"We said that, too, my brother Zakki and Yasmina and I."
"I remember the garden, with its papyrus and dusty old olive trees. Is it still the same?"
"Auntie Alice has changed it. The garden is very English now, with carnations and begonias. But it is very beautiful."
"Is there a stain on the kitchen wall beside the south window, a yellow stain shaped like a trumpet? That was put there many years ago, Camelia, even before I was born, and I am forty-two. There are so many stories in that big house—"
"Did you know my mother? She died giving birth to me."
"No, I'm sorry, I didn't know her."
"Auntie—" Camelia said, adjusting to their new relationship. "Why don't you make amends with Umma? Why don't you go to her and explain?"
"My dear child, there is nothing I would wish for more than to be reunited with my family. But when I married Hosni, my father said terrible things to me and Mother did not speak up in my defense. I was only a girl, she was a grown woman. It is for her to make the first step. Oh, Camelia, there is so much I want to tell you about the family, and so much I want to ask as well! But—" she frowned—"will you leave me now and go back to your grandmother? I doubt she will take you back unless you break completely with me. And if you stay with me, you might never see her again."
"If God wills it, then so be it," Camelia said. "I shall stay. You are my auntie, you are my family. And I will never stop dancing."
TWENTY-FIVE
T
HE TRAFFIC INTO THE AIRPORT WAS CHAOTIC. AS NEFISSA maneuvered her Fiat through the congestion, she wondered what had happened to cause such a commotion. There had been talk of war for weeks. Ever since Israel's April attack on Syria, Egypt had been on military alert. Just as in the days of the Revolution, Cairo had once again been gripped with tension, as people clustered around radios in coffee shops and snatched up newspapers filled with war propaganda. Had Israel finally declared war on Egypt? Nefissa wondered. She reached for the radio to get the news, then changed her mind. She didn't want to think of war right now; her son was coming home today and she was brimming with her own wonderful news.
When she finally got inside the terminal, she discovered that many flights had been canceled, leaving travelers stranded and infuriating those who, like herself, were there to meet incoming passengers. As she pushed her way through the crowd, she prayed that Omar's flight from Kuwait was one of those still scheduled to arrive before commercial flights were canceled altogether. Judging from the frenzied chatter all around her, Nefissa had guessed correctly: President Nasser had just declared a state of emergency; Egyptian troops were being called up. The country was going to war.
The ticket counters were mobbed, but when Nefissa tried to get the attention of an airport attendant, she was pushed around, and the shouting drowned her voice. When she saw the disembarking passengers filing through the customs exit, she elbowed her way against the tide to see if this was the Kuwait flight, the one on which her son was supposed to be, Omar having been called home for reserve military service. As she searched for him, she bumped against a tall handsome man carrying a diplomatic passport and an English raincoat. Their eyes met for an instant, both murmured, "Pardon me," and continued in their separate directions.
But Nefissa stopped and looked back to see him disappear into the crowd. For a moment he reminded her of ... She shook her head and walked on.
Before the man with the raincoat reached the airport exit, he paused and looked over his shoulder. That woman ... her eyes ... They reminded him of eyes he had once fallen in love with, twenty-two years ago, when he had been a young lieutenant stationed in Cairo during the war. Eyes above a veil, hidden behind a mashrabiya screen. They had spent a night of fantastic lovemaking in an ancient harem ...
But his car and driver were waiting, and he raced off.
Nefissa stopped again and looked back. Was it possible? Had it been he? Those blue eyes, that straight nose—she could never forget!
As she started to go back and follow him, she heard a voice over the public-address system announcing the arrival of passengers on the Kuwait flight. For an instant, Nefissa gazed in the direction the stranger had gone, then, shaking her head, turned and hurried toward the customs exit.
When Nefissa saw Omar coming through, she waved and called out to him. She could hardly contain her excitement.
She wanted to blurt her news as soon as they embraced, but this chaotic airport was not the right setting. She would wait until they were in the car and speeding along the highway, just the two of them. She would listen while Omar told her about his newest assignment in the Kuwait oil fields, then she would tell him in just the way she had rehearsed it: "I have decided to move in with you and Yasmina. A mother belongs with her son and grandchildren; it isn't right that I am still living at Virgins of Paradise Street, in my mother's house. I deserve to have a house of my own." Omar would agree, of course. It was he who had broken with tradition when he had taken an apartment for himself and his bride. But where did that leave his mother? It was her right to manage her son's household, as any mother in Cairo would attest.
It was Nefissa's dream, to take care of Omar and Mohammed. After a brief affair with a professor at the American University, and an unfulfilling flirtation with an English businessman, she had come to accept the fact that she was never going to recapture the romance she had found one glorious night when she was twenty. It was futile, she told herself, to try to find her English lieutenant in other men—she was even imagining seeing him in airports! And so she had gently let go of the dream. And replaced it with another.
"I am so glad to have you home, my son," she said, as she slid into the passenger seat of her car while Omar got behind the wheel. "You have an important job, but it takes you away for too long."
"Is everyone well, Mother? Yasmina, how is she? The baby is due soon, praise God."
They made it out of the airport congestion and were speeding along the desert highway, along which army tanks were rolling eastward, toward Sinai. Nefissa did not comment on Yasmina. Her niece was the one flaw in an otherwise perfect plan.
Ever since Nefissa had decided that she was too old to still be living in her mother's house, taking second place to Amira, and deciding that, at forty-two, she deserved to be dignified with her own home and a daughter-in-law to help her, she had started on her plan. After finding a larger apartment, in Cairo, she had chosen new china and silver patterns—she would get rid of those Omar and Yasmina were currently using—picked out new furniture, drapes and carpets, pictures for the walls. Although it had been a deliciously exciting project, the problem of Yasmina had loomed like a disagreeable shadow.
Nefissa had no proof, but she suspected that the baby Yasmina was carrying was not her son's but the child of Hassan al-Sabir. After all, there was the contraceptive she had found hidden among Yasmina's toiletries. If Omar had known of the birth control, he would have expressed surprised that Yasmina was pregnant; but he had not. And then there was Yasmina's mysterious visit to Hassan's house. She had not returned to Virgins of Paradise Street until two hours later, wearing a brand-new blouse, not the one she had left in.
Nefissa had kept her suspicions to herself. Revealing them, she had decided, would most likely ruin her plans for moving in with Omar. If he were to divorce Yasmina, he might move back into the house on Virgins of Paradise Street, which he would visit between his long absences. And Nefissa would continue to exist in Amira's shadow.
She wanted a household of her own, and a family to manage. What did it matter about the baby, if the truth were kept secret? There could even be an advantage, Nefissa had decided; she could let Yasmina know that she knew the truth about the baby, promising to keep the knowledge to herself as long as Yasmina recognized Nefissa as the head of their family.
When the first dun-colored buildings started to come into view along the highway, dusty new apartment blocks waiting for low-income families to move in, Nefissa decided to tell Omar of her
plans. But he spoke first. "And do you know what, Mother?" he said. "I miss Yasmina. I have learned a lot while I've been working abroad, and one thing I've learned is the value of a good wife. I was impatient with Yasmina when we first got married. She didn't understand my needs and I had to teach her. But now," he stretched and smiled, "I see us having a good life together."
Nefissa had to smile. The way her son was talking, as if he weren't just a boy of twenty-five!
"And now Yasmina is pregnant," he said. "And I was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong. Mother, I have wonderful news. The oil company I have been assigned to has offered me a permanent job, as one of their senior engineers!"
"That's marvelous, Omar," she said, noticing how he tilted his chin with pride as he spoke. He had also cultivated a dignified mustache, she noticed, and wore an expensive, well-tailored shirt. In her mind and heart she had kept him a little boy, but it struck her now for the first time that her son was a man. "What about this war with Israel?"
"How long can it last? If there is even going to be a war, which I doubt. In any event, the company has promised to hold the job open for me until I return. And I have already found an apartment in Kuwait City, and put money down on it so that it won't be let to someone else while I'm away. It's small, but it will do for now for me and Yasmina and the children. The company has promised me promotions, so in time we will be able to afford a house and then you will be able to come and stay for long visits, Mother. How would you like that?"
When she didn't reply, he looked at her. "Mother? Are you all right?"
"You're going to stay in Kuwait? You're leaving your job with the government?"
"There is more money in private enterprise, Mother. And I would like to have a normal home life, with my wife and children."
"But ... what about me?"
He laughed. "You will come and visit us! And every time you come, the children will climb all over you and make you so tired you will want to hurry back to Cairo!"
Her eyes widened in horror. He was leaving? She was going to be left behind on Virgins of Paradise Street, to become just one more of the aging spinsters and widows Ibrahim supported? The late afternoon, which had started out so bright and sunny, seemed to turn dark and cold. Nefissa watched her plans crumble as she pictured the lonely years that lay ahead, devoid of romance, with no son to take care of. She knew she could not let it happen.
Yasmina was helping her mother arrange flowers for Omar's homecoming party when she felt the baby kick. It was due to be born soon, and she wished Camelia could be here. But she was up in Port Said, with Dahiba and Raouf, filming a movie. Yasmina had several times in the past months come close to confessing the truth about Hassan and the baby to her father. But Camelia had helped her to keep her resolve, and she was glad now she had had the strength to remain silent. Working with her father in his office and seeing the pride in his eyes as he spoke of plans for helping her through medical school—Yasmina could not destroy that. Her secret about the day she had gone to see Hassan, whom she had not heard from since, was a small burden to bear if it kept her father happy.
Sahra came into the salon with a platter of steaming grape leaves stuffed with lamb and rice; behind her, two servants carried bowls of cabbage salad and deep-fried eggs sprinkled with oregano and onion. All the women of the family had come for the occasion, laughing and gossiping, complimenting one another's dress, jewelry; Tahia was there too, with her new baby, Asmahan, now two months old. They all worked to bring cheer into the large salon. Even though the threat of a surprise attack by the Visitors of Dawn had abated since Defense Minister Amer's attention had turned from the Liquidation of Feudalism to the threat of aggression from Israel, the Rasheed house was still plain and stripped of its richness. And so the family created a festive atmosphere with laughter, food, drink, and flowers.
Amira was at the window with little Mohammed, watching for the car that was bringing his daddy home from Kuwait. She pointed out the stars that were beginning to appear in the clear May sky. "You see? There is Aldebaran, the Follower, because he follows the Pleiades." She pointed to Rigel, Arabic for "foot." "Do you see Rigel in Orion's left foot? All the stars have Arabic names, great-grandson of my heart, because it was your ancestors who discovered them. Doesn't that make you proud?"
"What star were you born under, Umma?"
"A very lucky one!" she said, giving him a hug.
Ibrahim came into the salon. "Quickly, turn on the television, Mother. Nasser is speaking."
They gathered around the set and listened as President Nasser warned the Egyptian people to brace themselves for Israel's attack. "I do not want war," he said. "But I will fight for the honor of all Arabs. Europe and America speak of the rights of Israel, but where are the rights of the Arabs? Not one of them speaks of the rights of the Palestinian people in their own homeland. We alone will make the stand for our brothers."
"Declare the oneness of God!" cried Doreya.
"Praise His mercy!"
As everyone started talking at once, the face of Um Khalsoum appeared on the TV screen; she began to sing the Egyptian national anthem, "My country, my country, my love and heart are yours. Egypt, Mother of all lands, it is you I seek and desire." And several of the women in the Rasheed salon started to cry.
Amira's nephew, Tewfik, jumped up and said, "We should attack first, before the Israeli aggressors attack us!"
Uncle Kareem, who sat closest to the television set because of his advanced age, thumped his cane and said, "War is not a solution, you young dog! War only begets more war! God's way is peace."
"But Uncle, in all respect, didn't Israel attack Syria just last month? And is it not up to us to be prepared to defend the honor of all Arabs? The whole world is against us, Uncle. The United Nations' troops have been stationed on the Egyptian side of the border for eleven years, and when Nasser suggested that they should be moved to the Israeli side for a while, Israel refused to take them. Is this fair? Whose side is the world on, Uncle? We must drive Israel into the sea!"
"Stupid boy," said sharp-tongued Doreya. "How do we drive Israel into the sea? Her American backers make her more powerful than we are! They are making fools of us. Didn't Golda Meir call Arab women frivolous and superficial, saying we spend more money on makeup and clothes than on necessities!"
"Please, please," Amira said. "Let us not provoke a war in our own house!"
"Respectfully, Auntie," Tewfik said, "Israel is our enemy."
"Egypt, Israel! We are all the children of the Prophet Ibrahim. Why do we fight among ourselves?"
"The state of Israel has no right to exist."
"Declare God's mercy, you witless child! All people have a right to exist."
"In honor and respect to you, Auntie Amira, I don't believe you understand."
"What happens, happens," she said. "God's will, not ours."
When little Mohammed burst into tears, Amira turned off the TV set. "We are frightening the children." Then she thought: If war is indeed inevitable, we must be prepared. Tomorrow she would take the women and girls to the Red Crescent to donate blood, after which they would tear up bed sheets and roll bandages.
She suddenly thought of Camelia, up in Port Said making a film. She thought: At a time such as this, a family should be together.
Instructing Doreya and the other women to distract and entertain the children, Amira went into her bedroom and closed the door. Kneeling on the floor, she opened the bottom drawer of her dresser and lifted out the white pilgrim's robes, carefully folded for the day when she would make the journey to holy Mecca—a dream she had had to set aside until the danger from the Visitors of Dawn had passed. Beneath the robes was a wooden box inlaid with ivory, its lid inscribed with the words: God, the Compassionate. Although much of the jewelry that had been buried in the garden had been dug up over the past few months and donated to the Red Crescent and other organizations raising funds for the war effort, Amira had kept her most precious, most sentimental piec
es in this ornate antique box filled with mementos. On top were three pieces of jewelry she would never part with: the first was a pearl necklace, given to her by Ali on the occasion of Ibrahim's birth. The second was an ancient Egyptian bracelet of lapis and gold, said to have belonged to Rameses II, pharaoh of the Exodus. It had been given as a gift to Farouk by a collector, and the king had in turn bestowed the priceless object upon Amira after she had given him a fertility potion made of herbs from her garden, a potion, Farouk swore, that had given him his only son. The third was the ring Andreas Skouras had given her before he left Egypt—the engraved carnelian set in gold, bearing the engraving of a mulberry leaf, to signify that Andreas drew his life from Amira as the silkworm did from the leaf. She had kept it to remind her of the man she had once loved, and whom she had almost married. At the bottom of the box was an envelope. She opened it and brought out the photographs that had been removed from the family album years ago.
When Ali had banished their daughter from the house, Amira had taken Fatima's photos out of the album, but they hadn't gone far. She had placed them tenderly beneath the pilgrim's robes. Looking at Fatima's young, smiling face brought back the shock of seeing her six months ago, when Camelia had taken Amira to visit her friend Dahiba. The memories that had rushed back, as she had stood speechless in Fatima's living room! And then the fury, that Fatima should befriend Camelia without telling the girl who she really was. And then the flood of love and compassion, and the desire to bring Fatima back into the family. Camelia had begged Amira to forgive Fatima, but Amira had said, "It is Fatima who must come back and ask for forgiveness." But Dahiba, being as stubborn as her mother, had not come, and Amira now regretted her own obstinacy.
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