She dressed and emerged into the sunshine, cleansed and refreshed, and as she looked up and down the street before returning to her carriage, she suddenly froze. There he was! He was leaning against a Land Rover parked underneath the Bab Zuweila archway.
Nefissa almost didn't recognize him, because he wasn't in uniform. With a thumping heart she started to walk; for an instant their eyes met, then she hurried on. Once inside her carriage, she asked the driver to walk down the street and buy her a bag of roasted pumpkin seeds, an errand he wouldn't find odd and which she estimated would take him ten minutes. The instant the driver left, her lieutenant was there. He gave her a questioning look through the window, and she moved over to let him get in.
As life ebbed and flowed all around them, the street noisy with people and cars and animals, the two sat in a microcosm that held room for no one but themselves. Nefissa took in every detail of him, this phantom lover from beneath the lamppost, who had visited her bed every night in her dreams. They stared at each other, their fragrances mingling, his aftershave with her roses and violets. She saw a dark fleck floating in one of his light-blue eyes. A thousand questions stood on her lips.
Finally he said, in English and in a voice more compelling than she had even imagined, "I can't believe I am truly here. And that you are here with me. I thought I must have dreamed you."
Her heart pounded as he reached up hesitantly to draw away her veil. When she didn't protest, he pulled it aside. "My God, you are beautiful." His words stunned Nefissa. She felt naked, as if he had completely undressed her, but neither shamed nor embarrassed, just burning with desire. There was so much she wanted to say to him, all the things in her heart. And then she was horrified to hear herself say abruptly: "I was married. I am a widow. I have two children." Best to get it out now, she told herself, let him reject me at once, before things go any further.
But he smiled and said, "I know. I'm told they're as beautiful as their mother."
She couldn't speak, she was so excited.
"I live not far from you," he said, in his cultured British voice. "On the next street over, at the Residence, but I'm headquartered at the Citadel. They've been moving us about quite a lot lately. I was afraid you might forget me."
Nefissa was terrified, dizzy, certain that she must be dreaming. "I thought you might have gone away for good," she said haltingly, amazed at how easily she could speak to him. "That awful business when the students marched on the British barracks. So many killed and wounded! I feared for you, and I prayed for you."
"I'm afraid the situation will only get worse. That's why I didn't wear uniform today. Can we meet somewhere in private? Just to talk," he added quickly, "or for tea or coffee. I can't stop thinking about you. And now that you're actually here, just inches from me—"
"My driver will be back soon."
"Can you arrange for us to meet again? I don't want to get you into trouble, but I must see you."
"Princess Faiza is my friend, she will help us."
"Is it permitted to give you a gift? I've been stationed in Cairo for a while, but I only know a few of your customs. I wouldn't give you anything so intimate as jewelry or perfume. I don't want to offend you. But I was hoping that this would be all right. It belonged to my mother—"
He handed her a handkerchief of fine linen, edged in lace and embroidered with small blue forget-me-nots. Nefissa held it in her hand; it was still warm from his pocket.
"This is very difficult for me," he said quietly. "To be this near to you and yet—I don't know what to say, what I'm allowed to say. The screened window you sometimes sit behind, this veil that covers your face. I want to touch you, to kiss you."
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes. Perhaps the princess will help. Or perhaps I can arrange for somewhere where we can be alone. I'll send a note to you, through the girl who is often at our gate."
They looked at each other for a moment, then he touched her cheek, and said, "Until then, my beautiful Nefissa," and was out of the carriage and disappearing into the crowd before she realized he hadn't told her his name.
Maryam Misrahi was telling a story: "Farid took his son to the market one day to buy a sheep. Now, everyone knows that the price of the sheep is determined by how much fat is stored in its tail, and so as Farid was feeling the tails of many sheep, weighing them, squeezing them, his son asked, 'Father, why are you doing that?' Farid replied, 'It is done to decide which sheep to buy.' A few days later, when Farid came home from work, his son ran to him and said, 'Father! Sheikh Gama was here today! I think he wants to buy Mama!'"
The women laughed, and the musicians, hidden behind a screen because they were men, also laughed. Then they struck up another lively song.
The party was being held in the grand salon of Amira's house. Brass lamps cast intricate patterns of light on the beautifully dressed women, who were sitting on low divans and silk cushions as they helped themselves to food set out on tables inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Turkish carpets on the floor and rich tapestries on the walls kept out the cold December night; the room rang with laughter and warmth and music.
Servants brought out platters of fragrantly spiced meatballs, eggs in their shells cooked in a rich lamb stew, great dishes of fresh fruit and the rose-petal jam for which Amira was famous, all accompanied by the sweet, viscous mint tea so beloved of the Egyptians.
The party was being held for no other purpose than to celebrate for celebration's sake, and Amira's guests, over sixty of them, wore their best clothes and jewelry; the scent of winter roses mingled with exotic incense and expensive perfume. Because of the sudden demand in the Far East for cotton, and the need for wheat and corn in a food-rationed Europe, Egypt was experiencing a postwar economic boom, and Amira's guests, whose husbands were enjoying unparalleled prosperity, advertised their wealth in the customary fashion; Amira, too, wore the diamonds and gold her husband Ali had so generously given her.
"Ya Amira!" a woman called from across the room, "Where does your cook buy her chickens?"
Before Amira could reply, Maryam shot back, "Not that crook Abu Ahmed on Kasr El-Aini Street! Everyone knows he stuffs his chickens with corn before he kills them so they will weigh more!"
"Urn Ibrahim, listen to me," said a middle-aged woman wearing numerous gold bracelets on each wrist. Her husband owned ten thousand acres of rich delta farmland, and was very rich. "I know this excellent man, very clean, educated, a wealthy widower, very pious. He has expressed great interest in marrying you."
Amira merely laughed; her friends were always trying to play matchmaker. They didn't know about Andreas Skouras, whose handsome countenance now came to her mind. Since the afternoon of his marriage proposal, he had come to the house three more times, had telephoned often, and had sent bouquets of flowers and boxes of imported chocolates. He was a patient man, he had assured her, he would not press her for an answer. But each night, as she continued to dream of his embraces and kisses, Amira felt her resistance wear down.
"And what do you hear from your son?" asked another guest, the wife of the curator of the Egyptian Museum.
At the mention of her son, Amira was reminded of another dream she had had just the night before, in which she had seen herself walking through the men's side of the house, down dark and silent corridors, carrying an oil lamp. When she reached her husband's apartment, which was now occupied by Ibrahim, she had opened a door and seen a room full of evil jinns cavorting among cobwebs and long-neglected furniture. What had the dream meant? Had it been a vision of the future, or only of what the future might be?
"My son is still in Monaco," she said to the curator's wife. "But I recently received word from him that he is ready to come home, God be praised."
Amira had thought she would faint with joy when the telephone call came. In the nearly seven months that Ibrahim had been away, she had heard from him rarely. She prayed every night that God would ease his pain and bring him home where he belonged. She had found the perfect bride for him: eighteen years ol
d, quiet and obedient, neat and clean. And a relative, too, the granddaughter of Ali Rasheed's cousin.
However, Amira had so far not been as successful at finding a husband for her daughter. Nefissa was not a virgin: it was going to be more difficult to marry her off. Still, the girl was beautiful—and she was rich, which helped; a man might overlook the drawback of sexual experience, providing a woman brought property into the marriage.
Amira glanced at Nefissa, who was sitting on a divan along the far wall nursing her three-year-old son, while two babies played at her feet: Nefissa's own eight-month-old daughter, small and gentle, and Ibrahim's motherless Camelia, an exotic-looking olive-skinned child, with honey-brown eyes, robust at seven months despite the ordeal of her birth. Amira assessed Nefissa's distracted manner, the restlessness that seemed to emanate from her, and sensed once again that Nefissa was yearning for romance.
When Amira thought of Andreas Skouras again, her own secret passion, she empathized with her daughter. It was a wonderful feeling to be in love, but she didn't want Nefissa to be hurt. Hadn't love for the wrong man been at the root of her other daughter's, Fatima's, disgrace?
The musicians struck up a popular melody called "Moonbeam, Moonbeam," and one of Amira's guests suddenly got up to dance. She kicked off her shoes and moved to the center of the floor, as everyone began to sing to the music. The lyrics were erotic, like most Egyptian songs, speaking of lingering kisses and forbidden caresses. As little girls and young virgins they had learned to sing such songs, chanting them in gardens and on playground swings, "Kiss me, kiss me, O Beloved. Lie with me until daybreak. Bring warmth to my bed and heat to my breast..." The words meant nothing to them at that age.
The dancer sat down after just a few minutes, and another woman got up. She wore high heels and one of the new Dior suits everyone was talking about, and she closed her eyes and flung her arms out, while the women merrily sang of virility. When she made an especially graceful turn, some gave her the zaghareet of approval, and when she sat down, another immediately took the floor. This kind of dancing, known as beledi, always formed an integral part of women's gatherings, released pent-up emotions, and expressed secret, forbidden yearnings; because such dancing was a very personal expression, the dancers were not judged or compared to one another. This was not a competition; no one was better than her neighbor, and no matter how poor or unskilled a dancer, she was never criticized; every dancer received only encouragement and praise from her companions.
When Amira impulsively took the floor, taking off her shoes and rising up on her toes, the women shouted. Wearing a tight black skirt and black silk blouse, she moved her hips with astonishing skill, first in a rapid shimmy and then, her hips still vibrating, in a slow figure-of-eight. She beckoned to Maryam Misrahi, who got up, removed her shoes, and joined Amira. The two friends had danced together since they had been young brides, and they perfectly complemented each other's movements; soon the entire party was filling the air with deafening zaghareets.
Amira felt her spirits soar. Beledi dancing—"belly dancing" as the tourists called it—released the soul and produced a giddiness some likened to the euphoria of hashish. She saw the same joy mirrored in Maryam, who had recently celebrated her forty-third birthday, one week after that of her oldest son, who was, Amira knew, the secret Maryam had kept from her husband, Suleiman.
Maryam had been married once before, briefly, when she was eighteen, but her young husband and baby had died in an influenza epidemic that had swept Cairo, and she had been alone and grieving when she had met the handsome Suleiman Misrahi, a wealthy importer, and fallen instantly in love. The Misrahis were one of the oldest Jewish families in Egypt, and when Suleiman brought his young bride to the family house on Virgins of Paradise Street, he had prayed to God for many children.
But a year went by, and then another, and finally a third until Maryam was beside herself with worry. She went to doctors, and was told there was no reason she should not have more children. So she knew the problem lay with Suleiman, but such knowledge, she was certain, would destroy him. She had expressed her anxiety to her friend, Amira Rasheed, who had already given birth to Ibrahim and Fatima, and Amira had said, "God will provide."
But it was an idea that had come to Amira in a dream that had ultimately provided the solution.
She had been visited in her sleep by the face of Moussa, Suleiman's brother, and it had struck her that they so strongly resembled each other that they might be twins. After Amira told her friend about the vision, it had taken Maryam weeks to get up the courage to go to Moussa, but when she finally did, he had listened to her story with surprising compassion. He, too, had thought that Suleiman's learning of his impotence would devastate him. And so they had devised their plan.
Maryam had secretly visited Moussa, sleeping with him until she knew she was pregnant. When the child was born, Suleiman believed it to be his. Two years later, she went back to Moussa, and the daughter of that reunion was again the image of Suleiman. Five children ultimately blessed the house of Suleiman Misrahi on Virgins of Paradise Street, and when Moussa moved to Paris, Maryam told Suleiman that a doctor had advised her to bear no more children. To this day, only she, Amira, and the far-off Moussa knew Maryam's secret.
When Amira returned to the divan, laughing breathlessly, a servant approached, quietly informing her that a visitor was asking to see her—a man.
Amira went out into the hall and was not surprised to see Andreas Skouras; she had hoped he would visit her soon. He had been so much on her mind lately that she wondered if it was a sign that she was indeed going to marry him.
"Welcome," she said, "and God's peace upon you. Please come in and enjoy my hospitality, such as it is."
"I have come to say good-bye, Sayyida."
"Good-bye!"
"As you know, His Majesty changed his cabinet last month. I am no longer minister of culture. While it might appear that I am the victim of politics, perhaps this is God's blessing in disguise. I have for some time now owned title to several hotels in Europe, left to me by an uncle I barely knew. And now that Europe is being rebuilt, there is promise of a new prosperity. Tourists will come, they will need a place to stay. I am leaving for Rome in the morning, Sayyida, and from there I shall go to Athens, the birthplace of my family. I don't think I shall be coming back to Cairo again soon."
He took her hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it.
"I don't know what to say, Mr. Skouras. I am saddened by this news, but happy for you also, in your new endeavor, and I pray that God will bless you and give you success. But tell me, please, would you have still made this decision if I had accepted your proposal?"
He smiled. "We were not meant to be, Sayyida. I had held out hope, but falsely, for this house is where you belong, with your family. I wanted you for my own selfish needs, and I have finally come to realize that I have caused you distress rather than joy by asking you to marry me. But I shall carry you in my heart, Amira. I shall never forget you."
"Come inside, please," she said, fearful that she was going to break down and cry. "Enjoy the hospitality of my house before you go."
He looked toward the large, ornately carved doors that stood open to the grand salon, permitting bright lights and music to spill into the hallway. "I fear that if I do, Sayyida, I shall never leave. God's peace and blessings upon you." He clasped her hands again, pressing into them a small box. It was the carnelian ring. "Wear it in friendship, Amira," Skouras said quietly. "So that you will always remember me."
She watched him through tears, and when he had gone, took the ring out of its box, and began to slide it onto her finger. Then she stopped. To wear Andreas's ring, she decided, would mean being untrue to him and to its meaning, for she could never think of him merely as a friend. She would save it, and wear it on the day he returned to her, not as a friend, but as a lover.
As she was about to return to the salon, the little gold box in her pocket, she heard a man's voice calling in the hallw
ay, "Ya Allah! Ya Allah!" the traditional warning that a man was about to enter the women's quarters.
When Amira heard the voice, she thought, Ibrahim? Seeing him in the doorway, she let out a cry and ran to him. He pulled her into a tight embrace, tears on his cheeks. "I have missed you, Mother!" he cried. "Oh how I have missed you!"
When they came into the salon, Nefissa ran to her brother, and then aunts and cousins and the children, while the rest of the women chatted excitedly: Dr. Rasheed has returned! What a propitious evening! God is good, God is great!
When Maryam Misrahi came over to embrace him, he took her into his arms, even though it wasn't proper that he should touch a woman to whom he was not related. But Auntie Maryam was like a mother to him; she had taken care of him when his sisters Fatima and Nefissa were being born; he had grown up with her children, had attended the Bar Mitzvahs of her sons, and had taken Sabbath meals at the Misrahi house.
"Mother," he said to Amira with a big smile. "I want you to meet someone." And when he stepped aside, the room fell silent as a young woman came in, tall and slender, with a radiant smile, smartly dressed in a traveling suit with a leather shoulder bag and wide-brimmed hat. But it was her hair that stunned the women, a shoulder-length pageboy that was—blond!
"I present you to my family," Ibrahim said to her in English, and to Amira he said in Arabic, "Mother, this is Alice. My wife."
When Alice held out a hand and said in English, "How do you do, Mrs. Rasheed? I've been so looking forward to meeting you," more gasps rippled around the room, as one word was whispered and passed along: British!
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