Amira joined her daughter-in-law at the open door and regarded the mighty water that flowed beneath the stone bridge; she sensed the river's power, inhaled its scents. Was there a more beautiful river than the Mother of Rivers? she wondered. Was there a more beautiful and blessed land than Egypt, Mother of the World?
"Ali told me that long ago, in the days of the pharaohs," Amira explained, "a young virgin was sacrificed every year just before the annual flooding of the river. She was thrown into the Nile, and if she drowned she became the bride of the river, endowing the flood with rich silt and the promise of plentiful crops and an abundant harvest. But now only the fragile lotus flower is the bride of the Nile."
Alice pressed a scented handkerchief to her throat. In twenty-one years, she had yet to become acclimated to Egypt's heat. "You yourself come to the river every year on the same day and toss a flower onto the water. Is it for the lotus ceremony?"
Thinking of the day she had gone to see Safeya Rageb, the first day she had set foot out of the house, Amira said, "No, that is not the reason. I was lost in the city once, and Ali spoke to me from the past, on that bridge, down there. He set me on the right path, and guided my way. It was in that moment that I recognized the power and mystery of the Nile." She looked at Alice. "Did you know that the river is haunted by the souls of those who have drowned in it? Not just the brides, but fishermen, swimmers, people who commit suicide. The Nile is the giver of life, and the taker of it."
"It gives us damn good fish, though," Suleiman said behind them, as he reached for his coffee.
Maryam laughed. "Since his retirement, food has become my husband's passion!"
Suleiman waved away his wife's comment and addressed Alice. "Soon, my dear, you will be enjoying England's delectable bounty—scones, strawberry jam, and cream. Devonshire tea, marvelous! I had it once, when I was there in 1936. I can taste that jam still."
Maryam laughed, and went back into the kitchen. Alice turned to her mother-in-law. "Mother Amira, why don't you come to England with us? You've never been out of Egypt."
But Amira smiled and said, "It is a trip for you and Ibrahim. Make it a second honeymoon." And, she added silently, make it an occasion to heal yourself.
Ibrahim had come up with the idea for the trip shortly after Alice's miscarriage, when she had lost the child she had hoped would be a son, and had slipped into a deep depression, and, like a wonderful medicine, the prospect of going home had cheered her up. No, Amira would not think of going with them. Besides, she had plans of her own. She had decided to go on a journey herself, to the holy city of Mecca, in Arabia.
"I don't have any close relatives in England anymore," Alice said. "Just an elderly aunt. But my friends are there." She paused and looked out at the brightly lit, noisy city that she thought of as a crazy quilt of East and West, and which, once in a while, sometimes seemed very alien to her. She would be in a shop she had visited many times, bargaining in Arabic over the price of fabric or a pair of shoes, as she had done for two decades, and all of a sudden everything would fall out of focus; the words would sound garbled and meaningless in her mouth, the smell of the shop and the street outside would overwhelm her. And she would wonder for an instant where she was and why she was there. Afterward, when she felt herself slip back into synchronization with Cairo, she would think of the heat and the sand that had gotten under her skin, and she would imagine that only the fog and mist of England could cleanse her.
But there was a more urgent, secret reason for her wanting to go to England. After the miscarriage she had discovered a hidden depression running steadily, deep inside her, like a cold subterranean stream that never surfaced. She had begun to think about her mother, and wonder if she had sensed a similar chill within herself. What had driven Lady Frances to commit suicide? Melancholia, it said on the death certificate.
Alice had decided to go to England and seek answers. The elderly aunt, Penelope, had been her mother's best friend. Perhaps Aunt Penny knew why Lady Frances had taken her own life. Alice needed to know if it had been due to some external cause, or if it were inborn, like a genetic tendency, and could not have been avoided. Alice needed to know because she was going to be forty-two next year, the same age her mother had been when she died.
"Friends are good," Suleiman said, getting up stiffly. Like Maryam's, his hair was completely white, and he wore his clothes like a man who feels he has earned the right to look comfortable. "So many of our friends have left Egypt. They prosper though, in Europe and America. Still, I believe President Nasser has good intentions for Egypt. Tell me about the place where you were born, Alice, perhaps I passed through it in 1936."
Amira went into the kitchen where Maryam was lifting freshly baked baklava out of the oven. "More and more these days," Maryam said, as she poured cold syrup over the hot pastry, "Suleiman lives in the past. Is that what happens to old people, Amira? When the future is smaller than the past, do they start to look backward?"
"Perhaps it is God's way of preparing us for eternity. Here, let me help you with that. I, too, have been thinking more and more about the past lately. It is strange, Maryam, but the older I get the more I remember of those long-ago days, as though I were drawing nearer to them rather than moving farther away."
"Perhaps someday, God willing, you will remember everything and you will be blessed with the childhood memories with which we are all blessed."
To be blessed with memories of the past! Amira thought. But, in order to seek the past, she knew she must travel the road back, find where she came from, who she really was. Was my mother killed that day and left in the desert? Amira wondered, or was she also abducted and placed in another harem? Is she possibly still alive even? I am sixty-two; she would be in her eighties, maybe even younger. If she gave birth to me when she was a girl of fourteen, as I was when I had Ibrahim, then she could still be a healthy woman today somewhere in this world, and perhaps, on hot musky nights such as this, she looks at the stars as I do, and wonders about the little girl who had been torn from her arms.
Amira considered the square minaret that appeared more frequently in her dreams than any other memory. Where on earth did it exist? The few square minarets found in Cairo were elaborate structures, covered with intricate decoration, but the one of her dreams was plain and unadorned. Each time it appeared to her, Amira sensed that it was trying to tell her something, as if it were whispering, Find me, and you shall find all the answers—your mother's name, where you were born, your birth-star.
I will make the pilgrimage to Mecca and, God willing, I will find the trail that brought me to Egypt, and follow it back to my beginnings. Possibly even to my mother.
When they came back into the parlor, Suleiman snipped off the end of his cigar, examined it a moment, then said, "So, Yasmina wants to be a doctor, does she? And why not? My Itzak in California, his daughter Rachel is planning to go to medical school. It's a good profession for a girl. Women understand pain and suffering. Men do not. When do we ever experience it? Maryam, let us go to California and visit Itzak. Amira, do you remember my Itzak? Of course you do, you helped bring him into the world. He writes to me in English, he tells me he isn't teaching his children Arabic because, he says, they are American. But I say they are Egyptian, by God, and if I have to go there and—"
They heard a loud knocking at the door. "Who could that be?" Maryam said, wiping her hands on her apron. But before she could go and see, they heard a loud crash and suddenly men in uniforms were swarming through the apartment.
Suleiman shot to his feet. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"Suleiman Misrahi?" said the officer in charge.
"I am he."
"You have been accused of speaking treasonous words against the government."
Amira's hand flew to her breast. It was the nightmare of Ibrahim's arrest and imprisonment all over again. Everyone had heard of these late-night raids by Nasser's military police, and the rumors of banishment to detention camps without a trial. But those
arrested were members of the subversive Muslim Brotherhood, or other antigovernment groups. What could they want with an elderly Jewish couple?
"There is some mistake," Maryam began, but she was shoved out of the way. She fell against a china cabinet and felt a sudden sharp pain in her ribs.
Alice ran to her, and Amira stepped up to the officer in charge. "You have no right," she said. "This is a house of peace."
But she was ignored, and she and the others watched in horror as the soldiers went through the apartment, pulling clothes from closets, emptying drawers, stuffing jewelry and money into their pockets. One of the men swept an arm across the sideboard, sending a silver menorah to the floor, along with framed pictures of Misrahi children and grandchildren. The menorah, the picture frames with the photos ripped out, and Maryam's antique silverware were all dumped into a gunnysack and hauled out into the corridor.
"Alice," Amira said quietly, so that the soldiers wouldn't hear. "Telephone Ibrahim, quickly."
Finally, the men seized Suleiman.
"No!" cried Maryam.
"You are under arrest," barked the officer, "for subversive acts against the government and people of Egypt."
Suleiman turned a bewildered look on his wife.
"Please," she begged. "There is some mistake. We have done nothing—"
But a soldier pushed Suleiman roughly through the doorway and out into the hall. The elderly man suddenly clutched his chest, gave a cry, and sank to the floor.
Maryam ran to him. "Suleiman? Suleiman!"
TWENTY-THREE
I
BRAHIM STOPPED FIRST TO WARN AMIRA AND ALICE. THEY were with Maryam, sitting shivah for Suleiman, while friends came with condolences and to sing kaddish, the Jewish prayer of mourning. Because Maryam's apartment had been confiscated and she had literally been put out on the street with only the clothes she was wearing, the seven-day observance was being held at the home of the rabbi of her synagogue. After that, she would have to find a place to live. Amira had begged Maryam to move into the Rasheed house, but Maryam had declined. With Suleiman gone, she had said that she could not stand the pain of returning to Virgins of Paradise Street, where they had lived happily for so many years.
No one knew why the Misrahis had been targeted by the Visitors of the Dawn. The soldiers were breaking down doors and making arrests all over the city, their victims primarily being rich people. No other Jews had been hit, and certainly no one in the Misrahis' reduced circumstances. Suleiman had sold his import business; he and Maryam had been living on a modest pension. With the help of family members, Amira was trying to find out why the soldiers had come to arrest Suleiman, and where their belongings had been taken. So far, she had learned nothing.
A servant came in and informed Amira that her son was asking for her. "You have news?" she said, meeting Ibrahim at the door.
"I have spoken to everyone I know, Mother, every government man who owes me a favor, but they can do nothing, they are all afraid for their jobs. I doubt we shall ever know what became of the Misrahis' possessions. There is no one else we can turn to."
Amira thought of Safeya Rageb, who had been responsible for Ibrahim's release from prison nearly twenty-five years ago. Hoping that Mrs. Rageb might help Maryam, Amira had gone to her, only to learn that Captain Rageb, one of the original Free Officers, was no longer in favor with the government. He had been quietly "retired," and Mrs. Rageb's days of granting favors had ended.
"But I came for another reason," Ibrahim said. "Our family is in danger, Mother. We have been targeted by the military police. I want you and Alice to go home as soon as possible, hide our valuables, and warn the women that if soldiers come to the house, they are to stay calm."
He turned to Alice and said, "I am sorry, my dear, but we will have to postpone our trip to England for just a little while. Do you want to go ahead without me?"
Alice said, "No, I'll stay. We'll go when it is safe."
Maryam came to the door. "What is it, Amira? Ibrahim, what is wrong?"
"Allah ma'aki, Auntie Maryam," he said. "Forgive this intrusion, but my mother is needed at home."
"Yes, of course," Maryam said. "In these dangerous times you should be with your family."
Amira said, "I will come back as soon as I can."
Maryam laid a hand on her friend's arm and said, "I know you have been trying to find out where our belongings went, my dear sister. Trouble yourself no further. What has happened is God's will. I have made a decision: my son wishes me to go back to California with him, and live there with him and his children. We will leave as soon as we've"—her voice broke—"finished saying good-bye to Suleiman."
Ibrahim said, "Mother, you and Alice take my car, I'll get a taxi. We must hurry."
"Is the danger so near, then?"
"I pray to God it isn't."
"But where are you going?"
"There is one person left in all Cairo who might yet save us. Pray for me, Mother, that he will grant me a hearing."
The house on Pyramids Way, set amid sugarcane fields and palm groves, could barely be seen from the road, its brilliant whitewashed walls glimpsed through ancient date palms, fig and olive trees, and flowering shrubs; massive sycamores guarded an emerald lawn and limestone walkways, while heavy wooden shutters stood closed against the sun and prying eyes. As Ibrahim got out of the taxi, he peered through the protective growth and thought, A very rich man lives here.
He knocked at a door so intricately carved that he felt as if he were visiting a mosque, and a servant in an immaculate white galabeya admitted him into an elegant living room. Rugs and animal skins covered a highly polished floor, and overhead ceiling fans kept the hot air moving.
The servant vanished, and a moment later Hassan appeared. Ibrahim thought his former friend had changed little in the four years since they had last spoken, except perhaps Hassan seemed a little more self-assured, a little less hungry than he had been the night Ibrahim had broken the marriage contract. And he advertised his wealth in the long, richly embroidered caftan he wore, the gold watch, the heavy gold rings.
"Welcome to my humble house," Hassan said. "I have been expecting you."
Ibrahim looked around and said dryly, "Humble? This is hardly the austerity I would expect from one of Nasser's henchmen."
"The spoils of war, my friend. Merely my rewards for serving the socialist cause. My servant is bringing coffee. Unless you prefer tea or whiskey?" Hassan went to a mahogany liquor cart with crystal decanters and glasses, and poured himself a drink.
Ibrahim decided to come right to the point. "I have been warned about the Visitors of the Dawn. Is that warning valid?"
"Such a way for old friends to greet each other. Where are your manners?"
"Why is my family on that list?"
"Because I put you there."
"Why?"
Hassan looked at his drink, took a sip, then said, "You are very direct, very straightforward. It's unlike you. Yes, I put your name on that list, and for just one reason. So that you would come to me with a bribe to remove it."
Ibrahim gestured around the magnificently furnished room. "I am hardly richer than you."
"It isn't money that I want."
"What then?"
"Can't you guess?"
Ibrahim considered the treasures surrounding him: the massive elephant tusks crisscrossed above the fireplace, the antelope-foot cigarette holder, the zebra skin covering the polished floor. An ancient Egyptian statue, which Ibrahim did not doubt was genuine, and which he did not doubt had been illegally obtained, stood on a pedestal beneath handsome Scottish bagpipes adorning a wall, framed by a tartan. Hassan's pillage, he thought, wondering if Maryam and Suleiman's priceless antique silver menorah was also somewhere in this house, already part of Hassan's collection.
"I desire another trophy," Hassan said, when Ibrahim did not answer him, and when he saw how he looked at the treasures.
"What do you mean?"
"Actually, I only w
ant what is really mine, something which you took from me when you broke our agreement. Give it to me, and your family will be safe."
Ibrahim's look was deadly. "And what is that?"
"Yasmina, of course."
"Here we are, darling," Yasmina said to Mohammed as the taxi pulled up in front of the Rasheed house. She hugged him and gave him a big smile, trying to hide her fears. Omar had left the country yesterday, on an engineering assignment in Kuwait, and because of the arrests going on around the city, hitting randomly and unexpectedly, he had insisted she move herself and the boy into the house on Virgins of Paradise Street. We'll be safe here, little one, she thought as servants came to help with the luggage, looking at the stately, rose-colored mansion beckoning like a calm harbor.
As she stepped out of the taxi, carrying her heavy son because she didn't want to put him down until they were safely within the high walls, she thought of her school friend, Layla Azmi, who was married to a wealthy man. The military police had forced their way into Layla's house, made a list of everything in it down to the last candlestick, told her she had three days to get out, and that she was not to take a single thing with her. Then they had driven off with her husband, and she hadn't heard from him since.
Nefissa came hurrying down the path and took the three-year-old from Yasmina, saying, "Praise God, now all the family is here. And how is the grandson of my heart today?"
Servants collected Yasmina's luggage and carried it into the house with uncharacteristic urgency. Fear, she saw, had infected even the peaceful atmosphere on Virgins of Paradise Street.
As they stepped from the September heat into the cool interior of the house, Nefissa said, "Ibrahim has told us to hide everything. If you have brought jewelry with you, Yasmina, we will have to put it somewhere in case ..." She stopped before saying, "the military police come." She didn't want to frighten Mohammed.
Yasmina found the house a hive of activity, paintings being taken down from walls, china and crystal removed from display tables, and Amira at the center of it all, supervising. In the salon, Yasmina was pleased to see Jamal Rasheed and, to her joy, Tahia. They embraced warmly, but Yasmina saw the worry in her cousin's eyes.
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