Virgins of Paradise

by Wood, Barbara

  "I will speak to Umma," he said, holding her face in his hands and thinking how the moonlight turned her tears into diamonds. "We shall be as happy as Omar and Yasmina."

  Yasmina watched Omar as he slept, and thought how strange it seemed to be in bed with her cousin, with a boy she had grown up with. The love-making had been nice, they had actually laughed, it was fun, but she wondered when the passion was supposed to come, the romance she heard about in songs and movies.

  Quietly leaving the bed, she went to the window and looked out. She had never felt so happy. The wedding had been beautiful, and now here she was in a home of her own. But what monopolized her thoughts on this balmy summer evening were the words her father had spoken a few weeks ago, when she had come home from the Red Crescent. "Perhaps someday you will work with me in my office," Ibrahim had said. "I'll teach you how to be a good nurse."

  But as she hugged herself now, still warm from Omar's lovemaking, Yasmina thought: No, not a nurse. I shall be a doctor.

  NINETEEN

  C

  AMELIA'S FIRST THOUGHT WHEN SHE SAW THE MAN WAS THAT HE was very handsome. The second was to wonder if he was married. He was the government censor, on hand at Saba Studios to make sure Hakim Raouf's latest film did not depict poverty, political discontent, or, in this particular case, Dahiba's belly button. Camelia tried not to stare at him as she stood out of the way of the cameras and crew while Hakim gave directions to his actors. This was the fourth time Dahiba had invited her to come and watch a movie being made, and each time the seventeen-year-old had thought she would faint with the glamor of it all. But on this blustery December day, Camelia was even more excited, because this was also the week of the Mulid al-Nabi, the nine-day festival celebrating the Prophet's birth, a time when people bought new clothes, exchanged presents, set off firecrackers, and ate mounds of sweets. As a special treat Dahiba's husband had ordered a dessert buffet set up in the studio, spread with cakes, pastries, fruit, and sweetmeats, the favorite being "palace bread," which was made of flat bread fried in butter, then soaked in honey and coated with thick cream.

  Camelia watched the attractive government censor help himself to a handful of dates stuffed with candied orange peel and then stir several teaspoons of sugar into his coffee. She wondered if he had noticed her.

  Of course she wouldn't dream of going up to him and starting a conversation, just as she would be shocked, insulted even, if he should similarly approach her. But she did want to catch his eye. If only she were allowed to dress with a little more allure! But Umma always made sure her girls left the house modestly dressed, which meant long sleeves, hems below the knees, and collars that buttoned up to the neck. Amira always made especially sure Camelia wore a scarf to hide her luxurious long black hair, which would, she declared, be a temptation to men; but Camelia always removed it as soon as she was out of sight of Virgins of Paradise Street. She didn't think it was fair that her brother and male cousins could wear anything they wanted, as if only women aroused temptation. And besides, Camelia wondered, were men so weak that they lost all control at the sight of a lock of hair? The girls at school joked about it, saying that men must be silly creatures indeed if they got excited at the sight of a split end. But at least Amira allowed makeup, as she herself spent time every morning at her vanity table before joining the family for breakfast. And so Camelia took care to apply kohl around her amber eyes, draw in perfectly arched black eyebrows, and apply a smoky red lipstick that complemented her olive skin. Did the government censor at least think she was pretty?

  Hakim Raouf shouted, "Action!" and Dahiba began to dance, with the censor paying careful attention. The scene was set in a nightclub, and Dahiba was cast in the role of a dancer who pretended she didn't recognize her philandering husband, who was in the audience, disguised. Another comedy. Raouf had once complained to Camelia that a man as brilliant as Nasser—"The man, by the head of Sayyid Hussein, who shipped fifty thousand transistor radios, all tuned to Cairo Radio, to the rural areas of the Middle East!"—imposed controls on films that practically guaranteed box-office failure. Dahiba's husband often grumbled about "pulling up tent stakes and moving to Lebanon, where they have more freedom and appreciate artistic creativity."

  He shouted, "Cut!" and called for someone from wardrobe to make an adjustment to Dahiba's costume. Then he went up to his wife, who was taller than he, even more so now that she was in high heels, and murmured something in her ear. She laughed.

  Camelia loved watching Dahiba with her husband. They made such an unlikely couple—she, so tall and graceful and elegant, he, so short and chubby and untidy. But they had purposely chosen each other. Dahiba's parents had been killed in a boating accident when she was seventeen, leaving her without a family, and so she had been free to choose her own husband. She had picked Hakim Raouf and they had been together for the past twenty years.

  That is what I want, Camelia decided, as she glanced again at the censor. I am going to choose my husband for myself, and we are going to be happy and a little crazy together.

  And there would be children, too, Camelia promised herself, because Dahiba had assured her that it was possible to have babies and a career.

  As she was watching the handsome censor, he suddenly looked her way, and kept his eyes on her for a moment longer than was proper before looking away. Camelia felt her heart do a somersault.

  Finally, the scene was over; shooting was done for the day. As Camelia gathered up her coat and purse and library books, she saw Dahiba engage the censor in a conversation. He asked her something, and she laughed, shaking her head. Then he looked at his watch and nodded.

  "What did you think of the scene?" Dahiba asked when she joined up with Camelia, putting an arm around her.

  "You were wonderful! He couldn't take his eyes off you," Camelia said, nodding toward the censor.

  "Of course he couldn't, my dear. It's his job! He was making sure I wasn't dancing too provocatively. Anyway, I invited him to join us for tea this afternoon."

  "You did? Did he accept?"

  "He asked me if you were my daughter. I told him you were my pupil."

  "But is he coming to tea?"

  "He asked if you were going to be there. When I said yes, he accepted."

  "I shall faint with joy!"

  "Four o'clock, my dear. Don't be late."

  Camelia nearly ran all the way home, mentally sorting through her wardrobe to decide what to wear. She knew what the tea would be like—he would appear surprised to see her there, and then, as was customary, he would take care to spend the rest of the visit showing no interest in her. If he accepted an invitation to tea a second time, then it meant that he liked her, and it would be permissible for them to exchange a few words, under Dahiba's watchful eye. Perhaps the third invitation would be for dinner, and Camelia would be allowed to sit next to him, and they could talk a little about themselves. Or maybe they could go on a picnic, or to a concert, with Dahiba and Raouf chaperoning. Camelia's mind reeled with the possibilities!

  When she arrived home, a light rain was falling and she found most of her female relatives in the big kitchen, talking and laughing as they cooked.

  Amira was overseeing the making of sugar dolls, the traditional children's treat on the Prophet's birthday. Auntie Alice was there as well, her cheeks flushed, her blond hair swept back with combs, as she made an English plum pudding for Christmas. Because the birth of the Prophet Mohammed coincided with the birth of the Prophet Jesus only once every thirty-three years, when it did, the house was filled with double the excitement, twice the bustle. Auntie Alice would bring out Christmas decorations, and set up a little tree which she strung with tinsel, and as she placed a nativity scene under the tree, she would tell the children the story of Jesus' birth. They were all familiar with the story, because the Virgin Birth was in the Koran; there was also an ancient tree in Cairo beneath which Mary and Joseph had rested in their flight to Egypt. When Camelia saw Maryam Misrahi in the kitchen, she remembered that
a third festival was being celebrated—Hanukkah. Auntie Maryam had brought over her special harosset, a date-and-raisin dessert she always prepared for the Jewish Feast of Lights, which commemorated the rededication of the Temple in Jerusalem, the very place from which Mohammed had been lifted to heaven to receive Islam's Five Pillars of Faith from God. Seeing all the bustle and activity in the kitchen made Camelia think that, given the three sacred festivals occurring at the same time, this must be the holiest week in the year.

  As she pulled off the scarf she had tied on her head before entering Virgins of Paradise Street, she called out a breathless hello to everyone, and helped herself to an apricot tart.

  "There you are, Lili," Amira said. "Did you get the books you needed?"

  Camelia had told her grandmother she was going to the library to find some books for her Arabic literature class. She had not mentioned that she would be stopping at Saba Studios afterward. "I found two of them, thank God. I have plenty of homework tonight!"

  "Did you take a taxi, as I asked?"

  Camelia sighed. Umma had only recently started letting the girls go out alone unchaperoned by a male relative, a concession she had made with reluctance. But with Tahia and Camelia going to school, as well as Hanida's two daughters, and Rayya's girl, and Zubaida's twins working as typists at Al Ahram newspaper, necessity had forced Amira to allow them more independence.

  "It's so cold and invigorating out, Umma!" Camelia said. "I decided to walk. But nothing happened," she added quickly, when she saw her grandmother's questioning look. To Umma's old-fashioned thinking the streets of Cairo were still fraught with evils and temptations that threatened a girl's honor. But during Camelia's walk from the studios there had been only one incident—village boys in galabeyas throwing pebbles at her and calling her names. Camelia had ignored them, as she always did. Other than that, the walk home had been uneventful. After all, what could possibly happen to her on a crowded street in broad daylight?

  "I have some wonderful news for you," Amira said, as she wiped her hands on the apron protecting her black silk skirt. "I want you to telephone your ballet teacher and cancel this afternoon's lesson. We are going to be honored by an important visitor."

  Camelia stared at her. Amira didn't know about her secret dancing lessons with Dahiba, and the ballet lesson was her excuse to go. This afternoon, the ballet lesson was going to be her excuse to attend Dahiba's tea with the government censor! "But Madame won't like it," she said quickly, referring to the director of the ballet academy. "Madame gets angry when—"

  "Nonsense," Amira said. "You haven't missed a lesson in years. This one time won't hurt. Shall I telephone her myself?"

  "Who is the visitor, Umma?"

  Amira smiled with pride. "It is our distant cousin, Jamal Rasheed. And he is coming to speak to you, granddaughter of my heart."

  Maryam lifted her glass of tea and said, "Mazel tov, my dear."

  Camelia stared at her grandmother and Auntie Maryam in disbelief. Then she recalled how Jamal Rasheed had been to the house several times, to visit Amira, Camelia had thought. But now she realized in horror that his purpose had been to look her over.

  "Look how amazed she is," Maryam said, smiling. "You are a lucky girl, Lili. Jamal Rasheed is a rich man. He is known for his piety, and for his kindness."

  "But, Auntie," Camelia cried, "I don't want to get married!"

  Amira smiled. "Such a thing to say. Jamal Rasheed is a good man, and he is very comfortable financially. He even has a nanny for his children, so you won't be expected to take care of them."

  "It's not Jamal Rasheed, Umma! It's any man! I just don't want to get married right now!"

  "In God's name, why ever not?"

  "I can't, that's all!" Camelia said. "Not right now!"

  "What's gotten into you? Of course you will marry Mr. Rasheed. Your father and he have already signed the engagement contract."

  "Oh, Umma! How could you!"

  To everyone's surprise, Camelia ran out of the kitchen and out through the front door, slamming it.

  She ran all the way to Dahiba's apartment house in the rain, burst through the lobby doors, and flew past the startled doorman. When she headed for the stairs, he said, "Wait—" But it was too late. Camelia didn't see the woman scrubbing the marble steps, and that they were still wet. Camelia's feet flew out from under her and she fell, her ankle catching in the iron railing, so that she landed in a twisted position, one leg up and one leg down.

  Everyone came rushing to help, and someone telephoned the penthouse for Dahiba. A few moments later a stunned Camelia limped into her teacher's apartment, sniffing back her tears.

  "Dear child," Dahiba said, helping her to the sofa. "What happened? Shall I call a doctor?"

  "No, I'm all right."

  "But what happened? The doorman said you ran through the lobby as if jinns were after you."

  "I was so upset! Umma told me I am engaged to an old man who has six children! She says I have to marry him! But I want to be a dancer!"

  Dahiba put an arm around Camelia's shoulders and said, "Come along. We'll have some tea and talk about this." But when the girl stood up and Dahiba saw a spot of blood on the couch, she said, "Is it your monthly time?"

  Camelia frowned. "No."

  "Go into the bathroom and check yourself."

  Camelia came out a minute later and said, "It's nothing, just a spot."

  "Tell me again how you fell." And when Camelia made a scissors motion with her fingers, Dahiba said, "Listen to me, child. You must go home at once and tell your grandmother about this. Tell her what happened. Tell her how you fell."

  "I can't tell her I was here!"

  "Then tell her you fell in the street. But you must tell her about this, at once. Go now, hurry."

  "But why? I told you I'm not hurt. I don't have any pain anywhere. And the man from the government will be here soon for tea!"

  "Never mind him. Just do as I say. Your grandmother will need to know."

  Camelia walked home, worried and confused, and when she found Amira in the garden, anxiously watching for her under an umbrella, Camelia said, "I'm sorry, Umma. I shouldn't have run away from you like that. Please forgive me."

  "Forgiveness is God's. Come inside, your clothes are wet. Where did you learn such disrespect?"

  "I am sorry, Umma. But I can't marry Jamal Rasheed."

  Amira sighed. "We will talk about it," she said, and turned toward the house.

  "Umma," Camelia blurted. "I had an accident."

  "An accident? What sort of accident?"

  She described the crowded street, the slippery sidewalk. "My legs went like this," and Camelia gestured with her fingers. "And then there was a spot of blood." Amira asked her the same question Dahiba had, about her monthly time, and when Camelia said it was two weeks away, Amira's look also turned grave. "What is it, Umma?" Camelia said in alarm. "What happened to me?"

  "Trust in God, my child. There is a way to take care of it. But we mustn't tell your father." Ibrahim had been in such a deep depression since his breakup with Hassan that Amira didn't want to burden him with another woe.

  She knew what she had to do. There were surgeons in Cairo who specialized in these cases, men who kept a secret for a high price.

  The address was on 26th of July Street. Amira had been told on the telephone to come after the evening prayer, and to bring cash, and now she and Camelia were climbing a stairway to the apartment on the fourth floor. Amira held Camelia's hand as she knocked, and when a middle-aged woman in a clean butcher's apron answered, Amira said softly, "Tell Dr. al-Malakim that we are here."

  To Amira's surprise, the woman said that she was Dr. al-Malakim, and opened the door for them to enter.

  They were led through a parlor that was illuminated by a single lamp; Amira saw modest furniture, flowered wallpaper, and family photos displayed on top of a television set. There was a strong aroma of onions and roasting lamb in the air, and an underlying odor of disinfectant. The woman
led them through a curtain and into a bedroom; a fresh white sheet had been stretched tightly over the bed, and Amira glimpsed a rubber sheet underneath.

  "Have her lie down there, Sayyida," Dr. al-Malakim said, as she went to a small table that had been laid out with cotton pads, a hypodermic syringe, and metal pans containing surgical instruments in a greenish solution. "She only needs to remove her panties, nothing else."

  "This won't hurt?" Amira said. "You said on the phone that it wouldn't hurt."

  The woman gave Amira a reassuring smile. "Please have faith, Sayyida. God has given me this skill. I will give her an anesthetic. Perhaps you will want to wait outside?"

  But Amira took a seat on the edge of the bed and held Camelia's hands. "Everything will be all right," she said to the terrified girl. "We'll be going home in just a few minutes."

  As the doctor pulled a stool to the foot of the bed and repositioned the lamp, she said in a kindly voice, "Tell me how this happened."

  When Amira repeated what Camelia had told her, the woman reached for a syringe and said, "Now then, child, first the injection. Recite the Fatiha, very slowly ..."

  "What did she do to me, Umma?" Camelia asked as they got out of the taxi. She was still groggy from the anesthesia, and she felt a dull throb between her legs. Amira helped her into the house and up to her bedroom, thankful that they encountered no one along the way.

  "When you fell," she said, as she helped Camelia into her nightgown, "your maidenhead was broken. It happens sometimes. In some girls, the membrane is fragile. But there are doctors who know how to reconstruct it, so that on your wedding night you will still be intact, and therefore family honor is preserved, inshallah. That is what Dr. al-Malakim did for you."

  Camelia was filled with shame, she didn't know why. "But I didn't do anything wrong, Umma. I had an accident, that's all. I am still a virgin."