Virgins of Paradise

by Wood, Barbara

  Camelia thanked the owner and hurried off to her waiting limousine, unaware that her nephew had just sneaked into the back of the club with a box under his arm.

  Dahiba was watching Cairo's rooftops and domes and minarets turn golden in the late afternoon sunlight, and thinking what a wonderful place the world was, because she had been granted a second chance at life. The latest lab results had come back negative. The cancer was in remission.

  Hakim came into the apartment carrying a large package, and looking suspiciously pleased with himself. "What is it?" Dahiba said when he handed it to her with a grin.

  "A present for you, my darling. Open it and see." Dahiba gently undid the ribbon and lifted the lid, and when she parted the tissue paper, she cried out in delight.

  "Are you surprised?" Hakim said, his chubby face beaming. "I don't know what to say!" Dahiba very delicately lifted the dress from the box and held it up to see how the silver and gold threads woven into the gossamer black fabric shimmered in the sunlight. "It's beautiful, Hakim!"

  "And it's genuine, too. My God, but it cost me!" It was an "Assyut dress," a folk costume made of a beautiful and rare fabric that was nearly impossible to find any more.

  "It's over a hundred years old," Hakim said, lifting the hem and feeling the rich material between his fingers. "It's like the one you wore for your debut performance at the Cage d'Or in 1944, do you remember?"

  "But that was an imitation, Hakim! This one is real!" "Let's go out and celebrate. Wear the dress and dazzle all of Cairo." She hugged and kissed him and said, "What shall we celebrate?" "That God has cured you of the cancer, praise His name."

  "Where shall we go?"

  His small eyes twinkled. "Let me surprise you."

  As Amira looked out at the azure sea to the left of the road they were traveling, she thought of the family in Cairo. They would be getting ready for Dahiba's surprise party. She was sorry that she and Zeinab were going to miss it. She had promised Camelia that they would be home in time, but they had been delayed in returning from the pilgrimage to Mecca when she had been stricken with chest pains outside the city of Medina. The doctor there had recommended that she fly straight home to Cairo, but Amira was determined to find the caravan route of her childhood; she would not get another chance.

  Looking out at the sparkling cobalt blue water of the Gulf of Akaba, Amira was elated. She felt purified, closer to God, for having been to Mecca, the most sacred spot on earth. She and Zeinab and the two cousins had prayed at the Ka'aba, the large black stone in Mecca where the prophet Ibrahim had been prepared to sacrifice his son Ismail; they had visited Hagar's well and drunk the sacred water; they had thrown pebbles at the stone columns that symbolized Satan, to drive the Devil out of themselves. And then they had taken a ferryboat up the coast to Akaba, and from there had hired a car and driver to take them across the Sinai Peninsula.

  And now she was following the traditional route the Hebrews were said to have taken out of Egypt. But because the actual path had never been determined, and other routes had been suggested, Amira began to grow anxious. Her mother had said long ago that they were following the way of the Exodus. But was this the right one, or should she have taken the northern route, as others had suggested?

  As if reading her mind, the driver, a Jordanian wearing a red-and-white checkered kaffiyeh on his head, said, "This is the Ninth Brigade Road, Sayyida." The large, dusty Buick sped along a highway with stark granite cliffs rising sharply on the right, and palm trees, golden beaches, and the deep blue Gulf stretching on the left. The lavender coast of Arabia could be glimpsed across the water.

  "But are we following the same route as the Prophet Moussa, when he led the Jews out of Egypt?"

  "This is a popular route, Sayyida," he said. "But the monks at the monastery of St. Catherine's can tell you about it. God willing, we will stay the night there."

  Finally the car turned off the coast highway and headed down a dirt road that cut through stony fields of daisies inhabited by brown desert larks, thrushes and partridges, desert hares, and small green lizards. It was a rough and hazardous road, and the driver was careful not to jostle his passengers too much. They encountered Bedouins along the way, standing outside their sprawling black tents and raising hands in salute to the passing car. As they rode through barren terrain where only sparse vegetation grew, and occasional clumps of palm trees struggled up from the harsh ground, Amira kept a sharp lookout. Should she find all of this familiar?

  They eventually arrived at the monastery. "Gebel Moussa," the driver said, pointing to a lofty, jagged peak. "The Mountain of Moses." When Amira saw the craggy brown, gray, and red granite mountains, her heart raced. Should I remember these barren hills? she thought. Was it near here that our caravan was attacked? Was it here that I was taken from my mother's arms? Is she in fact buried nearby, and will I find her grave at last? So far, Amira had seen the azure sea of her dreams, had heard the bells of a camel caravan, and had been overwhelmed by a sense of familiarity in the alien terrain. What other memories was this place going to bring?

  As they took the road toward St. Catherine's Monastery, nestled at the base of Mount Sinai, Amira and her companions encountered busloads of tourists, convoys of mini-vans, and back-packing students on bicycles, all going in the opposite direction.

  "Bismillah," said the driver. "This is not a good sign. I think we are too late. The monks have locked the gates for the night."

  The road deteriorated to a dirt track and, as they passed a miniature white chapel, the driver said, "There is where the Prophet Moussa first spoke with God."

  Finally they came to what looked like a fortress crouched among cypress trees. "I will take care of this," the driver said, as he parked the car and ran up a stone stairway. But he was back a moment later. "I am sorry, Sayyida. The monks have had enough tourists for today. They say come back tomorrow."

  But Amira was gripped with a sense of urgency. If the chest pains at Medina had indeed been a warning sign, perhaps she did not have a tomorrow. "Zeinab," she said, "help me up those steps, please. I shall speak to the holy fathers myself." She fixed the driver with a look that startled him. "We are not tourists, Mr. Moustafa. We are pilgrims on a quest."

  When they reached a gate set in the ancient wall, Amira had to pause and catch her breath. Please God, do not let me die before I have found the answers I came to seek.

  Zeinab rang the bell and a bearded monk, wearing the dark brown habit of his Greek Orthodox order, appeared. "Please, holy father," Zeinab said in Arabic, "will you please let my grandmother come in and rest? We have come a long way." When he appeared not to understand, she repeated it in English, and his face showed comprehension. He nodded, saying that he recognized the robes of the religious pilgrim, and welcomed the party inside.

  They entered the whitewashed courtyard of the Christian monastery, and as Amira followed the monk over ancient paving stones, she thought: I have been here before.

  As afternoon shadows crept through Al Tafla in Upper Egypt, Jasmine made the last of her house calls before returning to the clinic for evening consultations. "The Sayyid is leaving today, Doctora?" Um Jamal asked, as Jasmine took her blood pressure in the small courtyard of the fellaha's house.

  "Yes. Dr. Connor has somewhere he must go." "Doctora, this is a mistake. You have to keep him here." "Or go with him," Mrs. Rajat chimed in. "A young woman like you. Time enough to be old and alone, like me!"

  Jasmine turned away from the women and carefully replaced her blood pressure cuff in the medical kit. She couldn't concentrate on her work. When she and Declan had made love two nights ago, after the zaar dance, it had been exquisite. And then they had talked afterward, long into the night, until dawn had found them making love again and Jasmine had felt her loyalties start to divide. As Um Jamal said, how could she let him go? But Declan wouldn't stay. "I love you, Jasmine," he had said. "But if I stay I shall perish. I have given and given to these people until there is nothing left of me to give. It's
as if they've eaten away my soul, and I can only save myself by getting away. I must leave, Jasmine, and you must stay."

  As she left Um Jamal's house and walked through the late afternoon sunlight, Jasmine tried to tell herself that it was her fate to live alone, that God had other plans for Declan and that the farewell they had spoken that morning was how it must be, that she would never see him again. But she discovered that even though she had been heading back to the clinic, her footsteps had brought her to the Foundation house by the river, where Declan was loading his things into the Toyota, in preparation for leaving for Cairo that night.

  And then she saw him.

  "Wait!" she cried.

  He turned, and she flew into his arms. "I love you, Declan. I love you so much and I don't want to lose you."

  He kissed her hard, driving his fingers through her hair.

  She held tightly to him. "I have lost everyone I have ever loved," she said, "even my son. But I will not lose you. I want to go with you, Declan. I want to be your wife."

  Mohammed was terrified. Everything had gone frighteningly well, just as Hussein had promised: no one had questioned him when he had walked into the club with the gift-wrapped box; no one saw him plant it at the edge of the stage near the dressing room. And before leaving, he had checked the timer one last time: it was set to go off at nine o'clock—just thirty minutes from now, he realized in cold fear as he approached the house on Virgins of Paradise Street.

  It had been a nightmare trying to keep quiet about everything as he had passed the afternoon at Feyrouz's coffeehouse with his friends from the government offices. Salah had told jokes as usual, and Habib had teased Mohammed about his infatuation with Mimi. He had prayed that they wouldn't see how he sweated, or how he checked his watch too often, or that he had not been able to choke down Feyrouz's sweet tea. And now, with zero hour almost at hand, he realized he was going to throw up.

  Dear God, what have I done? he thought as he entered a strangely silent and empty house. How will I live with myself after this? What if someone is hurt, or killed even? An innocent bystander! By God, I wish I could undo what I have done!

  The silence of the house brought him out of his thoughts; he paused in the foyer to listen for the usual sounds of music, voices, laughter. But, for the first time that he could remember, his uncle's house was quiet and still. What had happened? Where was everyone?

  "Mohammed!" cried his cousin Asmahan, who descended the stairs in a glittering evening dress and a cloud of perfume. "Why aren't you dressed?"

  "Dressed for what?"

  "Auntie Dahiba's surprise party! You were told about it weeks ago. The others have already gone. If you hurry, you can ride with me."

  Party? he thought. And then he remembered: a surprise for Auntie Dahiba. Was it tonight?

  "I had forgotten, Asmahan. Yes, I'll hurry and go with you. Where is the party to take place?"

  "At the Club Cage d'Or."

  Amira awoke with a tightness in her chest, and for a frightening moment did not know where she was. Then, remembering that she and her party were lodging overnight at St. Catherine's, she looked at Zeinab and the others, asleep on their cots. Without waking them, Amira got out of bed, wrapped her white robes around herself and stepped out into the cold desert night.

  She prayed that her discomfort was due to the heavy evening meal they had taken with the monks, and not to heart problems. She needed to live just a little longer. No memories had returned. She and the girls had been given a tour of the monastery that was almost like a small village, visiting the beautiful church, the gardens, the ossuary where the bones of monks long dead were piled up. But her memory had not been jogged; if she had visited this place as a child, she didn't remember.

  She went out into the deserted courtyard bathed in dazzling moonlight, and looked at the humble buildings hugging its perimeter. She thought again how curious it was to find an ancient mosque inside this Christian monastery; it had been built long ago to ward off Arab invaders, the monks said, and now the local Bedouins used it during Ramadan and other religious occasions. Shivering with cold, she decided to go back to the dormitory. But something stopped her.

  She looked up at the black sky, the splash of stars. Feeling suddenly as if she were being impelled by a will other than her own, Amira slowly climbed the stone steps to the parapet wall.

  The limousine was caught in the heavy Cairo traffic. Dahiba looked out at the bright lights, the pedestrians rushing off to their evening engagements, and tingled with excitement. "I wish you would tell me where we are going, Hakim!" she said, laughing.

  But he only squeezed her hand and said, "You will see, my darling. It's a surprise."

  Mohammed looked at his watch. The bomb was set to go off in fifteen minutes. He broke out in a cold sweat as he blasted the car horn and tried to make his way through the heavy evening traffic.

  When Asmahan had told him that the party was to be held at the Cage d'Or, Mohammed had tried telephoning the club, but the line was busy. Then he had considered calling the police. But there was no time. Deciding that he had to get to the club himself and try to disarm the bomb or throw it into the Nile, he had rushed out of the house and taken Asmahan's car. And now he was leaning out of the window and looking at the hopelessly snarled traffic up ahead.

  My God, my God. Help me!

  Finally, in blind panic, he abandoned the car, with the motor still running, and made his way on foot toward the river.

  As Declan left Nasr and Khalid, having spent the evening giving them instructions on what to do until the new Foundation team leader arrived, he decided to see how Jasmine was doing. After they had made love earlier, she had gone to the clinic to start packing. She was leaving with him tomorrow.

  When he reached the clinic, inhaling the rich cooking odors from the evening fires, he heard the muezzin call out over the speaker from the mosque next door. He tried the clinic door; it was unlocked, and he went in. Her bedroom door was open, but she wasn't there, and so he went through to the courtyard at the rear, where she had held the zaar dance two nights ago. He found Jasmine there, kneeling on a prayer rug in a pool of moonlight.

  He had never seen her pray before, and he was held spellbound by the vision she created, in her white caftan and white turban, as she went through the prostrations as fluidly as if she were performing a choreographed dance. And when he realized that he could hear her, that the whispered Arabic prayer was coming from her lips, and when he glimpsed the look of utter devotion on her face—and something else, sadness perhaps, or apology—he suddenly threw down his cigarette, ground it out beneath his boot, and left.

  Hakim came through the front entrance of the club with a very startled Dahiba on his arm. Everyone shouted, "Surprise!" And Dahiba's old band, up on the stage, began to play the song that had once opened her performances.

  Mohammed burst through the back entrance, knocking waiters and cooks out of his way, and when he ran into the dining room, saw the whole family there—Uncle Ibrahim, Grandmother Nefissa, his stepmother Nala, all the aunts and uncles and cousins, from the eldest to the babies, even Ibrahim's pregnant wife, Atiya. And then Camelia was leading Dahiba onto the stage as everyone cheered and clapped, and flashbulbs went off.

  "My God," Mohammed whispered. And then: "Get out of here! Everyone, get out!"

  Amira walked along the parapet wall of the monastery, feeling the starlight wash over her shoulders, the cold desert wind cut through her white robes. She looked out over the desolate landscape, and tried to imagine the encampment of her dreams. Turning in a slow circle, she contemplated the dark jagged mountains against the stars, the walls and roofline of the monastery, until she came upon a curious silhouette against the sky. She realized after a moment that she was looking at the minaret of the little mosque that had been built inside the monastery.

  The minaret was square—the minaret of her visions.

  This is where we stayed.

  And suddenly she smelled the sweet fragranc
e of her dreams—the scent of gardenias—and heard her mother's voice, clear and pure, saying, "Look up there, daughter of my heart. Do you see that beautiful blue star in Orion? That is Rigel, your birth-star."

  Like a staggering blow, it all came clear in an instant, as if the Sinai had suddenly been illuminated by a new sun: the colorful tents and banners, the singing and dancing around the campfire, the visiting Bedouin sheikhs with their handsome black robes and their rumbling laughter. Amira had to grab the wall, as the memories flooded her like a deluge: We have a house in Medina, and we have just been to Cairo to visit Auntie Saana, who is about to have another baby. Umma says Papa will be so glad to see us again, because he can't bear for the family to be separated. My father, who is an aristocrat, a prince of Arabia's largest tribe. And I was betrothed at birth to Prince Abdullah, who will someday be the leader of our tribe.

  "Allah!" she cried to the stars.

  As Mohammed ran toward the stage, his father grabbed his arm.

  Omar's eyes met his.

  And suddenly there was a deafening noise and a ball of flame engulfed them.

  As Amira gazed in wonder at the square minaret in the moonlight, and embraced all the new memories—the courtyard and fountain in Medina, the names of her brothers and sisters—she felt a sudden sharp pain behind her breastbone, and she saw a blinding light—

  Jasmine awoke suddenly. She listened to the silence around her, and then, sensing that something was wrong, got out of bed, pulled on her robe, and went out into the night.