Abdallah Rashad’s life’s work was secrets—sometimes the unraveling of them, sometimes their keeping. Here was a secret that he and perhaps three men knew: that Genevieve Badir had not died by accident, but by murder. He had kept the secret because it was in the best interests of al-Remal to do so. But that might soon change. The king was dying, and Ali’s brother Ahmad would succeed to the throne.
Ahmad was as practical as Abdallah himself, as practical as Ali was impetuous. Ahmad neither liked nor disliked Malik Badir, but considered him a potentially valuable asset to the kingdom. Perhaps he should be told that his brother’s personal enmity had endangered that asset and might do so again. Ahmad would be grateful for the information.
As for Ali, there was no need to lose his favor, either—as long as he could be persuaded to exercise restraint. All Abdallah needed to do was unravel yet another secret—the whereabouts of Amira and Karim Rashad.
Karim
Americans have no understanding of the Arab world.
Their foreign policy in the Middle East is bankrupt.
Their arrogance in presuming to know what is best for us is both hypocritical and destructive. And their so-called peace initiatives will prove to be temporary at best.”
Good Lord, thought Jenna. She’d never heard such a soapbox speech—at least not in her own living room, and certainly not from a teenaged girl.
The speaker was Jacqueline Hamid, daughter of Professor Nasser Hamid, a well-known Egyptian novelist at Boston University. She was a classmate and, it appeared, a special friend of Karim’s. He sat at her side, hanging on every word.
Now he nodded vigorously, eyes shining with admiration. “Exactly. Even you can’t disagree with that, can you, Mom?” It was a challenge.
How to respond? Jenna not only disagreed but also found Jacqueline pompous, opinionated—in short, insufferable. But to express that opinion would surely alienate her son, who was clearly enthralled by the petite, dark-haired beauty with pouting red lips and enormous jet-black eyes.
“I heard your father’s lecture on Egyptian feminism,” Jenna said, dodging Karim’s question. “It was very informative. But I wonder why he’s not alarmed by the resurgence of the veil in a big city like Cairo, even among university students.”
“Perhaps you don’t fully understand the implications of current socio-religious movements in Egypt,” Jacqueline said primly. “You’ve been in this country a long time, and Karim tells me that you grew up mainly in Europe. You’re Westernized. You’ve lost touch with your Egyptian identity.
Jenna was shocked. Although Karim spent much of his free time at the Hamid home, and was constantly quoting either father or daughter, it hadn’t occurred to her that she was being discussed with Jacqueline—and found wanting.
Taking Jenna’s silence to mean she had seen the error of her remark, Jacqueline launched into a defense of Arab customs in general and the veil in particular. “In conservative countries—like in al-Remal, for example— women enjoy a level of protection and respect that Western women have never known. All that the so-called feminist movement has done in the West is to turn women into second-class men. I’m not at all sure I prefer that.”
Jenna’s blood ran cold. How foolish young people could be—and how dangerous, especially when they were so sure they knew all the answers. Didn’t this overprivileged girl realize how lucky she was? How blessed that she could open her mouth and say what she pleased? Didn’t she know that she could be punished, perhaps even killed, for doing that in a conservative Arab country she so admired?
“I think life in places like al-Remal isn’t nearly as romantic as you imagine it to be,” she said evenly. “Women aren’t allowed to drive or to travel without a brother or husband. They have no civil rights, and they need male permission to do virtually everything that matters.”
Jacqueline was not impressed. “I think some of those so-called rights you mention are not especially relevant in a setting like al-Remal,” she said dismissively.
“Well, what about the right to live?” said Jenna, her voice rising a little despite her effort to control it. “What about the young woman who was shot by her brother—fifteen times—because she failed to meet his standards of modesty? Or the wife who was stabbed to death by her husband simply because she wanted a divorce? Are those relevant enough for you?”
Karim and Jacqueline stared at her, Karim looking especially surprised and appalled by her passionate but obviously benighted response. “You seem to have heard some sensational stories about al-Remal,” said Jacqueline. “Have you ever been there?”
“I … I’ve read a great deal about the Arab world during the years I’ve lived here,” Jenna said lamely, dodging another direct question.
“Reading and living are two different things,” Jacqueline sniffed, smugly confident again. “Most articles and books about the Middle East are written by Westerners. They have no feeling for our values, our Eastern soul.”
“I agree that there’s a certain amount of blindness to other cultures—on both sides. Would you like some tea, Jacqueline? Or coffee?” It was prudent to forfeit the debate. Jenna feared that she had said too much already, and in any event, Jacqueline was not going to be persuaded by a woman whose “Eastern soul” had atrophied. As for Karim, he was obviously so infatuated with the girl that he would happily join any jihad she wished to declare. “Isn’t she great, Mom?” he asked after returning from walking Jacqueline home.
“She’s … she’s a very interesting young woman.”
“And her dad, he’s brilliant. He knows so much about Egypt. He asked me all kinds of questions about you. I told him we’d all get together sometime soon. I’ll bet he knows some of the people you grew up with. Wouldn’t it be great to find out how they are? What they’re doing?”
Jenna grimaced involuntarily. She couldn’t imagine anything she desired less than a chatty little get-together with Professor Hamid. How many more lies would she have to tell? Could she invent relatives and friends who weren’t there? Convincingly enough to satisfy someone who knew intimately the country that was supposed to be her home? And what if she slipped up, got caught in a lie? What then?
Silently, she cursed the day Karim had met Jacqueline. And yet, to be fair, she understood that his attachment to the girl wasn’t simply a symptom of rampant teenage hormones. The two seemed to be genuinely close, bonded not only by a common Arab identity but also by a mutual sense of loss. Karim believed that his father was dead. Jacqueline had not seen her mother in years. An American graduate student who met, married, and eventually tired of Professor Hamid, the woman had simply walked out one day. At last report, according to Karim, she was living with a television producer in Australia.
Undoubtedly, that explained some of Jacqueline’s bitterness toward “Western” ways and women’s liberation. In therapy, it would stand out like a flashing light. But Jacqueline wasn’t a patient. She was Karim’s new constant companion. And in that context, she was a royal pain.
O
Karim’s fascination with Jacqueline wasn’t the only sign of his struggles at the border between childhood and manhood. As his voice had cracked and deepened, as his bones and muscles thickened, he had begun to question, argue, sulk, rebel at every turn. It was typical teenage behavior, but like Jacqueline’s, it was a pain.
There was the night when a call came from the Sanctuary, the battered women’s shelter where Jenna worked as a volunteer.
“It’s Tabetha Coleman,” said Liz Ohlenberg, the shelter’s hotline opera- tor, also a volunteer. “She’s under arrest, or at least being detained. The story was kind of cloudy.”
Jenna recognized the name of a former client, a young woman who hadn’t appeared at the shelter for several months. “What happened?” “She shot her husband.”
“Dead?”
“No. In the leg. I gather he’ll be okay.”
“Why did she shoot him? I mean, what were the circumstances? The last I heard, she’d moved out of the
ir house.”
“She says that he showed up at her new apartment drunk and demanding to be let in. She called 911, but he started breaking down the door before the police arrived. She’d got a pistol somewhere—didn’t say where—and shot him right through the closed door. Says she only meant to scare him off.”
“It sounds like self-defense.”
“I don’t know. As I said, she wasn’t very clear. I get the impression that the gun is a problem. It’s illegal, naturally.”
“Does she have a lawyer?”
“I left a message on Lou Leahy’s machine. If he doesn’t get back to me soon, I’ll try Angela Trosclair. But Tabetha asked specifically for you. I know it’s not one of your nights, but do you think you could go down there?”
“Yes. Yes, of course, I’ll go. What precinct?”
When Jenna hung up, Karim was standing there. Apparently, he’d been listening to her end of the conversation.
“What was all that about?” She summed it up.
“Mom, do you believe in right and wrong?” “Yes, of course. Why?”
“Well, then, how come you help people who break the law?”
She had asked herself that question early in her practice. Her answer had been to remember Philippe, who had taught her what a healer should be—humane, tolerant, never judging, but simply trying to help.
“Mom?”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking about what you said. I believe that my work isn’t about right or wrong; it’s about trying to ease human suffering.” Karim scowled, as if she were a schoolgirl who’d given the wrong answer. “Well, what about Josh’s mother, then? She’s supposed to be your friend. You said you wanted to help her. But you hardly see her anymore.”
The criticism stung—because she’d leveled it at herself more than once. “It’s not that simple, Karim,” she said finally, wanting him to understand.
“Josh’s father has a very serious problem. Unless he gets some help, it will only get worse. You know he hurt Carolyn, and it could happen again. I wanted to help them, but Carolyn … well, she just won’t admit that she needs help.”
“So you think she should just leave him?” Karim’s expression was a strange mixture of curiosity and contempt.
“I told you, it’s not that simple,” said Jenna, wondering why her son seemed to misunderstand everything she did these days—and why she was always so defensive. “I think she needs to protect herself. To get back her self-respect. She wouldn’t be much good to herself or her son if she got killed, would she?”
She had become shrill. Karim’s look of disgust could have come straight from his father.
“I won’t be long,” she promised, gathering coat and purse. “Here’s some money for a pizza.”
He looked at the bills and turned away.
Hurrying to the corner to find a cab, she felt an all-too-familiar frustration. Once again, she’d misstepped without really knowing how or why. It was as if her little boy were disappearing into the body of an argumentative, sneering stranger. Count your blessings, she told herself. Karim was an excellent student and a star soccer player. Compared with many other parents she knew, she was lucky. And yet, she longed for the days when her child believed she could do no wrong.
O
“So, you’re Jenna Sorrel! What a pleasure to meet you, at last!” “I’m pleased to meet you, too, Professor Hamid.”
“Please, call me Nasser.”
It was easy to see Jacqueline Hamid in her father.
Physically, the man was not unattractive, with enormous dark eyes that some women might have considered “soulful.” At the same time, there was something overly ingratiating in his manner, a hint of oiliness better suited to a peddler in the souk than to a distinguished academic.
“You must tell me all about yourself,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s very little to tell.”
“I don’t believe you. My friend Naguib Mahfouz once told me that behind every truly beautiful woman’s face is an interesting story. Your story must be very interesting indeed.”
“You’re very kind.” An acquaintance with Naguib Mahfouz, the Nobel Prize-winning Cairene writer, was certainly something to be proud of, but Hamid’s compliment would have held more charm if he hadn’t been so eager to name-drop.
“Are you enjoying our little mahrajan?”
“It’s wonderful,” Jenna answered honestly. The mahrajan—folk festival—was being held in a Veterans of Foreign Wars post near the North End. Despite the somewhat incongruous setting, Jenna had been floating in a near-trance of nostalgia from the moment she and Karim had entered. The sound of spoken Arabic warmed her, and the pungent fragrances of lamb and allspice and cinnamon drifted through the crowded hall. My God, how long had it been since she had last savored these familiar sensations?
Even the attentions of Professor Hamid seemed rather pleasant—up to a point.
“I understand you’re quite a cook yourself,” he was saying now. “Adas biz-ruz and ruz bel shaghia—all the good things from home.”
“My son has been talking,” said Jenna, flicking a mildly accusatory glance at Karim. It was true that she had tried her hand at some of the popular Egyptian dishes that supposedly had been the food of her childhood.
She had done it as a way of reaching out to Karim in his newfound interest in all things Arab. For the same reason, she had bought some cassettes— the old songs of Asmahan and Abdul Wahab—from a small downtown shop and played them for him.
Her gestures pleased Karim, and when Professor Hamid had invited them both to the mahrajan—he was one of the organizers—there had been no way of begging off.
“It’s good that the boy should know his heritage,” said Hamid. “Speaking of which, you must tell me more about yourself. Perhaps we have mutual friends.” “Mmm,” murmured Jenna, digging into the plate of food before her, using the pita bread to scoop up the hummus and tabbouleh, as she’d been taught as a child.
She caught Karim looking at her. “What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve just never seen you use anything but a knife and fork.” “You’ve never seen me eat a hamburger or a pizza?”
But …
I mean …
“I know what you mean. When in Rome, as they say.”
“I find your way with food charming,” interjected Hamid. “Utterly charming.”
Jenna looked up from her meal to glimpse Jacqueline and Karim exchanging secret smiles—like matchmakers. Oh no, she thought, almost laughing aloud. Professor Hamid was going to be dangerous, but not in the way she’d imagined. Mercifully, the conversation broke off as a popular Syrian recording star appeared on the makeshift stage. His voice was clear and pure as he sang a clas-sical qasidah, an elaborate technique with sustained floating vocal and instrumental improvisations that dated back a thousand years. The crowd stamped and cheered. Jenna smiled at the eclectic musical heritage of the East: it would be as if the Rolling Stones were to dazzle a crowd with a medieval chanson. The next performer was Hanan, a singer who had starred in some of Lebanon’s earliest films, and who now belted out a medley of traditional songs in a rough-edged voice that suggested years of sorrow and hard living. Hakki Obadia, from Iraq, played a short, classical-style taksim improvisation on the violin, and Abdul Wahab Kawkabani sang and accompanied himself on a beautifully inlaid oud.
When there was a break in the music, Hamid resumed his attempt to charm Jenna. She tried to be pleasant, but not too pleasant. Polite, but not encouraging. Luckily, he seemed to have forgotten his desire to hear all about her—perhaps that had been no more than a well-practiced line. Instead, he wanted to talk about people and places he knew in Egypt. She tried not to wince as he waxed eloquent about the “decadent charm” of Alexandria, the “mystic grandeur” of Sakkara. Why on Earth, she wondered, had he spent most of the last dozen years in America?
When the professor paused—to make a second trip to the buffet—Karim whispered, “Isn’t he
a great guy, Mom? I can tell he likes you.”
“Mmm.” Careful, she told herself, be very careful. Karim likes these people.
Now the musicians launched into a rhythmic village folk song created for dancing. Karim took Jacqueline’s hand and led her into the center of the room. Jenna watched, amazed, as they led an ever-growing group in the dabka, a popular circle dance.
“Nabila, is that you?” It was a woman’s voice, and it came from the next table.
“Excuse me?” Jenna said, panic-stricken, though she had no idea who Nabila might be.
“Nabila Ajami,” said the woman, who seemed to be about Jenna’s age. “From Horns. My name is Fadwa Kabbash. We grew up in the same neigh- borhood, don’t you remember?”
“No,” Jenna protested, “no, you must be mistaken. My family is Egyptian. I’ve never been to Syria. I’m very sorry.”
The woman seemed unconvinced, as if Jenna’s failure to be her old neighbor was somehow a personal affront. She stalked over to a crowd of laughing, eating people and began to speak with great animation, pointing in Jenna’s direction.
Though she had no idea who Nabila might be, the old fear crept from its hiding place like some night animal. The hall was too crowded, too close. She needed to breathe. She hurried outside and huddled in the shelter of a hid- den doorway. Then the tears came. A fugitive forever, that’s what she would be. Afraid of even the most innocent questions, because even if she wasn’t Nabila, she was certainly not Jenna Sorrel. Not for the first time, she wondered if perhaps she should never have left al-Remal, surrendering to whatever fate had been writ- ten for her on the day of her birth. And what about Karim? Would he be better off living the life he’d been born to?
“Give me a break,” she muttered reproachfully. She wouldn’t put up with such whining, such self-pity, from a patient. Why should she indulge in it herself ? Just do the best you can, Jenna. And hope that it’s good enough.
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