by Warren Adler
His inclusion of her made her gasp, and she turned her face away, but too late. He had seen her reaction.
“It means nothing, Farrah? What I did? The risks?” he asked.
Why me? she thought, trying to calm herself. Her head was clearing now. She needed time, she decided. She must save Isis, get away. The thought of her baby being left in that terrible place sickened her. She had to shake off the terror. Be clever, she begged herself. Lowering her eyes, she looked at her hands, more as a diversion to keep him from seeing her expression.
“I do appreciate it,” she said, wondering if it might placate him, at least for the moment.
“Well, thank you, Your Highness,” he sneered. He was silent for a moment, then a hand reached out and caressed her cheek. Her flesh revolted, but she did not turn away.
“Perhaps gratitude might one day turn to love,” he murmured, teetering cautiously on the edge of his own obsession. She sensed again the old power.
“And Isis?” she whispered.
His lips tightened into an uncertain smile. His eyes probed her face.
“She will be fine for now,” he said, his hand caressing her face, cupping her chin. She wished she could remove herself from her body. “I told you. We will get her when things settle down. In the meantime, we’re going to stay here. And there is always the possibility that they might come here looking for me. Or you.” He paused. “Ali out there. I had to impress him with the need for silence and obedience. I think he was getting his own ideas.”
“When?” she asked, forcing her pleasantness, referring to the original question about Isis.
“We will have to see. It is too early to tell. One thing is certain. The fat bastard is finished.”
“What will they do to him?”
“Kill him, I hope. Better yet, cut off his cojones. That is something we could all enjoy.” He paused, contemplating the sentence he had imposed.
For a long time, he was lost in his own thoughts, then he looked at her again. Getting up, he moved to the bed and sat down, watching her.
“You must trust Zakki,” he whispered, reaching out his hand again. “He will be good to you.” He searched her face and she forced herself not to turn away. I must find a way to get out of here, to find Isis. Flee! I must hold myself together, watch for the moment.
“Beautiful green eyes,” he said. “So now they are looking at Zakki. Only Zakki.” His face seemed to be melting before her eyes. “Acknowledge me, Farrah. I have saved you and your child. See me. I command you to see me.”
She turned toward him, but forced her eyes into blindness, viewing him through a black screen, willing all sensation from her body. She was someone else, she assured herself. I am nothing now. I do not exist.
She let him lift her to the bed. If not for Isis, she would gladly die. Gladly! How did it come to this? Her fate emerged now as a sentence of servitude. Allah’s wrath. It was time to accept her punishment. She did not resist now. In her mind, she had already been violated.
Suspending any sense of herself, she felt his body reaching into her like a hot dagger. She welcomed the pain, as if somehow it might cleanse her. She felt her body turn, as if it were on a spit, roasting on the fires of hell, the dagger piercing her in every orifice of her body. Because she was removed from herself, she allowed her body to suffer every penetration. It was a violation, but only of her flesh. He did not seem human as he ripped through her, a relentless monster, his breath roaring out of him like the fumes of some hideous beast. Biting down on her tongue, she did not scream out. Even when he forced it open and entered her there as well, she did not scream.
Time stopped completely. Death could not be worse, she told herself as he became the embodiment of everything she had ever feared in her life, every phantom and nightmare, ever atrocity or evil. Only the image of her child, Isis, sustained her sense of living. He was, she was sure, peeling away her flesh, bit by bit.
She must have willed herself into semiconsciousness. She could not call it sleep. His relentlessness continued even when his body, finally, collapsed with surfeit or exhaustion. She hoped it was death. He was inside of her somewhere, attached by some hideous umbilical cord. She lay in a pool of moisture, fetid and noxious, the meltings of his beastly flesh. The room seemed to hang suspended in a pall of stale air, and she felt her lungs gasp and her stomach churn.
When her alertness returned, she painstakingly extracted herself, bit by bit, fearful that she might awaken him. His breathing was heavy, like a relentless pumping bladder, but it allowed her to gauge his consciousness. She had to get out of there. She had no idea how long it took her to move slowly out of his grasp, then, holding her clothes, to make it across the room. Slowly, she dressed and, still holding her sandals, cautiously pushed aside the bolt.
The door squeaked on its hinges, and his breath sputtered. Then its old rhythm returned. Closing the door behind her, she tried to get her bearings, hearing only faint mutterings beyond the thin walls as she cautiously felt her way along the darkened corridor into the room where she had seen the woman and the half-naked girls.
Pale shafts of pink light filtered through high windows. Hugging the walls, she moved through another darkened corridor that she sensed might lead to the entrance. The Nubian who had let them in was asleep on a chair, his head leaning to one side. Fearful that her beating heart would wake him, she stood frozen until she was certain he was asleep.
Watching his face for any signs of movement, she padded past him. Slowly, she reached the door. Her hand groped for the deadbolt, touching the cold metal. It did not slide easily. Grasping it with both hands, she pushed against it. The Nubian stirred, but not to full alertness. Sensing that it was too late to stop, she tugged at the bolt with all her strength now, feeling it move at last. She grasped the knob and the door swung open. The Nubian grunted and jumped from the chair. She dropped her sandals and began to run through the alley, oblivious to the pain as her bare feet moved over the rough stones.
Chapter Seventeen
He was behind her, moving steadily, and it was only when she turned the corner into the deserted street that she saw him. There was no time to think, to plan. All of her energy flowed into her legs as she ran toward Ezbekieh Gardens. The roads that circled the gardens were already filled with donkey carts, the dawn procession of scavengers and garbage collectors.
Bending, oblivious to the danger, she threaded her way through the maze, occasionally rising over the neck of a donkey to observe his pursuit. The mass of carts had confused him. Suddenly, as if she found herself in the vacuum of his inattention, she instinctively jumped and rolled into the back of one of the carts. The driver, an old wizened man with a gray face, turned. But something in her manner, in the way she transmitted her fear, conveyed the danger, and he whipped the donkey forward to the center of the traffic.
She lay in the cart’s pit, hidden by its low walls, ignoring the smells and slime of old garbage, oblivious to anything but her fear and the determination to get to Isis. Huddling in a corner, she listened to the clip-clop of the donkey’s hooves as the old cart carried her to what she hoped was Isis and freedom.
At last, the cart came to a halt. Lifting her head, she saw that they were in a narrow alley, typical of any slum street. The old man looked at her.
“It’s all right, child,” he said. “This is the street on my rounds.”
She rose cautiously, sure now that she had evaded her pursuer.
“I must get to the cemetery,” she said. “The old one, near the ruined aqueduct.”
The old man shrugged.
“I’m sorry. I have my work.”
He seemed kind, apologetic, but preoccupied with the chores demanded by his marginal existence.
“My family must eat,” he said sadly.
Remembering suddenly the American money she had tied in the cloth around her neck, she reached into her dress and
pulled it out, untying it. Miraculously, Zakki, in his sexual ferment, had missed it.
“I have money. American money. Please take me. I must find my baby.”
The old man scratched his head, startled by the money thrust in front of him. Thompson had taught her how to read the numbers on the face of the bills. She unrolled a ten dollar bill and handed it to him.
“That is a great deal of money,” the old man said, apparently recognizing the denomination. His reflexes were slow and he looked at the crumpled bill in his hand. Then he shrugged, nodded, and slapped his whip against the donkey’s rump.
She lay at the bottom of the cart, feeling every squeak and hoofbeat as the old man whipped the donkey forward. She did not raise her head until the cart stopped again.
“We are here,” he said.
The sun had risen over the minarets, promising another scorching day. She had difficulty getting her bearings, since she had paid little attention when Zakki had driven her there the day before. At her direction, the old man guided the cart through the broken streets, while she searched for some familiar sight. Around noon, she found the mausoleum.
The heavy woman stood in the entrance, fanning herself with a piece of cardboard and watching a group of children playing in the yard. She did not see Isis. She must be inside, Farrah thought, rushing into the mausoleum where, as before, two men sat at a ramshackle table on which stood a flickering candle.
They were, as before, sucking on water pipes and playing backgammon. They ignored her as she explored the dreary interior. Two babies were asleep in a makeshift crib fashioned out of boards. She was certain that one of them was Isis. The men looked up indifferently as she ran to the crib and inspected the two sleeping babies. Neither was Isis. Certain that she had not missed a square inch of the interior, she turned toward the woman.
“Where is my baby?” she screamed.
The woman watched her impassively, the face encased in a burnished mask, but the eyes darted nervously toward the men.
“My baby. Isis. Yesterday,” Farrah sputtered, unable to form a coherent sentence, her chest heaving. The woman continued to fan herself. From his donkey cart, the old man looked at her, puzzled. She had told him to wait in the road. He nodded, then lowered his head and closed his eyes.
“You must know,” she said, confronting the woman, holding back the panic. Perhaps it was the wrong place. She looked again at the name engraved on the stone: “Al-Hakim. Come to the sanctuary.”
“You are the same woman. Zakki was here. He carried my baby to you.”
A tic attacked the woman’s lower lip, betraying her, and she looked again at the two men, one of whom looked at her sternly. The communication was not lost on Farrah.
“You must tell me. Where is my baby?” She groped at the woman’s malaya. The gesture alerted the men and one of them stepped out of the mausoleum to where the women were confronting each other.
“Go away,” he said, making a shooing motion, as if he were dispersing chickens.
“Where is my baby?” Farrah cried. Nothing on earth would intimidate her now. The tic in the woman’s lip had spread to her chin, causing the lower part of her face to tremble.
“Please,” Farrah begged. “Tell me where she is.”
The man glared at her, picking up a rock.
“Go away,” the woman said. The man who held the rock projected menace.
“Get her the fuck out of here,” the man said, addressing both women.
“You must help me,” Farrah said.
“I can’t,” the woman said, her eyes furtive, heavy with fear as they danced nervously between the man with the rock and Farrah.
“There is no baby of yours here,” the man said. Farrah did not look at him, staring, her eyes misting.
“Go away. You make trouble, they will kill us all,” the woman said, moving closer to Farrah and stretching out her hand as if to restrain the man with the rock.
“I want my baby,” she whimpered, oblivious to threats and warnings. The children, some of them still in diapers, cowered in the mausoleum’s entrance like frightened animals.
“If you come here again, they will kill her. I know they will kill her,” the woman warned, her voice rising.
“I want my baby,” Farrah said. It became a mantra. Farrah fell to her knees and grabbed at the woman’s garment. The man shook his head, and spat into the dirt.
“If you value her life, go away,” the woman said. “What you see here is a farm for their business. You make trouble, they will kill her.”
The woman’s words hit Farrah like hammer blows. Watching the woman left no room for doubt. In the place where Zakki had taken her, she had seen the children’s fate with her own eyes.
“Please. Go away,” the woman cried. “You will be making trouble for all of us. Believe me, they will kill your baby.”
“Let me deal with this bitch,” the man cried, slamming his fist into Farrah’s face.
She fell backward. Then he lifted the rock and sneered at Farrah.
“I warned you, whore,” the man grunted.
“We don’t play games here,” he cried.
She watched his hands, the dirty fingers tightening on the rock. He stared at her as she rose. Her face ached from his blows.
“Go away, whore. Never return here.”
“But my baby,” she whimpered.
“Forget her.” He spat into the ground. “You’re lucky.”
“Lucky?”
“Your baby will live,” he said, observing her through narrowed eyes. The woman nodded.
Farrah rose to her knees. The man watched her impassively, and spat a bubble of saliva onto the dust then smiled ominously showing rotted teeth.
“You had better be gone,” he croaked, watching them from the mausoleum’s entrance.
“You must go,” the woman warned.
“Where have they taken her?” Farrah begged.
“Forget her,” the woman said. “I can do nothing to help you.”
Farrah managed to stand up. Her knees shook.
“Will they bring her back to you?” she asked, trying desperately to clear her mind.
“Only if they are sure you have gone,” the woman replied, bending and whispering in her ear. “Zakki said the message must be clear to you. If you ever try to contact her, if you ever show your face again, they will kill her. It is not an empty threat. They have done this before.”
“Kill her?” The words froze in her throat. “Kill my baby.”
Again, she tried to hold back the wave of hysteria, searching her mind for some thread of hope. Thompson, her savior, her protector, was dead. Her father was beyond reason, her mother, a virtual enemy. Farouk, the Vivantis… all had rejected her. Perhaps she should throw herself on Zakki’s mercy, become his harlot. They had stolen her daughter. She summoned up images of the children in the brothel. Her stomach churned.
Then she remembered Ezzat, Thompson’s friend.
“Will you remember this name?”
The woman shrugged. The man, who had gone back into the mausoleum, reappeared in the doorway.
“I warned you.” He came toward them.
“Dr. Ezzat. Cairo University. My name is Farrah. Can you remember that name?”
“Dr. Ezzat. Cairo University. But I can do nothing. Nothing.”
The man roughly gripped Farrah’s shoulders and threw her bodily into the back of the cart, like a lump of garbage. The old man stirred and whipped the rump of the donkey and the cart chugged forward.
Farrah lay inert in the cart, feeling its movement, hearing the squeaky wheels and the rhythmic clop of the donkey’s hooves. The sun was high, blazing. She let it burn her, welcoming the pain. Was it possible to will herself to die? She yearned for it, wished it. But the idea lost its impact suddenly. Would death, she wondered, shut out the memorie
s? How awful it would be if death wasn’t the end, after all.
Chapter Eighteen
Si lay naked on the bed, his face turned toward the wall. He sensed that she had been watching him for some time. Not wanting to embarrass her, he kept his eyes closed until he heard the squeak of the faucet and the splash of water in the corner sink. When he was certain that her back was turned, he discreetly pulled the sheet up to his waist.
“I must have been sleeping like a dead man,” he said. She lifted her dripping face from the bowl, then rubbed it dry with a threadbare towel. Her bruises were quite visible in the bright morning light, and she winced as the towel passed over the bruised side of her face.
“They did a job on you,” he said.
“I am a little sore here and there,” she said, showing a broad smile, which faded as she watched him. She squinted into the sun. “It is a good day to leave Cairo.”
“You leaving?” he asked, sitting up and cracking his knuckles. His sleep had been deep and his mind was just emerging from a dreamless murk.
She shook her head.
“You had better,” she said.
“I might,” he murmured. “If I finally understood what is going on.”
“What is there to understand?”
He observed her carefully, wondering how he could have been taken in by her masquerade. She was too delicate, too graceful, thoroughly female.
“Mysteries,” he said. He was being deliberately cryptic. He felt himself on the edge of some unknown universe, and it excited him. “I have to go back there,” he said.
“You’re crazy.”
He tossed the sheet aside, turned away from her, and pulled himself into his jeans.
“I’m sorry you got banged up over me,” he said. “You’re free to go.”
“It’s your life.” She shrugged, obviously frustrated with her inability to transmit the danger.
“One man’s meat is another man’s poison,” he said, sliding his T-shirt over his head. “At least I know I haven’t taken this trip for nothing.” Oddly, he had always been sure of that.