Virgins of Paradise

by Wood, Barbara

  He read out loud from Dahiba's typed page: "Women do not seek to subvert Holy Law, for that is written in the Koran, but to repair injustices that are outside the law. That which is written in the Koran we hold sacred, but those things which are not, we demand be corrected. The women of Egypt call for a law requiring a man to inform his wife promptly if he has divorced her; for a man to inform a wife if he has taken a second or third wife; the right of a first wife to a divorce in the event of her husband taking a second wife; the right of a woman to seek divorce if her husband causes her bodily harm; and lastly we call for an end to the brutal practice of female circumcision."

  He regarded Camelia with an enigmatic expression. "What your aunt asks for is reasonable," he said, "but it will not be regarded as such by men. There are those who claim that feminism is a weapon of the imperialistic West to destabilize Arab society and destroy our cultural identity."

  "Do you believe that?"

  "If I did, I wouldn't have published your essay. Did you know that the edition we ran, with your essay in it, back in November, was so well received that we ran it again, and received even more requests for copies of it? Mostly from women, but from some men also."

  He paused, and when she didn't speak, he said, "Why do we fight? Muslim or Copt, we are all Arabs."

  "I'm sorry," Camelia said, unable to meet his gaze. "My uncle was hurt by Christians. They tried to hang him—it was horrible."

  "There are bad people in every group. Did you think we were all murderers? Miss Rasheed, Christianity is a gentle religion, a religion of peace—"

  "I have to go," she said, walking past him into the front office. "Please forgive me, but—"

  Suddenly, two youths in white galabeyas came running down the alley, shouting, "No Christians!" Camelia turned, startled, just as they hurled rocks, shattering what remained of the window, sending shards flying. She cried out and Yacob quickly pulled her to safety. As they heard the running footsteps fade away down the alley, they held on to each other; and when there was silence again, they were still holding each other.

  "Are you all right?" Yacob murmured, his arms tight around Camelia.

  She whispered, "Yes," and felt the beat of his heart against hers.

  And then his mouth was on hers, kissing her, and Camelia kissed him back.

  She suddenly drew away: "Zeinab! My daughter is out there!"

  She met Radwan in the alley, running toward her, his hand inside his jacket, reaching for the gun she knew was always there. "Wait!" she said breathlessly. "I'm all right! It was just—a prank."

  When she saw how suspiciously the big Syrian glowered at Yacob, her heart thumped. She had been alone with a man who was not a relative, and she had let him kiss her. If Radwan knew, he would kill Mansour. "Everything is all right, Radwan," she said. "Mr. Mansour is an old friend. I'm all right, truly. Please go back to the car and tell Zeinab that I shall be there in a moment."

  When the bodyguard was gone, Camelia turned to Yacob and said, "I won't come back here. And please don't come to my performances. You and I can never be. There is too much danger and—" Her voice broke. "I must think of my daughter. God keep you, Yacob Mansour. And may your Lord protect you. Allah ma'aki."

  THIRTY-FIVE

  A

  S DAWN BROKE OVER THE NEVADA DESERT, RACHEL TURNED to Jasmine, who was driving, and said, "I can't stand the suspense any longer. Will you please tell me where we are going?"

  Jasmine smiled and stepped on the gas. "You'll see. We're almost there."

  Almost where? Rachel thought as she looked out at the bleak landscape. When they had approached the lights of Las Vegas, two hours earlier, she had thought: Jasmine's brought me gambling! But it had turned out only to be a breakfast stop. An hour later they were on the highway again, heading north into a barren wasteland. And now sunlight began to steal over the hills to their right, illuminating red desert, eerie cacti, and stark mountains with dark shadows carved into their western faces. It was beautiful, but in a scary way, because Rachel had no idea where they were, or why.

  "You've been acting crazy lately, Jas," she said to her friend. "And I'm crazy to have agreed to come along. Where are we going?"

  Jasmine laughed. "Come now, you've been telling me for weeks how badly you needed to get away, even for only a day. Admit it, you're enjoying yourself."

  Rachel did agree that the long drive had been strangely therapeutic, as they had followed the Thunderbird's headlights along the super highway that had been built solely to connect Las Vegas with Los Angeles. They had passed other cars, California Highway Patrol cruisers, a few RVs hauling boats to the Colorado River, and a large number of "turn-around" buses loaded with partygoers and gamblers. They had driven through small, bleached towns, closed up for the night, and passed the occasional garishly lit coffee shop. But mostly they had sped through silent darkness, racing toward a horizon littered with stars. As they had made their way through the maze of Los Angeles freeways, Rachel and Jasmine had talked about patients and medicine; and when buildings and signs of life had grown scarcer, Rachel had decided she was glad she had accepted Jasmine's invitation to take a night drive into the desert. After all, she didn't have office hours today, and Mort had offered to watch the baby. "I promise you we will be back for the late evening news," Jasmine had said.

  And now, at last, after flying through the Mojave, between blacktop and night, they saw the sun lift off the red hills like a big yellow balloon. In a wink, the world was washed in daylight, and Rachel could make out a chain-link fence some yards off the road, bearing signs that read, government property: no trespassing. A moment later, she saw other vehicles up ahead, and Jasmine slowed the Thunderbird.

  "Where are we?" Rachel said, rolling down her window and feeling the cold bite of desert air against her face.

  Jasmine eased her car among others parked in the sand and pointed to a sign to her left. When Rachel read it, she said, "Nevada Test Site! Jas, what on earth are we doing here? And who are all these people?"

  "We're at a rally, Rachel!" Jasmine said. "An antinuclear rally. I saw a notice about it in the paper. The government is doing an underground nuclear test today, and everybody's here to stop it. Come on!"

  Rachel saw a break in the fence where a pickup truck had plowed through; other cars had followed it, and a large crowd was gathering in the chilly dawn. As she and Jasmine walked over the crunchy ground, zipping up their windbreakers and turning up their collars against the cold, Rachel estimated that several hundred people had come, with more still arriving, and most of them poured through the broken chain link and barbed wire. A few carried ban the bomb and no nukes signs, but it was a curiously quiet and organized gathering, made up, Rachel noticed, of intellectuals and professionals, with a few suspicious-looking CIA types moving among the crowd with cameras. There were also media trucks from various television stations, as well as news vans, and reporters snapping pictures. Men in uniform were there in large numbers—Nevada state troopers and Air Force police. Military helicopters buzzed overhead.

  As they were about to step through the breach in the chain link, Jasmine said, "We'd better not go in there. That's the secured zone, federal property. No one's allowed to cross over. If we do, we could get arrested."

  "But all those people went in."

  "Some of those people want to get arrested, for the publicity. The feds can't test their nuclear bomb if there are people anywhere on the site. We're not near the actual test site, but those few yards on that side of the fence are enough to bring the test to a halt."

  "Then why are you and I here?"

  Jasmine gave her a mysterious smile. "You'll see." As they drew closer to the fence, she searched the crowd.

  "Wow, there are some celebrities here," Rachel said, astonished to recognize famous faces—the astronomer Carl Sagan, as well as Dr. Spock, and Nobel Prizewinner Linus Pauling. "Who are you looking for?" she asked. And before Jasmine could reply, she saw him, standing beside a news truck with a paper cup
in his hand.

  "Hey," Rachel said, "isn't that Dr. Connor, from medical school?"

  "Yes," Jasmine said, watching him. "I haven't seen him for seven years."

  Rachel stared at her. "Is he the reason we came?"

  "And there's his wife, Sybil."

  Jasmine watched Connor until she saw him look in her direction, and then turn away. And then he looked back again, nearly doing a double take. And when she saw the look of joy on his face, her heart skipped a beat.

  "Hello there," he called, walking up to them. "Jasmine! I was wondering if you might be here today."

  "Hello, Dr. Connor. I don't believe you've ever met my friend, Rachel?" As she said it, Jasmine realized that it was Rachel who had interrupted their last evening together, when they had almost kissed. And as she wondered what might have happened if she and Declan had ended up going out to dinner, she wondered if he was also remembering that evening, and thinking about what might have been.

  He had changed very little in appearance, she thought, except that he was more attractive than ever—rugged and sunburnt, with creases around his eyes. But there was no gray in his hair yet, and his stride bespoke the intensity and vigor she remembered, the energy that drove him. In seven years, she had received nine letters from him, from nine different countries.

  "Where is your son, Dr. Connor?" she asked, stepping aside as more people, just arriving, pushed their way through the broken fence.

  "Oh, we didn't bring David. Sybil and I came here hoping to get arrested." His smiled widened. "It's the only way to get any decent publicity for the cause." He looked past her and Rachel, then said, "Did your husband come with you?"

  "I'm no longer married. Greg and I were divorced earlier this year."

  Declan seemed to look at her for a long moment, looking into her eyes as if directly into her soul, and she wondered if whatever had once been between them was there still.

  "I knew you were going to be here, Dr. Connor," Jasmine said a little breathlessly. "Your name was among those mentioned in the paper. I came because I wanted to tell you my news." She turned to Rachel. "And to tell you, too."

  "The big surprise you promised me?" Rachel said.

  "I've joined the Treverton Foundation."

  "What?" Connor said. "Why, that's absolutely marvelous!" And for an instant Jasmine was afraid he was going to hug her. But instead he said, "Sybil and I are only passing through the United States on our way to Iraq, and I've been out of touch with the Foundation for a few weeks, so I hadn't been told. Then it's off to Egypt, is it? We have quite an active vaccination program along the Upper Nile."

  "Oh no," she said quickly. "I'm not going to Egypt. I've volunteered for Lebanon—the camps. Their need seems to be great."

  "Yes, the need is great everywhere," he said, pausing again to look at her. She saw something flicker in his eyes—a brief look of concern, or worry—and then it was gone. "I'm glad you've decided to join us," he said quietly. "I was afraid one of our competitors might snatch you up. One of those hospital ships that offer so much adventure. We need you." His eyes held hers for another moment, then Rachel said, "The program's starting." As they turned to face the pickup truck, Connor laughed and said, "We drew straws for the order in which we speak, since it's certain that only the first ones will get heard!"

  A murmur suddenly went through the crowd, and everyone grew silent. Jasmine saw that a woman had climbed onto the bed of the truck and was speaking into a microphone.

  "That's Dr. Helen Caldicott," Connor said, "the founder of Physicians for Social Responsibility. She's been called the mother of the nuclear freeze movement. Her theory is that missiles are phallic symbols, and that military leaders are in a competition she calls 'missile envy.' A clever play on Freud, don't you think?"

  Jasmine stepped closer to the fence and listened to the Australian pediatrician speak stridently against nuclear arms. "You have to look at the planet as if it were a child!" Caldicott said, her voice ringing out over the heads of the spectators. "And that child has been diagnosed as having leukemia! Now imagine that it is your child. Wouldn't you overturn every stone to make sure that child lived?"

  As she listened, Jasmine felt Connor standing so close to her that they almost touched. He had one hand on the fence, his fingers curled around the chainlink, the knuckles white. Jasmine had to keep herself from laying her hand over his.

  "Well, it's my turn now," he said, when Caldicott had finished to applause. "Keep your fingers crossed that I get two words out," and he gave Jasmine a wink.

  Connor joined Dr. Caldicott on the back of the truck, and accepted the microphone from her. He began to speak in his clipped British accent and in a voice so commanding that even the state troopers and CIA men paid attention. "The current proliferation of nuclear armament is not only irresponsible, it is an act of astonishing madness. It is this nation's shame," he said, "that expenditures for public health don't amount to even seventeen percent of that spent for military purposes." Jasmine kept her eyes on him as he spoke, watching how the desert breeze stirred his dark brown hair and snapped the collar of his tweed jacket. "What does this bode for the future of the planet?" he asked. "What legacy is this for our children? A legacy of bombs, radiation, and fear?"

  When he looked right at Jasmine over the heads of the crowd, she felt her pulse quicken. A lone hawk circled overhead, inspected the silent assemblage, then swooped away from the path of a helicopter.

  "The children of the world are the responsibility of us all!" Connor nearly shouted. "It is not just the duty of parents to see that sons and daughters inherit a healthy, peaceful planet, but the task of every single living individual."

  Jasmine held her breath. She hadn't thought it was possible to be more in love with him than she already was.

  A state trooper suddenly interrupted, speaking through a bullhorn. "You are trespassing on government property," he said to the crowd. "This is an illegal assembly. If you do not vacate the premises at once, you will be arrested."

  Connor ignored the man and kept speaking.

  The trooper repeated his warning, and when Connor refused to step down, the arrests began. Jasmine was amazed at how orderly and peacefully the demonstration was broken up, with no rioting, no fighting, little resistance. Connor got out of the truck, and a member of the Air Force police took him by the arm and began to escort him away; Jasmine saw that he walked calmly and with dignity toward the waiting military car. Sybil Connor followed.

  "Well," Rachel said, "he got his arrest!"

  A television reporter intercepted and thrust a microphone in Connor's face. "Any comments for our viewing audience?"

  Connor gave him an angry look. "It is unconscionable that in this age children around the world are still dying of polio. You encounter a poor crippled child in Kenya and you have to tell him that that is how he will be for the rest of his life. There is no excuse for it. And while these blasted nuclear warheads are being produced at great expense and risk to the planet, forty thousand innocent children in the Third World die every day, from ordinary diseases that are easily prevented by immunization."

  As he was led away, the reporter shouted after him, "Surely it is an impossible goal, Dr. Connor, to immunize every child in the world!"

  "With resources and manpower—" he began, but he was pushed into the police vehicle, the door was slammed and locked behind him.

  "You were right, I am glad I came," Rachel said as the crowd dispersed and she and Jasmine walked back to their car. "And Mort will be glad that I had the sense not to get arrested!" She waited on the passenger side of the car while Jasmine unlocked the doors. "But Dr. Connor is right, Jas, why aren't you going back to Egypt?"

  "I made a promise to myself, Rachel," Jasmine said as she got in and unlocked the other door, "that I would never go back."

  "But why?"

  Jasmine shifted in her seat to face her friend. "Rachel, I'm going to tell you something I've never told a single other soul, not even Greg. I left E
gypt in disgrace. In fact, my father threw me out because I went to bed with a man who wasn't my husband, and got pregnant by him. We weren't lovers, we were enemies. He forced me. He threatened to ruin my family if I didn't have sex with him. I resisted, but he was stronger. And that was how I left Egypt."

  "Doesn't your family know that it wasn't your fault?"

  "In their eyes it is my fault. In Egypt, honor is everything. A woman should even choose to die before dishonoring herself and her family. They took my son away from me and told me that I was as good as dead. I won't go back to them."

  "But how do you know they aren't sorry for what they did?" Rachel said. "How do you know they don't want you back? Jasmine, you have to at least find that out. You can't go through life being mad at them."

  Jasmine watched the military police cars drive past; she wondered where they were taking the Connors. She thought of the look of joy on his face when she had told him she was joining the Foundation. And maybe he had wanted to hug her, but had held back.

  "Don't you miss your family, Jas?" Rachel asked.

  She looked at her friend, at the concern in her eyes. "I do miss my son. And my sister," she said. "Camelia and I were very close when we were little." She started the car and slowly backed it onto the road, joining the rest of the departing vehicles. "How about lunch in Las Vegas?" she said.

  "Yeah," Rachel said with a laugh. "And you can tell me all about the thrilling refugee camps you've volunteered to go to."

  As Jasmine guided her Thunderbird into the line of traffic, she peered through the windshield at the military cars far up ahead and felt herself become electrified. She would not actually be working with Connor; perhaps she never would. But they would be working for the same causes, for the same Foundation. She wanted to drive up onto the nearby hill and shout her happiness to the world. Instead, she gripped the steering wheel and realized she very much needed to write a letter to Camelia.