"What is it, Grandmother?" Yasmina said. "Why are we here?"
Amira wanted to say: do not fear, granddaughter of my heart, I will not let any harm come to you, I will not lose you. Instead she said, trying to sound reassuring, "Someday, when I understand it all myself, I will tell you. But now let's go home. I must speak with your father."
Ibrahim stood at the window in his private sitting room, watching Alice in the garden. As he saw how lovingly those slender white hands divided bulbs and roots, scattered seeds, and patted down the moist earth, he experienced a yearning that was like a physical pain. The garden that had become the focus of her life had started out ten years ago as a small patch; now it took up nearly the entire east side of the house, a riot of bright-blue morning glories, pinkish-purple fuchsias, and flame-red roses, flowers that would not normally flourish in Egypt's harsh, dry heat. Alice's constant loving care and vigilance had created a miracle.
How he prayed that she would show him as much care and devotion.
What had happened to their marriage? They hadn't even really spoken to each other in a long time, beyond the daily amenities, the cliches of life. How could he put things right between them again, take them back to the way they were before the Revolution, before his life had started to disintegrate?
For a long time after his release from prison, Ibrahim had had no interest in sex, with Alice or anyone else. But as the months had passed and his physical wounds had healed, Ibrahim had hoped that Alice would return to being a loving wife. But she had not come to his bed; if he insisted, there was no mutual lovemaking, just the pantomime of a desperate man trying to find his way back to sanity in the arms of an indifferent woman. It was then that he had turned to the embraces of prostitutes. Their artful pretend-love gave him momentary peace. But it was only momentary; he wanted his wife. And he wanted a son.
He heard a discreet knock on his door and was surprised to see his mother there; she rarely visited this side of the house. "May we speak, my son? There are urgent family matters that require your attention. Omar has become a problem. He cannot control his sexual urges. I caught him yesterday assaulting Camelia."
"Assaulting Camelia?"
"No harm was done, but he cannot be trusted. He needs to be married. I have an idea." She sat down on a luxurious divan, purposely placing herself beneath a stern portrait of Ibrahim's father, Ali. "Let us betroth Omar to Yasmina. And let the wedding take place soon, after she graduates from high school."
"But I told you this morning, Mother. Yasmina is betrothed to Hassan."
"The girl is too young for Hassan. Would he allow her to continue her schooling? But Omar still has three years of studying left. He and Yasmina can be students together. That is much better for Yasmina than marrying a man thirty years her senior."
"In all honor and respect to you, Mother, you married a man who was forty years older than you."
"Ibrahim, this wedding between Hassan and Yasmina must not take place."
"Hassan and I have already signed the agreement. I have given my word."
"You should have consulted with me first. And what about Alice? Has a mother no say in the choosing of her daughter's husband? It is up to us to find a man for Yasmina, you have only to sign the marriage contract."
"But what are your objections to Hassan? I've never understood why you don't like him."
"The marriage simply cannot take place."
"I will not break my word to my friend." He returned to the window, to looking out at Alice. Amira came and stood next to him. After a moment she said, "There are problems between you and your wife."
"It is nothing that a son should discuss with his mother."
"But perhaps I can help."
He turned haunted eyes to her, and she remembered what Zachariah had told her: "Father wakes up at night screaming. I can hear him, all the way down the hall." Ibrahim was silent for a moment, then looked at his hands. "I don't know what the problem is between Alice and me, Mother. But it is there, and I want a son."
"Then listen to me. I can give you a potion to put in a drink for Alice."
He gave her a dubious look. "A potion?"
I saw it used once, long ago, in the harem on Tree of Pearls Street. "Believe me when I say that this potion works. Alice will comply, and if God wills it, she will bear you a son."
He turned from the window. "No potions, Mother. That is not the answer I am seeking. And now I am weary. I want to rest for a while."
"We need to settle the issue of Yasmina's betrothal."
"By the Prophet, may God increase His blessings upon him, it is already settled!"
But she said quietly, "It is not. What I am about to tell you, son of my heart, causes me great pain. I have kept it a secret for all these years, to spare you further suffering, but God guides my conscience now." She drew a deep breath. "Son of my heart, whom I love more than my own life, I tell you that you have no covenant with Hassan al-Sabir. He is not your friend or brother."
"What are you saying?"
Her heart raced. Once uttered, it could never be taken back. "It was Hassan who got you arrested and thrown into prison."
He stared at her. "I don't believe you."
"By God's mercy, it is true."
"It cannot be."
"I swear by the oneness of God, Ibrahim."
"How do you know this? Someone has lied to you!"
She thought of her promise to Safeya Rageb, to keep her intercession for Ibrahim a secret. "I know it, that is all. It is part of your official file: Hassan al-Sabir named you as a conspirator against the Egyptian people. You can look it up yourself if you wish."
"I'll do better than that. I will ask Hassan."
Yasmina and Tahia tried to keep from giggling as they huddled behind empty crates bearing labels that read Chivas Regal and Johnnie Walker. They were hiding outside the service entrance to the Club Cage d'Or, waiting for Zachariah to give them the signal. He had gone inside to arrange everything, and now Camelia, shivering beneath her coat despite the warm June night, thought he was taking too long. Something must have gone wrong.
She had tried to see the great Dahiba at her apartment, but had failed. When the doorman wouldn't let her into the building, Camelia had had to bribe him. And then the elevator boy wouldn't take her up to the penthouse; more baksheesh. The two bodyguards playing cards outside Dahiba's door had also demanded payment, so that by the time Camelia knocked on the door and was confronted by a butler, she didn't have any money left. It wouldn't have helped anyway; the butler fetched Dahiba's secretary, who came out and informed Camelia that Madam did not receive visitors, she did not audition amateurs, and she certainly did not take pupils. And so Zachariah had come up with a plan. He told Amira that he was going to take the girls to see a variety show, and when Umma and the others were in the salon listening to a program on the radio, the teenagers had left the house and headed for the nightclub where Dahiba was dancing.
"Poor Zakki," Tahia said, watching the open doorway that led to the club's kitchen. "He hates lying to Umma."
"He didn't lie," Yasmina reminded her. "Zakki just said he was bringing us to a show, and he did, didn't he? Here he comes!"
Zachariah came around behind the crates and whispered, "It's all set, Lili! There's a woman inside the door, she's the ladies' room attendant. She'll take you through the kitchen to a place at the back of the stage where you won't be seen. By God, did I have to pay her plenty!"
They kissed her and wished her luck, and Camelia hurried inside, trying not to let any of her costume show beneath her coat.
When the attendant deposited Camelia behind the curtain, warning her not to move because Zachariah had told her that his sister just wanted to watch, Camelia peeked out at the audience and felt her heart race. The nightclub was packed with women in expensive dresses and men in uniforms festooned with medals. She froze when she saw a short, chubby man at one of the front tables. He was Hakim Raouf, the famous movie director, and Dahiba's husband.
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br /> The band started setting up, and then the lights dimmed around the club and spotlights widened on the empty stage. The music played for a few minutes, allowing the audience to settle into the mood, and then, to a roar of cheering and applause, Dahiba came out. Camelia gasped. She was even more electrifying in person than in the movies. She opened her number dramatically, enveloped in a blue chiffon veil sparkling with rhinestones, executing bold moves around the stage that were a combination of ballet and modern dance. After a few minutes she dropped her veil to reveal a dazzling costume of turquoise satin and silver lame, with a wide hip belt strung with long silver fringe. She stopped, held up a hand and began slowly to undulate her hips. The audience roared again—this was Dahiba's signature entrance.
From this proximity, and in person, Camelia realized that Dahiba wasn't really beautiful; she wasn't even very pretty. But she had presence, and as Camelia watched how the dance made the audience hers, how she manipulated them, made them clap, or laugh, or grow somber, she realized that Dahiba wasn't just entertaining the audience, she was making them feel.
Camelia held her breath as she watched for her own opportunity. Finally, Dahiba moved to the edge of the stage, as she always did, to engage in interaction with her audience. When the beat picked up for a segment in which Dahiba danced to the beledi rhythm, Camelia threw off her coat, quickly checked her costume of red and gold, and came out onto the stage. At first the audience was confused, and then, when Camelia began to dance, they began to clap. Dahiba turned, saw the girl dancing, and when she saw the questioning looks from her band, signaled them to keep playing.
Although the stage was large, Camelia restricted herself to a small space, choreographing her dance not out of bold, showy gestures, but utilizing intricate, intense torso and hip movements, her arms raised gracefully outward. She didn't look at Dahiba, but kept her eyes and her smile on the audience, who clapped louder and shouted "Y'Allah!"
Dahiba signaled to her band: the beat slowed and they stopped playing until only the flute remained, filling the smoky air like a snake charmer's music. Still Camelia didn't miss a step. She altered her movement with the shift of mood, pausing, then beginning a wave in her pelvis that rippled up to her chest and down again.
The audience went wild. When they realized that this was not planned, that the honey-eyed girl had staged a coup, men climbed up on their chairs and shouted, "O sweet angel from God!" They whistled and cheered and blew kisses to the outrageous girl. From her place at the edge of the stage, Dahiba studied the frenzied audience. Her husband, Hakim, also seemed to be delighted.
When the music ended, Camelia blew a kiss to the audience, then ran back behind the curtain, where the club manager immediately grabbed her, threatening to call the police. As he started to usher her away, Dahiba suddenly materialized. "What did you think you were doing out there?" she said.
Camelia could hardly speak. Up close, she saw Dahiba's heavy eye makeup, the fine lines around the eyes and mouth and, more startling, a hardness that was never evident in any of her movies. "Oh, ma'am, I just wanted to audition for you! I've been trying to meet you, but—"
Hakim Raouf appeared then, laughing and mopping his crimson cheeks. "By the head of Sayyid Hussein, God bless him and upon him salvation. That was some show! Come, come, little girl. We'll have tea!" And he snapped his fingers at the bewildered manager.
They went to Dahiba's office and dressing room, and as she and her husband lit cigarettes, Dahiba asked, "What is your name?"
"Camelia Rasheed, ma'am."
Dahiba's eyes flickered. "Are you related to Dr. Ibrahim Rasheed?"
"He is my father."
"How old are you?"
"Nearly eighteen."
"You have had formal dance training?"
"Ballet."
"And you wish to study with me?"
"Oh yes, more than anything!"
She gave Camelia a long, thoughtful look. "I don't allow others on my stage with me. No dancer does. You should know that, and you could have been arrested for your recklessness. Still, the audience loved you."
"It's a good gimmick," Hakim said, as he loosened the collar around his chubby neck. "Perhaps we should add it, my pumpkin."
Dahiba punched his arm in a playful way. "And perhaps we could add a performing baboon as well. Do you want the part?"
To Camelia she said, "You are too muscular. You have the shoulders of a man, and you have slim hips. You would have to gain weight. A skinny dancer is not very appealing to the eye, she is not sensuous enough. Also, your style is outdated and amateurish. We don't just dance the beledi any more. Oriental dance borrows from all disciplines. But you hold promise. With the right training you might become great." She smiled. "Possibly even as great as myself."
"Oh, thank—"
Dahiba held up a hand. "But before I agree to take you on, I must warn you that your family will not approve. Oriental dancers are looked upon as women with no morals. We are despised because we draw men's attention to female sexuality. We draw them away from thoughts of God and the piety that Islam commands. Men desire us and so they despise us for making them desire us. Do you understand what I am saying? Many men will want you, Camelia, but few will respect you. Even fewer will want to marry you. Can you live with that?"
Camelia glanced at the flushed face of Hakim Raouf and said, "You haven't done so badly, ma'am."
Hakim grabbed her hand, kissed it, and declared, "Blessed be the tree from whose wood your cradle was made! By God, I am in love with this girl!"
As Dahiba laughed, Camelia added, "I want to dance, that's all I know."
"Then I will tell you why I will take you as a student, Camelia Rasheed. My first student, in fact. Performance is nothing if it consists only of skill. By God, but we Egyptians do love emotion and drama, which a good dancer can only offer through her personality. You have that charisma, Camelia. Your dancing was barely adequate, but the audience was won by your brazen audacity. You have the ability to manipulate your audience, and that is half the performance. Does your family know you are here?"
Camelia hesitated. Then she said, "No. They wouldn't approve. But I don't care! I won't tell them I'm taking lessons with you."
"You will have to come to my apartment at least three times a week. Where will you say you are going?"
"I'll tell Umma that I'm taking extra dance lessons. She'll think it's ballet. It won't be lying, really."
"And if she should find out?"
Camelia wasn't going to think about that yet. All she could think of was that Dahiba was going to be her teacher, and that someday, like Dahiba, she was going to be famous.
Ibrahim knocked on the door of Hassan's houseboat, and when the valet opened it, Ibrahim pushed him aside and marched straight to Hassan, who was reclining on a divan, smoking hashish.
"My friend! How wonderful of you to join me. Sit down and—"
"Is what I hear true, Hassan?" Ibrahim said, still standing. "Did you give my name to the Revolutionary Council? Did you cause me to be put in prison?"
Hassan kept on smiling. "By God, where did you get such a preposterous idea? Of course not."
"My mother told me."
Hassan's smile vanished. The Dragon again! "Then she told you a lie. Your mother has never liked me, you know."
"My mother does not lie."
"Then someone gave her misinformation."
"She says it is in the records. That I can find out."
Laying his pipe aside, Hassan sat up, ran his hands through his hair, and said, "Very well, I will tell you. Those were dangerous times, my friend. From one day to the next, none of us knew who would be alive to see the next sunset. I was arrested. To save myself I gave them names. Perhaps your name was among them, I don't remember. You would have done the same, Ibrahim, I swear by God that you would have done the same."
"They asked me to name names, Hassan, and I did not do it. I suffered hell and torture before I would betray a brother. You have no idea what you hav
e put me through, Hassan al-Sabir," Ibrahim said quietly, tears rising in his eyes. "Those six months in prison ruined my life. You and I are brothers no longer. And you will not marry my daughter."
Hassan jumped up and caught his arm. "You cannot break our contract, by God!"
"As God is my witness, I can and I will."
"If you do this, Ibrahim, I promise you will live to regret it."
Ibrahim found Amira in the salon, listening to the evening reading of the Koran on the radio. "You were right, Mother," he said. "Hassan al-Sabir is no longer my brother. Arrange for Yasmina's betrothal to Omar. The wedding will take place immediately after she graduates from high school."
Then he said, "And give me the potion for Alice. I must have a son."
EIGHTEEN
W
HY IS IT CUSTOMARY TO REMOVE ALL THE HAIR, MOTHER Amira?" Alice asked as she watched the female relatives apply the sugar-and-lemon paste to Yasmina's skin.
"The tradition goes back to when the Queen of Sheba came to visit King Suleiman. Before her arrival, Suleiman had heard that the queen, for all her beauty, had hairy legs. In order to find out if this were true, he ordered constructed in front of his palace a walkway of glass, with water flowing underneath. It is said that when the Queen arrived, she thought she was about to cross a pool of water, and so she lifted her skirts. The story about her legs was true, and so Suleiman invented a hair remover in order that he could marry her. It was this very sugar-and-lemon formula that we use today, and it is customary for every bride to use it on the eve of her wedding in order that she might please her husband."
"But even her eyebrows?" Alice asked, marveling at the skill with which Cousin Haneya had applied the paste above Yasmina's eyes, and then removed it so that only the thinnest half-moon of brow was left.
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