Virgins of Paradise

by Wood, Barbara

  "We went to the hospital today," Yasmina said to her father as she moved closer to him.

  "Did you?" he said, giving her a special smile.

  "We visited the children's ward, and when they asked for a volunteer for the demonstration, I raised my hand!"

  "There's my clever girl. Just like I've taught you. It doesn't do to be shy if you want an education. Maybe someday you'll come to work with me in my office. Would you like that?"

  "Oh, more than anything! When can I start?"

  He laughed. "When you're done with school! I'll teach you how to be a good nurse. Ah, the concert is starting."

  Um Khalsoum was such a popular singer that the Arab world came to a halt every fourth Thursday of the month, as television sets and radios from Morocco to Iran were tuned in to her conceit, a phenomenon President Nasser took advantage of by frequently scheduling speeches in the minutes before her show. When he came on, Amira set aside the photo album. She liked Egypt's charismatic president. She had voted for him six years ago, not because she knew anything about him, but because it was the first time women had been granted the vote in Egypt, and Amira had gone proudly to the polls. She liked him not so much for his politics, which she had little interest in, but because he was an Egyptian and a modest man. The son of a postal clerk, Gamal Nasser ate beans for breakfast like everyone else, and he prayed every Friday at the mosque.

  Tonight, however, the president startled the world with what would be a historical speech: Nasser addressed the controversial issue of family planning.

  Due to the socialist government's improved health-care programs, he explained, infant mortality was down, fewer people were dying of cholera and smallpox, the death rate was down. However, the result was an alarming population explosion. The population had grown, Nasser reported gravely, from 21 million in 1956 to 26 million in 1962. If this kept up, he said, Egypt would sink under the weight of her own people. The time had come for conscientious birth control, a measure, he assured his audience, that would ultimately improve the condition of the family, the most important institution in the Middle East.

  Amira looked around the room at her family, her pride. She said a mental prayer of thanks to God for her good fortune; Amira was fifty-eight, in excellent health, and could expect soon to become a great-grandmother.

  As Ibrahim listened to the president's speech, he thought again about his "son" and was ashamed. Zachariah was a nice boy, very popular, but Ibrahim couldn't help being uncomfortable around him. The more Nasser spoke of contraception, the more Ibrahim felt his frustration rise. All this talk about preventing babies from being born. And when Nasser went on to explain that, in order to spare the mother—even if it was just anxiety over another pregnancy—birth control was permitted by Islam, even going so far as to quote from the Koran: "It is written, 'God desires ease for you. He does not desire hardship for you, and has not laid upon you any hardship in religion,'" Ibrahim thought, What about the rights of a man who has no son?

  He glanced over at Alice. He watched her slender white hands, and marveled at how remarkably soft and unblemished they were, considering he couldn't recall a day in the past nine-and-a-half years when she had not worked in her garden. As he saw how gracefully she turned the pages of her seed catalog, he imagined them caressing him, and he was startled to feel a stab of desire. He had not been able to sleep with his wife since his release from prison.

  And then it came to him: he was forty-five and in his prime, and Alice was only thirty-seven; they might yet have another child. He wondered why he hadn't thought of it before: he could still father a son! The more he considered this, the more his mood brightened, and he almost smiled at the irony of the moment, that Nasser's plea to curtail the birthrate had given Ibrahim the idea of increasing it.

  As Tahia listened to the president's speech, she was thinking that Gamal Nasser was romantically handsome; she liked the idea that his wife's name was also Tahia. Yasmina was thinking that birth control should be free and available to all women. But they weren't all listening to the president. Zachariah was composing another poem for Tahia, and Camelia was deciding that she was going to have to find a way to meet the great Dahiba. And Omar's frustration mounted. So many babies being born and no one could accuse Omar Rasheed of being responsible! He looked hungrily at Camelia, who had kicked off her shoes and whose red-lacquered toenails showed through her stockings. There was no longer any doubt. One way or another, he was going to have her.

  SIXTEEN

  N

  EFISSA GUESSED THAT THE HANDSOME YOUNG WAITER was around twenty, the same age as her son, so he couldn't be flirting with her, surely it was her imagination. And yet when he brought tea, serving it with a little more flourish than necessary, she saw the same flash in his dark eyes that she had noticed earlier, and now she was nonplussed.

  Nefissa watched him walk away as she absently stirred sugar into the tea. It was a perfect June day, not yet summer-hot but laced with a kind of languid balminess, a day for sitting on the terrace of the Club Cage d'Or and marking the time as it passed as slowly as the river.

  She had spent the day shopping in the few stylish dress salons left in Cairo. The new patriotic push to buy Egyptian-made goods meant that fewer good-quality items were available, and the excursion had taken hours; worse, she had had to travel by taxi because the Rasheeds had let their chauffeur go, such ostentation being frowned upon in this new socialist society.

  Even the place where she was having tea had changed. The Cage d'Or used to be a very exclusive club, restricted to the aristocracy and, of course, the royal family. As she watched the wives of fishermen on the opposite bank stoking charcoal fires and gutting fish, Nefissa recalled the days when she had come here as part of Princess Faiza's entourage. Her husband had been alive then, Omar just a baby. They had been young and rich and beautiful, and they had gambled the nights away at the Cage d'Or's roulette tables. Now the club was a tearoom during the day and a dance spot at night, open to anyone who could afford it, mainly, from what Nefissa saw, military men and their wives. No one from her own class came here any more.

  She sipped her tea and sighed. Those wonderful old days of class and privilege were long gone. Nasser had opened everything up to the public—the royal gardens had been turned into public parks and Farouk's palaces were museums. Ordinary people could now peer into the private chambers where Nefissa had once kept Princess Faiza company. The princess herself was gone, as were most of the old crowd, who had departed for Europe or America in hopes of better prospects. The number of Nefissa's friends had dwindled; she didn't even have Alice any more. The bond she had shared in the early years with her sister-in-law had been severed the night of Edward's suicide.

  "Would Madam care for anything else?"

  The waiter startled her. She hadn't seen him coming. She squinted up; the sun was behind him, creating a halo. He seemed to be standing too close to the table, his smile was too familiar. She had watched him wait on customers at the other tables, curt and businesslike. What interest could he possibly have in her?

  "No, thank you," she said, realizing she had hesitated a little too long. She reached into her purse and brought out a gold cigarette case with her initials engraved in the corner, a tiny diamond at the foot of the "R." Before she could find her lighter, the waiter was holding out a lighted match, and as she lit her cigarette, she found herself wondering what it would be like to be made love to by such a beautiful young man.

  And she was reminded again of her loneliness.

  Now that Omar and Tahia were almost adults, they rarely had need of her, being busy with their own friends, interests, and chasing after the future Nefissa filled her days with shopping, visits to the hairdresser, gossiping on the phone. She spent endless hours at her vanity table, trying new cosmetics, testing perfumes, manicuring her nails, and pampering her skin, pursuing beauty as if it were a holy cause. She told herself that all this—the careful makeup, the weight watching, the meticulous wardrobe—was because
she took pride in her appearance. But she knew what truly drove her. She wanted to be in love again.

  She had turned down the many marriage prospects her mother had arranged for her, some of whom had been rich and quite attractive, because she had wanted something she had once had long ago with her English lieutenant—true romance. But romance had not come, and the years had slipped away without her realizing it, until she finally woke up one morning and realized she was thirty-seven, the mother of two teenagers. What man would want her?

  "Dahiba is going to be dancing here," the young waiter said with a knowing smile. "Starting tomorrow night."

  Nefissa wished he would go away. His very presence, his smile full of innuendo, seemed to mock her. "Who is Dahiba?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Bismillah! Our most beloved dancer! You can't go out much in the evenings, madam. I'm surprised," he said, adding quietly, "a rich lady like you."

  So that was it—he wasn't interested in her, but in her money. She was both repulsed by him, and yet, to her secret shame, attracted to him. She was galled to find herself wondering if he thought she was beautiful—hoping he did.

  "I work in the evenings as well," he continued, "tonight, as a matter of fact. I work until three in the morning, and then I walk home to my flat, which is not far from here."

  She stared at him, wondering why she tolerated his insolence. To be so blatantly offering himself to her for money was insulting. When their eyes met and held for three heartbeats, Nefissa suddenly turned away and reached for her purse. She had to remember who she was, that she had once been close friends with royalty; Rasheed women did not pay for love.

  Omar had been biding his time ever since the night of President Nasser's speech four weeks ago, when he had decided he was going to have Camelia one way or another. It wasn't easy; either she was always with someone or he was, and so many people lived in the house that it was impossible to arrange for a chance encounter alone. Omar didn't require much time; he knew he could be quick. If he could just catch her on the stairs, or behind the bushes in the garden ... And he wasn't worried about the struggle she might put up. Although ten years of ballet had clearly made her strong—she possessed a dancer's lithe, muscular build—Omar knew he was stronger. And besides, once he got started she might just give in.

  As he watched Grandmother Amira, wrapped in a black melaya, walk away down Virgins of Paradise Street, he knew this was an opportunity that could not be missed. Even though Umma went out a bit these days, ever since the time of Uncle Ibrahim's imprisonment, she did not go out with great frequency. She never went shopping or to restaurants or to the cinema, as his aunts and female cousins did; Umma visited the mosques of Saints Hussein and Zeinab on their holy days, and once a year she went to the cemetery to pray at the grave of Grandfather Ali. Today was the day for her annual visit to the bridge that connected Gezira Island to the city; no one knew why Umma made this small pilgrimage all alone, going to throw a flower in the river, but Omar could count on at least half an hour of freedom from her ever-watchful eye. Fifteen minutes was all he needed.

  Now he had to pray that Camelia would come back from her ballet lesson at her usual time, and not stop somewhere with friends.

  There she was, coming through the garden gate!

  Omar had it all worked out: he would lure her behind the gazebo, pin her down and cover her mouth. If she later accused him, he would deny it. Everyone would believe him rather than her, because a woman's testimony carried one half the weight of a man's, it was so written in the Koran.

  "Ya! Camelia!" he called as she came down the path. "Come here! I have something to show you!"

  "What is it?"

  "You have to come and see."

  She gave him a dubious look and then, curious, put her books down and followed him around to the back of the gazebo, where the hibiscus was blooming. "What is it?" she asked again.

  He grabbed her and pulled her to the ground, throwing himself on top of her. "Y'Allah!" she cried. "Get off me, you oaf!"

  He tried to cover her mouth but she bit his hand. And when he reached down to undo his pants, she gave him a great shove that sent him sprawling.

  As she started to get up, frowning at the grass stains on her blouse, Omar was on her again, trying to push her skirt up. She hit him on the breastbone and he howled in pain, falling on his buttocks. Camelia scowled down at him. "Are you crazy, Omar Rasheed? Has a jinni taken possession of you?"

  "By the mercy of God, what is going on here?"

  They turned to see Amira coming around the gazebo, the black melaya billowing around her shoulders, a furious look on her face. "Omar! What are you doing?"

  He scrambled backward, out of her way. "Umma! I ... uh ..."

  "Oh, get up, oaf," Camelia said as she brushed off her skirt. Then she reached down and slapped his head. "Mahalabeya," she said. "Rice pudding!" She gathered up her books. "You and I are not betrothed, and we never will be. So don't try that again." And she marched off.

  Omar got to his feet and stood sheepishly before his grandmother. "In all respect and honor to you, Umma, I thought you went to the river," he said.

  "I did, but as I got to the end of the street, I realized I had forgotten to take flowers with me."

  She didn't say anything more and Omar continued to stand there, staring at the ground. He felt her eyes on him, the power of her disapproval.

  Unable to bear the silence any longer, he raised his head. And when he saw her dark, intelligent eyes, a memory suddenly came back: He was eight years old, and Umma had caught him in the garden pulling the wings off a butterfly. He hadn't heard her coming. She had delivered a stunning whack to his head that had sent him reeling. In all his life, that was the only time anyone had ever laid a hand on him.

  She continued to glare at him, the June breeze stirring strands of her black hair that had come loose from the bun at the nape of her neck. She was his grandmother, but all the same Omar could see her as others did: beautiful, her strong will evident in the square jaw and piercing eyes.

  He swallowed with a dry throat and said, "Forgive me, Umma."

  "Forgiveness is God's," she said. "Omar, what you did was wrong."

  "But I burn, Umma," he said softly.

  "All men burn, Omar. You must learn to control it. You must not touch Camelia again."

  "I want to marry her!"

  "No."

  "Why not? We're cousins. Who else would she marry?"

  "There is something you do not know. When your uncle's first wife died, your mother nursed Camelia. But you were also still nursing at her breast. It is written in the Koran that a union between two people who were suckled at the same breast is forbidden. It is incest, Omar."

  He stared at her in dismay. "I didn't know that! Camelia is my sister, then!"

  "And you cannot marry her."

  Tears rose in his eyes. "Bismillah! Then what will I do?"

  She laid a hand on his shoulder and said with a gentle smile, "It is not for you to decide, Omar. Your fate is already written in God's book. Say a prayer to the Eternal One. Trust in His time."

  Omar recited the prayer, but as soon as Amira left the garden, he kicked furiously at a clump of lilies until he had uprooted and destroyed them. Then he rushed into the house, straight to his mother's apartment, and barged in without knocking.

  "I want to get married," he said. "Right away."

  Nefissa looked up from her dressing table, startled. "Who is the girl, darling?"

  "No girl. Any girl. Find me a wife!"

  "What about your studies? What about the university?"

  "I want to get married. I didn't say anything about giving up school. I can be a student and a husband at the same time."

  "Can't it wait until you receive your degree?"

  "I have three years to go, Mother! I will perish before then!"

  She sighed. The impatience of a twenty-year-old. Had she been like that? "All right, my darling," she said, coming up to him and running her fingers through
his thick black hair. The image of the waiter at the Cage d'Or sprang into her mind. And suddenly she was alarmed to think that her own precious son might, out of desperation, turn to an older, rich woman. "I will go and talk to Ibrahim."

  As Hassan followed the servant up the stairs to the men's wing, he whistled, he felt so good. The visit he was paying on Ibrahim today had been a long time in the planning; there had been moments when he had thought he couldn't wait, and he had had to remind himself to proceed with caution. Ibrahim wasn't the same old friend he had once been; six months in prison had changed him. Hassan could no longer predict what Ibrahim's reaction would be to anything. In the old days, Ibrahim had been as simple to read as a child's picture book, but now, with his spells of depression, his periods of melancholy when he wouldn't see anyone, and his new, strangely quiet temperament, Ibrahim required delicate handling. And what Hassan was coming to see him about today was delicate in the extreme.

  What on earth had happened to his friend in prison? Hassan wondered as he ascended the big staircase. Ibrahim refused to speak of it; in the nine-and-a-half years since his release, not one word had been offered. Hassan often wondered how Ibrahim had been able to get out of prison, when all the efforts of the Rasheeds and himself had met with complete failure. Every channel had been blocked, and then suddenly, Ibrahim had been set free, and Ibrahim himself claimed not to know why.

  The servant knocked and then opened the door, and Hassan was delivered into the familiar comfort of Ibrahim's apartment. They greeted each other warmly, and Hassan accepted his friend's offer of coffee. He would have preferred whiskey, but when Edward died, the whiskey had gone, too.