Virgins of Paradise

by Wood, Barbara

  She had not gone to Mecca when she had planned, seven years ago, because of Alice's death. And then the family had searched for Zachariah, and Amira had waited for news. Next, an epidemic of summer fever had swept through Cairo's children; and the following year had been pronounced by Qettah the astrologer as unfavorable for travel. But now the signs were good; Qettah had determined that this was an auspicious year for Amira.

  As soon as the family was taken care of she was going to make the pilgrimage to Holy Mecca. And on the way back, follow the path the Israelites had taken. Perhaps she would find the square minaret and her mother's grave ...

  Down in the driveway, Ibrahim was getting wearily out of his car, telling himself that a man of sixty-three should not feel so ancient. Perhaps it was a sense of failure that made a man prematurely old. Because a man with no son was surely a failure. Guilt also drained a man, he decided. Since Alice's suicide, his conscience had not known a single moment's peace. He should have gone after her, especially considering her family's history—her mother and brother, both suicides. He might have saved her. And he had made a mistake with Huda, he realized now. Four little girls was what she had given him, making his sense of failure all the more acute.

  He rested his head on the steering wheel.

  The anniversary of Alice's death was in four days, and her image was haunting him—her pale face, the closed purple eyelids, the blond hair tangled with Nile mud. Some tourists in a felucca had pulled her out of the river. Because Ibrahim had gone alone to the morgue to identify her, he had been able to keep the true cause of her death a secret; only Amira knew the truth, the rest of the family believed Alice had been killed in a car accident.

  Oh, Alice, my dearest, dearest Alice. It was my fault; I drove you away.

  And Yasmina, the fruit of his union with Alice. She, too, he had failed. He had let her down when she thought she had had to succumb to Hassan's evil rather than go to her father for help. He had promised himself he would write to her in California, asking her to come home. But the right words never came. Forgive me, Yasmina, wherever you are.

  But the person Ibrahim felt he had failed the most was his father. Looking down from heaven, Ali Rasheed would see only one grandson, Omar, the son of his daughter Nefissa. And great-grandsons, through Omar and Tahia. But there were no grandsons through his son; Ibrahim had failed.

  Other problems weighed on him, too. The Rasheed fortune was no longer what it had been. Egypt's cotton, once called "white gold," had shrunk so far on the world market, due to bad government management and planning, that experts were predicting the eventual demise of the Egyptian cotton industry altogether. The fortune Ali Rasheed had amassed in cotton had shrunk, so that Ibrahim was left with a dwindling income and growing family responsibilities.

  As he entered the large double doors, hand-carved and imported from India over a hundred years ago, Ibrahim looked at the foyer, with its marble floor and massive brass chandelier, as if for the first time. He had never before realized how large this house truly was. And as he contemplated the grand staircase, which split at the landing and continued up in two separate stairways, one to the men's side of the house, the other to the women's, an idea began to come to him.

  "There you are, son of my heart," Amira said, coming into the foyer to greet him.

  He marveled at his mother. A woman of her age, still beautiful, still managing this vast family as she always had. She smiled with carefully painted lips, and her hair, now white, was combed back into a French roll held with diamond clips. He felt the vigor of youth in the hands that clasped his. "Mother, I come to ask a favor."

  She laughed. "There are no favors between mothers and sons! I shall do anything you ask, from my heart."

  "I want you to find me a wife. I must have a son."

  Amira's smile turned to a look of concern. "Have you forgotten the misfortune you brought upon our heads when you tried to make Zachariah your son?"

  "A wife will give me a legitimate son," he said quietly, refusing to speak of the boy who had disappeared from their house seven years ago. Others in the family had searched for Zachariah, but they had never found him. "You have ways of knowing, Mother, you have powers. Find me a woman who will give me sons."

  "God rewards the patient. Huda is pregnant. Let us wait and see before we do anything rash."

  He took her hands in his and said, "Mother, in all respect and honor to you, I don't wish to follow your advice this time. Forgive me, but your judgment is not always the best."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have been thinking about Camelia. Have you ever thought what her life would be like now if you hadn't taken her to that quack on 26th of July Street?"

  "Yes, and I see now that had it not been for that unwise step, Camelia might today be happily married, the mother of many children. I am truly sorry for that."

  "A woman needs a husband, Mother. And a girl should not be raised in nightclubs and movie studios. Zeinab needs a proper life. She needs a father. Camelia and Zeinab are my responsibility. I want you to help me look for a husband for Camelia."

  "It is almost time for prayer," Amira said quietly. "Will you lead the family, my son? I wish to pray alone."

  She went up on the roof, which was bathed in the glow of the last moments before sunset. As she gazed out over the orange-washed domes and minarets, she imagined that the blaze stretching across the Nile was not the rays of the setting sun, but a woman's gentle hennaed hand, closing the day.

  When the Call to Prayer began, she unfolded her prayer rug and began the recitations.

  Allahu akbar. God is great.

  But her heart was not upon God.

  As she knelt and touched her forehead to the rug, she thought of what Ibrahim had said about Camelia. He was right. Amira had failed in her duty to make certain of her granddaughter's happiness and future.

  Ash hadu, la illaha illa Allah. I proclaim, there is no god but God.

  She considered Ibrahim's continued urgency to produce a son, and felt vaguely displeased. All this talk about the line of Ali Rasheed, but there was another line, that of Amira Rasheed. Amira had produced a daughter, granddaughters, and great-granddaughters—but all these beautiful girls and women were not enough. A boy counted for more.

  Ash hadu, Annah Mohammed rasulu Allah. I proclaim, Mohammed is the messenger of God.

  Amira wondered for the first time in her life why family lines ran through the male, when only motherhood was certain. She pondered the deceptions over the years—the daughter of Ali Rasheed's third wife, having lain with a man and then been quickly married off to someone else who later thought the baby was his; Safeya Rageb, presenting to her husband a baby she declared was hers by him, but who was in fact her daughter's; Yasmina carrying a child that everyone thought was Omar's until Nefissa exposed the secret. How many more such lies and deceptions, Amira wondered, back through the centuries, through the millennia all the way to Mother Eve, simply because family lines did not pass through women? Did it make sense, when maternity was certain and paternity at best only a guess?

  Hee Allah ahs Allah.

  If the family line descended through women, then Yasmina's baby would have been received with celebration, no matter who the father, and Zeinab would now be with her true mother, the family would not be fractured.

  Amazed by her thoughts, Amira forced her mind upon God and went through the prayer again, even though the muezzins had finished.

  La illaha illa Allah.

  But once again prayer eluded her as she thought: A wife for Ibrahim, a husband for Camelia ...

  They were in Camelia's apartment because Dahiba had refused to put her husband in a hospital, even one of the private ones. After the police quelled the riot and a doctor examined Hakim in Camelia's trailer, the two women had brought Hakim to the penthouse in the quiet and exclusive district of Zamalek, where they hoped he would be safe from the fanatics. Because Camelia was wealthy, her apartment was eighteen stories above Cairo, with panoram
ic views of the city, the Nile, and the Pyramids in the distance—a haven of twelve rooms, servants, and expensive furnishings for Zeinab and herself. And she now helped Hakim settle into a chair that faced a picture window looking out onto bright city lights and winking stars. "You gave me such a scare, dearest uncle. I thought they were going to hang you!" she said, wiping tears from her eyes.

  He patted her hand, unable to speak. An angry rope burn circled his neck.

  "Oh, Uncle, why would they want to hurt a sweet man like you? The Christians are a bloodthirsty people! They worship a man who is nailed to a cross! They must enjoy seeing people suffer! I hate them for what they did to you!"

  A servant brought a tray of tea and biscuits, and, knowing that Hakim, like most Cairenes, had a passion for Dallas, Camelia turned on the television set. The screen came to life to the usual public-service announcements. Dallas, the most popular TV show in Egypt, made Cairo a deserted city on Thursday nights, and the government took advantage of the minutes before the show to air their important messages. Tonight's was part of a vigorous family-planning campaign that urged women to go to a government clinic for free birth-control devices, assuring them, with quotes from the Koran, that a smaller family was a happier one.

  Dahiba sat down and went through the evening editions of all the newspapers she had been able to find, to see if the incident in front of the museum had been reported. "Here it is," she said. "The riot was started by Coptic Christian students. No one knows what set them off."

  "Uncle has never hurt the Copts!" Camelia said.

  "My God," Dahiba said suddenly.

  "What is it?"

  "This is one of those small, intellectual papers," she said as she handed it to Camelia, pointing to the article on the first page. "Look what they have printed!"

  Camelia read: "Men dominate us because they fear us. They hate us because they desire us." She looked at Dahiba. "This is from my essay!" she said. "They've copied my essay from your book!"

  Camelia continued to read the words she had written ten years ago: "Our sexuality threatens their masculinity and so they leave only three avenues open to us in which we may find respectability: as a girl-virgin, as a wife, as an elderly crone past childbearing. Nothing else is open to us. If an unmarried woman takes lovers she is branded a whore. If she rejects male lovers they call her a lesbian, because she threatens men's manhood. It is in the nature of a man to oppress that which threatens or frightens him."

  Hakim groaned and said with a hoarse voice, "Why did God bless me with such intelligent women?"

  "That is your essay, word for word," Dahiba said. "Do they mention your name?"

  "No," Camelia said, and when she read the name in the byline, she thought it sounded familiar. "Yacob Mansour," she said.

  "Ah, Mansour," Hakim whispered, his hand at his throat. "I know about him. He was arrested some time back for printing a story that was sympathetic to Israel."

  "A Jew," Dahiba said. "Not a popular thing to be in Egypt these days."

  "The Jews," Hakim sighed. "They are about the only group who aren't out for my blood!"

  Camelia frowned, trying to recall where she had seen Mansour's name. And then it came to her. She left the room and returned with one of her scrapbooks, opening it to the first page, on which a yellowed news article had been pasted. It was a review dated November 1966, and the words "gazelle" and "butterfly" leapt off the page. The review was signed Yacob Mansour.

  "It is the same man!" Camelia said. "Why has he printed my essay?"

  "It took courage to do so," Dahiba said.

  Camelia looked at her watch. "Where is this newspaper office located?"

  Hakim sipped some tea and managed to croak out, "It's down a small alley off El Bustan Street, near the Chamber of Commerce."

  Dahiba said, "You aren't going now, are you?"

  "I'll take Radwan with me. I'll be all right, inshallah."

  The office of the small newspaper was modest, consisting of two tiny, cluttered rooms where there was barely space to squeeze between desks. It looked out on an alley across from a rug maker's shop, and the front window, which had been smashed, was covered with cardboard.

  Asking Radwan to wait inside the door, Camelia stepped through and saw two men hunched over typewriters, and a young woman standing at a filing cabinet. All three turned and stared at her.

  "Al hamdu lillah!" declared the girl. She rushed forward and brushed off a chair, offering it to Camelia, and saying, "God's peace and happiness upon you, Sayyida! We are honored!" Then she shouted over her shoulder toward a curtained doorway, "Ya, Aziz! Run to Mr. Shafik's. Bring tea at once!"

  Camelia replied, "And to you peace and the compassion of God and his blessings. I have come to see Mr. Mansour. Is he here?"

  A man stood up from one of the desks and bowed. He was in his forties, slightly overweight, balding, with wire-rimmed spectacles and a shirt that cried out to be ironed. Camelia was reminded of Suleiman Misrahi and she realized how few Jews were left in Cairo.

  "You pay our office a great honor, Miss Rasheed," he said with a smile.

  Used to being recognized by strangers, Camelia said, "The honor is mine, Mr. Mansour."

  "Did you know that I wrote a review of one of your performances fourteen years ago? I was thirty at the time and thought you were the most exquisite dancer that had ever graced the earth." He glanced toward Radwan in the doorway and added more quietly, "I still think you are."

  Camelia also glanced at Radwan, hoping he had not overheard Mansour's words of bold familiarity. Lesser breaches of etiquette had brought the Syrian bodyguard to the immediate defense of his employer's honor.

  The boy who had dashed out of the office a moment earlier materialized with a tray and two glasses of mint tea. Despite her anxiousness to learn why Mansour had printed her essay, Camelia went through the formalities of discussing the weather, soccer scores, the miracles that the new High Dam at Aswan had brought to Egypt. Finally she reached into her purse and brought out the paper, Mansour's article circled, and said, "Where did this essay come from?"

  "I copied it from your aunt's book," he said, and when he saw her look of surprise, added, "I know you wrote these words. I thought your message was important, so I printed it. Perhaps this way we will open a few minds."

  "But the book this was taken from is banned in Egypt! Did you know this?"

  Mansour reached into his desk and brought out a copy of The Sentence of Woman.

  Camelia drew in a breath. "You can get arrested for possessing this book!"

  He smiled, and she noticed that when he did, his glasses got pushed up. "President Sadat professes to believe in democracy, allowing free speech. Every now and then, it is good to put him to the test."

  Camelia thought that, considering how volatile his writing was, how forward he was with a woman he didn't know, Mansour was ironically soft-spoken. She had expected a man who shouted. "But doesn't this put you in jeopardy," she said, "printing my essay?"

  "I once heard Indira Gandhi speak. She said that while it is true that sometimes a woman goes too far, it is only when she goes too far that others listen."

  "You didn't mention my name in here."

  "I didn't want to cause you trouble. The extremists"—he indicated the broken window—"especially the younger members of the Muslim Brotherhood, those fanatics in the white galabeyas, would not appreciate knowing this essay had been written by a woman. But since I am not Muslim, they would deal less harshly with me than they would with one of their own faith. This way, your words will be read and you will remain safe."

  He looked at Camelia with smiling brown eyes and she found herself wondering something about him that she had not wondered about a man since she was seventeen and had had a crush on a government censor.

  She wondered: Is he married?

  THIRTY-THREE

  J

  ASMINE STEPPED DOWN FROM THE BUS AND PAUSED ON THE SIDE walk before heading for her apartment building. Her heart was poun
ding. How on earth was she going to tell Greg the news? If it had hit her like a thunderbolt, then it was going to knock him completely off his feet. She was not looking forward to it.

  As she let herself into the apartment she had shared with Greg for the past seven and a half years, feeling the first drops of November rain begin to fall, she saw that Greg had company in the living room, as usual. Jasmine was glad that tonight they were all men. Sometimes, wives or girlfriends came, and then Jasmine felt the compulsion to entice the women into the kitchen and leave the men in the living room, a habit from the old days. Sometimes the women would join her for coffee at the kitchen table, but mostly they wanted to stay with the men, and so Jasmine would comply, feeling uncomfortable among the mixed company.

  She had once confessed this discomfort to Rachel Misrahi, who was now in medical practice in the Valley, and Rachel had replied, "You're an educated woman, Jas. A doctor, for God's sake. You have to get with the times and accept the fact that men and women are equal. Stop the role playing."

  Tonight she was glad to see they were only Greg's male cronies from the anthropology department, a coterie of almost-Ph.D.s, who smiled and said "Hi" to Jasmine as she walked through, depositing her medical bag by the phone and heading for the kitchen where she shed her white lab coat and plugged in the coffee pot.

  When she saw the dozen red and white carnations in a plain florist's vase, she smiled sadly. Dear Greg, every year at this time, without fail, he gave her carnations in remembrance of her mother's death. And each time, Jasmine would both wish he hadn't done it and be pleased that he had.

  Dear Greg, for whom the spark of love had failed to ignite within her.