Virgins of Paradise

by Wood, Barbara

  Declan knew what they were doing. The fellaheen believed that each spirit had its own cadence, to which it responded when he or she heard it, and so the drummers were casting out lines, so to speak, to snare the spirits in their midst. Finally, one of the women began to dance. She jumped to life as if she had indeed suddenly been snared, and she moved in precision with the timing of the drummer. Declan was amazed to watch Khalid's wife, so generous of figure, move with such grace and agility. But she wasn't in a trance. Yet.

  Other drummers joined in, creating at first a cacophony, but ultimately coming together in an orchestration of beats that meshed miraculously. More women began to dance, each with her own timing, with different movements, as each of their spirits responded to personal, inner rhythms. When Declan saw the sheikha vanish into the rear of the clinic, where Jasmine's quarters were, he was suddenly alert.

  And when Jasmine came out, he shot to his feet.

  But Jasmine didn't come out on her own, she was supported on either side by two women; her eyes were closed, her head leaned to one side. Had she been drugged, he wondered, or had she worked herself into this relaxed state? Her caftan was a dazzling blue, which he knew was a symbolic color intended to calm and soothe the spirits present.

  Declan watched in fascination as the drummers walked in a circle around her, the hems of their white galabeyas sweeping the ground, while the women continued to support her. And when the sheikha began to speak in a loud and shrill voice, Declan stared at her in amazement. He had no idea what she was saying, what language she spoke—she seemed to be calling out names, as if summoning someone, perhaps the spirits themselves. She raised her arms, and her silhouette grew large on the opposite wall; although she herself remained still, her shadow appeared to dance, an illusion created by the flickering torches.

  When Jasmine suddenly sank to the ground, Declan stepped forward, but a strong hand, Mrs. Rajat's, shot out and held him. The women moved away, leaving Jasmine kneeling with her eyes closed in the center of the circle. And when she started slowly to sway from side to side, the other musicians finally took up their instruments and joined the drummers.

  Now the music was haunting, melodic, and mesmerizing. Declan remained rooted to the spot as he watched Jasmine sway from side to side on her knees, her arms held straight out, her head flung back. When her turban slipped, the sheikha darted in and grabbed it, shaking Jasmine's golden hair free. The women continued to dance around her, but Declan noticed that sharp eyes watched Jasmine; the circle took on a protective air, and he heard Mrs. Rajat and the others occasionally murmur words of reassurance, to let Jasmine know that she was safe and among friends.

  Her swaying began to grow more pronounced, and she leaned so far back that her long hair brushed the ground behind her. Declan saw the moon rise over the surrounding rooftops, casting a supernatural light over her shimmering blue caftan.

  The music intensified. Someone began to chant. Jasmine threw herself forward, swaying from side to side, brushing the ground with her hair.

  Declan felt his pulse race with the increased rhythm of the drums. The torchlight flickered erratically, as though a tremendous wind were blowing through the courtyard, even though the night was still. The sheikha continued to call out her strange words, sounding as if she were commanding someone to appear.

  And then Jasmine began to do a strange thing. With her arms held straight out from her shoulders, as if she were suspended by her wrists on invisible strings, she began to move her head in circles. Her long golden hair flew gracefully around, catching the torchlight and making Declan think of a Roman candle. Around and around it went, slowly at first, and then faster and faster, as the music picked up pace, and the sheikha rattled off her words so fast that they ran together.

  As the music pulsated in his head, Declan felt sweat trickle between his shoulder blades; he couldn't take his eyes off that spinning hair—up, over, down and around, as Jasmine snapped her neck in an unnatural way. When he glimpsed her face, he saw pale, perspiring skin, her mouth slightly open, and her eyes—

  Her eyes were open, but he saw only the whites. Her eyes had turned back into her head; she had reached the point of transcendence. She was unconscious.

  "That's enough!" Declan said, stepping into the circle. "Stop!" When he reached for Jasmine, the sheikha blocked his way. "Haram, Sayyid," she said. But he pushed past her, quickly gathered Jasmine into his arms and carried her out of the courtyard, away from the suffocating smoke and incense.

  She lay limp in his arms as he hurried down the dark lane, but by the time he reached the Nile and was laying her gently on the grassy bank, she had started to come around.

  "Declan ..." she said.

  "What the hell were you trying to do back there?" he said, kneeling over her and brushing her damp hair away from her face. "Don't you know trance dancing is dangerous? Damn it, you scared me."

  "I was doing it for you, Declan."

  "For me! Are you out of your mind? Do you know how worried I was?"

  "But I wanted to—"

  He suddenly took her into his arms and put his mouth over hers. "Jasmine," he murmured, kissing her face, her hair, her neck. "I was so frightened. I thought you might get hurt."

  She kissed him back, hungrily, with her arms around his neck, holding tight to him.

  "I shouldn't have sat through it," he said. "I should have stopped it before it got started."

  "Declan, my love—"

  "Dear God, I can't lose you, Jasmine." He pressed his face into her hair; his strong arms held her so tightly that she could hardly breathe. And then he was covering her with his hard body; she saw the tall green reeds around them reaching up to the stars. She inhaled the musky fragrance of the Nile as Declan said, "I love you, Jasmine," and then no more words were spoken.

  They walked along the bank of the river, hand in hand, as the moon began its descent toward the horizon. Jasmine thought the Nile had never looked so beautiful.

  She delighted in the feel of Declan's hand in hers; it felt as if she were completely encompassed by him. That was what his lovemaking had been like—not so much a joining as an enveloping. Even though he had physically entered her, she had felt as if he were taking her into himself. Declan was the fourth man she had had intimate contact with in her life, but he was the first with whom the union had felt perfect and absolutely right. "Declan," she said, "you were permitted to watch the zaar tonight because I was performing it for you. I wasn't in danger. They know what to do if it goes too far."

  He looked up at the sky and wondered if the stars had always been so brilliant, so numerous. "I was so worried," he said quietly, afraid to disturb the peace of the river. "Why on earth would you do something like that for me?"

  "I wanted to give you a gift in return for what you did for me."

  "And what did I do for you?"

  "If it hadn't been for you, I might never have returned to Egypt, and I would not have been with Zakki in his final hour. But because I was there, my brother did not die alone and in pain. I have you to thank for that."

  "But I didn't bring you to Egypt, Jasmine. I had nothing to do with it."

  She stopped and looked at him, and saw how his handsome face was thrown into sharp chiaroscuro by the moon's glow. She had never felt so completely in love. "Ever since we buried Zachariah I have been trying to think of what I could do for you. My mind kept coming back to what he said to you, that you are in pain. And I thought that if I could take away your pain, this would be my gift to you."

  "And you were trying to rid me of evil spirits?"

  She smiled. "In a way. The people who were at the zaar tonight all honor and respect you, and so they joined together to generate positive energies and send them into you."

  He sighed. "I'm afraid it didn't work. I don't feel very positive right now." He turned away and went to the water's edge, where the stars seemed to dance on the river's tide, and when he heard again the rumble of distant thunder, he realized that the desert storm
was drawing closer. "You once asked me what changed me. It had to do with my wife's death. Sybil didn't just die, Jasmine. She was murdered."

  She came to stand next to him. "And you blame yourself? Is that what my brother meant when he said it wasn't your fault?"

  "No." Declan pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "That wasn't it."

  "What then?"

  He looked at the cigarette and match in his hand, then threw them both down. "I killed someone," he said. "Actually, I executed him."

  Jasmine heard the night shift around them, the ancient, knowing night, and she smelled the fragrance of orange blossoms. She waited for Declan to speak.

  "Sybil and I were working near Arusha, in Tanzania," he said after a moment. "I knew who killed her. It was the headman's son. Sybil had a small camera that he wanted. He had, in fact, stolen it from us a month earlier. I put the word out that I had gotten the medicine man to put a curse on whoever had taken the camera and that if they put it back, there would be no punishment, no questions asked. The next day, there it was, back in our Land Rover. But then, a month later, Sybil was found murdered on the track to our mission. Her throat had been slit by a native panga. The only thing missing from the car was that little camera."

  Declan noticed a strand of blond hair plastered to Jasmine's damp throat. He carefully lifted it away. "Since the thief was the headman's son," he said, "I didn't think he would be brought to justice, so I immediately got the local elders together, and they held a quick meeting. Swift local justice would do the trick, they decided, especially when I told them what I had in mind. It was fair, they said, what I wanted to do.

  "Four strong men held the thief down while I administered an injection. I told him it was a special serum that could determine innocence or guilt. If he was innocent of my wife's death, no harm would come to him, but if he was guilty it would kill him before the sun went down." He paused, then said, "At exactly sunset, he died."

  "What did you inject?"

  "Sterile water. Perfectly harmless. I didn't think he would die. I thought it would frighten him into confessing." Declan looked out at the dark river. "He was sixteen years old."

  Jasmine put her hand on his arm and said, "It was written long ago when Sybil would die, just as my hour is written, and yours. The Prophet said, 'Until my hour comes, nothing can hurt me; when my hour comes, nothing can save me.' Zakki was right, it wasn't your fault. I want to help you, Declan. You carry a heavy burden. So do I. You have asked me why I don't go back to my family in Cairo. I will tell you why." She looked up at the springtime stars. "My father banished me from the family. He took my son away from me and cast me out. He did it because I had sexual relations with a man who was not my husband, and I became pregnant by him."

  She turned to Declan, to see if she could read his reaction in his eyes. But all she saw there was reflected moonlight. She went on: "I did not love him, I was his victim. Hassan al-Sabir threatened to ruin my family, and I went to plead with him, but ended up by bringing dishonor upon my family. I know that I should have gone to my father—perhaps that is what angered him the most, that I made him think I didn't believe he could fight Hassan, that he was powerless. I don't know. The night my father banished me, he told me I had brought a curse upon our family when I was born. This is why I can never go back."

  "Jasmine," Connor said, stepping closer to her, "I remember when you came into my office that first day, asking me if I could help you if you got a notice from the Immigration Service. I'll never forget the fear in your eyes. Three of my students had already been deported; they had come to me for help, too, but they weren't frightened. For them, being sent home had been an inconvenience, something to be angry and annoyed about. But you were afraid, Jasmine. And I've always wondered about it, because I think you are still afraid. What frightens you about going back? Is it because of that man, Hassan?"

  "No. Hassan al-Sabir can no longer hurt me. I don't even know where he is, if he is still in Cairo, or if he is still alive even. I just don't want to have anything to do with them. My family disowned me, I am no longer a Rasheed."

  She turned away from him, but he took her by the shoulders and brought her around to face him. "Jasmine, you said you wanted to help me. Forget about me. Help yourself. Exorcise your own demons."

  For a moment she was lost in his intense gaze. Then she said, "You don't understand."

  "I understand one thing—you say you're grateful to me for bringing you back to Egypt. I didn't bring you back, you brought yourself here. I was merely the excuse you needed."

  "That's not true—"

  "But you're not really back, are you? You work in Lebanon and Gaza and the Upper Nile. It's as if you're circling a sleeping giant that you're afraid to waken."

  "Oh yes, Declan, I am afraid. I do want to see my family. I miss them so—my sister Camelia, and my grandmother, Amira. But I don't know how to go back!"

  He smiled. "By taking one step at a time and not giving up."

  "And yet you have given up," she said softly.

  "Yes, I've given up. I've learned that science is useless in places like this. I've learned that no matter how hard I try to inoculate the children of these people, they still think a blue bead on a string is more effective. I've tried to teach them about the parasites in the river that cause illness and death, and the simple measures of prevention, but they prefer to trust in a magic amulet and walk in the infected water. They come to me during the day with their disease and malnutrition, but at night they sneak to the sorcerer's house for snake powder and talismans. And those ruins, where we found your brother, possess more healing power than my hypodermic syringe. Even you, Jasmine, believed that the zaar dance could help me. Don't you see how futile my efforts have been? Yes, I've given up. And that's why I have to leave, before the utter uselessness of it all destroys me, the way it destroyed Sybil."

  "But superstition and magic didn't kill your wife."

  "No, but it killed the boy who murdered her for a cheap camera. Jasmine, Sybil and I were in that village trying to convince the elders to urge their people to inoculate the children. We had just about gotten them convinced, thanks to Sybil's relentless efforts to wear down the resistance of the local sorcerer. And then I turned around and used the very witchcraft we had condemned! I set that village back a hundred years, after everything Sybil worked for. I let her down, Jasmine. I made a mockery of her death."

  "No, you didn't," she said, touching his cheek. "Oh Declan, I so want to take away your pain. Tell me what I must do. Shall I go away with you?"

  "No," he said, drawing her to him again. "You have to stay here, Jasmine. This is where you belong."

  "I don't know where I belong," she said, putting her head on his shoulder and leaning into his strong body. "All I know is that I love you, Declan. That's all I know."

  "For now," he said, bending his head to kiss her again, "it's all we need to know."

  FORTY-FOUR

  D

  O NOT WORRY, MY FRIEND," HUSSEIN SAID, AS HE SET THE timer on the bomb. "No one is going to be hurt. It's Monday, the club isn't open tonight." He paused to look at Mohammed, who was sitting in the backseat of the car, ashen-faced and trembling. Hussein added, "The bomb is merely symbolic, to show them we are determined to rid Egypt of godless decadence. I have set the timer to go off at nine o'clock this evening."

  Mohammed looked out at the endless traffic streaming across the bridge, beneath which the Nile was an ominous dark green in the afternoon sun. Hussein's car was parked down the road from the Club Cage d'Or, and Mohammed could just distinguish the poster of Mimi out front. Then he looked again at the bomb Hussein had assembled. His throat was dry.

  What was he doing here, with these dangerous men? What had he, Mohammed Rasheed, an insignificant government clerk, to do with them? He was confused. The past few weeks had been a blur, ever since the day he had discovered that his mother was in Egypt. As each morning had brought the hope that today she might come to see him, and each e
vening had seen those hopes dashed, Mohammed's anguish and spiritual turmoil had deepened. In his despair, he had gone every night to Hussein's apartment and sat and listened to young men talk passionately of God and revolution. Mohammed did not like Hussein and his friends, they frightened him, but they were an outlet for his misery and pent-up passions. They said that immodest and immoral women should be driven out of Egypt, and he agreed. And when they had suggested that, as a demonstration of their intent, they would destroy the place where Mimi danced, he had thought, That will show her, although in his confusion he didn't know which of the two women he was punishing.

  Now he sat in the car that was parked a distance away from the club, watching Hussein wire the clock to the bomb's battery terminals. He was terrified, he wanted to run.

  He wrung his hands. How could his mother be in Egypt and not want to see her son? Was she even still at Al Tafla, or had she left Egypt without even coming to visit him?

  It was time to plant the bomb.

  "We give this honor to you, my friend," Hussein said, handing the box to Mohammed. "This is a way for you to prove your loyalty to the cause and to God. Here is the key to the rear entrance of the club. If you encounter anyone, a janitor or a watchman, give him baksheesh and say that you have a gift for Mimi from an important official, and that you have been instructed to deliver it personally to her dressing room. You will plant it by the stage, as I showed you on the diagram. God go with you, my friend."

  On the other side of the club, at the main entrance, Camelia was just coming out and shaking hands with the owner. Everything for tonight's surprise party for Dahiba was going as planned; all the family would be there, as well as Dahiba's friends, members of her old orchestra, movie people and celebrities, and even a representative from the Ministry of Arts and Culture, to present Dahiba with an award. There were going to be reporters and cameras to record the event, which was to take place after a sumptuous dinner, and then Dahiba was going to be persuaded to dance again—her first public performance in fourteen years.