A flock of startled pigeons suddenly flew up from the roof, then settled busily into the cottonwoods that lined Virgins of Paradise Street. Shading her eyes, Amira looked up and saw someone silhouetted against the sun.
"It is Nefissa," Maryam said, also looking up. "What is your daughter doing on the roof?"
It was not the first time Amira had seen her twenty-year-old daughter up there between the grape arbor and whitewashed dovecote.
"Perhaps," Maryam said with a smile, "the daughter has been placed under the same spell as the mother. Hasn't Nefissa been acting like a girl in love lately? How romantic the Rasheed women are!" she added with a laugh. "Oh, young love, how well I remember it!"
It was possible her daughter had fallen in love, Amira conceded, but with whom? Widowed since her young husband was tragically killed in a racing-car accident, Nefissa had been living in the customary semi seclusion. Who then, Amira wondered, could she have met? What opportunity, in fact, had she had to make the acquaintance of a man? Perhaps he is a friend of the princess, someone Nefissa met at court, Amira decided, comforting herself with the image of a man of nobility, well established, from an old and respected family.
A man like Andreas Skouras...
"You know what you need?" Maryam said, as they neared the gazebo where Amira received her visitors. "You need to spend time away from this house. I remember when I first met you, Suleiman and I had only been married for a month and he brought me to his house here on Virgins of Paradise Street. Your Ibrahim was five years old and my Itzak had not yet been born. You invited me to tea, and I was so shocked to learn that you had never set foot outside your garden. Of course, a lot of wives lived like that then, but Amira, my sister, that was over twenty years ago, times are changing! The harem is outmoded, women go about the city on their own now. Come with me and Suleiman, we are going to vacation in Alexandria. The sea air will do you good."
But Amira had been to Alexandria one summer, when Ali Rasheed had taken his family to a villa on the Mediterranean. The move from the heat of Cairo to the cool ocean air of the northern coast had been a big and exciting event, with days of preparation that ended with the women, securely veiled, going directly from the house into the car and, when they arrived, hurrying from the car into the villa before the veils were removed. She had not liked Alexandria. From the balcony of their summer house she had seen, out in the harbor, the British warships and the American ocean liners, which, she suspected, brought dangerous ways to Egypt.
"The house and everyone in it," Maryam said, "will manage perfectly well while you are gone."
Amira smiled and thanked her for the invitation, but it was an old argument. Every year Maryam came up with new reasons why Amira should free herself from the old, restricting tradition, inventing lures and enticements, and each time Amira would say, as she said now, "There are only two occasions in a woman's life when she needs to go outside: when she leaves her father's house to go to her husband's, and when she leaves her husband's house in her coffin."
"Such talk! Coffins!" Maryam exclaimed. "You are still a young woman, Amira, and there is a wonderful world beyond this wall. Your husband is no longer here to keep you a prisoner in your house; you are a free woman."
But it was not Ali Rasheed who had made his wife a prisoner; Amira recalled the day he had said to her, "Amira, my wife, we live in changing times, and I am a progressive man. Women all over Egypt are discarding the veil, and they are leaving their homes. You have my permission to go about the city whenever you wish, and without your veil, so long as you are chaperoned."
Amira had thanked him, but had declined to be emancipated. Ali had been bewildered, as Maryam was now, wondering why a woman like Amira Rasheed, still young, in the prime of her health and vigor, should choose the severe restrictions that liberal Egyptian women had been fighting for years to abolish.
Amira knew that the root of her reluctance lay buried in the blank years of her childhood, a vague, haunting fear to which she could not put a name. Somewhere, she knew, among those lost memories of the time before her eighth birthday, lay the cause of her desire to remain cloistered. And until she recovered those memories and was able to get over her fears, she was content to stay within the safe walls of Virgins of Paradise Street.
"You have a visitor," Maryam said, as someone came through the gate.
From her place on the roof, where bees hummed among the grapevines and doves cooed under the eaves, Nefissa looked out over Cairo's golden domes and minarets at the sunlight sparkling on the Nile, and thought: this time, when he comes, I will go down and speak to him. I will!
From the roof of the Rasheed mansion, one could see the entire city, from the river to the Citadel, and, on clear moonlit nights glimpse the Pyramids, a ghostly collection of triangles in the far-off desert. But this afternoon, while the city dozed through the siesta, Nefissa focused her attention on the street beyond the high wall that surrounded her house and gardens. Each time a carriage rolled by, the horses' hooves clip-clopping on the pavement, she would lean over the parapet and wonder, Is this he, riding by? If a military vehicle turned onto Virgins of Paradise Street, her heart would skip a beat. She never knew when he would come, or if it would be on foot or by car. When she saw her mother and Maryam Misrahi in the garden below, she quickly stepped back, hoping they hadn't seen her. They would certainly not approve of what she was doing!
Nefissa had been widowed several months ago, just before her second baby was born. According to custom, she was required to lead a quiet and chaste life. But how could she, when she was only just twenty, and her husband had been a man she barely knew, a playboy who had loved nightclubs and the fast crowd, and who had been killed in a car accident? Nefissa knew that she had married a stranger, had lived with a stranger for three years, borne him two children, and now was expected to spend a year mourning him.
But she couldn't. Not now. She wanted to fall in love, and she was sure she was doing so.
The first time Nefissa had seen the stranger had been over a month ago. She had been idly watching the street through a small opening in the mashrabiya, the latticework screen that covered her window, when she had noticed a British officer walk by on the sidewalk below, and stop beneath a street lamp to light a cigarette. He had happened to look up; their eyes had met. It had seemed to be by accident, but when he lifted his eyes a second time, Nefissa knew it was not. She had sat frozen, holding her veil to her face so that only her eyes showed. And he had lingered beneath the lamppost longer than was necessary, an intrigued look on his face.
Since then, she had watched for him; he had come at different times, unexpectedly, to stand beneath the lamppost, light his cigarette, and watch her for a few forbidden moments through the smoke. Before he walked on, Nefissa was rewarded with a glimpse of his handsome face—he was blond and fair-skinned and more beautiful than any man she had ever seen.
Where did he live? Where did he walk to when he passed her house; where did he walk from? What was his job in the British army? What was his name, and what were his thoughts when he looked up at Nefissa's window, seeing eyes framed by a veil?
If he came today he wasn't going to see her at the window, she thought with a thrill. Today he was going to have a surprise.
As she watched for him, a daring plan evolving in her mind, she wondered what his thoughts were. Was he as amazed as she that the war in Europe was over at last? Had he and his fellow soldiers expected the fighting to go on for another twenty years, as all of Cairo had? Nefissa could hardly believe that there would be no more blackouts, no more bombing raids, no more hurrying out of bed in the middle of the night to huddle in the air-raid shelter Ibrahim had built within the walls of the estate, it being unthinkable that the women of his family should go to a public one. Did those enchanting English eyes hide the fear that, now the war was over, anti-British sentiment was going to gain momentum in Cairo, and that Egyptians would call for the withdrawal of the English who had occupied Egypt for so long?
But she wasn't going to worry about consequences; she cared only about taking chances. Today she was not going to sit at the window with a veil over her face; today she was going to make a bold move.
As she watched the street, Nefissa hugged herself joyfully. She had finally learned something about her officer.
The previous afternoon she had gone shopping with King Farouk's sister, who was her friend, and after they had visited Cairo's fashionable shops, along with the princess's usual entourage and bodyguards, they had gone to Groppi's for tea. The entire shop had been cleared of customers so that the royal group could enjoy privacy, and while they sat over tea and pastries, Nefissa happened to glance out toward the street and see two British officers walk by, wearing the same uniform as "her" officer. A casual enquiry among her companions—"What sort of officers are they?"—had told her his rank. It wasn't much, she still didn't know his name, but it was more than she had known yesterday.
He was a lieutenant. He was Lieutenant So-and-So, and his men would address him as "Sir."
She continued to watch the street, looking out over the tops of the tamarind and casuarina trees that grew in the garden below, praying that he would come. It was such a beautiful day, surely he would go for a walk! The neighboring mansions, hidden behind their own high walls and stands of flowering trees, were washed in warm sunshine; the perfume of orange blossoms was carried on the Nile breeze; and only the songs of birds, the tinkling of fountains, disturbed the silence. Yearning for romance, Nefissa thought how appropriate it was that the street where she lived should possess a legend deeply rooted in sexual passion.
According to the story, centuries ago a sect of holy men had come out of Arabia. They had roamed the deserts and countryside completely naked, and wherever they went, women flocked to them, because it was believed that having sexual intercourse with them, or even just touching them, cured wives of barrenness, and assured virgins of finding virile husbands. In the fifteenth century one of these holy men had visited a palm grove on the outskirts of Cairo, where he was said to have blessed a hundred women in just three days, after which he died. Witnesses at the scene declared that Allah's dark-eyed virgins, whom the Koran promises to male Believers as their heavenly reward, came down from the sky and lifted the holy man bodily up to paradise. Thus the palm grove became known as "the place of the virgins of paradise." Four hundred years later, when the British, who, in their role of "protectors," were occupying Egypt, built their mansions in a newly created district in Cairo called Garden City, they retained this bit of local history by naming one small, crescent-shaped street Virgins of Paradise Street. And it was here that Ali Rasheed Pasha had built his rose-colored mansion, surrounding it with a lush garden and a high wall to protect his women, covering the windows with mashrabiya screens so that his wives and sisters could look out without being seen. He filled the house with lavish furniture and precious objects, and over the front door he placed a sign carved in polished wood that read, "O you who enter this house, give praise to the chosen prophet." When Ali Rasheed Pasha died on the eve of World War II, he left behind a widow, Amira, who had been his youngest wife; a son, Dr. Ibrahim; the daughters of his previous wives; and assorted other female relatives and their children. And Nefissa, his last child, who now dreamed of love.
She saw a visitor come through the garden gate below. Friends frequently visited her mother during siesta, and strangers also, women who had heard of Amira's knowledge of medicines and who came seeking advice or amulets or remedies. Nefissa found their requests fascinating—often they came for love potions or aphrodisiacs; contraceptives or medicines for menstrual problems; aids in fertility for the barren woman or impotent husband.
Nefissa sometimes joined her mother and her guests, as did the other Rasheed women and young girls and children who lived at Virgins of Paradise Street. But today Nefissa wasn't going to take part. If her lieutenant came, she was going to go down to the garden. And she had in mind a daring surprise for him.
Amira and Maryam sat in the gazebo, an exquisite work of wrought iron crafted to resemble an elaborate birdcage, covered with filigree and lacy ironwork, its top shaped like the dome of the Mohammed Ali mosque, freshly painted white each spring so that it shimmered in the sun. But the gazebo possessed one flaw: the design around the entrance was asymmetrical. The imperfection was intentional; Muslim artists always included a flaw in their work, believing that only God could create something perfect.
A servant approached the gazebo and said, "A visitor has come to see you, mistress."
A woman Amira had never seen before appeared; she was well dressed, with leather shoes matching her handbag, her hat a European import with a net covering her eyes—clearly a woman of substance.
"May your day be prosperous, Sayyida," the woman said, using the respectful form of address that meant "Lady." "I am Mrs. Safeya Rageb."
Although a woman's status was usually determined by the expensiveness of her clothes, the refined way she spoke Arabic, the number of servants in her household, and her husband's status, even more important was the way she was addressed, as Amira's visitor had been quick to establish. "Mrs." earned the respect of the married woman. But Amira noticed that she had not introduced herself as Um, "Mother," followed by a son's name, for the highest respect went to the mother of a son—Um Ibrahim being more highly regarded than Um Nefissa.
"May your day be prosperous and blessed, Mrs. Safeya. Please sit down," Amira said, as she poured tea. She then commented upon the weather, the fine crop of oranges, and offered Mrs. Rageb a cigarette. The woman accepted, observing ritual good manners because for a visitor to get straight to the point of her visit would give offense, and for a hostess to ask why a guest had come would be rude. But Amira had noticed the curious amulet made of blue stone that hung on a thin gold chain around her visitor's neck. As blue was the traditional color for warding off the evil eye, Amira thought: She is frightened.
"Forgive me, Sayyida," Safeya Rageb finally said, barely hiding her nervousness. "I came to your house because I had heard that you are a sheikha, that you have wonderful knowledge and wisdom. They say that you can cure every ailment."
"Every ailment," Amira said with a smile, "except the one by which a person is destined to die."
"But I had not known of your recent bereavement."
"Necessity has its own laws. How can I help you?"
Safeya Rageb glanced at Maryam, distress so apparent in her posture and troubled eyes that Amira rose and said, "Maryam, please pardon us. Mrs. Safeya, will you walk with me?"
Nefissa made her way along the garden wall, glancing back toward the gazebo to be certain she wasn't seen. There were two gates in the wall: the pedestrian gate, which was open, and the large double gate across the drive that led to the carriage house in the rear. It was to the latter Nefissa now hurried, pressing close and peering through a crack. She held her breath—what if he didn't come?
But he was there!
He had come, and his eyes were fixed on the upper windows. Nefissa felt her heart race. Now was her chance, before he walked away. Yet she had to make sure no one saw her.
She had thought first she would throw a note to him, telling him her name, asking who he was. But then she had thought, What if he doesn't see it, and a neighbor finds it instead? She had considered something of a personal nature, a glove perhaps, or a scarf. But again, if he wasn't able to pick it up and someone else did, mightn't they recognize it as hers? Nefissa had agonized over this all morning until it had finally come to her. And now—
She froze.
Her mother's voice
! Somewhere nearby, and coming closer! Nefissa quickly hid behind a bush. What if he left? What if he thought she had lost interest? Oh, Mother, what are you doing here now? Walk faster, Mother! Walk faster! Go away! She scarcely breathed as she watched Amira stroll by on the stone path, a woman at her side Nefissa had never seen before. They were talking in low tones, and Amira seemed not to have noticed her daughter hiding in the bushes. When they had finally disappeared among the tangerine trees, Nefissa returned to the crack in the gate and looked out. He was still there!
Quickly plucking a scarlet hibiscus flower, she tossed it over the wall and held her breath.
He didn't see it!
A military truck rolled by just then, its great dusty tires nearly crushing the flower. But after it passed, she saw him go into the street and pick up the flower. He searched the garden wall until his eye fell upon the gate, at the very place where she stood. She had never seen him this close: his eyes were the color of pale blue opal, there was a mole on his left jaw—so handsome! And then he did an astonishing thing: with those extraordinary eyes still fixed on hers, he lifted the flower to his lips and kissed it.
Nefissa thought she would faint.
To feel those lips, those arms around her! Surely they were destined to do more than stare at each other over a wall. But how could they meet?
A pang of fear shook her. How would he react when he learned she had been married and had two children? Widows and divorced women were not prized as brides among Egyptian men, sexually experienced women were considered poor wife material because they had known another man's lovemaking and comparisons would surely arise between the new spouse and the old. Were English men like that too? She wondered. Nefissa knew very little about the fair-skinned race that had occupied Egypt for nearly a century, supposedly as "protectors," but really, as some claimed, as imperialists. Did they, too, place a high price on virginity? Would her handsome lieutenant find her less attractive once he knew the truth about her?
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