Waiting for a sign Emily stared again at the statue once more intoning “I need peace of mind. I need to think. My English gran always said that the answer would come through prayer, it always did. Loving Mother of us all,” she began again, “ Mary, Isis, whatever name you hold,” she whispered to the Icon. “I must leave this man and this place. If I stay he will kill me in the name of his religion because he knows I will always disobey him. I simply cannot go his way. I am safe only until my child is born and it must be a son. Please help me.”
In the quiet of the church she formulated her secret thoughts as she prayed. Emily needed a back door, a plan, an escape route. As she stared at the Icon in the candlelight above the altar, her confidence increased, and she knew that somehow her needs would be met.
Ironically and albeit in her infinite wisdom the Blessed and Loving Mother had another plan in mind. Emily concluded her morning prayers feeling lighter of heart and ready to deal with the future she left the old stone church carefully closing the thick paneled door behind her. Feeling, for no apparent reason, the hair on the back of her neck rise she turned around and to her absolute horror and amazement, before her stood the familiar silhouettes of Ulrike Meinhof and Gudrun Ensslin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“Ach du leibe Gott!” shrieked Meinhof. “I don’t believe it! Mensche und Kinder! It’s little Amina-Emily the Englaenderin Arab! I have seen you here every couple of days and I thought, this cannot be the chic madam from Heidelberg now barefoot, pregnant and dressed in a basic black ‘nachthemd’. No pearls my dear?” she asked in a mock British accent.
“I’m here with my husband. How did you get here? Is Baader with you?”
“Andreas! You know him too?” the still beautiful Gudrun Ensslin questioned suspiciously, knowing her lover’s appreciation for good looking and seemingly unavailable women.
“Sheisskopf that he is, Gudrun, she’s not his type. Come now,” Meinhof interjected, smoothing out the situation.
“No, I’ve never met him, but I am certainly interested in where the hell he is, because frankly, wherever he is I don’t want to be,” Emily said clearly, with no intimidation in her in her response. “How did you get here, with all the security at the airports?”
“We drove through Italy, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria and Turkey. Schlau, huh?” Gudrun Ensslin said, fingering through her hair almost flirtatiously, like a provocative child being reprimanded.
“Sly indeed Fraulein Ensslin. No doubt the police and border guards know you’re here by now,” Emily responded, wishing she had just shut up and walked away the moment she opened her mouth. She really did not want to know this information. It compromised her and she knew it.
“Who gives a shit? They’re not going to follow us into Jordan, and besides, we traveled under assumed names,” Ulrike Meinhof made a little bow and continued, “Meet Sabine Markworte. Hope you like the new me. After Jordan, we go to Syria and there we will be trained. Then our contribution to the revolution really begins. Why don’t you come with us? Or are you not interested in freeing Palestine from the Zionists, kleine Amina-Emily?”
“You must be joking, Ulrike. Only the Palestinians can free Palestinians. They don’t need the help of the ‘Radikal Chickeria’. Besides that the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, and I assume it is one of their training camps that you are going to, takes a dim view of self-possessed women. I mean they do tend to use and abuse the bourgeois rebels. You are so frigging plastic. You people have no concept of social revolution or poverty. You’re part of the problem, for Christ sake. Communism can’t exist where there’s no middle class. Where the fuck do you get off with this ‘Alle macht dem volk’ shit? Power to the people? People’s revolution? Come off it. You’re all middle class school girls who like bad boys and are fucking bored with Mummy, Daddy and God. What the hell do you know about being an Arab, losing your home, having no water supply, no food and watching someone invade your land and “develop” it for themselves? Freedom fighters? You’re all fucking cowards. You pick on unarmed civilians.” Emily knew she had gone too far in her outburst and backed away from the women instinctively.
“Ja, Ja, Ja. Let me ask you something, my little mischlingkinde. What do you do for your needy Arab brothers and sisters, other than get rich and make them into tolerable servants?” At the term insulting her dual heritage, Emily glared icily at Ensslin in an angry silence, as the terrorist continued her tirade . “The English devour you, you half breed bitch, and the Arabs despise you. You think you are any better than we are? At least we try and make a difference. You do nothing but sit in your perfect little world, hanging on to every word the Nigerian spies say or acting as an Islamic punch bag for your diplomatically inclined drug-dealing husband. He’s a real saint, isn’t he? We are Germany’s future! We are Hitler’s offspring. THEY created US! We are the end result, and we will change how the world views Germany again! We are the future. This is a ‘happening’.”
“A what?” Emily began to laugh, her anger dissipating at the incredulity of Ensslin’s statement, “You sound like an advert for the American Top 40! ‘A happening? Don’t tell me! Not burn baby, burn as well. Oh Christ! This would be funny it weren’t so bloody sad. You belong at Woodstock. Why don’t you emigrate to bloody California and do us all a favor? In fact ladies, Charles Manson may be looking for a few new recruits, you’d fit in really well there.” With that, she turned on her heels and in a flurry of black cotton robes concealing her quaking body, she left the churchyard and headed quickly back to the villa.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Her anger subsided as she approached the thick wooden door of her home. Usually she pulled the bell chain beside it to be let in to her home by Bahira Jarbour but both she and her husband were at the market and had left their daughter Ghazale behind to attend to Emily’s needs. The phone rang as Emily entered the house, she picked it up and there was little the young girl could do to prevent her from taking the call. “Thank you little one,” Emily said in Arabic. “I have it. Now go and prepare some mint tea and bring it into the drawing room with some cheese and grapes for me.”
“Yes” Emily answered in an almost whisper, holding the mouthpiece close “This is Madam Ansari. With whom am I speaking?”
“Emily, this is Tony Shallal. Where the hell have you been? Are you alright?”
“Actually I’m fine, but I’m beginning to feel like the girl in Du Maurier’s ‘Rebecca’. We have an Islamic Mrs. Danvers, who with her husband and daughter watch my every move and report me daily to my wicked husband.”
“Wicked yet? Has he hurt you in any way?”
“No. He is completely indifferent to me. Look, I must go, but I walk to the church every day. The one they call El Saydi.”
“Emily, there is a function we are having at the embassy next Tuesday, an informal welcome for the family of the attaché, Col. Beresford and his new wife the former Adele de Crecy. It’s a formal tea, you know the sort of thing. Very good for you to be there. 4 o’clock sharp! Do be there. You can, of course bring Ghulam. His parents have been reassigned back to Afghanistan. Did you know? Be at the embassy and we’ll talk again.”
“Ghazale, I’ll need to go into Beirut this afternoon to shop.” She took the tray from Ghazale and placing it beside the wicker chair on the patio. “There’s a social function at the British Embassy next week and I will attend, with or without Monsieur Ansari. Looking out of the window, Emily said “I see your father has returned. He is alone, Just as as well” she added in relief “Tell him to have the car ready in half an hour, and I would like you to accompany me. For the sake of propriety your father can follow us if he has Monsieur’s orders to do so. But I will not feel like a prisoner any longer. We will eat lightly this evening, outside, here on the patio. Something simple.”
When she returned from the city, she encountered a glaring Ghulam. He was still a handsome man despite the permanent fanatical look in his eyes. He now dressed in the dramatic yet conservative lo
ng robes fashionable among affluent Muslims. Curiously, the borders of this Qarawyyin thobe were hand embroidered and must have cost a considerable amount of money. This led her to believe that her husband’s taste, which had so recently been more towards Dior and Armani suits, may have altered in design but not in quality, cost or color. This is a good sign, she thought to herself. He still is a materialist at heart.
“Ah, my husband, I am overjoyed to see you,” she said in flowing Arabic, his now preferred language, trying hard not make it sound too honey coated. She wanted to avoid suspicion. “Come, sit with me. Are you well my dear? You look tired.”
“Madam Jarbour, I see you have returned,” Emily smiled at her housekeeper, taking her by complete surprise. “A successful day at the market, no doubt. Will you bring some of the olive soap and honey and almond cream for me, as well as some of that special oil for tired muscles? I think it is Rosemary and Egyptian Mint. Please leave them in Monsieur’s bathroom.”
Jarbour was dumbstruck. The girl had given her an order. This Ghaggar, she thought to herself, using a derogatory term, gives me instructions? She’s up to something, she mused, as she left the room. I’ll watch this carefully. “Oui Madam,” she said, continuing in French, the second language of her country and the language of all servants to the middle class, which she also knew was Emily’s least proficient language.
“We will speak only in the language of God in this house!” interrupted Ghulam impatiently.” I will not have the tongue of Lebanon’s oppressors spoken within these walls. From this point on, only Arabic will be spoken here.”
His wife smiled sweetly and said, “Too true, my dear husband. You speak wisely.”
Ghulam beamed with happiness. Emily’s smug smile of satisfaction did not go unnoticed by her staff.
“My dear husband,” she said cautiously, “We have today received an invitation from the British Embassy to attend a tea. I believe it is for the new attaché. This man is a friend of my father, and it may help ease the chasm between you both if we attend. It would dishonor him if we did not. I have purchased some modest gowns to hide my condition. It is for me to set an example of how our women differ from those with western ideology. I think you will be pleased with my choice.”
Her husband looked at her for the first time in many weeks with a certain degree of softness and satisfaction in his eyes. “Of course, Amina, we will attend. One day, I too will represent my country. It is right that we should be viewed as friends and not enemies. I have heard that my parents are being sent home to Afghanistan. This means that we can also return once the baby is born and old enough to travel. It is a son, I feel it.”
“Yes, my dear. I believe so too, and we will name him Masud Ismael for your father,” she replied, softly caressing his neck. Oh yes, thinking to herself, her mind working overtime. This is indeed my trump card.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The arrival of the Ansaris, while not totally unexpected did manage to raise eyebrows. They were perhaps the only people in the room not wearing western dress. Ghulam looked particularly handsome in a white loose fitting Galabyya with deep blue trim setting off his aquiline features, his black curls now more prominent due to the length of his beard. Emily wore an azure colored jilbab floor length dress with a cream and blue paisley silk wrap hijab covering her head. Her jewelry was simple but elegant, an amethyst and diamond wedding band with matching earrings and a Cartier watch. Their attempt at conservative Middle Eastern attire had actually made them more prominent.
“Who is that beautiful young man? He looks like a film star,” asked Adele Beresford to her new husband.
“Allow me to introduce Ghulam Ansari. His father is with the Afghan Embassy in Turkey. This is his charming wife, the former Emily Desai, whose parents I believe you already know, my dear.”
“Oh yes, the Arab antique trader. Quite right, we have made acquaintance.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Beresford? Glad to see that we peasants are in such safe hands,” said Emily, extending her hand.
“Forgive my wife, Madam” Ghulam replied, giving her the full extent of his penetrating stare. “Tact is not her greatest virtue, nor is it yours, as I understand. No doubt we will meet again,” and catching Emily’s arm he steered her away. “These people deserve all they get,” he continued in Arabic. “Who is that fellow over there? He is staring at you.”
“That is Yassir Shallal. He helped me get here. Beresford is a friend of my father and Tony Shallal works for him.”
“You call him Tony. Is he embarrassed by his Muslim name?”
“I suppose it anglicizes him at the Home Office. I don’t know, maybe it’s a school thing. Let’s go over there and I’ll introduce you.”
“No!” Ghulam replied curtly. “I will introduce myself and then reintroduce you. This isn’t Paris or London. You are my wife, this is an Arab country. You are respected and protected here.”
Ghulam greeted Shallal in Arabic tradition of peace and the gesture was likewise returned. He then introduced himself and thanked Shallal for his help securing the right papers for his wife to leave Egypt and rejoin him.
“Madam Ansari, you are well I hope and enjoying this beautiful country?”
“Actually, I haven’t seen that much of it and I understand it is becoming very difficult for foreigners to travel about.”
“We are not foreigners, my dear wife” Ghulam interrupted “We are Muslims and there are no classifications among us. One day, Amina, there will be a United Arab State stretching across the world from Spain, Africa, Asia and through the Middle East. We are on the brink of an Islamic renaissance, I believe. Do you agree Mr. Shallal?”
“Agree with what, whether there is a return to Islam as a religion or state of mind?” answered Shallal as he turned toward Emily, remembering her comment to him in what seemed almost a lifetime ago.
“The west has occupied us for too long. I believe it is time to free of ourselves and take our place with the rest of the world as an equal. We must, as they say, ‘take back the night’.”
“Rather like Scheherazade, you mean?” quipped his wife, trying to ease the mounting tension.
“Amina, our goals and duty as believers should not be the subject of amusement.” Ignoring his wife and turning again to Shallal, “Islam is not a violent religion, Mr. Shallal,” he continued, “But there will come a day when we must “repopulate” our lands and connect the groups together. The governing of our people is our role and not that of the West. There is an adage, Mr. Shallal, “‘While Europe slept in the Middle Ages, Islam subdued half the world.’ And we will recover that position. Islam is now the fastest growing religion in the world.”
“That would take powerful leadership and the end of tribal factions. An impossibility, Ansari. One would have to destabilize the West completely,” Shallal desperately tried to remove himself from the discussion.
“First we must consider destabilizing the Soviets and then we will take on the West country by country. It will begin in Afghanistan.”
“My dear Ansari, only last year Soviet Premier Aleksey Kosygin attended Afghanistan’s 50th Independence Day Celebration. This is surely not the action of a people wishing to rid the world of communism.”
“Come Shallal; let us resume this discussion later this evening. You are an Iraqi are you not?”
“I’m British actually. My father was born in Iraq, my mother is English,” replied Shallal, noticing the distaste in Ansari’s face.
“One has no control over one’s parents. Nonetheless, I will expect you at my home at eight this evening.”
“I will of course attend,” Shallal glanced at Emily for approval and found nothing but fear in her eyes.
Emily made the social rounds, mingling with the other embassy guests. She surveyed the room for Wilfred de Crecy, finding him with an attractive middle-aged woman near the rear entrance. She waved discretely. Within seconds, accompanied by his companion, he walked towards them.
“We meet agai
n Mr. de Crecy,” Ghulam said almost gushing as he took the hand of de Crecy’s companion and kissed it majestically.
“This is Fiona McLeod, also a staff member, who has kindly volunteered to help with my project researching the Nag Hammadi Codices.”
“Fi, this is Ghulam Ansari and his charming wife Amina, the former Emily Desai.”
“I’m honored to meet you Amina, your work with Wils has been an invaluable contribution to the ‘Gnostic Gospels’ project.”
“I’m flattered, Miss McLeod. Actually I’m glad you can read my handwriting. Many can’t.”
“You wife underestimates herself. She kept meticulous notes and cited every source she used in her reports. A true professional.”
“Will you also join us for dinner this evening with Mr. Shallal?”
“We have another commitment, I’m afraid. We have announced our engagement and we will be dining quietly with our parents so that we can make the wedding arrangements.”
“Congratulations. You’ll marry here?” asked Emily.
“Not bloody likely. No it’s back to civilization for us. We leave in two months, once my project commitment is up.”
“Civilization is a marketable commodity I fear, Mr. de Crecy,” Ghulam responded provocatively, “So many believe that we desert and nomadic people have no manners, civility or even culture. I delight in spreading the word, so to speak, that it was the Arabs who brought the world irrigation during its seven centuries of Islamic rule, not to mention agriculture and the embellishment of cities. Because of our contributions the rest of world’s people have decent design and architecture. You use aqueducts, water wheels, even windmills which began in Khorasan in Persia. The herbs and spices used in your haute cuisine were ours originally. Eggplants, artichokes, spinach, quinces, pomegranates even figs, apricots, almonds, pistachios and sugar, all brought to you by us. The country Portugal gets its name from our word for oranges, ‘portaghal’, which we took there. Our Qu’ran draws attention to the care of the land and its preservation. We are indeed civilized! Oh forgive me, I prattle sometimes, of course. My friends, you know this already. You have enjoyed the fruits and beauty of our land for generations; have you not Mr. de Crecy? Your father was stationed in Egypt for along time, as his father before him, am I not right?”
Circle Around the Sun Page 18