The fevered eyes blinked rapidly as Mahir struggled to take in the wonders Malik described.
“Miracles,” Malik continued. “Nothing short of miracles are performed in France. With the grace of God, the doctors assisted an acquaintance of mine. His seed, alas, was weak, but the doctors strengthened it. Now he and his wife have a son.” Malik smiled at this happy conclusion to his narrative: a true story, albeit a rather simplistic explanation of artificial insemination.
“Is this true, Malik ibn Omar? Is this really true?”
“What I have said happens, happens.”
For perhaps five seconds, Mahir could have posed as Antar’s smaller brother. Then he slowly sagged. “They must all be millionaires in France,” he said, “to be able to afford these doctors.”
It was the moment Malik had been waiting for. “Well, that’s the thing, you see,” he said, signaling for more coffee. “In France, the employer customarily pays the medical bills of those who work for him.” It was not strictly untrue, he told himself; it would be the custom of at least one employer.
Not long after that, Mahir declared that relatives or no, water truck be cursed, he had always wanted to see the world and named a figure of his own.
When the pleasure of bargaining was finally done, Mahir invited Malik to his house—“to taste some of the cooking you’ll be enjoying and, of course, to see the little one.”
“You’re too kind. I wouldn’t want to disturb your relatives.”
“You are my employer. If you do me the honor to visit my home, what should they have to say about it?”
There were no relatives, as it turned out, in Mahir’s small and hot but immaculately clean house. There was only Salima coming to her husband’s call, glancing in question to his face and finding the answer.
But Malik scarcely noticed this, for in Salima’s arms was Laila, her dark, clear eyes gazing into his with what, forever after, he would swear was a look of eternal recognition.
Part
Two
Childhood
The soccer ball that Malik remembered, Amira remembered, too. She had been no more than five or six when it came bounding out of the cacophony of the boys’ game, stopping an inch from her white sandals.
It seemed as big as a planet, but the temptation to kick it was irresistible.
The first try failed. Her favorite dress—white with a bow that tied in the back—betrayed her; it was ankle-length, of course, with long pants under it, and when she drew back her foot, she stepped on the hem, got tangled, and missed the ball completely. The boys hooted.
She lifted the dress just enough to gain free movement and kicked with all her might. The heavy ball stung her toes but sailed like something in a dream—into the fountain. For a moment, there was chaos, even Malik shouting at her, until her aunt Najla appeared and towed her back to the group of women and younger children.
It was a small memory among countless others that, years later, Amira retrieved with bittersweet nostalgia, turning them over in her mind as another woman might leaf through a photo album. Often, while rain fell on chilly Boston or snow piled in its streets, she would think of her father’s house with its sunlit garden.
Although shielded by high walls on two sides and by the wings of the house on the other two, the garden was far from being the shadowy, secret keep that many Americans seemed to imagine an Arab home enclosed. It was more like a playground, a bright space always alive with children—cousins, of course, almost every day, but also the children of neighbor women and of other visitors, as well as those of the servants; sometimes there were special guests, little royal princes and princesses, not so very different from Malik and herself; less often, the inexpressibly exotic offspring of American oil-company executives or European businessmen.
The garden was a place of play and openness and green growing things—jasmine and oleander and jacaranda, lovingly tended and nurtured with water more precious than oil. It was the garden Amira thought of when she thought of happiness. In memory and fact, it blended with the house itself, a rambling Mediterranean-style stucco villa with tall arched windows that could be shuttered against the midday heat. Women and children alike shifted perpetually between the outdoors and the rooms of the women’s country within.
In the fiercest heat of the day, everyone settled in the shade of the arcade that ran along the ground floor of the main wing and formed a kind of middle ground between outdoors and in. The women worked at small chores and talked, sometimes even sang; both the talk and the singing were done softly, if there were men at home, since women’s voices heard unrequested in the men’s part of the house represented gross misbehavior.
In the direct presence of adults, the children were expected to listen respectfully, speaking only when spoken to. Boys had a bit more latitude than girls in this respect, but even they were never allowed to become loud or unruly. Amira could remember it exactly: the heat made only just bearable by the shade, the kitchen fragrance of cardamom or cloves or rosemary spicing the scent of stewing lamb, the soft voices and laughter of the women. Sitting politely while the grown-ups conversed was never the intolerable burden that it would have seemed to an American or European child. For one thing, that was simply the way things were done; for another, the conversation could be fascinating. Amira’s mother, aunts, and their friends talked of matters that concerned them deeply—money, sickness, marriage, childbirth, the ways of husband and wife— and little or nothing was censored or softened because children were present; after all, they would need to understand these things for themselves before many more years had passed.
One day, for instance, the topic was a new marriage that had met trouble. “Not a drop of blood on the sheets,’’ said Aunt Najla, who had heard the story from one of her friends. “As there would have been if her husband had penetrated a virgin,” she added, for the benefit of the younger children. There were sad noddings; it was every decent woman’s nightmare. “Did her husband divorce her immediately?” asked Amira’s cousin, Fatima. “Did he send her back to her family?” A bride proved unvirgin could expect nothing more. “Did her brothers kill her?” asked Halla, a neighbor.
“No,” Najla replied. “She was neither divorced nor killed. Naturally, questions arose. It wasn’t a matter of money: the groom is rich and not at all miserly.” She was referring to the fact that even if the bride were not pure, her husband would still owe half of the bride-price—a large sum—to her father, but would have no wife for the expense.
The women nodded again, this time with understanding, and someone said, “I see.”
“Yes,” said Najla. “Obviously, the fault was his. Either his male member was not up to the task, or for some other reason, he would not do his husbandly duty.”
That changed everything. Now it was the woman’s right to divorce the man. Islamic law said so. Yet, this course of action presented its own problems and was rarely taken. For one thing, divorce, regardless of the reason for it, greatly diminished a woman’s prospects of making another marriage. “But what’s wrong with him?” asked Fatima.
The others groaned at her naivete. Certainly, everyone knew that normal men could not contain their lust if it were provoked; it was the whole reason women hid their faces, their hair, even their arms. “Have you never heard that there are certain men who cannot perform?” Halla demanded. “For example, some prefer boys—or even men—to women.”
“I hardly think that this is such a case,” said Najla authoritatively. “But it’s well known that otherwise normal men can sometimes become disabled, from illness perhaps, or injury—”
“Not my husband,” Halla cut in. “When he broke his leg, he was like a goat the whole time it was mending.”
“—or for other reasons that only God understands. It’s said that the excitement of the occasion itself undermines some men’s powers. But the point is that the affliction, through God’s grace, is often only temporary.” That set off a discussion of how long a man should have in which to
overcome such a condition before it was considered permanent and therefore actionable. The consensus was that a month, perhaps two, was proper, although someone said that, in the Trucial States, as much as a year was customary. In the end, one of the older women, by stating the undeniable truth that whatever happened was by God’s design, for all power was his, signaled that the subject was exhausted.
Amira had listened intently—not out of titillation, for nothing could be more ordinary than talk about sex (one of the first things to perplex her about America was the existence of a debate about something called “sex education”). Nor was it a matter of learning a potentially important lesson—for, like any young girl, she was certain that her husband would never suffer from a lack of passion.
Looking back across a gulf of lonely time, Amira-in-exile could see that what counted was simply being part of it all, of the circle of relatives and friends in the women’s country. Never since those childhood days had she known such a sense of belonging and acceptance.
O
The first cloud over Amira’s young life came from the other world, an entirely different world that occupied the same house, the men’s world, a place she rarely saw and in which things happened that were as beyond her control and understanding as the ways of God himself. The cloud came when Malik, who had been in conference with their father—an event in itself—burst into the kitchen with astonishing news: “Little sister! I’m going to Egypt, God willing! To Cairo!”
“Is Mama going with you?” It was all she could think of to say. She was six. The only thing she knew about Cairo was that her mother came from there.
“No, idiot. I’m going to Victoria College.”
“What’s that?”
Malik spread some brochures on a table. “Here. Look.”
There were large stone buildings and green lawns, and among them boys in strange clothes—jackets and ties like the oil-company foreigners some- times wore.
“Who are all these boys?” Amira asked.
“Students, just like I’ll be. People who go to school to learn things. Look, that’s the British flag. It’s a British school.”
“These are British boys?”
“No, they’re Arabs, just like me. And Egyptians, of course. And some Persians. It’s a British school in Egypt.”
Amira contemplated this information, “When I’m as old as you, can I go there?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m not stupid. Why can’t I go?” “Because you’re a girl, silly.”
She could see that it was true—there were no girls in the pictures, no women even—and she knew it in her heart, as well. “I want to go,” she said. “When I’m eight, I’m going to go.”
Malik tousled her hair. “You can’t, Little Sister.” “Yes, I can!”
Just at that moment, Jihan, their mother, walked in. “What’s the fuss?”
“Mama, Malik says I can’t go to Victoria. Make him stop saying that.” “Aren’t you happy your brother’s going to such a fine school?” “Yes. But can’t I go, too, when I’m old enough?”
“Well, we’ll see, little princess. It’s not something you should be worrying about. It’s a long time away, and all things are arranged by God.” Amira knew when “we’ll see” meant maybe, and when it meant no. This “we’ll see” was like a door closing, but she stubbornly chose to interpret it otherwise. When Malik went to Cairo, she clung to the dream that someday she would join him there. She begged Jihan to read his letters over and over so that she could absorb every word.
Many famous men had gone to Victoria, Malik boasted, even royalty—for example, young King Hussein of Jordan. The professors all dressed like Oxford dons, whatever that was; apparently, they wore long black thobes—Amira pictured them as Bedouins. The schoolwork was very difficult, one letter said with a hint of despair. The history courses endlessly detailed European kings and conflicts that made no sense in Remali terms.
The language courses apparently were even worse. When Malik came home for Ramadan, he showed Amira some of his textbooks, the incomprehensible English and French letters bearing no resemblance to the flowing characters of Arabic. Proudly, if haltingly, he read her a quotation from a renowned British poet whose name translated as “brandish a lance.” The English words were only noise, but she made him point to each one as he read it.
Despite the difference of over two years in their ages—just right for engendering incessant squabbles—Amira and Malik had always been close. Even adults commented on it, not always approvingly; an aunt had once said sadly that it was because there were only the two of them—two children, one of them a girl, not being considered much of a family in al-Remal.
Now, with his veneer of cosmopolitanism and education, Malik was a hero to his little sister. She counted the weeks till his return on holiday or for the long summer break when the British professors fled the Cairene heat, and when, at last, he did arrive, she pestered him mercilessly to tell her all about Victoria College and all the things he had learned.
One incident that first summer both terrified Amira and, if it were possible, magnified her admiration for her brother.
O
It was an unusually quiet afternoon in the garden. The women and most of the children had gone inside to nap. Malik and a visitor, Prince Ali of the royal house of al-Rashad, sat at a table playing chess. Nearby, perched on a marble bench, Amira watched the game. Girls did not play chess, but Malik loved the game, and Amira had learned most of the moves by observing him.
Malik moved his knight to king five. “Watch your queen,” he said in a friendly manner.
Amira shook her head imperceptibly. Even she could see that this was not the real threat.
“Don’t worry about my queen,” the prince said, shifting it across the board and out of danger.
As soon as he removed his fingers from the piece, Malik pushed his own queen forward, capturing the pawn next to the black king. “Checkmate,” he said with a smile.
“Cheap trick!” the prince shouted, his face mottled with anger. With one sweep of his arm, he flipped the board from the table, sending pieces flying.
One hit Amira in the eye. “You hurt me,” she moaned and began to cry.
The prince froze for a moment. “Bitch,” he muttered, as if to cover his inexcusable display of temper.
Malik moved so quickly that Prince Ali was on his back before Amira realized that her brother had hit him.
The shock was so great that she quit sobbing and held her breath. For one man to lay hands on another was a terrible insult; to strike royalty was unthinkable. Had anyone seen? Across the garden, Bahia seemed to be study- ing the tops of the date palms.
The prince staggered to his feet. “You’ll pay for this,” he said—although he kept his distance.
Amira could see that Malik was afraid, but his voice revealed only con- tempt. “Oh, really? Who will you tell? Your father? Your brothers? Will you tell them what you said to my sister?”
The boy glared daggers, then stalked off without another word.
That night, Amira and Malik discussed the episode in thrilled whispers. She was certain that royal guards would arrive at any moment to arrest him; what he had done was against all the rules. With somewhat less confidence, he assured her that no such thing would happen. The other boy was too much of a coward, prince or no. Malik worked himself up to a bit of bravado. “The thing about rules, Little Sister, is that sometimes they have to be broken. What is important is to know when.”
Amira had never heard such a statement, not even from an adult, but somehow it fitted her brother. Besides being a scholar and a man of the world, Malik now appeared to her in the swashbuckling role of a desert bandit sheik.
O
“Mama, am I going to Victoria this fall?”
The second summer both dragged and rushed toward an end. Amira was nearly eight now, and if she were going to Victoria, this was the time.
Jihan sighed. “No, beauty, you’re not.�
�� The sadness in her voice left no room for doubt.
“But I want to.”
“I know. But I’ve told you—anyone can tell you—girls don’t go to schools like Victoria.”
“Why not? I’ve learned things from Malik. He gives me his old books. I can do the lessons he did when he first went, almost as well as he could.” Jihan looked at her in wonder. “Are you serious, darling? I knew you looked at his books, but I didn’t know that you were actually studying them.” Then her mouth tightened. “I’m proud of you, Amira. You’re a very intelligent girl. But get Victoria College out of your head. You simply can’t go.”
“But I want to! I want to!”
It ended in the nearest thing to a temper tantrum that Amira had ever had— enough, eventually, to bring Omar storming into the women’s country.
“What’s all this uproar?” he demanded of Jihan. “We can hear you out there! Does the peace of this house mean nothing?”
“My apologies, husband. It’s my fault.” “What troubles the little one?”
“A girlish fantasy, nothing more,” Jihan explained briefly, passing so lightly over Amira’s dream as to make it seem a joke.
Omar softened. “Listen, little princess, you don’t want to go off to dirty, ugly old Cairo and leave all your cousins and friends. Think of all the fun you’ll have here. Don’t you have a birthday coming up? It seems to me that we’ll have to plan something special for you.”
“But Malik doesn’t mind Cairo, Father, and I’d be with him.”
Her father frowned. Amira was not exactly contradicting him, but close enough. “Listen, Daughter, and listen well. Your brother will be a man and needs education for a man’s tasks. You are a girl, and the only thing you need to learn is to be a modest and obedient wife for the husband you will have someday, God willing. Now let there be no more of this.”
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