An Infidel in Paradise

by S. J. Laidlaw

  I don’t notice we’ve stopped until Ahmed comes around to open my door. He doesn’t normally do that. It’s not like I’m a princess or anything. He looks at me curiously as I slowly climb out of the car.

  We’ve pulled up beside a small mansion. A minute ago, I wouldn’t have referred to this as a small mansion, but I can see a much larger one in the distance, beyond what looks like a stable with a dozen or so horses milling around it. Not too far off in the other direction is a swimming pool. I’d bet my allowance it’s Olympic size.

  As if he’s been watching for us, Mustapha emerges from the mansion and strides toward us. He’s wearing a loose white kurta over jeans, and his smile is blinding. For a second I start to smile back – until he brushes right past me, leaving just a hint of cinnamon, and goes to Angie, taking her hand with a warmth that makes me want to slap her, a momentary betrayal that I immediately regret.

  “Angie, what a nice surprise. Emma didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  I could point out that I didn’t even know I was coming until yesterday, but I figure we’re going to be arguing soon enough. Better to save my energy.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Angie simpers, all giggly and flirty. I don’t blame her. He just has that effect on girls.

  “Not at all. You can be our first audience and give us suggestions. We could use the help.” He leans in and fake-whispers in a voice clearly loud enough for me to hear. “Emma seems to be having trouble with some of her lines.”

  Be nice, I remind myself. If he’s going to spend the whole day antagonizing me, though, it’s not going to go well. I don’t want to get angry, but if I’ve learned anything about myself in the recent past, it’s that I don’t have great self-control. If he pushes my buttons, I’ll go off on him and say mean things and feel elated for the first five seconds and terrible for eternity. It won’t be my fault, or not entirely, but it will still feel like my fault.

  “Emma!”

  He’s standing right in front of me. He’s speaking to me. Why is he so good-looking? It’s totally not fair.

  “Emma, come inside. My mother wants to meet you.”

  I used to be good with parents. My old friends always said their parents would tell them to be more like me, polite and well-behaved. I used to be a lot of things.

  Angie’s wandered off in the direction of the house; so much for sticking together. Mustapha waits for me to start moving before he follows.

  We walk into a large, dimly lit entrance hall. The ceiling sweeps up to the second storey, and I see there’s a massive chandelier that’s probably pretty impressive when it’s turned on.

  He comes up behind me. “Go through there to the right.” He gestures to one of several doors. I can feel his breath on my head.

  Where’s Angie?

  CHAPTER 19

  I walk through the doorway but stop abruptly just inside. The first thing I notice is a stone fireplace that’s so massive you could walk right into it and roast a full-size deer with room to spare. And I’m not just randomly thinking about deer, because the second thing I notice are dozens of glass eyes staring at me from every direction. To say it’s disturbing would be an understatement. I’ve never seen so many dead animals outside a museum. There are two tigers posed on either side of a sofa, which I figure is two more than anyone needs in their living room; at least six gazelle-like things; plus several mouse deer posed au naturel, nosing under the ottoman for grass. And is that a lion? I didn’t think they even had lions in Asia, but there it is, lounging right on the hearth, with a full mane of hair and its head thrown back, yawning and enjoying a cozy afternoon by the fire.

  “My grandfather was a bit of a hunter,” says Mustapha.

  “You think?” I say, unable to take my eyes off the carnage. “Do you hunt?” I’m not sure I want to hear his answer.

  “Not often. There’s not a lot left to kill.”

  I whip around to see if he’s joking and think I catch the faintest twinkle in his eyes.

  “How disappointing for you,” I say dryly. I look around the room again and realize the one thing missing is Angie.

  “We go through there,” says Mustapha, pointing to a door on the far wall, and I hustle through the gauntlet of dead animals, hoping Angie is on the other side.

  Instead, I find myself in another cavernous room, with glass-enclosed bookcases that reach up to the ceiling against every wall. There are a couple of large armchairs in the corners, but a huge leather-topped table that looks like it came from a palace dominates the room. In spite of its size, there’s something about this room that’s strangely soothing, though it may be just the lack of dead bodies. I want to check out the books, but Mustapha nudges me onward.

  “Almost there,” he says. As I skirt past the table, I run my hand along the backs of some of the twenty-or-so ornately carved chairs that are pushed up against it.

  Finally, we’re in a room that you might find in an ordinary house. An ordinary house owned by very, very rich people but not so big you could roll up the carpets and play softball, so I feel a little less like I’ve stumbled into an alternate reality peopled by giants with bloodlust.

  The room is some kind of sitting room, though the two embroidered sofalike things and half a dozen matching chairs don’t look at all comfortable to sit on. Which is perfect, really, because the inlaid ebony coffee table and matching side tables are way too fancy to actually put coffee on. I figure this is one of those rooms loved by socialites and interior designers the world over, reserved exclusively for photo ops and visiting dignitaries.

  A man in a crisp white shalwar kameez, obviously a servant, is standing against one wall, but after nodding politely, he disappears. Otherwise, the room is empty. Still no Angie.

  “Sit down,” says Mustapha, but he doesn’t sit as he eyes the doorway the servant disappeared through and fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt. I continue to stand, taking note of the exits.

  “Where are the others?” I ask.

  “My mother wants to meet you.”

  I’m reminded that he said that earlier. I should have been paying closer attention.

  I don’t have time to respond because, at that moment, an extraordinarily beautiful woman sweeps into the room followed by the servant I saw earlier. I glance quickly at Mustapha, who manages to look both relieved and anxious at the same time.

  “Emma, it’s so lovely to meet you. I’m Mrs. Khan.” She comes straight to me and takes both my hands in her own. “Musa hasn’t stopped talking about you all week.” She has the same clear green eyes as her son and a smile that makes you want to smile back, though right now, that’s the last thing I feel like doing.

  I shoot a look at Mustapha, who’s turned an alarming shade of burgundy.

  “Come sit down,” says his mother, pulling me onto a sofa beside her. “You’ll join me for tea, won’t you?”

  I don’t answer since it’s clearly not a question. The servant also seems to know the drill because he slips out of the room without instruction.

  “Stop hovering, Mustapha,” scolds his mother. “Don’t you have other guests to attend to?”

  A look of sheer panic flits across his face as he debates how to answer.

  “Go on,” says his mother firmly. “Emma and I want to enjoy our tea in peace. I’ll send her to you when we’re done.”

  “But we need to practice our play,” objects Mustapha without conviction. We all know he’s lost this battle.

  “Emma will be along shortly,” says his mother, making a shooing gesture with slim manicured fingers.

  Mustapha gives me a final look before he leaves.

  The tea arrives almost immediately, making me wonder if the servant was standing outside the door with it the whole time. A tray displays a variety of cakes and pastries, and I politely take one as instructed, even though there’s no way it’s going anywhere near my stomach, which is currently roiling uncomfortably. What has Mustapha been saying about me to his mother?

  “So, E
mma,” Mrs. Khan begins and then hesitates like she’s just realized she has nothing whatsoever to say to me. And there’s this awkward silence while I madly try to think of something I can talk about, even though this is clearly so not my responsibility. The servant pours tea into a dainty cup and saucer and hands it to me. I carefully place the pastry next to the cup.

  “You have a very beautiful home,” I blurt finally, surprising us both with my good manners.

  “Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” says Mrs. Khan. She does look genuinely pleased and more than a little relieved, which makes me worry again what Mustapha’s told her.

  We both stir sugar and milk into our tea, and the sound of silver on fine porcelain echoes through the room. I’m sure she’s running down a list of my alleged crimes in her head, and I try to think of something else I can say that will make her smile and think well of me.

  “I like your …,” I begin. But then it occurs to me I haven’t figured out how I’m going to finish this sentence. I raise my cup and shift uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa-thing. The tea is scalding. The excessive amount of milk I added has only served to make the cup dangerously full, but I can’t return it to the saucer because the pastry has slid into the middle of the plate. Perhaps I could nudge it aside with my brimming cup. I gaze longingly at the coffee table, which, like every surface in the room, has million-dollar artwork inlaid into it. I try not to think about the blisters rising on my fingers.

  Mrs. Khan waits politely for me to finish, an expectant look on her face. I have to say something.

  “Dead animals,” I finish, realizing immediately it was not the thing to say. Truthfully, the death room has not really left my head since I saw it, and I’ve been doing amazingly well up till now not mentioning it.

  Mrs. Khan gives me a startled look.

  “I mean,” I continue hastily, “they’re so …” An image of a stuffed mouse deer, its adorable striped face and hopeful white chest emerging from behind an armchair, suddenly floods my consciousness. “Lifelike,” I say, which is totally stupid because they’re not statues. They actually were alive.

  Mrs. Khan looks at me quizzically, so I feel obliged to try again, though I’m pretty sure I’m on an adrenaline rush now because any idiot would know it’s time to shut up. “You know, they look very alive for formerly living things that … aren’t,” I explain, sweat popping out on my forehead.

  Mrs. Khan breaks into a wide smile and suddenly looks exactly like her son. “They really are hideous, aren’t they? After my father-in-law passed away, I tried to convince my husband to get rid of them, but, of course, that was all the more reason not to part with them. He’s never picked up a gun himself, but they remind him of his father.”

  “Does Mustapha hunt?” I ask, fairly certain I know the answer.

  “Mustapha?” She looks surprised. “Mustapha won’t even let us kill insects. He’s forever carrying spiders out to the garden.” She stops for a moment and says something in Urdu to the servant, who’s been silently watching us from his position beside the door. He opens one of the side table drawers and rushes forward with a coaster. I hastily put down my cup, sloshing half of it onto the table, which provokes frantic mopping by the servant. Mrs. Khan pretends there’s nothing amiss, and I pretend I didn’t wish I was dead.

  “I can’t imagine why Mustapha even took you into that room,” continues his mother. “It would have been much more direct just to come down the hallway.”

  “Really,” I say. “That certainly is a mystery.”

  His mother gives me a sharp look and then cracks another Mustapha smile.

  “Did you know he’s engaged to Aisha?” she asks.

  The abrupt change of topic catches me off guard, and I pick up a linen tea napkin and begin pressing it into tight folds to hide my confusion. Zenny taught me napkin folding. I used to do it for all my mom’s dinners and receptions. I begin fashioning a cat’s paw. It took me weeks to learn this one, but Zenny insisted on naming every failed attempt, claiming they were more attractive than the original. Later, I started making my own designs. She enthused over every one.

  “Mustapha’s and Aisha’s fathers were childhood friends,” she says. I begin working on a napkin bull, complete with horns.

  “It seemed like fate when we had Musa and they had Aisha so soon after. We agreed on the betrothal shortly after Aisha’s birth. Of course, we wouldn’t force them to marry if it wasn’t their choice, but they’re well suited, don’t you think?”

  She waits for me to answer, but adding feet is difficult with such a small napkin. I have to concentrate.

  Finally, she gives up. “Musa’s father and I were a love match. It was quite the scandal at the time, but we still asked permission from our families. We wouldn’t have married without permission.”

  I use the edge of the teaspoon to work down small folds for the feet.

  “You see, the important thing for us is the support of our families. I think that’s why marriage in our culture is usually successful and marriage in Western cultures usually isn’t. Without family support, there’s no one to help when a couple runs into problems and no one to hold them accountable either. It’s too easy to just give up.”

  My bull is finished, but it’s missing eyes. I rest it on my knee, wondering what it would be like to go through life as a blind bull. I really want to give it eyes.

  I look up to see Mrs. Khan watching me. She gives me such a kind smile that I have to look away.

  “There’s a woman who sits at the gates of our compound, begging,” I say, still staring at my bull, who cannot stare back. “Her face looks like it’s melted. In fact, it has melted. My mom said the woman’s in-laws poured acid on her because they weren’t happy with her dowry. They scarred her for life and threw her out of the house because they didn’t get enough money for her.” I look up then, and our eyes meet.

  “That does happen,” says Mustapha’s mother. “But good families don’t behave that way. You know, we have a lot of poor, uneducated people here.”

  I look around the beautiful room, at the opulent furnishings, the servant in the corner, and I drop my eyes to my blind bull.

  “My parents are separated,” I say, curling its horns like the ones on the bulls I see by the roadside every day on the way to school.

  “Musa told me,” she says quietly.

  I stand up. “Thank you for the tea.” I place my blind bull on the table in front of her.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says.

  “Not quite,” I demur, but I don’t tell her what’s missing. She asks the servant to take me to Mustapha and thanks me for a pleasant chat.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Where were you?” Angie hurls herself at me as the servant shows me into the room. I stumble slightly but lean into her embrace for just a second. Mustapha raises an amused eyebrow, but I really don’t care.

  “Well, finally we can get down to work,” he says, as if it’s my fault we’ve been delayed.

  We’re in some kind of entertainment room. Ali and Faarooq are sprawled on the floor, playing a video game on one of the largest flat screens I’ve ever seen. Beyond them is a pool table, air-hockey, Ping-Pong, and various smaller tables, presumably for board games.

  Ali briefly turns away from the game to wave at me but then cries out in frustration as Faarooq seizes the opportunity to deal a deathblow to his character. He doesn’t have long to mourn, however, because his character reappears immediately, one life gone, but ready to start another. If only it were that simple.

  “Faarooq,” Mustapha commands, “we need to practice now.”

  I expect an argument, but Faarooq pushes “pause” and sets down the controller. Ali stands and stretches, his polo shirt hiking up over his round belly. He pulls it back down and flops on a large overstuffed sofa. Angie takes my hand like she’s afraid I’ll disappear again and drags me over to an armchair facing the sofa. We squeeze into it together, which is surprisingly comfortable thanks to Angie’s el
fin proportions.

  “Has everyone learned their lines?” Mustapha asks, but I’m the only one he’s looking at.

  “It’s a stupid script,” I say. Angie makes a small disapproving noise, but I ignore her. “It wasn’t fair of you to write a script when I was absent.”

  “Well,” says Mustapha, a teasing grin on his face as he walks over to the sofa and flops down next to Ali, “you weren’t technically absent. You were skipping class.”

  “That’s beside the point,” I snap.

  “No, that is the point when it affects our grade.” Faarooq sits up, folding his long legs in front of him like a spider.

  “Maybe we should write a new script,” says Ali, glancing at Angie for approval.

  Mustapha looks from Ali to Angie and back again before he gives me a small wink. I’m pretty sure my heart stops for several seconds.

  “We’re not starting all over,” says Faarooq, glaring at me.

  I drag my eyes away from Mustapha to glare back at him.

  “What’s the script about?” asks Angie.

  “A racist American girl,” Faarooq says with a smirk.

  “How many times do I have to tell you I am not American?” I don’t bother correcting the racist dig.

  “Well, it’s not about you, is it?” says Faarooq.