Glamour (19 page)

Helen sat up. She was thirsty.

As though reading her thoughts, Ahmed clapped his hands, and a woman materialized, bearing a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice and two enormous glasses.

“Better than water,” he said. “It will also replenish your body salts.”

She didn’t need telling twice. Helen thirstily gulped down two enormous glasses of the golden nectar, and it tasted beyond delicious; the oranges themselves even richer and sweeter than those harvested a touch too early in the California sun.

“Excuse me,” Helen said, after she was finished. Ahmed nodded to his servant, who melted away as quietly as she had come, and Helen, self-conscious, fled to the bathroom to do her teeth and take a bath.

Once she was finished, wrapped securely in her big toweling dressing gown, glad to have escaped him, she went back into the bedroom.

But Ahmed was there. Sitting on her bed.Their bed.

“Talk,” he said, in English.

“Excuse me?”

“Talk. I have now sent the staff home. We will not be disturbed. Whatever you have to say, whatever request you want to make—now is the time.” He grinned. “And then I am going to begin training you, Haya.”

She was outraged. “What did you call me?”

“Haya,”Ahmed said.“It is your name.What you were given at birth. It means ‘modesty,’ and it suits you. I asked your father. He put ‘Helen’ on you when you went to the United States, so that you would fit in with all the other girls. But you are not Greek; you are Arab. And your name is special, as you are. Ordained and written in the book of life.You are my Haya. I will never call you by that fake name again.”

His speech stopped her anger dead. But she felt obliged to add, “And you can’t train me, Ahmed. I told you that last night.”

“Let us see if you are telling me the same thing three hours from now.”

“I won’t be telling you anything,” she said, feeling out the name “Haya” in her mind. It was, in truth, very beautiful—much better than boring ‘Helen’ . . . maybe now she understood why she had never liked her name. “I’m not yours, Ahmed. I’m mine.”

“What is the contradiction?” he asked, dark eyes on her. Not backing down.

“I . . . didn’t understand what I was doing.When I signed the nikkah,” she said.

For the first time, he registered shock. Amazement, then scandal.

“What?” he said. “Do you not understand the purpose of the nikkah?”

“I do,” she said. “Of course . . . but I did not realize I was signing a nikkah. They spoke so fast . . . my Arabic is poor.” She blushed. “As you know. And my father told me it was a friendship ceremony.”

He considered this for a second. She had expected to him to curse, to stand, perhaps to be abjectly apologetic. But he was none of these things.

Instead, he looked at her calmly, with that same assessing stare that had disturbed her yesterday.

“Then tell me, Haya,” Ahmed said, “were they wrong when they informed me you were intelligent, and a believer?”

She flushed. “No. Of course not.”

“Then you know the Faith. And what ‘friendship ceremony’ did you think this was . . . exactly?”

She had no answer.

“And was marriage never mentioned to you?”

“It was,” she admitted. “But I said that I would choose my own husband.”

“Yet you met me and, of your own free will, went through this ceremony. Is it not so?”

She blushed.

“Yes.”

“So on some level, you knew what was going on.You are not stupid, Haya.”

It was true. She knew it in the depth of her soul.

“I have the right to choose my own husband!” she said.

“That is so. I will not force you.” He leaned across the bed, and his face was inches from hers; a young man, but older than her, confident, and on his home turf. “In fact, my Haya, I would want you to declare yourself again, now, before I would let you touch me.”

Her eyes widened.

“You are so arrogant!”

Ahmed inclined his head.

“And you want me. Do you not think I know my own?”

“How could you tell I am your own?”

“I tasted your lips,” he said to her.“And you will yield to me.” Ahmed stood up, and gave her a little bow.“Good night,” he said, and withdrew.

She woke up in the middle of the night, sweating, unsure where she was.The hum of traffic and the splashing of the fountains seemed wrong, strange and wrong; as she came to, Helen longed for the reassuring quiet of their house on Third Street, her compact, American bedroom . . . her parents.

She shoved the covers off her and walked to the window, shivering as the night air hit her.The moon was half-hidden behind the clouds; it looked different here, somehow. Her nightdress was thin around her legs. Helen cringed; she felt so alone, so vulnerable, unprotected, no family, no friends....

Briefly her mind flashed back to the two girls. What would Sally say? Some crude joke about Ahmed and their wedding night? She wasn’t sure if Sally was a virgin; that was an indelicate question, not one she’d want to ask. Jane was . . .she was sure of that. Jane had only been made beautiful recently, and had never been seen with a boy.

Ahmed, in America, had been very different. Lost—confused. Polite. Here, in Egypt, he was on his home turf. Transformed. Predatory.

Helen twisted her dark hands, confusion springing up in her. He terrified her. Ahmed had all the power in this situation, all the money, all the knowledge. He spoke the language . . . she was his, in his house.

And it scared her even more that she was starting to feel for him. A dark, violent attraction in the pit of her stomach. A longing, in the belly of her, when he was close; wanting him to go away, but wanting, at the same time, for him to reach out, to touch her cheek, her neck, to kiss her, even....

She was disturbed. She hated her own powerlessness. Helen’s fingers tightened on the windowsill, and she bit down in anger on her soft lips. She had herself to blame for this, for her modest obedience to her parents, for always wanting an easy life, always wishing to avoid confrontation.Yes, she still loved them. But how, how, had she given the impression that this would be acceptable . . . that they could ship her off to Egypt, and choose the man to whom she would belong?

The traditional ways? While her father drank alcohol whenever he felt like it, and her mother neglected prayers often enough and sometimes snuck food during Ramadan? Helen had seen her do it.Why was it one rule for them and another for her?

No, she thought. No. She would not bow to this. She would not submit to Ahmed’s rule of her body. She wanted to go the hell home, right now.

A night breeze came in through the arched window, fluttering the thin cotton of her dress. Helen shuddered and ran to her suitcase. Frantically she tugged on her underwear, her socks, a pair of jeans, and a shirt. She had no sweaters or coat—who knew it could get so cold here at night? It was a desert country; too late she remembered that.Well, it would have to do. Frightened, she worked quietly, grabbing whatever she could. A few American dollars—not many, she had about thirty bucks; she’d assumed Baba would bring the cash for the holiday. No airline ticket, but she had a credit card. She tried to remember exactly what was left in that account, from her allowance. Four hundred, maybe less. Not enough for a last-minute ticket to the States. Then she would go to Europe, she thought, go to England. Get somewhere safe. And her passport,
mash’Allah,
she thought with a fervent rush of gratitude and relief. Her passport was still here....

She put on her sneakers and quietly opened her bedroom door. It was oiled, and didn’t squeak. Helen’s heart thumped wildly in her chest, crashing against her rib cage. What if he heard her? Would he be angry, feel betrayed? Hit her . . . beat her? Worse, drag her back to her room and rape her? She did not know this man at all.What if he regarded her as his possession, as a disobedient chattel out to humiliate him?

Carefully, delicately, she tiptoed down the stone stairs, their ancient surfaces pocked and pitted. Helen cast her eyes around, in the gloom, watching for any door to open—he had enough servants, a cook, a night watchman. . . .

But nobody came. They were all asleep. She looked at the clock in the hallway: it said half past midnight. She reached the door to the kitchen, then the door to the garden. Outside, it was very chilly, and she shivered again. The water looked eerie, bubbling in the dark; Helen ran across the courtyard, quietly in her soft sneakers, unlatched the gate, and made it, out into the street. She didn’t know Cairo; she had no idea where she was. She picked up her heels and ran, blindly, fast, toward the sound of traffic.

It was dark. Helen, terrified, thudded through the streets, her sneakers pounding the pavement. There were few lights; she thought she must be off the center, somewhere. The storefronts were all shuttered. A man rode by on a donkey, pulling a cart full of trash; he scowled at her. She turned left into a major street, her breath ragged, and slowed to a walk.

Okay. Okay.
Don’t panic.
The street signs were in Arabic; she had forgotten how to read it. No English subtitles. She looked around, hoping for a taxi, a bus—did they run at night? Anything. A way to get to the center.

A group of men walked past her and laughed raucously. She heard them say something; it didn’t sound pleasant. She thought they called her a whore. Helen hesitated, desperate to ask for directions, but one of the group, a thin man with a scarred face, whistled at her and started to move in her direction. Hurriedly, she crossed the street, starting to feel that this was a mistake. She looked like a tourist, and judging from the broken windows, the tin cans in the gutter, this was a rough part of town....

Helen felt the fear rise in her throat.The gaggle of men were conferring, looking over in her direction.Would they follow her? Rape her? She didn’t wait to find out; she raced off down a narrow alleyway, and heard them cursing. Oh, God! She prayed desperately, her mind racing.What could she do? She was totally lost, it was pitch black, cold, no place for an American girl in a thin blouse....

She needed a landmark. Clutching her wallet in her jeans pocket, Haya forced herself to breathe more slowly. She was panting from exertion and fright. Look for a crescent, she told herself, look for a crescent rising above the modern apartment blocks and ancient tumbledown houses. She would find a mosque . . . it would have directions near it, and she would be safer . . . who would hurt a girl in the shadow of the minaret? Helen steadied herself against a wall and peered into the gloom.There—it looked far away, but there it was, a crescent glinting against a street lamp. She walked toward it, down another alley, and then into an open street. More men, staring at her. Not a single woman to be seen anywhere. Helen picked up the pace. She’d keep moving....

There was a squeal of tires and a beat-up red Ford Fiesta screeched to a halt beside her. The window wound down; the driver stared at her, calmly.

“How much?”

That, she understood. And realized with a shock of nausea he thought she was a prostitute.

“Leave me alone,” she said, in English. He flashed her a sick grin, displaying yellowing teeth.

“Taxi,” he said. “Pretty lady want taxi to airport?”

“Go away,” Helen hissed. She started to pick up speed, but he pressed his foot on the gas.

“What you doing out here at night? Ladies don’t come here. Give me money, I take you hotel. Airport.” He cackled. “Pyramids!”

Helen squealed; he thrust his arm out of the window and took a swipe at her handbag, cursing at her as she flinched. But his arm was strong, and as she screamed for help, he wrenched the bag away, ripping at her shoulder. Helen grabbed, but it was too late, and now his scrawny hand had closed around her wrist.

“You get in car,” he said. “Now!”

In her blind terror, Helen remembered a self-defense move from kickboxing class. She bent her hand backward, naturally breaking his grip. He shouted in rage and slammed on the accelerator. Helen pivoted and ran the other way, leaving him to execute a sharp turn in the street....

And then she blinked, her hand thrust in front of her eyes, as headlights, full-on, dazzled her and lit up the whole street. A new car had turned into the road, at speed, a shiny Mercedes, its horn blaring, and rammed the Fiesta, hard, then pulled back and rammed it again....

She stood, frozen to the spot, her fists crammed in her mouth. The red car lurched and skidded from the impact, but the thief slammed his foot down and it lurched off, fast, down an alley....

The silver car was now sideways across the street, blocking her exit, blocking off the entrance to the alley from which Helen had come. She breathed in, shuddering, scared, looking around her wildly for any escape. Oh, God! It was one of the other men, one of the drunks from before. He had tailed her. She had no passport now—and she was going to be raped....

The door was opening. A man was getting out. Helen struggled against the scream that rose choking, in her throat....

“Wait!” he said, in English. “Don’t be afraid, Helen. I won’t hurt you. . . .”

She stared. It was Ahmed.

He rushed across to her, his eyes searching her body, her lips bluish with cold, her blouse torn where her attacker had ripped off the buttons.

“I heard you leave . . . when I got up you had gone.” His words tumbled out.“I followed, I asked men on the street where you were headed. In the end—I found you. Did he hurt you?”

Numbly, she shook her head.

“He tried.” Her teeth were chattering; she could barely speak.

Ahmed looked her over. “You didn’t have to run. You were always free to go . . . it’s your decision.”

“If it was my decision I wouldn’t be here,” she said, wildly. “Stuck in this hellhole.”

And then she burst into tears.

He got her into the car.That was an easy choice; it was obviously safer. As she buckled up, Helen thanked God for the small things: the soft leather, the clean seats, the warmth coming from the heater.

“I went too fast with you.You are too young for marriage.” Ahmed shrugged. “I would never force any woman. Do not worry; I will drive you to a hotel.”