Ibrahim's smiling face was set toward Garden City, and he was thinking that the Nile's movement was as slow as the passing of time. "I was just thinking about Alice, and what luck that I found her."
Hassan had entertained the same thought when he had first set eyes upon Ibrahim's blond bride, himself possessing a preference for fair women. "God has truly blessed you, my friend," he said. "By the way," he added, inspecting his reflection in the window and liking the handsome young man he saw, "a cousin of my sister's husband came around requesting a post in the Ministry of Health. Can you use your influence, as a favor to me?"
"I golf with the minister on Saturday. Tell your wife's in-law to telephone me day after tomorrow. I shall have a posting for him."
Hassan's valet, a staid Albanian, came out onto the deck. "Your house just telephoned, Dr. Rasheed. Your wife is in labor."
"Praise the Lord!" Ibrahim declared. "A son, I hope!" And he hurried out.
Ibrahim quietly closed the bedroom door behind him, leaving Alice to sleep peacefully after her labor; he joined his mother in the grand salon, where she and Qettah the astrologer were going over the star charts, and where the newborn child slept in a cradle under Amira's watchful eye. Kneeling to look at his child, Ibrahim was filled with tenderness and love. She was like a cherub in a European painting, he thought, one of God's little angels. Fine platinum filaments, like cornsilk, grew on her head. Yasmina, he thought. I will name you Yasmina.
He was suddenly overcome with remorse that he had not welcomed his first daughter, Camelia, into the world with this same love. But he had been so grief-stricken over his young wife's death that he had barely looked at the baby. And even now, a year later, Ibrahim could not make himself feel the love for his first daughter that he felt for this new one. His joy was suddenly cut short by the vision of his father, and the sound of Ali's voice saying, "Once again you have failed me. Six years have I lain in my tomb, and still I have no grandsons to show that I was ever even alive."
Please don't make me not love this child, Ibrahim pleaded silently with his father. But in Ibrahim's mind he heard Ali reply "You are a father of daughters, that is all you are."
Amira laid a hand on her son's shoulder. "Your daughter was born under Mirach, the lovely yellow star in Andromeda, in the seventh lunar house. Qettah says that this foretells beauty and wealth for her." She paused, sensing her son's inner struggle, and said, "Do not despair, son of my heart. Next time, it will be a son, inshallah."
"Will it, Mother?" he said, bowing beneath the mantle of guilt his father had bequeathed to him.
"We can never be sure, Ibrahim. Only God in His wisdom bestows sons. The future was written in His book long ago. Take comfort in His compassion and infinite understanding."
Her words about God worried him; he had cursed God the night Camelia was born. "Perhaps I will never have a son, Mother. Perhaps I have brought misfortune upon myself."
"What do you mean?"
Ibrahim felt Qettah's dark, impassive eyes watching him. Although the old woman had been to the Rasheed house before, and had even been present at his own birth, Qettah's presence always unsettled him. "The night Camelia's mother died in childbirth, I didn't know what I was doing. In my grief, I cursed God." He couldn't look at his mother. "Am I now cursed because of it? Will I never have a son?"
"You cursed God?" Amira said. And suddenly she was recalling the dream she had had the night before Ibrahim came home from Monaco—a dream of evil jinns and afreets in a dark and dusty bedroom. Had it foreshadowed a terrible future? One in which no more sons blessed the Rasheeds?
There was one way to find out.
On Qettah's instructions, Amira brewed thick coffee, heavily sugared, and instructed her son to drink it. When he had done so, Qettah upended the cup on its saucer and waited for the coffee grounds to dribble down, forming a pattern. When she had read Ibrahim's fortune, she closed her eyes.
She had seen daughters. Only daughters.
But there was another message in the coffee grounds. "Sayyid," she said respectfully, in a voice that was surprisingly young, even though Ibrahim suspected the astrologer was nearly ninety. "In your grief you cursed God, but God is merciful and does not punish those in distress. Nonetheless there is a curse over this house, Sayyid. But where it comes from, I cannot say."
Ibrahim swallowed painfully. My father, he thought. My father has cursed me. "What does it mean?"
"The line of Ali Rasheed will vanish from the earth."
"Because of me? Is this certain to happen?"
"It is only a possible future, Sayyid. But God is merciful, and has shown us the way for you to bring blessings back to your family. You must go out into the streets and perform an act of great charity and sacrifice. God loves a charitable man, my son. Through generous acts He may lift the curse because He is merciful and compassionate. Go at once. Try."
Ibrahim looked at his mother, and then hurried out of the house, driven by fury at his father, by memories of a man who would address his own son as "dog" because he thought it would build character. Ibrahim climbed into his car with tears in his eyes, not knowing where he should go or what form the act of charity should take. All he could think of was the sweet angel, Yasmina, lying in her cradle, whom he wanted to love but could not because of fear of his father's ridicule. And Camelia, born the night he had cursed God. And all the baby girls to come, down through the years, until there was no son to carry on the Rasheed name, and the family disappeared.
He started to pull the car out of the drive, then braked abruptly and rested his head on the steering wheel. Dear God, what was he going to do?
When he looked up, he saw the fellaheen girl standing there. She was holding a baby. He had seen her before, staring at him as if perhaps she knew him. He had never spoken to her, never really looked at her, but now, as she stood in the moonlight, he was suddenly reminded of a similar night a year ago. Did the girl look familiar? No, she couldn't be the one who had given him water, had eased his terrible nausea and misery when he had awakened beside that canal. "What is your name?" he asked.
She stared at him with enormous eyes and when she spoke her voice was shy and small. "Sahra, master."
"Your baby doesn't look well," he said.
"He does not get enough to eat, master."
Ibrahim regarded the girl with the hollow eyes, the baby with barely enough flesh on its bones, and a strange feeling came over him: the feeling that God's hand was upon him. And an idea, stunning in its genius and simplicity, came to him. "If you give me your son," he said, gently, so as not to frighten her away, "I can save him. I can give him a life of riches and happiness."
Sahra gave him a puzzled look. She thought of Abdu. Had she the right to give away his son? But this man so strongly resembled Abdu ... what could that mean? Sahra had been hungry for so long that she had difficulty thinking. She looked at the big house, where orange blossoms bloomed and golden light spilled from the many windows, and she thought of how Madame Najiba made her go out every day with her baby and beg for alms. And then she looked at the man whom she had once met beside the canal, and who again, in her confusion, she thought must somehow be connected with Abdu. "Yes, master," she said shyly, and held her baby out to him. He told her to get in the car, and they drove off.
Hassan stared at him. "You want to what?"
"I want to marry this girl," Ibrahim said, pushing past his friend, bringing Sahra in with him. "You're a lawyer. Draw up the contract. You will represent her family."
Hassan followed him into the main salon of the houseboat, still littered with the remnants of their party. "Are you out of your mind? What do you mean you want to marry her! You have Alice!"
"Hassan, think, man! It's not her I want, it's the boy. Alice gave birth to a girl tonight. And the astrologer told me God asks for a charitable act. I will take this child, a boy, as my own."
Hassan was silent for a moment, studying the beggar girl, then, realizing what Ibrahim was thinking, said, "D
o you seriously expect to get away with saying this child is your own? Have you gone mad? Ibrahim, you were in Monte Carlo for nearly seven months. No one would believe this baby is yours."
"The girl says the baby was born three months ago. That means he was conceived a year ago. I was in Cairo then. If I declare this child to be mine, in front of witnesses, then under the law that makes him so."
Hassan reluctantly agreed; suddenly remembering the woman who was due to arrive at the houseboat within the hour, he decided to draw up the marriage contract. After his valet had witnessed both their signatures, Hassan and Ibrahim shook hands. The marriage was legal. Then, because the law required four male witnesses for the next step, Hassan had the valet bring the cook and houseboy into the room, where they listened in silence as Ibrahim said to them, "I declare this child to be mine, of my body, to carry my name. I am the father; he is my son."
Hassan hastily filled out a birth certificate, and the witnesses made their marks.
Finally Ibrahim turned to Sahra and, according to custom and law, recited, "I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee."
He took the baby from her and said, "This child is now mine, before God and according to the laws of Egypt. You must never make a claim on him, or tell him who you are. Do you understand this?"
Sahra said, "Yes, master," and fainted.
Amira stared at the baby in Ibrahim's arms and then looked at her son in disbelief.
"This child is yours?"
"He is mine and I have named him Zachariah."
"Oh my son, you cannot claim another man's son as your own! It is written in the Koran that God forbids the taking of another man's son!"
"He is mine. I married his mother and I declared the boy to be mine. I have the legal papers."
"Legal papers!" she cried. "It is against God's law to adopt a child! Ibrahim, son of my heart, I beg of you! Do not go through with this." Amira felt her panic rise. To take a child from its mother ...
"In all respect and honor to you, Mother, Qettah told me to go out and perform a charitable act. I have done so. I have saved this child from the streets."
"God will not be tricked, Ibrahim! Don't you see, this will bring bad luck upon our house! Please, son of my heart, don't do this. Restore this baby to his mother."
But when he said, "It is already done," and she saw the look of helplessness in his eyes, and the fear and confusion, she said, "So be it. Inshallah. As God wills. Now it is to be our secret. No one is to know where this child came from, Ibrahim. Tell none of your friends, no member of our family. The secret is to remain here, between us. For the sake of our family's honor." Her voice broke as she added, "Tomorrow we will introduce your new son to the world. You will present him at the mosque. And then he will be circumcised."
Amira struggled for self-control. "And now, what of the mother? Where is she?"
"I will see that she is taken care of."
But Amira was in the grip of her old fears. "No," she said, "the boy must be with his mother. We cannot separate them. Bring her in. I shall place her as a servant in our house. In this way she can nurse the child, and he will not be taken from her."
Amira then took the frail bundle into her arms. "I will raise you as my grandson," she said to the infant. "If Heaven created you, then earth can find a place for you."
As she looked into the infant's eyes, she thought again of her strange dreams of a desert camp and a night raid, which not even Qettah had been able to interpret, and she wondered if they had portended this night, or if they were omens of events still to come. Then she thought of the babies who had been born upon the return of those dreams—one-year-old Camelia, Yasmina, only hours old, and now the adopted Zachariah. She thought of her own child, Nefissa, who earlier had left the house with flushed cheeks, and who still had not returned, although the hour was late. And Amira imagined the mighty hand of God, writing in His book of destinies.
"Listen, my son," she said to Ibrahim. "In the morning you will go to the mosque and distribute alms to the poor. And you will pray and atone for what you have done. And I, too, will pray, for God is merciful."
Amira spoke calmly, but she was afraid.
PART TWO
1952
EIGHT
I
SAY, WHAT'S GOING ON? IS TODAY A HOLIDAY OR SOMETHING? Why are the streets deserted?"
The taxi driver looked in the rearview mirror at the man he had just picked up at the main railway station; he wanted to tell the Englishman that today was a bad day for his kind to be in Cairo; he wanted to say, "Didn't you hear about the massacre at the Suez Canal yesterday, when your soldiers slaughtered fifty Egyptians? Haven't you heard the oaths now being sworn all over the city to avenge this atrocity? Didn't you hear the government warning British citizens to stay off the streets?" The driver also wanted to add, "Don't you know why it was so difficult for you to get a taxi? Only a madman would pick up an Englishman! And don't you know that I only agreed to take you to Virgins of Paradise Street because you offered so much money, and business is bad today? And am I not, therefore, just as crazy as you?"
But the driver only looked at his passenger and shrugged. The man was clearly ignorant about these things, and other things besides, such as basic common courtesies. Everyone knew that it was insulting for a male passenger to ride in the back of a taxi instead of up front with the driver. A passenger was more than just a fare, he was a temporary guest in the driver's car.
But Edward Westfall, the twenty-six-year-old son of the Earl of Pemberton, was oblivious. Whatever the cause for the strangely empty streets of Cairo on such a crisp Saturday morning, and whatever the reason for his driver's lack of verbosity, these were not his concerns. He was having such a high time of it, so enjoying this "schoolboy's lark," as his father had called it, that nothing could dampen his excellent mood.
"I'm here to visit my sister," he said, as they headed down a broad avenue in the exclusive Ezbekiya district. Neither Edward nor the driver were aware that, at that same moment, young men with clubs and axes were gathering to launch a holy war. "It's to be a surprise," Edward went on, sitting forward on the seat as if trying to make the taxi go faster. "She has no idea I'm coming. She's married to Farouk's personal physician. We might even be dining at the palace tonight."
The driver shot him another look. He wanted to say, "Don't brag about that, it's another count against you—English, and a friend of the king. Turn around and go home, while you're still alive." But instead he merely said, "Yes, Sayyid," and thought about the money.
"I can't wait to see her reaction!" Edward said, as he pictured the happy reunion. How long had it been since they had last seen each other? Alice had left home right after the war, in June of 1945, to visit friends on the French Riviera, returning to England only for a brief visit, accompanied by her new husband, Dr. Rasheed. That was six-and-a-half years ago.
"This is my first time in Egypt," Edward continued, wondering about the sounds he heard in the distance. Were they explosions? "I'm going to invite Alice on a sailing trip up the Nile to Lower Egypt, so we can visit the ancient monuments. I don't think she's done that yet."
The driver cast him another contemptuous look, and thought: You've got it backward, fool! You go up the Nile when you go south to Upper Egypt. Lower Egypt is north, where the Nile flows to. But he didn't say anything because he, too, had heard the explosions that could have either been near or far away. And was he smelling smoke? But the street still seemed peaceful, deserted.
"I say," Edward said, looking ahead through the windshield. "What's going on?" An angry mob had appeared, carrying sticks and torches.
"Y'Allah!" cried the driver, slamming on his brakes. He took one second to survey the angry faces and clenched fists, then quickly turned the car down a side street.
"Good heavens!" Edward exclaimed, as he was flung back onto his seat.
When they reached the end of the street they saw a building on fire, flames and smoke pouring out of the windows, a
large crowd gathered on the sidewalk. Strangely, there wasn't a fire engine or hose in sight, and none of the onlookers was doing anything to help. Edward frowned when he saw a sign fall off the façade and tumble to the sidewalk. He could just make out Smythe & Son, English Haberdashers, est. 1917.
Throwing the car into reverse, the driver steered back down the street, screeched to another stop, then plunged headlong down an alley. Edward, thrown this way and that, shouted, "What's happening, man! Why weren't those people trying to put out the fire? Oh my God! Look there!"
At the end of the alley they came upon another fire, one that had just been started; angry young men in galabeyas were throwing flaming rags through the broken windows of an English furrier. "I say," Edward said, as the driver tried to maneuver the taxi past the mob. "I don't think I like the look of this."
As the taxi disappeared around a corner, the leader of the mob raised his fist and shouted, "Death to nonbelievers!" And his several hundred comrades shouted it back.
One young man in the front of the crowd, his eyes blazing with excitement, felt the power of God in his veins. This was what Abdu had worked for nearly seven years, ever since he had left his village—to bring Egypt back to God's ways and the purity of Islam. His only wish was that Sahra could be here to see his triumph. Funny little round-faced Sahra, whom he still thought of and loved, even though he believed she was married to Sheikh Hamid, was now possibly even a widow, considering Sheikh Hamid's age. Abdu pictured her in the village shop, being respectfully addressed by Hamid's customers. How many children did she have?
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