Amira drew comfort from prayer, and she had raised her family to believe in the power of worship. The women in the Rasheed house were required to go through the ritual five times a day—when the muezzin called: just before dawn, a little past noon, in the afternoon, just after sunset, and in the dark of night. They never prayed exactly at dawn or noon or sunset, because those were the times when pagans had worshiped the sun.
After her prayers Amira felt once again spiritually refreshed and empowered, with fewer doubts, less fear for the future. God will provide, she reassured herself, and as she prepared to go down to the kitchen to give the cook instructions, she suddenly felt God illuminate her heart, and in an instant she saw what she had to do.
Find a new wife for Ibrahim, a husband for Nefissa.
And then perhaps, God willing, she would consider Mr. Skouras's marriage proposal.
FOUR
A
S THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD SAHRA MILKED THE BUFFALO, leaning against the great warm body and pressing her face into the coarse hide, she experienced a brief moment of peace. For a spell, at least, she forgot the pain and bruises from the beatings her father had given her; she forgot her misery and the terrible marriage she was being forced into.
Tomorrow she would be wed to Sheikh Hamid.
A muffled sob caught in her throat. "Old buffalo," she cried, "what am I going to do?"
Sahra had seen Abdu only once in the two weeks since she had helped the stranger pull his car out of the canal; when she had told him the news of her betrothal to Hamid, he had been shocked, then angered. "We are cousins! We should marry!"
"You will work in Hamid's shop," her mother had said excitedly. "You will talk to customers and take money and make change. You will be very important, Sahra!" But Sahra had seen the sorrow behind her mother's eyes, and understood that she was trying to play up the only good she could see in her daughter's future. To run a shop was prestigious, and Sahra would have welcomed it, but everyone knew that Hamid didn't have even one servant; as well as working all day at the shop while her husband sat in Hadj Farid's cafe playing backgammon, Sahra would also have to take care of his house, his cooking, his laundry.
She knew why her father had agreed to the match. He had gone into debt for her sister's wedding feast; Sahra's parents were now among the poorest families in the village. She knew there would be no new dress for her on the Prophet's birthday.
Stepping out of the small stable, she looked at the green fields veiled in the early-morning mist. As the sun broke over the mud rooftops, the water in the canal seemed almost luminous. The village began to stir; smoke from cooking fires and the aromas of hot bread and fried beans started to fill the air; and the muezzin called through the loudspeaker of the mosque: "Prayer is better than sleep."
Sahra watched for Abdu. Since she had told him the bad news, she had not seen him again, either around the village or in his field. Where had he gone? She saw someone walking along the canal, tall and broad-shouldered, his feet stirring the ground fog into misty tendrils. Abdu! She ran to him, but when she saw that he was wearing his one good galabeya and carrying a bundle, she became alarmed.
He regarded her for a long moment with his Nile-green eyes, then said, "I'm going away, Sahra. I have decided to join the Brotherhood. Since I cannot have you, then I will have no woman, but will dedicate myself to bringing our country back to God and Islam. Marry Sheikh Hamid, Sahra, he is old, he will die soon. And then you will inherit the shop and the radio, and everyone in the village will respect you and call you Sheikha."
Her chin quivered. "Where will you go?"
"To Cairo. There is a man there who will help me. I haven't any money, so I will walk, but I have food with me."
"I will give you the scarf," she said in a tight voice. Because the white silk scarf the stranger had given her would fetch a good price, Sahra wore it hidden beneath her dress, for fear her father would sell it. "You can get money for it."
But Abdu said, "Keep it, Sahra. Wear it at your wedding."
When she started to cry, he drew her into his arms, and the feel of each other's touch, the heat and firm flesh they sensed under their clothes, shocked them both. "Oh Sahra!" he murmured.
"Don't leave me, Abdu! I shall die without you!"
He held her at arm's length and felt her tremble as he said, "Think of our love, Sahra, and be a good wife. Bring honor to us both." And then he set off, toward the north. But when he had gone a few yards along the canal, she cried after him, "My soul goes with you, Abdu. You take my spirit, my breath, my tears. Sheikh Hamid will have nothing but this empty flesh."
Abdu turned. And then he ran to her and she flew into his arms. A pair of startled plovers, nesting in the reeds, darted up, screeching. They both gasped as Sahra's hair suddenly tumbled to her shoulders. Drawing her close, he felt such power surge through him that he knew his entire life had been lived for this moment, that his body had been created to touch Sahra's. His mouth sought hers, his fingers became entangled in her hair. He pressed his face into her neck and smelled Egypt—the fertile Nile, hot bread, musky buffalo, and Sahra's own young, virginal scent.
They sank to the damp ground, the succulent green shoots making a soft bed, the mist swirling gently around them. Abdu spread his body over Sahra's, felt her engulf him with a soft embrace, and as he drew up her dress and touched a firm, naked thigh, he wanted to shout, "Allah! Sahra is my wife, my soul."
At sunset, Sahra and her mother went down to the Nile to join the other village women, who were collecting water, pounding clothes with bars of soap, and washing their arms and legs, making certain that no men were around to see. They filled their water jars and gossiped, while children laughed and splashed at the river's edge, darting around the buffalo standing in the water.
"Tomorrow is the big day, Um Hussein!" the women called to Sahra's mother. "Another wedding! We have not eaten for a week in preparation!"
Sahra's friends, girls like herself who had just entered the frightening world of womanhood, giggled and blushed and made sly comments about how well she was going to sleep the next night. "Sheikh Hamid is insatiable," said one of them, not quite sure what "insatiable" meant, simply echoing the women's bawdy comments. "You have your job cut out for you!"
The women laughed, dipped their jars into the dirty river water and swung them up onto their heads. "Keep Hamid hungry, Sahra, and he will come home to you every night!"
"I know how to get my husband to come home to me every night," boasted Um Hakim. "He used to come in after midnight, and I got tired of it. So whenever he came in late, I would call out, 'Is that you, Ahmed?'"
"And that cured him?" the others asked.
"It did! My husband's name is Gamal!"
The women laughed as they headed back along the path to the village, the children scampering after them, the older ones leading the tethered buffalo. As the dying sun turned the river orange and red, Sahra and her mother were left alone by the water; finally her mother said, "You're very quiet, daughter of my heart. What's wrong?"
"I don't want to marry Sheikh Hamid."
"Such a foolish thing to say! No girl chooses her husband. The day I married your father was the first day I had ever set eyes on him. He terrified me, but I got used to him. At least you know the sheikh."
"I don't love him."
"Love! What a silly notion, Sahra! A mischievous jinni has placed that idea in your empty head! Obedience and respect are what you must hope for in a marriage."
"Why can't I marry Abdu?"
"Because he is poor—as poor as we are. And Sheikh Hamid is the richest man in the village. You will have shoes, Sahra! And perhaps a gold bracelet! He is paying for the wedding, don't forget. He is a generous man, and he will be good to us when you are his wife. You must think of your family before yourself."
Sahra dropped her water jug and started to cry. "A terrible thing has happened!"
Her mother froze. She took Sahra by the shoulders. "What are you talking about? Sahra,
what have you done?"
But she already knew. It was what she had feared ever since her daughter had begun her monthly cycle. She had seen how Sahra and Abdu looked at each other, big-eyed, like two calves; she had lain awake at night, fearful that she might not be able to protect her youngest daughter until she was safely married. And now her worst nightmare had come true.
"Is it Abdu?" she asked quietly. "Have you lain with him? Has he taken your virginity?"
Sahra nodded and her mother closed her eyes and murmured, "Inshallah, it is God's will." Drawing her daughter into her arms, she recited from the Koran: "The Lord creates, then measures, then guides. Every small and great thing that we do is already recorded in God's books. It is His will." In a tremulous voice she added, "He sends whom He will astray, and He guides whom He will."
She dried Sahra's tears. "You cannot stay here any more, daughter of my heart. You must go away. Your father and uncles will kill you if they find out what you have done. Sheikh Hamid will find no blood of virginity tomorrow night, and they will know that you have dishonored us. You must save yourself, Sahra. God is compassionate, He will take care of you."
The girl swallowed back her tears and regarded the mother she loved, who had taught her and guided her.
"Wait here," her mother said. "Don't come home with me. I will come back after your father has eaten. I have a bracelet and a ring, your father's wedding gifts to me, and the veil Auntie Alya left to me. You can sell them, Sahra. I'll bring food and my shawl. Don't let anyone see you, don't tell anyone where you are going. You will not be able to come back to the village."
Sahra thought of the rich man's scarf, which she had tied around her waist beneath her dress. She would sell that, too. Then she turned away from her mother and looked at the river; a few miles downstream a bridge led into the city. It was the way Abdu had gone. She would follow.
FIVE
N
EFISSA STEPPED DOWN FROM HER CARRIAGE, HASTILY drew her veil over the lower half of her face, and joined the pedestrians thronging through the ancient Bab Zuweila Gate. Because she was wrapped from head to foot in a black melaya—a large rectangle of black silk covering even her hands—she was indistinguishable from the peasants who inhabited this part of Cairo; hurrying past the tentmakers' shops and under the gate that for centuries had been the site of bloody executions, she indeed entered another, older era. In the narrow alleys of old Cairo, away from the fashionable streets, many women wore the melaya over their chic European dresses. Ostensibly meant to conceal the form underneath, the melaya was more often used by younger women for its seductive potential. Draped over the head and shoulders and flowing to the ankles, the lower end was gathered up, pulled tightly around hips and buttocks, and draped over one arm, the result being more form-revealing than concealing. As the material was generally light, it required constant rearranging and adjusting, gestures some women had turned into a skillfully provocative art.
Nefissa didn't pause at the stalls, where everything from vegetables to prayer mats were sold, nor did she glance into dark doorways, where artisans worked at centuries-old crafts; she walked purposefully toward a plain door in an unmarked stone wall. She knocked; the door swung open and she slipped inside.
A female attendant in a long robe accepted a pound note, then led her along a dimly lit corridor whose marble walls were damp, the air filled with a heady mixture of perfume, steam, sweat, and chlorine. Nefissa was taken first to a room in which she removed all her clothes, giving them to another attendant and receiving in return a large, thick towel and a pair of rubber thongs. She then entered an enormous chamber with marble pillars and skylights that admitted a diffuse sunshine, which softly illuminated female bathers and masseuses; attendants walked around with glasses of cold mint tea and bowls of freshly peeled fruit. A large pool with a fountain in the center dominated the room, filled with women wading or floating, laughing and gossiping, or washing their hair, some modestly wrapped in towels, others unabashedly naked. Nefissa recognized a few regulars; other women were here for the ritual bath required after menstruation; still more were taking advantage of the healthful perfumed inhalants and herbal soaks. A wedding party, a common sight in the baths, was also in progress: the bride's female relatives were preparing the bride-to-be, waxing her body to remove all hair.
But Nefissa was here for none of these reasons. Her visit to the baths was for an illicit and forbidden purpose.
This hammam was one of hundreds in Cairo; it dated back a thousand years, and had a colorful history. Legend had it that, a hundred years ago, an American journalist, wanting to know what really went on in the women's baths, had disguised himself as a woman and gained entry. When his deception was discovered, the outraged females had seized and castrated him. But he survived, and lived to a comfortable old age, during which he wrote his memoirs, with only a brief mention of the Cairo bath-house incident: "The women were all naked, and when they discovered I was a man, they immediately covered their faces, unconcerned about exposing their other charms."
Nefissa was taken into a room where female attendants were busily at work at massage tables, cracking bones and kneading flesh. Removing her towel and stretching out on her stomach, Nefissa tried to relax and deliver herself into the care of the masseuse's strong fingers. But she was not here for a massage, nor a bath, nor any of the numerous cures the hammam offered. Nefissa was here to meet her English lieutenant, and closing her eyes, she prayed that today was the day he would finally come.
In the months since she had thrown the hibiscus over the wall, she had seen the lieutenant only sporadically. His schedule had grown erratic; she wouldn't see him for two or three weeks at a time, and then suddenly he would appear, walking down Virgins of Paradise Street. But one night, as a yellow autumn moon hung over Cairo, Nefissa happened to look out her window and see him there, at the foot of the streetlamp, watching her house. She had expected him to walk on, but he had held something up to the street lamp, then, spotting a beggar girl nearby, had said something to her, pointed to the pedestrian gate in the Rasheeds' garden wall, and handed her the object and some coins. Then he had looked up at Nefissa and tapped his watch, indicating he had to leave. And before he did, he blew her a kiss.
Nefissa had run down and opened the garden gate; there was the beggar girl, holding out an envelope. Nefissa was momentarily stunned; Cairo's wretched poor were rarely seen in this wealthy district, let alone a fellaha barely into womanhood, trying to hide her pregnancy beneath a shawl. Nefissa took the envelope the girl held out, then said, "Wait." She ran back into the house and down to the kitchen where, startling the cook, she took bread, cold lamb, apples, and cheese, and wrapped them all in a clean dishcloth. On the way out she stopped at the downstairs linen cupboard and pulled out a heavy wool blanket. Giving these and some coins to the startled girl, she said, "God be with you," and closed the gate.
Nefissa couldn't wait to open the envelope. She ran down to the gazebo, glittering in the moonlight like a cage of spun silver. The letter was one sentence long: "When can we meet?" That was all. A plain sheet of paper with no names, nothing to incriminate him or get her into trouble if it should fall into the wrong hands, but it filled her with rapture.
Nefissa had gone nearly mad trying to come up with a way to arrange a meeting, for she rarely left the house alone; when she went shopping or to the movies her mother insisted it should be in the company of one of her many cousins and aunts. And then it had come to her. She had heard one of Princess Faiza's ladies-in-waiting remark on the wonderful curative qualities of a certain public bath. It was then that Nefissa's "headaches" had started. She first had to suffer her mother's homemade remedies, but finally she was able to wonder out loud if the baths would help. Her first visits had been with a cousin, but they had found the daily visits boring, and since then Nefissa had managed to come alone.
And that was when she had written a note: "My dear Faiza, I am suffering from headaches and have undertaken a cure at the baths by t
he Bab Zuweila Gate. I arrive every day shortly after the midday prayer, and spend an hour. I believe you would find the benefits most healthful, and I would certainly welcome your company." She had signed it and addressed the envelope to "Her Royal Highness, Faiza." She had then secretly given it to the beggar girl who was now often glimpsed around their gate, and instructed her to pass it along to the soldier the next time he came. Of what would happen should he decide to follow her and meet her outside the baths, Nefissa had no idea. They certainly could not be seen in the street together; she knew any onlookers would assume the English soldier was accosting a respectable Muslim woman—he wouldn't make it out of the street alive. Any meeting they risked, no matter how carefully planned, would be dangerous. But danger only enhanced the drama of their romance. Nefissa was young and desperately infatuated. But now she was beginning to worry. She had come to the baths nearly every day, and he had not yet appeared. Was he no longer in Egypt? Had he been sent back to England?
And then a new and more fearful thought came to her. What if he had found out the truth about her? Perhaps after he read the note he had made inquiries and been told: "Her name is Nefissa, a friend of Princess Faiza." And had also been told she was a widow with children. That was it! And now he was never coming back!
After being massaged with rose, almond and violet oil—reportedly Cleopatra's own beauty secret—Nefissa concluded her visit with the treatment by which many Egyptian women keep themselves beautiful and desirable. The bath attendant produced a jar of red powder and spread it on Nefissa's forehead; a moment later she carefully tweezed out all Nefissa's eyebrows, which would later be painted in. Then came the halawa, lemon juice boiled with sugar until it had a sticky consistency; applied to the skin and then pulled off, it took with it the excess hair the Egyptians considered unsightly, and was a painful but effective depilatory. Nefissa then slipped into a perfumed bath to remove any residual stickiness, emerging as smooth and hairless as marble.
Virgins of Paradise Page 6