Virgins of Paradise

by Wood, Barbara

  THIRTY-SIX

  T

  HE HOUSE WAS TURNED NEARLY UPSIDE DOWN WITH excitement over Camelia's pending return from Europe. The servants had spent all morning cleaning, polishing, and sweeping, while Amira supervised flower arrangements, planned lunch and dinner menus, and assigned rooms to relatives arriving from out of town.

  Only Nefissa, who was in the vestibule off the foyer going through the mail that had just been delivered, was not in a fever over her niece's return. Ignoring the sounds of industry throughout the house, girls calling to one another, and two radios tuned to different stations, she went methodically through the envelopes and cards, making mental notes of who received what and from whom, a daily ritual she considered her privilege due to her status in the household, being, after all, Amira's daughter, and the mother of Amira's only grandson. And she was pleased to find among the envelopes on this hot August afternoon a postcard from that very grandson, Omar, in Baghdad, saying that he would be home within the week. Al hamdu lillah! she thought. Praise the Lord. And please grant my son safe passage.

  Omar's return meant that she, and Nala his wife, and the children would return to the garden flat in Bulaq. While Nefissa enjoyed these stays at Virgins of Paradise Street when Omar was away on an assignment, she was not the mistress of the house. In Bulaq, however, Nefissa ran the household like a queen, taking charge of the eight children, supervising the servants, planning the meals, and giving orders to the acquiescent Nala. Most especially she liked the fact that she was able to mother Omar again, as well as her grandson Mohammed who, of course, would go to Bulaq with them. Nefissa was worried about the way her mother had been watching Mohammed lately; Amira had her "marriage match" face on. But the boy was only eighteen, and a university student; besides, Nefissa felt that the privilege of finding a wife for her grandson was hers, not Amira's.

  She continued to sort through the mail: there were letters for Basima and Sakinna—postmarked Assyut—for Tewfik a bill from the expensive tailor on Kasr El Nil Street, and for Ibrahim another sloppy note from Huda's father, the sandwich seller, undoubtedly requesting money again. Nefissa was of the opinion that her brother had demeaned the family by marrying so far beneath himself—his nurse, of all people! And what had the lazy girl produced in return? Allah! Five daughters!

  When Nefissa heard the front bell ring, she looked out and saw Amira's rich friend Mr. Nabil el-Fahed, at the door. As a servant escorted him through the foyer and into the grand salon, Nefissa again wondered what business her mother had with this man. He appeared to be fine marriage material, extremely attractive, she thought, established, and doing profitably, she had heard, in his antiques business. But marriage material for whom? she wondered. Which of the many Rasheed girls did Amira have in mind for this man in his fifties?

  When Nefissa came to the end of the mail, she froze. The last letter in the pile, addressed to Camelia, bore United States stamps and a California postmark. Another letter from Yasmina. Nefissa gripped it so tightly that she nearly crumpled it.

  She knew what Yasmina's letter to Camelia was about, the same as the one that had come with the birthday card back in May, which Nefissa had opened and read before she destroyed it. Yasmina hadn't come out and said it, but it was clear that she was planning to return to Egypt. Nefissa didn't want her niece to return. She was working hard to erase Mohammed's mother from his heart, to make him forget Yasmina, to make him completely hers. He was her favorite grandson, because he was Omar's son. If life had passed her by, and love had eluded her, leaving her, at fifty-six, frustrated and unfilled, at least she had her grandson. And she wasn't about to share him with a mother who sent a birthday card every year and who decided to appear out of the blue after fourteen years. Ibrahim had pronounced Yasmina dead; let her stay dead.

  She restored the mail to the basket for others to sort through, and left the vestibule with Yasmina's letter in her pocket. As she entered the salon, where Amira was serving tea to Mr. Fahed, commenting on the August heat and telling him about how the family used to summer in Alexandria, "back in the days of Farouk," Nefissa saw her fifteen-year-old niece, Zeinab, sitting at a window, her eyes fixed on the street below. And it sent a quick pang of envy and regret through Nefissa who, in a flash, saw herself sitting at the same place, staring anxiously through the same mashrabiya screen, more years ago than she cared to count. As she hurried on toward the kitchen, where the two cooks were arguing loudly about how many leeks should go into the spinach soup, Nefissa wondered again what turn her life might have taken if she had been able to marry her English lieutenant.

  Zeinab wasn't watching for a man on this sultry afternoon, but for Camelia. Her mother had been gone for nearly five months, touring Europe with her orchestra, and she was due to come back today. As the girl inspected every car that turned down Virgins of Paradise Street, she toyed with the necklace Mr. Fahed had given her for her birthday, a teardrop pearl on an antique silver chain. Zeinab was confused about the new feelings that were stirring in her body. She had started noticing how muscular some of her male cousins were, she would admire their square jaws when they talked, and every time Cousin Moustafa left a room, she found herself staring at his rear end, so perfectly cupped in the tight pants he always wore.

  She was shocked and ashamed by her thoughts. Why was she thinking such things? Was it because she had not undergone the secret operation the girls at school sometimes whispered about—the purifying excision they had had when they were little? Zeinab remembered being awakened by a scream one night when she was five years old; she had peeked into the bathroom and seen her cousin Asmahan on the floor, with Auntie Tahia restraining her and Umma holding a razor blade. What had they done to five-year-old Asmahan? Why hadn't they done it to her?

  She had always felt different from the rest of the family, not just because of her leg brace, but in other ways. The Rasheeds were all dark, including her mother Camelia, but Zeinab's skin was pale, and her hair was growing lighter every year until it was now the color of Auntie Yasmina's, whom she had never met but whose photograph she saw every time she made her cousin Mohammed's bed. And sometimes Zeinab would catch Umma or Grandpa Ibrahim looking at her in a thoughtful way, as if she were a puzzle they were trying to solve. Zeinab was full of questions. Why didn't the family albums contain any pictures of her father, who had been killed in a war? Or pictures of his family? Where were her other grandparents and cousins? To enquire about such things, Umma had once gently told her, was disrespectful of the dead, and so Zeinab had kept her questions to herself.

  But now there were new ones, "a flea market of questions," Uncle Hakim would say. And these latest were questions about boys and love and sex.

  Her attention was suddenly drawn to a figure down on the street—her cousin Asmahan. Zeinab felt a pang of envy. Also fifteen, Asmahan was strikingly beautiful; everyone said she looked just like her grandmother, Nefissa, when she had been a girl. But, oddly, Asmahan chose to hide her beauty. Even in this steamy dusk, when pedestrians strolled along Virgins of Paradise Street in summer dresses, slacks, and shirts with collars open at the neck, Zeinab's cousin was draped in a long dress that went down to her ankles, a hejab around her head, gloves on her hands, socks on her feet, and—

  Zeinab couldn't believe what she saw.

  Asmahan's face was now completely covered by a veil! Not even her eyes peeped through! How could she see where she was going?

  As Zeinab watched Asmahan disappear into the house, she wondered if her cousin was ever troubled by disturbing thoughts of boys. And not just boys, Zeinab realized in dismay as she heard masculine laughter fill the salon. Mr. Nabil el-Fahed, the wealthy antiques dealer, was sharing a joke with Umma. Zeinab had a massive crush on him. Ever since he had given her the teardrop necklace and told her how pretty she was. And so every time she dreamed about someday getting married, it was always to someone like Mr. Fahed.

  Finally a taxi appeared at the end of the street, and when it came to a stop at the curb in front of t
he house, and Zeinab saw Camelia step out, she turned from the window and cried, "Y'Allah! They're here! They're back from Europe!"

  Amira rose and murmured, "Praise God," smiling at Mr. Fahed. She had invited him to Camelia's homecoming for a secret purpose: so that he could observe for himself what a good mother she was.

  They came in with suitcases and weary smiles, Camelia, Dahiba, and Hakim, while family members, mostly elderly women and young girls, clustered around them, praising God for their safe return. Tonight, after the men had returned from work and the boys from school, there was going to be a big party, after which Camelia was going to put on a special show at the Hilton Hotel.

  As Zeinab flew into her mother's arms, embracing her tightly and drinking in Camelia's familiar sweet fragrance, she bit her tongue to keep other questions from spilling out. Why had her mother suddenly decided to tour Europe? She had made the announcement after they had returned from visiting that small newspaper office off Al Bustan Street. Zeinab didn't know what had happened—there had been the sound of glass breaking, and then Radwan running, and finally her mother coming back to the car, pale and shaken. Three hours later she had announced her intention to take her show to Europe.

  But the reason for the trip no longer mattered, Zeinab thought, as she held on to her mother. Mama was back, now they could go home.

  As Camelia embraced her daughter, she thought: How Zeinab has grown in just four months! She is almost a woman! And so pretty, with so much love to give. And then her thoughts darkened. What man wanted a handicapped wife? What man would look at her leg and not fear that the same deformity would show up in his children? From the hour of Zeinab's birth, everyone had known her fate, which was why she had not been subject to circumcision as a child. The purpose of female circumcision was to reduce sexual desire, thus keeping a wife faithful to her husband—in Zeinab's case, an unnecessary precaution.

  But if Camelia didn't have to think of finding a husband for her adopted daughter, Zeinab still needed a male protector, especially now that she was entering womanhood, and doubly vulnerable. Camelia knew only too well what dangers lurked in the world, dangers to which even the most protected of women could be susceptible. Hadn't her own sister been married, a respected wife and mother, when she had become a victim of Hassan al-Sabir?

  The sudden memory of Yasmina reminded Camelia of another of her fears, one which had been growing lately, as Zeinab approached adulthood: the fear that Yasmina would show up unexpectedly and demand to have her daughter back.

  She is mine, Camelia thought now as she took the seat of honor in the salon. Yasmina abandoned her. Zeinab is my daughter, I shall never give her back, and she must never, ever be told the truth about her real father, that murdered monster Hassan al-Sabir.

  The family took turns kissing Camelia in welcome, even Nefissa, who kept Yasmina's letter secure in her pocket; later, she would destroy it as she had the other. And when everyone had settled down and tea and pastries were brought out, Amira introduced Mr. Fahed to Camelia, Dahiba, and Hakim as "an old friend," although they had never heard his name before.

  Camelia said, "Welcome to our house, Mr. Fahed. May God grant you peace." But she threw her grandmother a curious look. Why had Amira invited this stranger to the house at this time? There surely was a reason behind it; Camelia had never known her grandmother to act without a purpose.

  Amira said, with unmistakable pride, "Mr. Fahed is an appraiser of fine things."

  "Indeed?" Camelia said, wondering if some of the family's antiques were about to be sold. "It must be an interesting endeavor, Mr. Fahed."

  He smiled and said, "It is an endeavor that, thanks to God, brings me into the company of such fine and gracious people as Sayyida Amira. I enjoy appraising beautiful things, so delightful to the eye. I am also," he added significantly, "a collector. I devote my life to surrounding myself by beauty, Miss Camelia. Which is why I have had the joy of watching your show many times."

  There was a brief silence, in which the adults in the salon, including Nefissa whose face now registered shock, began to understand the true purpose of Mr. Fahed's visit. And when Amira added, "Mr. Fahed was just saying to me how extraordinary he finds it that you're not married, my dear," Hakim Raouf, also taken by surprise, skillfully stepped in. The duty of safeguarding a woman's honor in marriage negotiations normally fell to her father but, as Ibrahim was not present, her uncle assumed the role. "Alas, Mr. Fahed," Raouf said, barely disguising his delight for Camelia, "men like to watch beautiful women dance, but they don't wish to marry a dancer."

  Fahed's eyes swept over Dahiba, who had retired from performing but who was still beautiful at fifty-seven. "You appear to be an exception, Mr. Raouf," he said, taking care not to make direct reference to Hakim's wife, nor to look at her for too long, as both would have been highly offensive. "As I would be, if I were married to a dancer whom all Egypt adored. I would not be so selfish as to hide her away from those who worship her."

  Camelia, remaining silent now that Hakim was speaking for her, was amazed to realize that, after years of being passed over as marriage material, and having listened to marriage negotiations for her female cousins, this conversation, wonder of wonders, should be concerning herself! She listened in awe as Hakim and Fahed artfully discussed a subject without ever actually it bringing up—any direct reference on the part of either of them would be a gross impropriety—and she pondered the remarkable coincidence of it. Because hadn't she herself been thinking of marriage lately, for Zeinab's sake? But that was as far as Camelia's thinking had gone, because who could she marry, who would marry a dancer? And now here was Mr. Fahed actually proposing to her, through her family, and she began to wonder what it would be like to be married to such a man. He was certainly attractive, clearly well-to-do, and, judging by the way Zeinab smiled at him, had already won her daughter's approval.

  As Hakim diplomatically extracted the vital details from Mr. Fahed—an address in the expensive Heliopolis district, a family background that included two pashas and a bey, and a solid financial base that impressed even the rich Raouf—Camelia watched the attractive antiques dealer out of the corner of her eye.

  Mr. Fahed was not looking for a wife to give him babies. "I am a collector," he had said. "Of beautiful things."

  But did she want such a husband?

  She had gone to Europe to get Yacob Mansour out of her system. For four months, as she had danced before enthusiastic audiences at hotels and clubs in Paris, Munich, and Rome, she had not been able to forget the feel of Yacob's body against hers, the way he had held her so tightly and protectively when the vandals had broken the window at his newspaper office. Yacob had smelled of soap and tobacco, and a provocative spice she could not identify. And even now, as she pictured him, slightly pudgy, with thinning hair and old-fashioned, wire-rimmed glasses, she still felt his kiss burned into her lips, his body permanently imprinted into hers. In the end, she had failed to free herself of him. But she had made a decision. She would never see him again.

  Especially now, with religious violence tearing Cairo apart. While she and Dahiba were away, the situation between the Muslims and Coptic Christians had worsened. Police were now stationed in front of every Coptic church in Cairo, Muslims were displaying the Koran on the dashboards of their cars, Christians had pictures of Pope Shenouda on their bumpers, and Muslims had stickers that read, there is no god but god. During the taxi ride from the airport, the driver had told her about the arrests that were going on around Cairo—"Anyone who is even sus

  pected of having a tie to these acts of religious violence is being brought in."

  For everyone's sake, Yacob Mansour was best forgotten.

  When she realized that the conversation was drawing to a conclusion, with both Hakim and Fahed looking satisfied, Camelia turned to her grandmother's guest and said, "Will you be coming to my special performance tonight at the Hilton Hotel, Mr. Fahed?"

  "By the Prophet's beard, God's blessing upon him! I would not
miss it! And will you and your friends do me the honor of dining with me afterward?"

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second, in which she saw Yacob Mansour's face, his glasses lifting on his cheeks when he smiled. Then she said, "We would be honored to dine with you, Mr. Fahed."

  As soon as she came out onstage, she possessed it; and when the audience, having waited two hours for the performance to begin, saw their beloved Camelia, awash in gold and silver and pearls, they erupted into frenzied delight. She was their goddess, they were her worshipers. As she seemed to glide around the stage in her signature introduction, sweeping her veil through the air as if trying to gather the glittering light, men stood up and shouted, "Allah! Oh, sweet honey!" Camelia laughed and held out her arms as if to embrace them all, paying particular attention to those closest to the stage because she had promised herself that she would not search the audience for Yacob; she would find Nabil el-Fahed and single him out for a special smile. But she would not look for Yacob.

  She released the veil and began a sensual dance, every muscle under tight control, abdomen rippling, hips shimmying in rapid, tight circles while her arms floated effortlessly up and out. She flirted with her audience; she played with them, and then drew back, becoming the Arab ideal of femininity: desirable yet inaccessible. Seeing Mr. Fahed at one of the coveted front tables, in a dark-blue, tailored suit accessorized with a gold Rolex and gold rings, rich, polished, and elegant, she gave him the special smile. She moved around the stage, her eyes sweeping the adoring faces until, finally unable to help herself, she looked all the way to the back of the room.

  Yacob wasn't there.

  When the music suddenly dropped away until only a flute was playing, the ancient wooden nai of Upper Egypt, which produced a haunting, mournful sound like that of a snake-charmer, the arcs dimmed, leaving Camelia in a single column of light. And as she began slow, hypnotic movements that made people think of cobras and smoke, her sad, melancholy moves seemed to come directly from her heart.