An Infidel in Paradise

by S. J. Laidlaw

  We clear the town and drive in silence, staring out our windows, each lost in our own thoughts.

  “I didn’t want to bring you,” says Aisha, turning to me. “Mustapha said I really hurt you with that comment about your friend leaving. I only agreed to bring you because he said it would take your mind off her, and I felt I owed you that.”

  I nod.

  “But these children,” she says, “their misery isn’t here for anyone’s distraction.”

  “I know that.”

  “Yes,” she says. “I realized that tonight. I hope you’ll come back. I think we make a good team.”

  I smile at her and she smiles back.

  “You know, you’re going to have to lose the stick,” I say.

  “That’s the trouble with you foreigners,” she grouses. And for a moment, it’s the old Aisha. “You always think you know better.” She gives me a reproving look, but even in the dwindling light, I can see the sparkle in her eyes.

  CHAPTER 29

  I’m not surprised when they send us home early on Friday. After keeping us late last Friday, they probably want to be extra sure we make it home before the post-prayer demonstrations. It’s still weird to me that the result of attending a service of worship is to march around chanting death threats to a bunch of people you don’t even know. Anyway, last week’s evacuation of half the school population has everyone on edge, so it’s a relief to leave.

  What’s surprising is that Mustapha is waiting for me outside my classroom when we get dismissed. He falls in step as I walk to my locker, and my heart starts skipping for joy, even as I firmly remind myself that he’s taken.

  “How did it go yesterday?” he asks.

  “Not bad. It turns out your girlfriend isn’t that heinous after all.”

  “You’re too kind. How did she win you over?”

  “Haven’t you talked to her about this?” I open my locker and begin piling books into my bag. The amount of homework we have to do at this school is insane.

  “Yeah, she said it went well. Actually, I was thinking – since you two are friends now – maybe you’d like to come to my party tomorrow night.”

  “What party?” I stop loading books and turn to look at him.

  He shifts his feet and flushes. “The one you weren’t invited to when you thought my girlfriend was heinous.”

  “Oh, I see.” I turn back to my book bag, throwing in the last few items and zipping it shut. “So this is one of those last-minute, bottom-of-the-barrel afterthought invites.” I try to keep my voice light, but it hurts that he would have a party and not invite me until I passed the Aisha test.

  “Yeah, pretty much.” I look up at him and he grins to take the sting out of it. “So, will you come?”

  “I don’t know.” I slam my locker closed and hoist my ridiculously heavy bag over my shoulder. “Is this going to be one of those drinking too much, doing things you won’t want to remember in the morning, and vomiting in the rhododendrons kind of party, or is it more of a sitting in your games room watching you boys play Nintendo party?”

  “Well, technically, alcohol’s illegal in this country.…” He slides his hand under the strap of my bag, grazing the bare flesh of my arm, and lifts my bag up, tossing it effortlessly over his own shoulder. “So it’s probably more likely to be the Nintendo-type party.”

  “Well, it does sound really exciting,” I say sarcastically, trying to ignore my thumping heart and the flutters in my stomach caused by the nanosecond our skin touched. And now he’s carrying my bag. How romantic is that? Could I be more pathetic?

  “Will your mom be there?” I ask. I start taking slow, deep breaths to try to slow my heart.

  “Do you want my mom to be there?” He sounds surprised.

  “Not really,” I say in a neutral voice. If we’re going to get married, I’ll have to get used to his mother.

  “My parents are in Paris, but my Aunt Faatina will be chaperoning, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Yeah, right,” I smirk, having found my cool. Deep breathing really does work. “I’m a sixteen-year-old North American girl. Making sure we’re properly chaperoned at a party really is my top priority.”

  “So you’ll come, then.” He looks so hopeful that my heart starts bouncing around again.

  “Are Tahira and Leela invited?” I stall as we start walking toward the parking lot.

  “Do you want me to invite them?”

  “Only if you want me to come.”

  This is so wrong. I’m totally flirting with him. What is wrong with me?

  “Then they’re absolutely invited.”

  He is totally flirting back.

  But he’s with Aisha.

  “What about Johan?” We’ve reached my van now, and I rest my hand on the open door, trying to look casual. Unfortunately, I forgot that metal heats to a zillion degrees in this country, and I quickly drop my charred hand to my side.

  “Yeah, he’s invited.”

  “You invited Johan before you invited me?”

  Reality check. He invited me only after I made friends with Aisha.

  “I’m sorry.” His eyes cloud with concern. “Do you want me to un-invite him? I will. Just say the word.”

  “You’re shameless.” I laugh, reassured of his undying love. “You can’t un-invite people just to get me to come.” Except Aisha. He could definitely un-invite Aisha.

  Aisha, my new friend.

  I am a truly bad person.

  “So, you will come?”

  “If Leela and Tahira agree and you don’t un-invite anyone, I’ll come.”

  He leans forward and I raise my face, certain that this is the moment he’ll seal the deal and our lips will meet in hot passion.

  He chucks my bag onto the front seat of the van and steps back.

  “See you tomorrow morning, then.”

  “Your party is in the morning?”

  “No, but you’re going shopping with Tahira and Leela to buy clothes for Tahira’s brother’s wedding. Faarooq and I are chaperoning.”

  “You are chaperoning me,” I say in disbelief.

  “Not just me,” he says defensively. “Faarooq will be there as well. You didn’t think you girls could go trailing through markets on your own, did you?” He sounds genuinely incredulous.

  “Gee, let me think about that,” I snap. “I’m not in elementary school. I’m not brain-dead. So yeah, I did think we could go shopping without seventeen-year-old boys tagging along.”

  “Well, you can’t,” he says firmly. “Anything could happen. If Tahira’s mother were free, you would go with her, but she isn’t, and you can’t go on your own.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” I say heatedly.

  He raises one eyebrow and doesn’t answer.

  Obviously, in this situation, he can tell me what to do.

  “Whatever.” I heave myself into the van, turning my face away from him.

  Only after a few more seconds of fuming do I realize that for the first time in several days, I don’t feel like kissing him.

  Progress?

  “Emma.”

  I turn to look at him, still standing at the van’s open door.

  “What?” I snarl, looking down at him from my sparkling new tower of indifference.

  “I’m really looking forward to spending the day with you tomorrow,” he says, beaming his heartbreaking smile.

  And the tower crumbles.

  CHAPTER 30

  “You can’t wear that.”

  Tahira and Leela have both come to the door to get me, and they’re united in their horror at my loose-fitting T-shirt and jeans. I already cleared it with my mom, so I don’t know what they’re going on about. Do they think I look too slovenly?

  “You need to completely cover your arms,” says Tahira.

  “And your bottom,” says Leela.

  “My bottom?”

  “Definitely,” agrees Tahira. “You need a long-sleeved, loose-fitting shirt that co
vers your bottom and loose pants that don’t show off your legs.”

  “You mean, I need to wear something that looks exactly like a shalwar kameez?” I say, trying hard not to sound irritated, even though I had the same conversation two days ago with Aisha and am getting a little sick of feeling like my body is something to be ashamed of. At least she came prepared with an outfit. I know if Angie were here, she’d make a joke, and the whole thing would seem funny rather than annoying.

  “A shalwar kameez would be perfect,” gushes Leela. “Do you have one?”

  “No,” I say. “That’s why we’re going shopping. Remember?”

  “Well, let’s go look at what you do have,” Leela says soothingly, squeezing past me into the house. “I’m sure you have something suitable.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re sitting on my bed, sweating in spite of the AC. Clothes that have been pulled from the closet and drawers lie in scattered heaps around the room.

  “You really need some new outfits,” says Tahira. “You don’t have anything appropriate.”

  “The T-shirt actually was the best thing she has,” says Leela, her voice betraying her amazement. “Everything she owns is so …” She struggles to find the right word. “Tight.”

  I sigh and don’t bother defending myself. I’ve never considered myself a slutty dresser. Until now.

  Footsteps pound up the stairs, and I have a second to consider that things are about to get a lot more embarrassing before Faarooq and Mustapha burst into the room.

  “What’s taking you girls so long?” demands Faarooq. “We don’t have all day for this, you know. I have to help Mustapha set up for his party.”

  “She has nothing to wear,” says Tahira before I can stop her.

  I stand up and move to the doorway, hoping to prevent the boys from entering. I am not going through my wardrobe again with Mustapha.

  He looks past me at the chaos of the clothes. “Where’s Vince’s room?” he asks with an amused expression.

  “Down the hall,” I say warily. Is he going to go tell Vince that his sister dresses like a skank?

  Mustapha disappears from the doorway, and I push past Faarooq to follow him down the hall.

  “Vince isn’t home,” I say.

  Mustapha knocks lightly on Vince’s door, and when there’s no reply, he opens it and walks in. I stand in the doorway and keep an eye on him as he goes over to Vince’s open closet and begins rifling through his clothes.

  “What are you looking for?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer as he pulls out several shirts, holds them up, and returns them to the closet. Finally, he pulls out one of Vince’s dress shirts, a dark gray, long-sleeved cotton shirt. Mustapha smiles in satisfaction and tosses it to me.

  “Try it on,” he says.

  “I am not wearing Vince’s clothes.” I glare at him.

  “Try it on,” he repeats evenly.

  I sigh for the second time and shrug into Vince’s shirt. It’s miles too big. My hands are trapped inches from the end of the sleeves, and the bottom of the shirt brushes the tops of my knees.

  “Satisfied?” I ask, starting to take it off.

  “Wait.” He walks over to me.

  Stopping just in front of me, so close I can feel the heat off his body, he begins doing up the buttons. I would object, but my breathing has suddenly kicked into overdrive and I need to concentrate on not hyperventilating. He finishes the buttons and steps back, surveying the effect. I’m pretty certain no part of my figure is discernible. He reaches forward and rolls the cuffs of the sleeves so my hands emerge from the ends. Then he stands back again, and his eyes sweep over me. I’m suddenly glad the shirt is so loose.

  “Perfect,” he says.

  I don’t say anything because my breathing is still messed up, and now I’m dealing with a rise in body temperature as well.

  We hear the others coming, and I step guiltily into the hallway like we’ve been doing something we shouldn’t.

  “Emma, that’s perfect,” shrieks Leela, grabbing both my hands and spinning me around. “Aren’t you clever to think of it.”

  “Mustapha,” I mumble in the same instant I feel him come up behind me, his body giving off little shock waves.

  “Can we finally go now?” grumbles Faarooq.

  I’m happy for the shift in focus. We head downstairs and pile into Tahira’s SUV.

  We’re going to Rawalpindi, a city just ten miles – but light-years – away from Islamabad. We leave behind the quiet tree-lined roads and enter into a chaotic jumble of narrow streets. Beggars lurch haphazardly out of alleys and bang on the car windows, trying to get our attention. Slow-moving rickshaws and throngs of people and livestock prevent us from moving quickly. When the driver eventually stops, I’m not sure if we’ve arrived somewhere or he’s just given up.

  “We should have covered her head,” says Mustapha. He and Faarooq are sitting in the seats behind us. I turn round to see Mustapha looking worriedly out the window.

  “You’re right. We should have thought of it,” says Leela. “Did you have a shawl, Emma?”

  “I’m not a ninety-year-old grandma, Leela,” I snap and immediately feel badly.

  “Maybe we could make that our first purchase,” says Leela to Mustapha.

  “All right,” he agrees, “but we should leave her in the car until we get her head covered.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I crane round in my seat to glare at him. “I am not staying in the car.”

  Faarooq and Mustapha exchange looks.

  “Maybe we should try a less crowded bazaar,” says Faarooq.

  “But this is where the best shalwar kameezes are,” objects Tahira.

  “And there’s the most amazing fabric shop,” says Leela with authority. “I buy all of my fabric here, and they have a wonderful tailor.”

  “Look,” I say. “I don’t need to make a fashion statement. Can we just get this done?”

  “Exactly,” says Faarooq, and for a minute it feels like we’re on the same team, until he continues. “She doesn’t need to look nice. She just needs to look appropriate.”

  Leela, Tahira, and I all object at the same time. Leela’s aghast at the suggestion that looking good isn’t the most important goal of the outing. Tahira feels her brother has suggested I’m less than beautiful and demands an apology. And I’ve had enough of being told there’s something wrong with the way I dress.

  I roll down the window and crane my head out, wondering how hard it would be to get a cab home from here. I did see some yellow cabs at the edge of the market when we drove in, but there are none nearby, and my view down the street is blocked by half a dozen beggars and twice that many children crowding around me, demanding money and treats. I really want Angie. I want to be with someone who gets me and doesn’t think I’m inappropriate.

  Mustapha leans forward and yanks me back in as Faarooq sticks his hand through the seats and puts the window up.

  “All right,” says Mustapha, “we’ve come this far. We’re all going to get out of the car, go to Leela’s fabric shop, Tahira’s ready-made shop, and then we’re going home. And we will all stay together and try not to draw attention to ourselves.” He looks at me when he says this, as if it’s my fault.

  The driver gets out of the car first and opens the door for us, scrutinizing the crowd like a Secret Service agent on a presidential detail. The boys scramble out and stand on either side of me, which is totally embarrassing, and I’m sure it just makes me more gawk-worthy.

  Leela leads the way into the crowded market, which consists of narrow cement walkways between open one-room shops. I’m determined to get this outing over with as quickly as possible and get home, but as we leave daylight behind and make our way into the dimly lit interior of the market building, my irritation dissolves under the onslaught of sights and smells. The pungent spices are intoxicating, and I can’t stop myself from pausing to examine the variety of things on sale. Pickled snakes, monkey skulls, perfect replicas
of Viking helmets, stone-inlaid jewelry and weapons, intricate handmade carpets and wall hangings, vibrant painted crockery, and fabric – woven, embroidered, batik – the choice is overwhelming. I keep stopping in awe, picking things up and gushing worse than Leela ever does. I am expecting Mustapha or Faarooq to scold me for slowing us down, but when I look up, eyes shining, to show Mustapha an ornate silver pendant with a leaping lion carved into the inlaid blue stone, he’s smiling.

  “It’s the same blue as your eyes,” he says.

  “Can you ask the trader how much?”

  Mustapha starts a long conversation with the merchant, which I’m sure goes far beyond the price of the pendant, but finally he turns to me and tells me he can’t get him down below fifty dollars because it’s an antique. I put it back, smothering my disappointment, and as we carry on, I’m quickly swept up in the excitement of just looking at things. Finally we come to Tahira’s shop, and I have to admit even the shalwar kameezes are beautiful. Despite Leela’s advice, I choose a plain one, in earth tones, that I could wear in the squatters’ settlement without feeling totally overdressed.

  When we move on to the fabric shop, though, I allow Leela to talk me into two amazing lengths of cloth, one silken batik and another embroidered with tiny geometric diamonds. I even pick up a gorgeous woven shawl, despite my insistence I don’t really need one. By the time we’re ready to leave, more than two hours have passed, and I can’t stop smiling. I know it’s just retail therapy, but it’s like the weight of the last few days has eased and it’s such a relief to have fun for once.

  We’re almost back at the entrance to the market when we hear the shouting. At first, I don’t pay attention. It’s just one more voice among many, but when I notice people stop what they’re doing to stare behind me and then at me, I realize something’s up. I slow down, but Mustapha puts his hand on my elbow and firmly propels me forward. I look back and see an old man behind us, coming closer. He looks enraged, and I wonder what we’ve done to upset him. It’s only then that I realize he’s shouting in English and I can actually understand what he’s saying. Faarooq nudges me to keep moving.

  “Infidel!” shouts the man. “You will burn in the fires of hell for eternity. Who are you who touch the unbeliever? Strike her down, or you will bear her fate.”