An Infidel in Paradise

by S. J. Laidlaw

  “What does that have to do with anything? We’re nowhere near Africa.”

  “They think Islamabad will be the next target.”

  We’re silent for several minutes. I think Angie is giving me time to process, but the truth is, I can’t. I don’t know if I should be feeling sad that they just suffered massive bombings on another continent. Did people die? How bad was it? Maybe I should be worried that they think Islamabad is a target. Their embassy is a stone’s throw from my bedroom. It doesn’t take a genius to work out those implications. But all I can think about is that’s she’s leaving. I made the stupid mistake of letting myself care about someone again. After everything I’ve been through, you’d think I’d have figured it out by now. You can’t count on anyone to stick around. All relationships are transient. Only fools let themselves get attached.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, and I’m glad it’s too dark to see her clearly because I know she’s crying.

  “It’s okay,” I say, even though it isn’t. But it’s not her fault. I sink down to the ground, and when she collapses next to me, I put my arm around her.

  “It’s not the end of our friendship,” she sputters through heaving sobs. “If things calm down, they might send us back. We can stay in touch. E-mail and chat online.”

  I pat her back and watch the flickering lights in the valley below.

  I don’t tell her I’ve given up on long-distance friendships. In fact, after tonight, I may have given up on friendship completely. I don’t want this to be any harder for her than it already is, but I can’t lie to her either. I know her dad didn’t bail on her, but she’s a rotational kid, like me. She’s been through the grief of losing friends, the agony of starting over. Sooner or later, like me, she’s going to realize that relationships always end.

  “Nothing lasts forever,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

  I stop listening as she spends several minutes telling me how often we’ll write, what days we’ll Skype, how we’re going to manage the time difference. Finally, she peters out and looks at me. I haven’t shed a tear. She probably thinks I’m in shock, that I can’t make sense of this abrupt severing of our bond. But it’s the opposite. Deep in my heart, I knew this would happen. It always does, and now that it has, I just want it over quickly. I stand up and start walking.

  “Don’t be angry, Emma,” she calls after me. “Please, don’t be angry.”

  “I’m not angry,” I call back, but I don’t slow my pace. I hear her footfalls behind me as she runs to catch up.

  She makes a few more attempts to get me talking, but I don’t respond. Eventually she gives up, and we walk in silence. Pink streaks of light appear on the horizon as the sun begins to rise. We stay on the path this time and pass near the village, skirting a cluster of simple mud houses. Women are already outside starting the cooking fires. A few pause to watch us pass. Children carrying empty buckets and jerricans join the path and descend with us. The braver ones say salaam, and we answer politely.

  It must be almost time for school when we get to the crossroads at the edge of both our compounds, and I wonder if anyone has noticed I’m missing. I look at Angie. It’s the first time I see her face clearly since this long night began. Her eyes are puffy and still brimming with tears, while my own are as dry as the landscape that surrounds us.

  “I’ll e-mail you,” she says.

  I nod because I know she will. I don’t promise to write her back. I want to thank her for being my friend, but the words stick in my throat, too trivial to express what I feel. She steps forward and hugs me, and I hug her back, fiercely, like I can stop this day from snatching her away. Yet in the end, I pull away first, turn without another word, and run all the way home.

  CHAPTER 24

  The school is like a refugee camp after a cataclysmic event. Those of us left search for the faces of friends in every cluster of students. More than half the school population, including teachers, is gone. The superintendent is the rare exception, and he waits in the parking lot, greeting kids as they arrive, trying to fool us into thinking it’s business as usual.

  I’ve lost the person I least wanted to lose, and I’m grateful to Angie for letting me make that discovery in private. There are many kids in tears as they get the news on arrival. I wonder about Jazzy and look for her when I walk into the upper-school quad.

  “What are you doing here?”

  I’m startled out of my personal misery by an unfriendly voice.

  Aisha is standing with her princessy friends, eyeing me like I’m a lower life-form. Of course, all of them are present and accounted for.

  “Shouldn’t you be on a plane by now?” asks Aisha, walking forward to confront me.

  I hate her with a white-hot fury, and I relish the reprieve from sadness as I round on her, fists balled at my sides.

  “I refused to leave, Aisha,” I sneer. “I just knew you’d be devastated without me.”

  “Believe me, darling, I would have managed somehow.”

  “Maybe,” I say as if I’m giving it some thought. “But your boyfriend wouldn’t.”

  For a minute, I think she’s going to slap me, and I wish she would because I’d be more than ready to hit her back. In the same instant, we both notice Mustapha striding across the courtyard toward us. Aisha takes a step back and turns to him, her face wreathed in a smile.

  “Mustapha, look who hasn’t been deported yet,” she says in a cheery voice, like we’ve just been exchanging fashion tips.

  “Aisha,” says Mustapha, smiling indulgently. “No one was deported. They were evacuated.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” she exclaims and turns her cold eyes back to me. “They left when they realized they weren’t wanted. So, where’s your little friend? Angie, wasn’t it?”

  I don’t know if it’s hearing her name spoken aloud by this hateful girl or the overwhelming realization that Angie really is gone and that this girl and her friends are whom I’m left with, but I have to get away. Fast.

  I do my best not to run as I rush to the nearest girls’ washroom. I’m relieved to find it empty and go into a stall and lock the door. Leaning my head on it, I take deep gulping breaths, fighting the nausea that competes with tears busting to get out. The outside door opens. Damn.

  “Emma, are you in there?”

  Mustapha?

  “Emma, come out. I want to see you.”

  This is a girls’ bathroom. He can’t come in here.

  I jump as he raps on the stall door.

  “Just come out so I can see you’re okay. Then if you want me to leave, I will.” His voice is soft and cajoling. Is there a female on the planet who could resist that voice?

  I come out.

  He gives me a searching look, and I don’t even realize I’m crying until I feel the hot wetness on my cheeks. He steps forward and pulls me into his arms, and it’s exactly where I want to be. I rest my face on his chest and wrap my own arms around him. It’s comforting and safe, and then it changes. I don’t know how it changes, though I know enough about biology that I could probably work it out, but suddenly we’re kissing. Not sweet, friendly kisses either. His tongue is in my mouth and mine is in his, and it’s like we’re trying to devour each other. It’s so hot. And for once, I’m not talking about the weather.

  He pulls away first, but he holds my head in his hands and looks deeply into my eyes. I can just feel that this is the moment where he’ll declare his undying love, and I’m ready to do the same.

  “I can’t do this,” he murmurs.

  That wasn’t quite the declaration I was expecting. But before I have time to respond, we’re kissing again. I’m a little confused now, but it’s no less passionate. The bell goes for first class, and with a groan he pulls away again, giving me such an intensely longing look that my entire body trembles. I’m pretty sure there are birds singing just for us and a crescendo of music in the background.

  “Emma.”

  “Yes,” I say, and I’m not sure what I�
�m saying yes to, but at this moment, I can’t think of anything I would deny this beautiful boy.

  “This can never happen again,” he says, and giving me a last longing look, he turns and walks out.

  I slump to the ground, and it goes through my mind that I’m sitting on the floor of a public bathroom, which is totally gross, but I can’t get up. My heart gradually slows to something approaching normal, but my mind is racing, replaying the last few moments. The heat that suffused my body at Mustapha’s touch has left me quivering, but I force myself to my feet, using the stall door for support. I take a long shaky breath and avoid the mirrors as I walk out. I think one look at my puffy, tear-stained face would finish me.

  The classrooms are completely empty when I arrive in the upper-school courtyard. I imagine there’s a reasonable explanation, but I allow myself a few minutes to fantasize that everyone, particularly Mustapha and the ice princess, has been abducted by aliens and are right at this minute undergoing invasive medical procedures that will leave them emotionally scarred for life. But unfortunately, I remember that my siblings and the few people I do like would also have been abducted, which is a total buzz kill.

  When I walk into the middle-school quad and find those classrooms also empty, I figure there must be an assembly. I could go along to the theater. Or not.

  CHAPTER 25

  Mr. Akbar is standing outside the greenhouse as if he’s been waiting for me.

  He holds the door open as we walk into the building, and I fall in step behind him as we weave through the maze of greenery to our spot at the back.

  “I just put on the water,” he says. “You have arrived at the right time.” He settles contentedly into his chair while I crouch over the brazier and begin adding spices to the water. I settle on the ground next to it and breathe in the comforting smell of cinnamon and cloves.

  “My friend left,” I say.

  “It’s hard to say good-bye.”

  “I’m used to it. I do it a lot.” I hear the hardness in my own voice.

  I take the tea from the shelf and shake some into the kettle, replacing the lid.

  “I was stupid to make friends with her in the first place. I didn’t even want to be her friend.”

  “One who is burned by milk blows even when given buttermilk,” says Mr. Akbar gently.

  I think about this for a minute. I wonder how old Mr. Akbar is. He looks way too old to be working. Maybe they don’t have retirement age here.

  “Do you have children?” I ask.

  “Nine living, three have passed on.”

  He doesn’t sound sad. How can he just accept losing a child? On the other hand, Dad ditched me without a backward glance.

  “Do you miss them?”

  “My children?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Raawiya, my youngest, was fourteen when she died. She was like you. Always asking questions.” He smiles as if the memory pleases him.

  “How did she die?”

  “The question, I think, is how did she live? And she lived well. She loved and was loved.”

  I add the milk and watch it bubble before I take the cups off the shelf and pour tea, first for Mr. Akbar and then myself. I take the chair opposite him, and we sip in companionable silence. How different this is from having tea with Mustapha’s mother. I’d like to talk about Mustapha, but I don’t know what I could say. I don’t want Mr. Akbar to stroke out from the shock that I kissed an engaged Muslim boy in the girls’ bathroom. I don’t want him to think less of me.

  “Do you ever wish Raawiya hadn’t been born?” I regret the question immediately. I think he might mistake my meaning, but he looks sympathetic rather than angry.

  “You mean because I lost her?”

  “Yes.” I blow on the tea and don’t look at him as I wait for his answer. It’s slow in coming, and I hope he’s not reliving the pain of losing her. I sneak a furtive glance, but he just seems lost in thought.

  “If we never move forward, we can never enjoy Allah’s blessings. The world is sorrow but also happiness.”

  “I’m not sure I can get through this year without her,” I blurt. I think this confession surprises me more than Mr. Akbar, though I don’t know if I’m more shocked by my own total lameness or the fact that I’ve admitted it.

  There’s another long silence as we sip tea, and I look at the flowers around us. The plant nearest Mr. Akbar’s bench wasn’t blooming last week. Now there are so many tiny blue flowers it’s difficult to see the green of the stem and leaves. I wonder that so much can change in a single week.

  “It is when we feel ourselves most alone that we discover we are among friends,” says Mr. Akbar.

  I look at his wizened hands as they wrap round his small cup, and I wish I could just stay in this greenhouse with him for the rest of the year. I’d happily do an independent study in botany. I could learn a lot from him, about making things grow – but he’s dead wrong about the friend thing. If I could bring myself to tell him about Mustapha, maybe he’d realize how wrong he was.

  “I have to get back to class.”

  He looks at me for a long minute. “Wait,” he says. “I have something for you.”

  He takes an empty jar from his shelf and heads off into the undergrowth. I follow, curious. We pause at a tap, and he fills the jar half-full before he carries on. Finally, we stop in front of the frilly orange plant.

  “You remember its name?” he asks.

  “The Red Bird of Paradise.”

  His face cracks into an enormous, nearly toothless grin. I grin back.

  He takes a small worn jackknife from his pocket and flips it open. I notice how gently he holds the plant as he saws off a small branch that holds a single flower. He pops it in the jar and hands it to me.

  “Change the water every few days. When the roots get this long,” he says, showing me with his fingers, “you can take it out of the water and plant it in a pot. Winter is coming soon, so you want to take care of it inside this year. But in the spring, you can plant it in your garden, and when you leave, you can take it with you. Do you remember what I told you about this plant?”

  “That it can grow anywhere.”

  “That’s right. Its flowers look fragile, but its roots grow deep.”

  “But I won’t be able to take it with me. They don’t let you take plants through Customs.”

  “All you need is a seed,” he says. “A single seed properly cared for will flourish wherever you plant it.”

  I take his offering and head out to my first day at my new school without my new friend. I don’t have theater class and I don’t see Mustapha for the rest of the day, which means he’s avoiding me. It’s a small school, tiny now, and you don’t not see someone unless you’re trying. I’m relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  I eat lunch with Tahira and Leela, who are so overly kind that I almost cry again, but I manage to hold it together. Tahira reminds me I’m still invited to her brother’s wedding, which sounds like it’s going to be a complicated event stretching over several days. We make plans to go out on the weekend to buy me some “appropriate clothes.” I get the impression I’m going to need at least four different shalwar kameezes, and I try to share their enthusiasm for the outing.

  Johan seems to be missing Jazzy and invites me to sit with him in math class. It turns out he, Leela, and Tahira are in most of my classes now because sections have been combined due to lack of students and fewer teachers. Some electives have been canceled entirely, and I have a moment of hope when I think maybe there won’t be any theater class, but those kinds of things never work out when you want them to.

  On the bus ride home, I listen to Mandy chattering happily with the remaining kids about the new structure they’re going to add that day to Secret City. She asks me to join in the construction work, but I decline the offer. Vince is in the back, talking quietly with Michelle. He invites me to go swimming with them after school. It’s a pity-invite, but well-intentioned. I turn down their in
vitation too, though I don’t have other plans.

  I hold Mr. Akbar’s gift in my lap and gently finger the scalloped edge of the petals. It’s hard to imagine something so fragile and dainty could have such a determined will to survive. It reminds me of two other lives that have that same determination. I remember how the reality of their burden lightened my own, and I selfishly wonder if it can happen again. Maybe they feel as much like outsiders as I do. Maybe they can teach me how to keep living from one day to the next. Suddenly, I know what I’m going to do when I get home.

  CHAPTER 26

  I’ve been sitting in the underbrush just beyond the garbage dump for over two hours. I’m starting to feel this is a very bad idea. They may be the only people in my neighborhood more sad and desperate than I am, but that’s hardly the basis for a meaningful friendship. I don’t even know if they’ll show up. I rock up on my heels trying to ease myself into a more comfortable position. This is a waste of time. My butt is sore, the smell of the trash is giving me a headache, and I just noticed a freaking-huge spider on a nearby bush. I shift away from the spider, keeping an eye on it in case it should suddenly pounce.

  I hear the rattle of their bike over the gravel road a good five minutes before I see them. The girl hops off the handlebars before the bike has fully stopped and clambers up the heaping mound of refuse while her brother props the bike against a tree and unties an already half-filled bag from the back. I move out from the bush slowly so as not to startle them. I try to look casual, but I’m stiff from sitting on the ground, so I stagger the first few steps, which is either a dead giveaway I’ve been lying in wait or suggests I’m stoned. I’m not sure which they would find more alarming. I give them a toothy smile, but like last time, they respond with unblinking stares.

  “Dost,” I say, pointing to myself like Jane in a Tarzan movie. According to my Urdu dictionary, this is the word for friend, though from the reaction I’m getting, it would appear I said, “Clear out or I’ll call the cops.” The boy stands immobilized at the foot of the trash, watching me with the same wary attention I gave the spider. His sister is descending as quickly as safety will allow, given that she could bring the whole foul mountain crashing down on her brother.