The number ended, and she retreated amid deafening applause. As her twenty back-up dancers took over, filling the stage with a lively folk dance performed in galabeyas and accompanied by shouts and zaghareets, Camelia hurried into her dressing room, where her assistants and a hairdresser helped her with a costume change.
Hakim startled them by bursting in and crying, "Mansour's newspaper office was bombed an hour ago!"
"What! Was anyone in there? Is he hurt?"
"I don't know. God pray for us, this is terrible! He printed Dahiba's article and now—"
"I must go," Camelia said, reaching for the black melaya she wore in her folk number. "Take care of Zeinab for me, take her to your place, and tell Radwan to stay with her, she is not to be left alone."
"Camelia, wait! I will come with you!"
But she was gone.
The alley was in chaos, with people jamming the way, making it impossible for the police cars to get by. Camelia parked at the end and elbowed her way through, and when she saw the gutted building, the glass and papers strewn everywhere, she broke into a run.
Yacob was inside, slightly dazed, picking through smoldering debris. "Praise God!" she cried, running into his arms.
The spectators gasped, recognizing her. Camelia's name was carried through the crowd along with cries of "Allah!" as everyone wondered what the beloved Camelia had to do with a subversive newsman.
She searched his face. Yacob's glasses were broken, and blood was streaming from a head wound. "Who did this?"
"I don't know," he said, still shaken.
"Oh, why can't we all live in peace!"
"You can't shake hands with a clenched fist." He stared at her, as if suddenly realizing she was there. "You're back from Europe!" And then he caught a glimpse of pearls and pink chiffon beneath the black cloak. "Your show! It was tonight! What are you doing here?"
"When I heard—" She touched his forehead. "You're hurt. Let me take you to a doctor."
But he took her hands and said in an urgent tone, "Camelia, listen to me. You must go away from here. Now, quickly. Arrests have been taking place ever since you left. Sadat is sweeping Cairo for intellectuals and liberals, who they say are fomenting sectarian strife. They are being arrested under the Law for the Protection of Values from Shame. And under this new law, anyone can be held for indefinite periods of detention. Last week, my brother was arrested. And then, yesterday, they came for Youssef Haddad, the writer. I do not know who bombed my office, Camelia. Perhaps it was the Muslim Brotherhood. Perhaps it was the government. All I know is you are in danger if you are seen with me."
"By God, I won't leave you! And you can't go home, it isn't safe. Come with me," she said, turning back to the alley. "My car is parked on Al Bustan Street. Hurry. The secret police might be here any minute."
Yacob stood on the balcony of Camelia's penthouse and felt the refreshing breath of the Nile against his face. She had washed and bandaged his wound, and now she was inside, tuning the radio for news. He gripped the iron railing and looked down at the black Nile where feluccas filled with tourists crisscrossed the current. He wished he hadn't come. The crowd in the alley had seen them leave together. Now she, too, was in danger.
"Nothing on the news about it," Camelia said, as she came out and stood next to him. She had changed from her cabaret costume into a white linen galabeya with gold embroidery on the sleeves and collar. Her hair was down, and she had removed her stage makeup. She had hoped the cold water on her face would cool her, but she was feverish, as if the August heat had permeated her skin and settled in her bones. After she had cleaned and bandaged Yacob's wound, they had sat on the sofa, their knees lightly touching. And when her fingertips had brushed his skin, she had felt a shock go through her.
She thought of the refined and rich Nabil el-Fahed, and decided that he had moved her to as much passion as one of his antique chairs. But Yacob Mansour, who still hadn't managed to replace a missing button on his shirt ... What now? she wondered, watching his profile and realizing that, by bringing him here, they had both taken a dangerous and irreversible step.
He was looking up at the stars, studying their arcane messages, and finally he said softly, "Tomorrow Sirius will make its annual rising. You can see where it will appear on the horizon by following the three stars in Orion's belt. They point the way, there, do you see?"
He stood very close to her, his arm raised. Camelia nodded, unable to speak.
"In ancient times," he said, his gentle voice riding the Nile breeze, "before the birth of Jesus, Sirius was the star of Hermes, a young savior god, and every year Egyptians regarded the first sighting of the star on the horizon as a sign that the rebirth of Hermes was at hand. And those three stars in Orion's belt, which point directly to the place on the horizon where the star will appear, were called the Three Wise Men. And if you follow them"—he traced a path in the sky from Orion to the horizon—"you will find the star of Hermes." He looked at her. "I love you, Camelia. I want to touch you."
"Please don't," she said. "There are things about me that you don't know—"
"I know all that I need to know. I want to marry you, Camelia."
"Listen, Yacob," she said, speaking quickly before her courage fled. "Zeinab is not my daughter, she is my niece. But no one knows this. I am not a widow, I have never been married." She looked away. "I have never even ... been with a man."
"And is this something to be ashamed of?"
"A woman of my age, whom Egyptians call the Goddess of Love?"
"How can you be ashamed, when all the holy women in history were virgins?"
"I am no holy woman."
"When you were away in Europe, every day was torture for me. I love you, Camelia, and I want to marry you. That is all I care about."
She left the balcony and went into the living room: a song was playing on the radio, and the seductive voice of Farid al-Attrach spun words of romance and love on the warm night air. "There is more," she said, turning to face him. "The reason I never married is that I cannot have children. I was ill when I was young, a fever—"
"I don't want children," he said, taking her by the shoulders. "I want you."
"But we are of different faiths!" she cried, pulling away.
"Even the Prophet had a Christian wife."
"Yacob, it is impossible for us to marry. Your family would never accept your having a dancer for a wife, and my family would not approve of my choosing a non-Muslim to be Zeinab's father. And what would my fans think, and your devoted readers? Both sides would accuse us of being traitors!"
"Is it traitorous to follow your heart?" he said softly, drawing her to him again. "I swear that I have loved you, Camelia, since the day I wrote that first review of your performance, years ago. I have wanted you since that day, and now that I have you, my cherished one, I am not going to let you go."
When he kissed her there was no more resistance. She returned his kiss and held him tightly. They made love first on the floor, right where they stood, sinking to the carpet that had once graced a magnificent salon in King Farouk's palace. They made love quickly, with the hunger and urgency of those who see their days rushing by. And then Camelia led him into the bedroom, where satin sheets the color of a sunrise spilled from an enormous bed, and this time the lovemaking was done slowly, each touch and sensation savored with the knowledge that their days from this moment on were going to be spent together.
And later, after they had bathed and dressed and caught their breath, they examined reality and agreed that, somehow, they would face the future, with all its complexities and difficulties, together. But it was as Yacob was reaching for her a third time that the hot night was shattered by a sudden pounding at the door.
Before either could react, the door came crashing down, and men with guns and badges and handcuffs rushed in and arrested them under the Law of the Protection of Values from Shame.
THIRTY-SEVEN
W
EN JASMINE HEARD THE CALL TO PRAYER, S
HE WAS flooded with such feelings of warmth and security and home, that she laughed out loud. And her laughter woke her up.
She lay in bed for a moment, trying to remember her dream: Cairo's smoky morning, birds on rooftops noisily congratulating themselves on the dawn, the streets quickly becoming congested with Fiats and donkey carts. And over it all, the pervasive, earthy fragrance of the Nile.
Even though no muezzin called out over the Pacific Ocean to lead her in prayer, Jasmine performed the ritual ablutions in the bathroom and then knelt in the pale dawn and went through the prostrations. When she was finished, she remained kneeling, listening to the symphony of seagulls and crashing waves that came in on the September breeze. She knew that it was going to be a long time before she heard the Call to Prayer over Cairo again.
She had never heard from Camelia.
To the family she was still dead; not even her sister would forgive her. So be it. But if she couldn't return to Egypt, Jasmine was still leaving the United States. And now she had to finish the packing she had begun the night before, because Rachel was due at any minute to take her to the airport.
Jasmine packed with care, following the guidelines provided by the Treverton Foundation. Since the Middle East was her destination, she packed lightweight cotton clothes, sun protection, insect protection, and reliable shoes. On top of these she placed her son's photograph—Mohammed at seventeen—as well as a photograph of Greg and herself on Santa Monica Pier, two hopeful people wondering when the magic was going to happen. She also packed The Sentence of Woman, which Maryam Misrahi had given her, and When You Have to Be the Doctor, in which she had folded an article from the Los Angeles Times that had appeared the day after the demonstration at the Nevada Test Site. The item was accompanied by a photograph of Dr. Declan Connor being arrested. She closed and locked her suitcase just as Rachel appeared at the door, knocking as she walked in. "Ready?" she said, car keys still in her hand.
"Let me get my hat and my purse."
Rachel followed her into the bedroom which, stripped bare, looked as if it had never been occupied. "What are you going to do with your things?" Rachel asked, noting the pillowcase crammed with bedding and towels. In the living room she had seen boxes containing pots and pans, dishes, a record player.
Jasmine fixed the wide-brimmed straw bonnet to her head with a long, old-fashioned hat pin and said, "The landlady is going to donate it to the Salvation Army. I certainly don't need any of it where I'm going."
Rachel contemplated the one suitcase, the canvas carry-on, and Jasmine's purse, and marveled that a thirty-five-year-old woman, a doctor, could condense her life into such a small space. Already, the house Rachel shared with her husband Mort was so filled with furniture and possessions that they were talking about moving to a bigger place.
"Lebanon!" she murmured, shaking her head. "Why on earth did you choose to go to Lebanon? And refugee camps, at that."
"Because the Palestinian refugees are victims, and I know what it's like to be a victim." Jasmine looked at her friend in the mirror. "In Egypt, when someone is cast out of the family, as I was, it's as good as a death sentence. And a woman without a family has the hardest life of all. The Palestinians are outcasts, and the women and children are being hit the hardest. When the Foundation told me that they were putting this joint project together with the United Nations Welfare and Relief Agency, I had to volunteer. But don't worry, I'll be all right." She reached for the canvas tote bag that served as her purse, and a few items spilled out onto the bed; among them was a photograph.
Rachel picked it up and looked at it. She had seen it before, a photo of five children in a garden, grinning enthusiastically. "Who are they again? I know one of them is you."
Jasmine took the picture, regarded it for a moment, and then pointed to the oldest of the children. "This is Omar, my cousin, he was my first husband. This is Tahia, his sister. She and my brother Zakki were supposed to get married, but my grandmother for some reason married Tahia off to an older relative named Jamal. And this is Camelia ..." Jasmine regarded the dark-haired beauty in the photograph who stood with her arm around Jasmine.
"And this is your brother?"
"That's Zachariah. Zakki. We were very close. He used to call me Mishmish because I was mad for apricots."
"Didn't you tell me once that he disappeared?"
"He went looking for a cook who used to work for our family. No one knows what happened to him." Jasmine replaced everything in her purse, and when Rachel saw the Koran go in last, she said, "Are you sure about this?"
Jasmine looked at her friend, and said, "I don't recall being surer about anything else."
"Then why do I have the feeling you're trying to prove something? Jasmine, you need to reconcile with your past. I think you're walking around with a lot of anger inside you that you need to work out. Come to terms with your family, Jas, before you go running off to battlefields."
"You're a gynecologist, Rachel, not a psychiatrist. Believe me, I am reconciled with the past. Camelia never answered my letters."
"Maybe she just feels too bad about giving away your secret and causing your disgrace. Maybe you should try again."
"Whatever the reason for her silence, and for the silence from my whole family these past fourteen years, I have to make my own way in the world. I know what I'm doing and I know where I'm going."
"But—to Lebanon? You could get shot!"
Jasmine smiled and said, "You know, Rachel, it's strange to think, but the baby would have been born around my birthday, and if it had lived, right now I would have a four-month-old child, and you and I would be talking diapers instead of guns."
"Do you really think Greg would have left you to raise the child alone? I mean, he's a decent guy."
"Decent, yes. But you didn't see the terror in his eyes when I told him I was pregnant."
"Well," Rachel said, as she picked up the suitcase, finding it surprisingly light, "you'll find someone eventually."
I've already found someone, Jasmine thought, picturing Declan, who was currently in Iraq, trying to get medicine to the Kurds. Declan, whom she could never have.
Finally she paused to regard the woman who had been her friend during her loneliest hours, who had consoled her in the dark days following the miscarriage, and who, further back, had helped her enter a strange new world at the university, cushioning the trauma of culture shock. "Thanks for worrying about me, Rachel," she said.
"You know?" Rachel said. "I'm going to miss you something awful." Tears gathered in her eyes. "Don't forget me, Jas. And always remember that you have a friend, if you're ever in trouble and need help. Lebanon! Good God!"
They embraced, then Jasmine said, "We'd better get moving. I have a plane to catch!"
THIRTY-EIGHT
I
BRAHIM CAME RUSHING INTO THE SALON. "I HAVE FOUND them!" he cried. "I have found my sister and daughter!"
"Praise God in His mercy!" Amira said, and the Rasheed relatives occupying the divans and floor space in the salon echoed her prayer.
Ibrahim had to sit down quickly in the September heat, and mop his forehead. These past three weeks of searching for the whereabouts of Dahiba and Camelia had been nightmarish, bringing back memories of his own months in prison nearly thirty years ago. The rest of the family, too, had been frantic. Upon hearing of the arrests, relatives from as far away as Aswan and Port Said had rallied to the house on Virgins of Paradise Street where, once again, as in times past, they filled all the bedrooms and kept the kitchen going night and day. The uncles and male cousins who had connections in Cairo immediately began to try to find out where the police had taken Camelia and Dahiba; some of the women helped, too—Sakinna, whose best friend was married to a high government official; Fadilla, whose father-in-law was a judge; and Amira, who numbered influential women among her friends.
But, after three weeks of inquiries, paying baksheesh, wasting hours in waiting rooms only to be told, "Bokra. Tomorrow," no information about Cameli
a and Dahiba had turned up. Until now.
As Basima brought Ibrahim a glass of cold lemonade, he said, "One of my patients, Mr. Ahmed Kamal, who has a high post in the Ministry of Justice, introduced me to his brother-in-law, whose wife has a brother in the Office of Prisons." Ibrahim quickly drank down the lemonade and again mopped his forehead. He was feeling the heat, and every day of his sixty-four years. "Dahiba and Camelia were taken to El Kanatir, the women's prison."
Everyone gasped. They were all familiar with the formidable yellow building on the outskirts of Cairo, a grim edifice set almost mockingly amid flower gardens and green fields. They were familiar also with the horror stories told about the place.
Amira, too, had heard the stories, and rumors that some women had been inside El Kanatir for years, without a trial, without any formal sentencing—"political detainees." Which was what Camelia and Dahiba were. She began immediately to organize the family. The women had already sold their jewelry for bribes; now food baskets would be prepared, suitcases packed with clothes and bed linens, money collected for baksheesh within the prison. Amira moved with furious energy—her daughter and granddaughter in that monstrous place!
As she was giving orders to the nephews and male cousins to begin drafting letters of protest to President Sadat, Ibrahim took her aside and said, "Mother, there is something else, something the others must not know. Camelia—" he stopped and looked around to make sure no one heard. "Mother, my daughter was arrested with a man."
Amira's finely painted eyebrows rose. "A man? What man?"
"A newspaper editor. Well, he owns the paper, writes for it, prints it. A small radical press. He has published some of Camelia and Dahiba's writings."
"Writings? What are you talking about?"
Virgins of Paradise Page 47