want, just let me go." But they were only interested in what he could give them right then. And all Ibrahim possessed was his undershirt and shorts, tuxedo trousers and cummerbund.

  He dreamed he was holding Alice in his arms, and the children were playing at his feet. Strangely, he thought of them in terms of flavors: Alice was vanilla ice cream, Yasmina tasted of apricots, Camelia was filled with dark honey, and Zachariah was made of chocolate. Did a man dream this way about his family? And when he woke he was distressed to realize he had lost count of the sunrises. Was this the thirtieth, or had that been yesterday? It would be September now, maybe almost October. At least the killing August heat was dissipating.

  Ibrahim scratched his beard and tried to pick out the lice. And then he realized Mahzouz wasn't there.

  Had they taken him away during the night? Had he been released while Ibrahim was napping? Had he been tortured and died?

  Many of the prisoners had been removed for interrogation. What Ibrahim couldn't understand was why the guards had not come for him. It would give him a chance to explain, and to speak to someone higher up in authority. He noticed that the prisoners weren't being questioned in any kind of order, because some of those who had been removed were newcomers. Some days no one was taken; some days, three or four were dragged off. When they were brought back, he had tried to see what he could do for their wounds, but he was helpless. It occurred to him that even if he had the supplies, he wasn't sure he remembered enough of his medical school training to be of any use.

  He wondered if Farouk had returned to Egypt. Was the revolution still going on? Did his family think he was dead? Was Alice now wearing black? Had she gone back to England with Edward?

  Ibrahim started to cry. None of the others paid any attention. They all broke down at one time or another.

  How could he have known that he would miss the filthy Mahzouz?

  And then he had another nightmare: his father, Ali Rasheed, scowling at him and shaking his head as if to say, You have disappointed me again.

  The latest prisoners to arrive said that the Prophet's birthday had been celebrated a few days ago, which meant Ibrahim had been locked up for exactly four months. During which time no one had come to see him, no one had asked for him, no one had brought food or clothing or cigarettes, and he hadn't left the cell once, not even for questioning.

  He was numb. His life had been reduced to the one patch of cell he
had laid claim to where "Allah" had been carved into the stone; he was possessive of this patch, and of the lumpy straw he used as a mattress. It was his entire world, the territory of the forgotten man. He no longer fretted over the flesh melting away from his bones, or the beard growing down to his chest. And his dreams, although as bizarre as his reality, no longer alarmed him. He no longer missed his silk dressing gown or his water pipe, he no longer wished he could be on Hassan's houseboat, enjoying a lively game of cards with amusing companions. He no longer craved cigarettes and coffee. What he wanted most was to see the sky, to feel Nile grass beneath his feet, to make love to Alice, to take Yasmina to the park and point out the wonders of nature to her. His life had shrunk to a basic cycle of waking up each morning, wondering if today would bring freedom; the daily rush for bread and beans; visits to the buckets; listening for the guards' keys; and waiting, waiting, until, with nightfall, torpor stole over him and he delivered himself into sleep. He had long since ceased praying five times a day.

  On the day that the young prisoner was brought in, Ibrahim was struggling with a thought. He wasn't sure what it was; he had awakened thinking that something of great importance was about to be revealed. But it eluded him. All through the day, he wrestled with it. He knew his thinking had been affected by his meager diet; malnutrition and dehydration had robbed him of the sharp wit he required to reach the profound revelation that hovered at the edge of his consciousness. And when the young man was brought in, his body wasted with disease and torture, Ibrahim did not know that his personal epiphany was at hand.

  The young man who was tossed roughly into the cell was ignored by the other prisoners. Ibrahim went and knelt beside him, more out of hunger for word of the outside world than from concern for the man himself.

  They talked briefly, the youth lying down because he was too weak to sit up. Ibrahim learned that he was not a new prisoner at all, but had been arrested nearly a year ago during the riots of Black Saturday. Since then, the young man explained weakly, he had been moved from cell to cell, and tortured in between. He was a member of the Muslim Brotherhood, he said, and he knew he was going to die soon. But he added, "Don't worry for my sake, my friend. I go to God."

  Ibrahim wondered what it was like to die for something one believed in.

  The young man's green eyes rested on Ibrahim. "Do you have a son?"

  "Yes," Ibrahim whispered, thinking of little Zachariah. "A fine boy."

  The young man closed his eyes. "That is good. It's good to have a son. My only regret, God forgive me, is that I depart this earth leaving no son to carry on for me." As the final breath left Abdu's body, he pictured the village of his boyhood, and the girl Sahra he had lain with, and he wondered if she would perhaps join him someday in paradise.

  Ibrahim rested his hand on the man's shoulder and murmured, "I declare that there is no god but God, and Mohammed is his Messenger."

  And then he remembered the dream about Sahra and Zachariah he had had weeks ago, when he had first woken up in this place. And suddenly the thought that had been eluding him all day became brilliantly clear. He understood everything now. This was God's punishment on him for calling Zachariah his own. His being here wasn't a mistake after all; he was supposed to be here. He belonged here. And with surrender came acceptance, and a curious kind of peace.

  It was then that the guards came for him.

  TWELVE

  T

  HE CALL TO PRAYER BEGAN, FIRST WITH THE MUEZZIN singing out from the minaret of Al Azhar Mosque, then another at the next mosque picked up the prayer, followed by another and another, their voices blending together over the domes and rooftops of the city, stringing the Call like pearls across the wintry morning sky.

  Those gathered in the Rasheed house, especially the men, did not think it strange that a woman had just led them in prayer. She was no ordinary woman but Amira, Ali's widow and, in the four months since her son's mysterious arrest, the head of the Rasheed clan. It was Amira who had brought them together to the house on Virgins of Paradise Street, and who now kept them united in the family crisis. The grand salon had been turned into a command post, where every family member was put to work—answering the telephone, making phone calls, printing petitions to be circulated, preparing articles and statements for the newspapers, writing letters to anyone who might help the cause of Ibrahim Rasheed. Amira was at the center of it all, organizing and giving orders: "I have just learned that the father of the editor of Al Ahram was a close friend of Grandfather Ali. Khalil, go to the newspaper office, tell him of our misfortune. If his father is still alive, perhaps he will help." The male family members went out on her assignments and reported back to her, while the women cooked and served for the large population now in residence. All the bedrooms were occupied, as family members who lived as far away as Luxor and even Aswan had come to take up the cause of getting Ibrahim released from prison.

  As the first rays of sunlight broke over the eastern hills, the telephone was already ringing, a typewriter was busy clacking away. Zou Zou's grandson, a handsome man who worked at the Commerce Exchange, came in, accepted a cup of tea, and sat down with Amira. "Times have changed, Um Ibrahim," he said wearily. "A man's name no longer means anything. His honor, his father's honor, carry no weight any more. All the officials are interested in is baksheesh. Lowly bureaucrats who once couldn't sit at the same table with us now have uniforms and strut around like peacocks, demanding huge fees for their help."

  Amira listened patiently as she saw in his eyes what she saw in the eyes of the Rasheed uncles and nephews—confusion, frustration, loss. The social classes were collapsing; aristocratic men such as the Rasheeds no longer wore the fez, once the proud symbol of their status. No one knew his place any more; the title "pasha" had been stripped from the lordly class, and newspaper vendors and taxi drivers were rude to men to whom they once bowed. The vast farms that had been held by rich landholders for generations were being seized and divided up among the peasants; large institutions—even the banks—were being nationalized. The military ruled the country, and there was no one to stop them, not even the British, who saw their own presence in Egypt coming to an end. Now there was talk of socialism in every Cairo coffeehouse, and a frenzied kind of egalitarianism was sweeping Egypt.

  Amira did not understand, nor did she pretend to. But if such change was God's will, then so be it. But where was Ibrahim? Why had he become a victim in this upheaval? And why was she unable to find him? Worry and sleeplessness had taken their toll. Amira had lost weight, and her forehead showed new lines. She had been forced to sell some of her jewelry and use some of her personal savings in order to pay the high bribes the petty officials demanded. She was also praying more than she ever had before, and practicing the special magic Ali Rasheed's mother had taught her long ago, magic that was supposed to keep the bad luck that had come to Egypt away from the house on Virgins of Paradise Street.

  She had summoned Qettah to cast Ibrahim's fortune, but the elderly woman had only shaken her head, saying, "His birth-star is Aldebaran, Sayyida, the star of courage and honor. But I cannot tell you if your son will live in courage or die in honor."

  As more visitors arrived with reports, news, and hearsay, the nephew of Ali's older brother came rushing in. "Ibrahim is still alive! He is being held at the Citadel!"

  "Al hamdu lillah," Amira said. "Praise the Lord."

  Everyone clustered around Mohssein Rasheed, a student at the university who had suspended his studies in order to help search for his cousin. They all spoke at once, but it was Amira who commanded his attention. "Mohssein, why is he being held there? What was the reason for his arrest?"

  "They say they have proof of treason, Auntie!"

  "Treason!" She closed her eyes. A crime punishable by death.

  "They say they have witnesses who have testified under oath to what he said."

  "Liars!" cried the others. "Liars who have been bribed!"

  But Amira held up a hand and said calmly, "Prai
se to the Eternal One that we have found Ibrahim. Mohssein, go to the Citadel and find out what you can. Salah, go with him. Tewfik, go at once to Hassan al-Sabir's office in Ezbekiya. He will want this new information."

  As Nefissa was bringing in a note that had just been delivered by someone who knew a man who knew a man who, for a fee, could get word to Ibrahim, Suleiman Misrahi arrived. He was looking older, his hair thinning, his eyes sunken. Although his profitable import business had not yet been touched by the revolutionaries, the government takeover of large corporations and cotton farms worried him. He had also heard talk of the revolutionary government building new Egyptian factories to manufacture products such as automobiles and farm machinery, items that were currently imported from other countries. Suleiman dealt mostly in luxuries like chocolate and lace; would they, also, become nationalized?

  "Thank you for coming, Suleiman," Amira said, as she received him in a small parlor off the salon, reserved for private meetings with guests.

  Her feelings for Suleiman, a good, kind, and gentle man, were strong and warm. She thought now about how devastated Maryam had been, years ago, to learn that it was not she who was responsible for their childlessness, but he, and how she could not bear to tell him the truth. Amira had often wondered if Suleiman really would be angry if he ever learned that his children were not really his but had been fathered by his brother Moussa.

  "The situation is deplorable, Amira," he said. "I have attended some of the trials. Trials! They're circuses! Everyone is accusing everyone else. If you name someone who committed a crime worse than you, they let you go. The revolution has been reduced to a farce, and I am ashamed now to say that I am Egyptian." He shook his head in despair. These were mad times. The American film Quo Vadis, which had been banned because Nero reminded Farouk too much of himself, had now been released and was the number-one hit in Cairo. Thousands flocked to see it, and every time Peter Ustinov, playing Nero, appeared on the screen, people shouted, "To Capri! To Capri!"—Farouk's current place of exile.