"Before we enter into this," she said finally, "I must tell you that I was married before. I had a baby that died, and I still have a son in Egypt."
Now it was Greg Van Kerk's turn to stare in amazement.
"But I will never go back," she said. "My son is no longer legally mine, I have no rightful claim upon him."
"I'm not worried about that."
"I did not leave Egypt on good terms with my family, and so I can never go back." You are haram, forbidden. She shook her head as if to clear it. Don't let the memories come back. "I went to England to claim an inheritance from my mother's side of the family. My relatives there, the Westfalls, were good to me, and tried to help me. But I was sick for a while. I was on medication ... for depression." As she paused to give him a moment to absorb this, Jasmine thought about her own mother's clinical depression, and the fact that Alice's mother, Lady Westfall, had committed suicide.
"And then Auntie Maryam, Rachel's grandmother," she continued, "invited me to come and stay with her family here in California. I am determined to become a doctor, but it is only fair to tell you, if we are going to live together, that the depression is still there."
"I know," Greg said, suddenly feeling like a knight on a white horse, and deciding that he enjoyed it. "I sensed some kind of sadness about you. Maybe what you need is someone to help you work it out."
"There is just one more thing," she added cautiously. "We shall legally be husband and wife, but I can't—"
"Don't worry about that. We'll just be roommates, two very busy students. I'm happy on a sofa bed. And I don't think even the INS can get spies into a bedroom!"
"I've got an idea," Rachel said, suddenly excited. "Both of you come over to my house tonight. I've got a huge family, and I'll invite a bunch of friends. We'll make the wedding announcement there. That way, when the INS agents start snooping around they'll have to deal with my mother and Grandma Maryam! You can get married on Saturday, at the Little Chapel of the Something-or-Other."
As her two companions began making arrangements, happily excited about their small conspiracy against the authorities, Jasmine felt her fear vanish and her spirits lift. And in the next moment she found herself thinking of Dr. Declan Connor and his offer for a job. And she suddenly realized she was hoping very much that the student he had hired would not show up.
TWENTY-NINE
D
ESPITE THE BLOWING KHAMSIN WIND, A FUNERAL TENT HAD been erected at the end of Fahmy Pasha Street, and all day a large, illustrious crowd of people came and went, to hear the reading of the Koran and to pay respects to the deceased. Afterward, the procession to the cemetery rivaled that attending the funerals of statesmen and movie stars; even President Sadat had sent a representative to follow the coffin down El Bustan Street. As Zachariah shouldered one corner of the heavy casket, he asked himself: Who would have thought Jamal Rasheed was so well loved?
Zachariah was one of only two members attending from the widow's side of the family; Tahia herself hadn't even been able to come. When word had reached Virgins of Paradise Street of Jamal Rasheed's heart attack, his pregnant young wife had been down with cholera. And she was there still, along with nearly everyone else in the house.
For some mysterious reason, Zachariah had not contracted the disease, was in fact the only member of the family, except for Ibrahim, who was not confined behind closed doors bearing Ministry of Health quarantine notices. Zachariah had been examined, found not to be a carrier of the disease, and so had been granted permission to attend the funeral.
He had not wanted to leave Tahia's side, but a man could not shirk his duty to carry a family member to his grave. And as he walked wearily beneath his burden, exhausted from long hours spent at Tahia's bedside and helping the women with the enormous task of nursing so many sick family members, Zachariah marveled that he could so reverently carry the man who had stolen Tahia from him. But, in her nearly ten years with Jamal, Tahia had been genuinely happy with him, even loved him in a way, she had confessed to Zachariah. Therefore he paid respectful homage to the man. But Tahia had been left alone with four little ones and a fifth on the way; it was she he must think of now.
I will take care of her, Zachariah vowed, now that we are free to marry. The promise that God had made to him during his moments of death in the Sinai desert, when he had glimpsed the wondrous afterlife awaiting Believers—moments in which, fleetingly, Zachariah had not wanted to return to earth—God's promise that he and Tahia were fated to be together was coming to pass at last. They would marry before next Ramadan, he decided.
Walking behind Zachariah, also shouldering the casket that bore his distant relation, Ibrahim wrestled with the mystery of the cholera outbreak.
The Rasheed family was the only one in the entire city that had come down with the disease. Forty-two members were ill and being nursed by a handful of women, and in the three days since Alice's collapse in Ibrahim's office, investigators from the Ministry of Health had not been able to locate the cause.
The khamsin drove stinging sand over the coffin and its bearers, and the crowd following Jamal Rasheed to his tomb covered their faces with handkerchiefs and coughed the grit from their throats. As the crowd, consisting only of men, since women did not walk in funeral processions, made its way beneath a dun-colored veil through which the sun barely shone, Ibrahim thought: Why did the cholera strike only our family and no one else? Why are my sister and wife and mother and aunts and nieces and female cousins all prostrate with illness, while I and Zachariah walk free?
As the hot desert wind assaulted them and seemed intent upon toppling the casket, Ibrahim kept his eyes fixed on Zachariah's back; the boy was a constant reminder of things Ibrahim wished to forget. The young fool hadn't even gone to war properly, fighting valiantly and coming home wounded, as Omar had. No, Zachariah had returned with an audacious story about having died and gone to heaven, an embarrassment to the family.
Finally they arrived at the cemetery and the pall bearers placed Jamal in the tomb alongside his parents and brothers. As the large stone was rolled into place, sealing the tomb, and dust and water was sprinkled upon it as the imam from Jamal's mosque read from the Koran, Ibrahim reminded himself that a man's thoughts at a funeral should be pious.
So he directed his mind to the man he had just interred, and from Jamal his thoughts went to the widow, Tahia, who was lying sick in bed on Virgins of Paradise Street, unaware of the fact that her husband had died. It was Ibrahim's responsibility to break the news to her, which he planned to do as soon as she had recovered. Then, because she was his sister's daughter, it was his duty to take care of her and her children. But that meant five more mouths to feed, and a sixth on the way. Growing children needed new clothes, they ate voraciously, and school costs were skyrocketing. How was he going to afford it all? His cotton revenues, as well as his other investments, had started to dry up during the Nasser years.
As he squinted up at the sky and observed the queer phenomenon of a "blue" sun that sometimes appeared during the khamsin, Ibrahim arrived at a decision: He would wait a respectable amount of time, but not too long, before next Ramadan, and find a husband for Tahia.
A group of reporters was at Cairo airport awaiting the arrival of Dahiba, Egypt's beloved dancer. No one knew why she had gone to Lebanon, but rumors had raced through the city—a secret operation, an illicit love affair—but only one story was true: that she had found a publisher in Beirut brave enough to publish her controversial poetry, which everyone said was certain to be banned in Egypt.
She sailed past the newsmen, deflecting their questions with a smile and a flirtatious quip, and went straight to where Camelia was standing with Hakim and Zeinab. She first kissed and embraced her husband, and then little Zeinab. Finally Dahiba turned to Camelia. "Now what is this all about? You said on the phone that there was a family emergency."
Camelia explained briefly about the cholera, adding, "Father's nurse is at the house, as well as a nurse from the Ministry
of Health. But Umma won't let anyone else in. Auntie Nazirah and her daughters came all the way from Assyut to help nurse the family, but Umma turned them away. Cousin Hosneya tried, too. Umma wouldn't even let me in. She says she doesn't want anyone else to get the disease."
"It's like my mother to try to do everything herself," Dahiba said, as they hurried to the waiting limousine.
"And she is sick, too," Camelia added. "I saw her briefly at the front door. But she forces herself to get out of bed. You know Umma."
"Only too well do I know my mother. Where is Ibrahim right now?"
"Papa went to Jamal Rasheed's funeral this morning. I told you over the phone about the sudden heart attack—"
"Yes, yes."
"Papa said he was going to visit Auntie Alice afterward. When she collapsed in his office three days ago, he admitted her into a private hospital. But when the rest of the family started getting sick, he just quarantined the house. But nearly everyone is there, Dahiba! The family was getting together for the Shamm el-Nessim. Every bed is occupied!"
Dahiba asked, "Which hospital?" and when Camelia told her, she said to her driver, "Suez Canal Street, please. And hurry."
Alice opened her eyes and thought she was still dreaming, because Ibrahim was there, smiling down at her, stroking her hair. She was very weak, she felt as if she had just taken a long, wearying journey of which she recalled only snatches—a nurse helping her with a bedpan, someone sponging down her body, a soft, rhythmic voice reciting what she recognized as verses from the Koran. She looked at her husband. He was wearing a white surgical gown over his suit, and rubber surgical gloves. Ibrahim appeared to be older all of a sudden; had she been asleep for years?
"What—" she began.
"The danger is past, my dear," he said gently.
"How long have I been here?"
"Three days. But you're getting better now. The course of the disease usually runs six days or less."
She looked at the IV bottle suspended over her bed, the tubing going into her arm. "What do I have? What's wrong with me?"
"You have cholera. But you're going to be all right. I have you on antibiotic therapy."
"Cholera!" she said, trying to sit up but not finding the strength. "What about the others? The family? Mohammed! Is my grandson all right?"
"Our grandson is fine, Alice. Everyone in the house has the disease in varying degrees, some have it worse than others. They all came down with it at different times. Except for Zachariah. He didn't get it at all."
"What caused it?"
"We don't know yet, the Ministry of Health is investigating. They've tested our water and samples of the food from the kitchen. That's the way the contagion is transmitted, by eating or drinking something contaminated with the cholera bacteria. But so far, everything has turned up negative. What is even more mysterious, ours is the only house affected." He took her hand and squeezed it. "Al hamdu lillah. Praise the Lord, we found it in time. When cholera is diagnosed early and treatment is begun immediately, it is not fatal."
"When can I go home?"
"As soon as you are strong enough." He stroked her hair again, wishing he could remove the surgical glove and feel that blond softness. When Alice had collapsed in his office, Ibrahim had been amazed at the sudden fear he had felt, the realization, which had hit him like a shock wave, that he might lose her. So he had placed her in this private, expensive hospital where she received excellent care, instead of in one of the major government hospitals where patients had to bribe the nurses to take care of them. When had he forgotten how much she still meant to him?
Alice held his hand for a long, quiet moment, comforted by his presence. When she realized that Ibrahim had been the only one to visit her, she saw that she was in an isolation ward, with three other empty beds. Visitors would not have been allowed. But there were flowers and cards. "From your friends," Ibrahim said. "Madeline and Mrs. Flornoy were camped out in the lobby. I finally told them to go home. The roses are from what's-her-name, the lady from Michigan. Mother wanted to send you flowers from her own garden, but she was afraid the cholera might travel with them. My God, Alice, you had me worried."
She smiled weakly, as more memories of the past three days returned: Ibrahim at her bedside, giving orders to the nurse, administering injections, positioning the pillows, a worried expression on his face. With Ibrahim being so solicitous, looking so concerned, she could imagine herself falling in love with him again. This was what he had been like, years ago, in Monte Carlo. She had forgotten. And now she fancied her love being reborn out of her illness, like a phoenix from the ashes. But, unlike the mythical bird, her love had nowhere to fly to. Did Ibrahim love her, or was he this kind to all his patients?
"I'm going to let you rest now." His kissed her forehead, murmured, "God watch over you and keep you," and left.
Out in the hall, he was stunned to see Dahiba and Camelia standing there.
He stared at his sister, his mouth open. The whole family knew that Camelia had taken up with the long-ago disgraced Fatima, but Ibrahim had not set eyes on his sister since the day Ali had banished her from the house, thirty-three years ago. He had known it was only a matter of time before he encountered her, but this was unexpected.
Dahiba rolled up her sleeve and said, "Don't just stand there like a donkey, Ibrahim. Give me a vaccination against the cholera."
The khamsin wrapped Cairo in a sandy haze, out of which minarets rose like mystical spires. And from these spires the muezzins sang out the ancient Call to Prayer, unchanged from the time of Mohammed, thirteen centuries ago:
God is great.
God is great.
I proclaim that there is no god but God.
I proclaim that there is no god but God.
I witness that Mohammed is His messenger.
I witness that Mohammed is His messenger.
Come to prayer— Come to prayer—
Come to success— Come to success—
God is great. God is great.
There is no god but Him.
As Ibrahim's nurse, Huda, hurried down the hall with a bedpan, she glimpsed Amira through the open door of her bedroom, going through the prostrations of prayer, even though she looked as if she were about to collapse. The young nurse wasn't impressed. Anyone could put on such a charade, it didn't mean they were pious. Wasn't that what her father and brothers did? If Huda had anything to be thankful for, it was this respite from their interminable demands—six men who wasted their afternoons in a coffee shop while she was on her feet all day in Dr. Ibrahim's office, and then insisting she cook for them as soon as she got home. It made her smile now to think of the old man and his five lazy sons trying to make sense out of pots and pans. With luck, Dr. Ibrahim's family was going to require her services for at least a week, perhaps longer, during which time her father and brothers should develop a keen appreciation for everything she had done for them.
She found Mohammed sitting up in bed, arms crossed, an angry look on his face. The illness hadn't struck the ten-year-old as hard as it had the others, and his recovery was quick; now he was fretful because there hadn't been a celebration marking his birthday. When she saw that he still hadn't eaten his breakfast, Huda tried to coax him to take a little. But he wanted his Grandma Nefissa to feed him.
"Your grandmother is sick," Huda said in exasperation. She was tired and longed for a rest. It was a lot of work, supervising this "hospital" on Virgins of Paradise Street. While a few of the Rasheed women were well enough to nurse the others, they needed guidance: isolation technique had to be monitored so that reinfection did not occur, bedpans had to be emptied with great care and soiled sheets had to be either boiled or burned, to keep the contagion from spreading beyond this house. And she had taught them the danger signs that they must watch for: intense thirst, sunken eyes, rapid pulse, rapid breathing, and fever, all of which were to be reported to her at once. The most crucial care was in the rehydration therapy, which was something only a trained nurse co
uld do, in that it involved alternating intravenous solutions of saline with sodium bicarbonate and intermittent supplements of potassium. It also meant staying on top of each patient's fluid intake and calculating it against urine output, because the greatest threat from cholera was dehydration, which led to acidosis, uremia, renal failure, and, eventually, death. Huda felt very important to be supervising it all, just like the nursing matrons at the hospital where she had trained. But the job had its unpleasant aspects.
Everyone had diarrhea and was vomiting; the bedding had to be changed constantly, and the rooms smelled terrible. But because of the khamsin, Mrs. Amira would not allow the windows to be opened in case desert jinns should bring in further bad luck. If only Dr. Ibrahim would let Huda administer Lomotil or one of Mrs. Amira's antidiarrhea remedies! But he had said that the disease must be allowed to be expelled from the body. To keep it inside would make everyone much sicker. Huda had also asked Dr. Ibrahim to bring in more trained help—the one government nurse was spectacularly lazy. But his mother would not permit others to come in; the stubborn woman was actually turning help away from the door. Which was foolish; as long as one was inoculated, there was no danger from the disease.
Still, Huda was glad she had come. When Ibrahim had asked her to take care of his family, she hadn't been able to refuse. She was in love with him, and it was an opportunity to see how he lived. The young nurse had suspected that her employer lived well, but she hadn't expected a mansion filled with such beautiful things. Dr. Ibrahim's house was like a palace. Now she was certain he would pay her well for this sacrifice, perhaps even give her a handsome gift.
As she tried to get the boy to eat a little of the beans and egg, she looked at the photograph over his bed, the portrait of a very pretty blond woman. Huda knew she was Dr. Ibrahim's daughter, the one who had gone to America. Even though Mohammed was dark, Huda saw the resemblance to his mother in the shape of his face, the dimples high on his cheeks even when he didn't smile. And his eyes were the same shade of blue, an attractive feature when combined with the black hair and dusky skin. At ten, Mohammed showed signs of the handsome man he was someday going to be.
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