“I have to go home,” I say. But I stop walking because he holds my arm and has frozen at my side.
“Let go.” There’s a strength in my voice that’s unfamiliar.
“I can’t let you go. There’s nothing you can do. I’m sure your family is safe. Your mother will take care of things.”
“My mother is not home,” I say, looking into his eyes and wondering if he can see in my own the enormity of what I’ve done to my sister.
“It’s just Vince and your sister?” he asks, surprised.
“Not Vince.”
“Well, your servants, then,” says Aisha, trying to sound confident, but I can hear the doubt creeping into her voice. “They’ll make sure nothing happens to your sister.”
“No servants.” I look at her directly so she cannot mistake my meaning.
“You left your sister alone?” It comes out as a whisper but reverberates off the walls as all eyes turn to me, accusing.
“I left her alone,” I confirm. “Now I have to go back to her.”
“It’s too dangerous,” says Mustapha, making one last effort to be the voice of reason, but his tone is pleading. I’ve already won.
“You can’t stop me.” I look up at him, and I almost feel sorry for him as he struggles between doing what he thinks is right and what he knows is inevitable.
“I’ll drive you,” he says.
“No.” Aisha and I speak as one voice.
“You can’t get there on foot, and I can’t send you with a driver. I’m not putting a servant into danger.” Now that the decision has been made, his voice is determined, fearless, and all at once, I have a vision of the man he will one day become. No matter what else happens tonight, I wasn’t wrong to love this boy.
“Then I’m going too,” says Aisha, and we both whip round to stare at her.
“No,” says Mustapha. “I can’t let you do that, Aisha.”
“And I can’t sit at home while you go out and risk your life, Mustapha.”
I step away from her as she moves between him and the door and seems to rise up to his height.
“Well, you’re going to have to, because you can’t come,” he asserts, also seeming to grow to his god-creature proportions. “I won’t allow it, and you know your father and mine would never forgive me if I let you put yourself in danger.”
“My father has never said no to me,” she scoffs. “And as for your father, if I’m going to live in this house, he will have to get used to my nature.”
If I wasn’t so desperate to get going, I would almost enjoy this battle. Aisha is every bit the haughty princess I’ve always known her to be, and I’ve never liked her more.
“Mustapha,” I say urgently. “We don’t have time for this. Aisha is too bossy to take orders from anyone, not even you, so deal with it. No offense, Aisha.”
“None taken,” she says, still glowering fiercely at Mustapha.
She takes my arm and together we hurry from the house with Mustapha trailing in our wake. We head across the lawn toward a massive garage I hadn’t noticed before. There are only a few teenagers left sitting at tables. I wonder if most have gone home, or if they’re inside trying to get some news. We walk past several servants, who greet Mustapha in subdued tones.
Walking into the garage, I’m amazed at the fleet of vehicles to choose from. There are two uniformed servants, obviously drivers, sitting at a desk just inside the doors. Mustapha has a brief discussion with them in Urdu. There’s obviously some disagreement about him taking a car out alone, and I wonder if they fear for his safety or their jobs. Finally, one of them takes a set of keys off a hook next to the desk and reluctantly hands it over.
We walk over to a black midsize SUV with tinted windows.
“It’s bulletproof,” says Mustapha, no doubt trying to be reassuring, though until he says it, I hadn’t even considered getting shot at.
Aisha climbs into the front next to Mustapha, and I get in the back, happy to have the feeling of being alone. I couldn’t bear the effort of making conversation right now. I run through all the ways I’m going to be a better sister if I can only get home to Mandy and find her unharmed. I try to quell images of what might happen to her at the hands of angry rioters.
Mustapha has another discussion with the guards at the gate. It goes on for so long I start wondering whether I could scale the perimeter wall. Mustapha finally raises his voice and the discussion is finished.
The gates open, and as we turn onto the quiet jacaranda-lined street, I marvel at the deceptive peacefulness of this beautiful moonlit evening.
CHAPTER 36
The streets are deserted as we drive down the wide boulevard that crosses the city from Mustapha’s neighborhood to the diplomatic enclave. He takes a different route than my driver. It’s more direct, and I wonder if he’s unaccustomed to keeping a low profile or just sacrificing caution to speed. I feel exposed on the empty streets, but at the same time, there’s a sense of safety in the wide open spaces. We’d be able to see people coming from a distance, though I’m not sure what we’d do about it. We pass through several red lights, barely slowing down, and although we hear sirens in the distance, there are no police waiting to pounce on us for traffic violations. They have bigger problems tonight.
A shadow lurches out from behind a tree, and Mustapha screeches on the brakes as Aisha gasps. We all sigh in relief when we realize it’s only a calf that’s lost its mother in the darkness. We’re a long way from the farms on the outskirts of the city, but on a night like tonight, farmers will join the urban poor in the rioting. I don’t even want to consider what chaos drove this poor creature so far from home. It stands confused in our headlights. As Mustapha slowly drives around it, we hear shouting and what sounds like gunshots. Mustapha stops the car again and kills the motor as we listen for the direction of the noise.
“I thinking it’s coming from down there,” says Aisha, gesturing just ahead of us and to the right.
“I don’t think so,” says Mustapha. “I think they’re behind us.” He points in the opposite direction.
We listen for several more minutes before the awful reality dawns on us. Mustapha and Aisha are both right.
“We need to get off this road,” says Mustapha urgently. “We’re too exposed.”
“Maybe we could outrun them,” I suggest.
“We can’t go forward. We’d be driving right into them.”
“If we make a right at the next corner, we might be able to get behind them,” says Aisha.
“It’s our best chance,” Mustapha agrees. He starts the motor and we slowly advance.
Aisha leans forward, watching intently out the front windshield for signs of movement. I’m on my knees, looking out the back window. We turn onto a narrow road flanked by small cement-block shops. It’s only a block away from the gleaming, high-towered boulevard, but it’s a step back in time. Corrugated iron shutters are pulled across storefronts and secured with padlocked chains. There are no streetlights here and no lights in any windows either. It’s as dead as any ghost town. I shudder.
The noise of voices is getting louder, and we can hear the stamping of many feet.
“I think we’re driving right into them,” murmurs Mustapha.
“But I can still hear them behind us as well.” Aisha’s voice quavers, and sweat breaks out on my forehead in spite of the car’s AC.
Craning to see through the darkness, I spot them the second they come round the corner, hundreds of them, marching forward like an army. The ones at the front pause briefly when they catch sight of us, like they’re trying to make sense of what they’re looking at. But the seething mass behind presses them onward. They carry weapons, farm tools, thick wood-handled hoes and scythes. All at once, they raise them above their heads and begin to run.
“They’re chasing us!” I shriek.
Mustapha doesn’t need more information. The car leaps forward and I fall back in my seat. I struggle to put on my seat belt as we take a sharp turn
and I’m slammed into a side door. I crawl across the seat, grappling again for the belt, but another turn slams me against the other door and I tumble to the floor.
“Stop!” Aisha screams.
Mustapha brakes instantly. I’m grateful to be on the floor because otherwise I’d be through the front windshield. I climb onto the seat and wish I hadn’t. We’re surrounded. White-clad Islamists close in on us not more than fifteen feet away in both directions, cutting off any hope of escape.
“Down there.” Aisha points down an alley that is surely too narrow for our car and only feet ahead of the approaching army, but Mustapha doesn’t hesitate.
Our tires squeal and the car skids, ricocheting off the corner of a storefront as Mustapha takes the turn too fast. He shouts what I think are curse words as the car fishtails. A sickening crunch of metal rings out as we sideswipe another building, but finally he regains control and we roar down the narrow laneway.
“Right!” Aisha shrieks.
Mustapha turns again.
“Stop!”
I’ve been on the floor since the last turn and decide to stay put this time, but Aisha flings open her door and jumps out.
“We need to hide,” she hisses.
I am hiding, in a bulletproof car, which seems like a much better idea than whatever she’s got planned. I don’t move.
My door swings open and Mustapha reaches in, trying to haul me out, perhaps thinking I’m frozen with fear or haven’t heard Aisha’s insane instruction. I prove harder to haul than expected.
“Aisha, she’s stuck,” he groans, which is just stupid. I’m holding on to the far door handle with all my might. He leans in farther and puts his arms completely around my chest and yanks hard. It is so not where to grab a girl, and I gasp as I release the handle and let him drag me backward from the car. I land on my butt.
“Quickly,” says Aisha, helping me up.
We crouch low, as if it’s going to make a difference, and run from the car into a building. Once inside, I realize it’s a covered market. There are rows of stalls and shuttered stores in an organized grid. A few bare lightbulbs hang from the ceiling, providing some light.
Mustapha looks back to see if we’ve been followed. “They’re not here yet, but we need to hide. They’ll see the car and come looking for us.”
“Why are they chasing us?” I ask, but I know the answer. I’m white, an infidel, and female; Aisha and Mustapha are rich and helping me. We’re screwed on so many levels.
“Do you think they saw her?” asks Aisha. Perhaps my question has prompted her to reflect on their chances of getting away if they turn me over to the crowd.
“I don’t think they could have seen who was in the car,” says Mustapha as we walk quickly through the market, looking for a place to hide. “The fact that we’re driving such an expensive car would have been enough to anger them.”
We’ve passed numerous closed-up shops, and I’m still trying to figure out what kind of market this is. There isn’t the usual smell of rotten vegetables and freshly slaughtered animals that permeates the food markets. There’s no smell of spices either. Finally, we come to a shop that has an open storefront, with several empty tables in the middle and two closed wooden counters along the back.
“We could hide behind those,” I say, and we all walk back to check them out.
They’re not a great hiding place. We can crouch behind them and not be seen from the front of the shop, but someone would only have to walk to the back and we’d be in plain view. Mustapha crouches down next to one of the counters and lifts the padlock on a sliding wooden door.
“If I got the crowbar from the car, I could get this open,” he says.
“Mustapha, you can’t,” Aisha gasps. “They weren’t that far behind us. They could be at the car by now.”
“Let’s keep looking,” I say. “We’ll find a better hiding spot.”
“We won’t,” says Mustapha grimly. “This is as good as it gets. I’m going back for the crowbar.”
“Even if we get the lock off, they’ll see from the outside that it’s unlocked,” Aisha argues.
“Not if I lock it again after you’re inside.” He stands up and walks around to the front of the counter.
Aisha shoots me a look.
“What are you saying, Mustapha?” I challenge.
“I have to keep you two safe.”
Aisha sinks back against the counter and rests her hand on it for support.
“No,” I say. “It’s my fault we’re in this situation.”
“I’m not arguing,” says Mustapha. “My decision is final.”
He stalks off, but Aisha chases him to the front of the store.
“Please, it’s too big a risk,” she implores, pulling at his arm.
“Aisha.” He stops and turns to her. “The only risk I can’t take is losing you.” A look passes between them, and Aisha drops her hands. “Hide behind there until I get back.” He quickly disappears round the corner.
Aisha stands in the center of the room. I go to her and lead her by the arm to the back. She follows like a sleepwalker, her face twisted with anxiety.
CHAPTER 37
Mustapha’s been gone a few minutes when we hear angry shouting nearby. Aisha and I exchange frightened looks. I wish I could understand what they’re saying. There are two, maybe three voices, and they’re having some kind of argument. For whatever reason, they’ve stopped just a few feet from where we’re hiding.
Our fear turns to horror when we hear a new voice.
Mustapha.
Aisha clutches my arm, digging her fingernails painfully into my flesh, and looks at me with huge eyes.
“What are they saying?” I whisper.
“They’re asking him what he’s doing here, who he’s with.”
We listen as Mustapha responds to their questions. I don’t understand his words, but I hear the desperation in his voice and the increasing anger in theirs.
“He says he’s alone,” whispers Aisha, “but they don’t believe him.”
The shouting continues. The fury of the interrogators escalates by the minute, and Mustapha’s voice becomes frantic as he tries to make them believe his lies.
Suddenly he’s cut off in mid-sentence by a terrible thud, followed by a second thud. I don’t have to see to know it’s his body hitting the ground.
“We have to help him,” I whisper urgently. I try to stand, but Aisha pulls me back.
“If they see you, they’ll kill you both,” she hisses. She crawls away from me until she’s at the far end of the counter, then, taking off her dupatta, which she normally wears around her neck like a scarf, she drapes it over her head, pulling it tight so her hair is completely covered. She looks back at me and gives me a small nod before she stands up and rushes forward.
I lean around the counter for one brief look, and the scene in front of me is both horrific and startling. Mustapha lies on the ground in a pool of his own blood, and Aisha has prostrated herself, forehead pressing against the floor at the feet of three bearded men. I slump back against the counter and close my eyes, but the image of the proud beautiful girl at the feet of men who look no different from the farmers I see along the roadside every day is seared into my memory. As I replay the image, I see that one holds a hoe, dangling at his side, the sharp blade still dripping.
Aisha’s voice is one I have never heard from her before, or imagined her capable of. I don’t understand her words, but the tone of humility as she pleads for Mustapha’s life transcends language. As she babbles on, I hear an occasional word from the men, angry at first but gradually softening as her hot wet tears weaken the foundations of their hatred.
Finally, I hear footsteps recede and I sneak another look. Aisha is sitting tensely over Mustapha’s body, her hand resting lightly on his chest, perhaps reassuring herself he’s still breathing. The men are nowhere in sight.
“I think they’re gone,” she says in a low voice.
Mustapha lets out a f
eeble groan and his eyes flutter open.
“How did you get rid of them?” I ask, my voice betraying my awe.
“I told them he was my brother,” she says, standing up and picking up the crowbar that has been discarded on the ground. She goes behind the counter. “I said he was taking me shopping to buy things for my trousseau. Help me, I need clean towels to stop the bleeding.”
I follow her behind the counter, wondering why she would expect to find towels here, but sure enough, when we break the lock and slide open the door, we find neatly piled towels of every size and color.
“This is the towel market,” she says, carrying a hand towel back to Mustapha. He’s half-risen to a sitting position and I feel a rush of relief. But when I get closer, I see the wound on his head, its edges gaping open to reveal tissue and skull beneath, and I think I might faint. When it occurs to me how much worse it will be for my beautiful little sister if she falls prey to these hate-filled men, the blood pounds in my ears so loud I can barely hear Aisha’s terse instructions as she folds the towel and presses it against the wound.
“Hold this,” she orders.
I replace her hand on the towel as she takes off her long dupatta and winds it tightly around Mustapha’s head to hold the towel in place.
“Good god, Aisha!” he says. “Does it have to be so tight?”
“Don’t be a baby,” she chides, but her voice shakes with emotion.
“We need to get him to the car. Can you drive?” she asks.
“I have my learner’s permit.”
“Well, that’s more than me, so you’ll have to do your best.”
We lift Mustapha and, supporting him between us, shuffle him out of the store. He’s more wobbly on his feet than I was when I heard of the bombs, and he stumbles and almost falls a few times as we guide him down the dim corridor toward the entrance.
“Just a little farther,” Aisha croons.
An Infidel in Paradise Page 19