Glamour (20 page)

Helen’s eyes swam. “I only have thirty dollars.”

“I’ll pay,” he said, easily. “All you will need is your passport. And I’ll arrange for a one-way ticket back to Los Angeles. You can call your parents to come and collect you.” A cold smile. “Chalk it up to experience.”

She shook her head, plunged back into misery even as her body started to thaw.

“He stole my passport,” she wailed. “It was in my bag.”

He was silent, turning the wheel of the car, easily negotiating the narrow streets of the old quarter, on his way back to the house.

“Hotels here will not register a foreign guest without one.” He sighed. “It would appear you are stuck in my house, at least for a day or so. I promise you, I will not bother you. I will not come to your room, or even your part of the house. A woman servant, my cook, will take you to the embassy tomorrow so you can start on the paperwork.” He glanced across at her, hunched and shaking in the passenger seat. “At least do me the justice of understanding that
I
never forced you. I was tricked, as you were. My family and yours are related . . . distantly, perhaps, but the bond is still there. I would not attack any woman. Still less one who is mostly a girl.”

She nodded, feeling a little embarrassed.

“It was scary, to be alone in your house.”

“A lot worse, out here.Which is why I followed you.”

Helen stared at her lap; she noticed the ripped-off buttons and the gape in her shirt and miserably pulled it tighter.

“I . . . thank you,” she whispered. “I owe you.”

He shrugged. “I think of you as a guest in my house, one under my protection.We will get you safely back to your family, and you can forget all about Egypt.”

“I’m sorry,” Helen whispered. “I just didn’t ask to be here.”

Ahmed drove her back in silence to the house.They were not too far away; he parked, and allowed her to get out of the car herself, averting his eyes as he walked into the kitchen. Helen heard him shouting, and the cook, rubbing her eyes, emerged in a night coat with a cloak that she flung around Helen’s shoulders, warm, black wool, covering her properly.The older woman clucked and fussed as she led Helen up the stairs, back into her bedroom.The fountains were still splashing, gently, in the courtyard, but she was no longer menaced by the sound; Helen felt stupid, but safe. She undressed, put her nightgown back on—it had remained, crumpled, on the terra-cotta tiles underfoot—and crawled into her bed.

Within seconds, she found herself drifting off. Emotionally exhausted, jet-lagged, and fatigued, she could not keep her lids from closing. And as she slipped into sleep, she thought of Ahmed, his dark eyes ranging over her body.

When Helen came down to breakfast he had already gone. There was a short note on the table, and a pile of Egyptian pounds. Ahmed wrote that the cook had only a few words of English, but she would drive Helen to the American Embassy, wait with her, and bring her back. He included a list of telephone numbers just in case she got lost.There was a small tourist guide to Cairo next to the note; Ahmed had placed a bookmark next to a city center map.

It was very thoughtful; but very brisk. An efficient little package from a benign stranger. Helen read the note, and felt a pang of loss. Of course, it was insane to suppose they could marry. She was miles too young. But . . . under other circumstances . . .

She figured it would have been good to get to know him better, the handsome merchant with the probing eyes. They might have dated....

But her world was an ocean away.There was no point in pining over him now. Last night she’d been afraid he might rape her. No wonder he was keeping his distance.

The cook bustled in, pointed at the note, smiled, and talked to her in rapid-fire Arabic.

Helen shook her head; the woman repeated herself, slower.

Still no dice. She felt ashamed she had lost her own language.

“Eat,” the cook said then, pointing at the breakfast. “You will like it.”

“Thank you.” Well, at least she still had the simple words. And the food did look delicious: a chilled pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice, a plate of dates, some hard-boiled eggs in a warm sauce of tomatoes and onions, a bowl of
ful mudammas,
bean dip with pita bread, and a samovar of mint tea. . . .

Helen found she was starving. She ate, and the cook, who said her name was Fahdah, watched approvingly.

“Master Ahmed ordered it,” she said. “He says you must eat.”

At the embassy, it was hot and crowded, and it took Helen forty minutes to get through the gatehouse without I.D. She stood in line for over two hours, and finally explained her plight to a bored young man with a Boston accent who hardly looked at her.

“We got a backlog.” He barely looked up from his paperwork. “We’ll take your prints and details, but likely you won’t get a passport for two weeks.”

“But it’s an emergency,” Helen spluttered.“I’m a citizen. Can’t you help me?”

He looked up. “Are you in physical danger, miss?”

She shook her head.

“Do you have a place you can safely stay in the country while your papers are processed?”

“Yes, but—”

“Leave a number. We’ll call when your passport becomes available.You are a semipriority after cases with no funds and no accommodation.”

“Look . . .”

“Miss, there’s a long line. We’ll be in touch. Next,” he called, beckoning a fat woman in a
niqab
up to the counter.

Helen rode home dejected, trying to pick out a word here and there as Fahdah gave her a running commentary. How humiliating . . . she would have to explain, and then presume on Ahmed’s hospitality. For two whole weeks . . .her clothes would need to be laundered here, she would eat his food, walk in the safety of his garden....

That is, if he let her stay. But somehow, that was one thing she did not doubt.

The cook left her alone in her room. Helen waited for Ahmed to come home, but lunchtime bled into afternoon, and he still did not come. She sat in her room, then walked outside to sit by the fountains, not daring to venture beyond the walled garden, bored out of her mind. She had nothing to read but a copy of
Vogue
she’d brought on the airplane. And that had been worn to shreds ages ago....

Helen washed her hair, carefully blow-dried it, and plucked her eyebrows. And then, for want of anything better to do, she made herself up, beautifully and carefully, just neutral, natural shades, the way Sally had taught her, and picked out her prettiest
shalwar kameez,
something she had packed for the sun, a delicate white and yellow chiffon layered thing, shot through with gold. She tried on her various sandals, picking a white pair with a curved heel and lacy blue detailing, and regarded herself in the mirror, as though she were dressing a doll.

She was playing with an armful of thin bronze bangles when the knock on her door finally came.

“The master is here,” Fahdah said, smiling. “He’s waiting in the kitchen.”

Helen jumped up. “Thank you.”

“Very nice,” the older woman commented, nodding at Helen’s outfit. And then she slipped into broken English—“You pretty—make good wife.”

Helen blushed.

“She explained what happened. I’m sorry you have been put out.”

Ahmed was standing in the kitchen, reading some papers. He looked at her, just once, and Helen saw his eyes flash with interest. But then he turned away, back to his paperwork, and did not make further eye contact.

“You are welcome to stay here. Under the same rules as before. I can also make some calls, see if I have any contacts among the workers hired by the Americans. Perhaps we can speed matters up.”

Helen flushed.“You’re very kind.” She wanted him to look at her, wanted him to compliment her; maybe that was wrong, but he was handsome.

“Or of course, you can call your parents, and they can arrange for a hotel.”

Helen thought about that. She really, really didn’t want to speak to them right now. Her anger with Baba had grown white-hot. When she got home, she would confront them.

“I’d rather not do that. I have some issues with my parents.”

“Some issues? How very American of you.Then your friends, perhaps. Did you not tell me you had rich friends?”

“Well—one.” Jane didn’t have two cents of her own; Helen knew she was better off than the English girl.“To be honest with you, Ahmed, I—I don’t want her to know.” She cringed at the thought of Sally’s incredulous stare when she found out what her parents had done. “I feel so foolish. I just want to get home, and get a job and my own apartment. I know it’s a lot to ask and it’s presuming on your good graces . . .”

“I don’t understand that.What are good graces?”

“Kindness.”

He nodded dryly, still refusing to look at her. “You are Arab, you should learn Arabic properly.”

She blushed again, this time with shame.

“If I can stay with you for this time, I will send you some money when I get home and get a job. . . .”

Ahmed’s head snapped up, and the dark eyes bored into hers. Angry. She shrank back; his strong body was coiled, like a predator’s.

“You insult me,” he said.“Did I not tell you you are a guest in my house? Did I not come to find you, and protect you, when you ran from me? Did I not say we are distant cousins? You have been made welcome here and offered every comfort. And now you think to offer me money, as though I were running some kind of boardinghouse? Even now, you do not think me an honorable man.”

“No! I—it’s just—it’s such an imposition. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and under his unflinching stare she quailed and dropped her gaze. He was right, of course he was right. She was offering him a dire insult, and he had been nothing but good to her.

“Forgive me,” Helen said, speaking in Arabic the best she could. “You have been a good friend and cousin. I would like to stay under . . . under your generous roof. If you will permit it.”

He was silent, and when she looked up he was still glowering.

“Please . . . I’m sorry. I meant no offense, Ahmed. . . . I want to stay with you, if you will have me.”

“And you will regard me as your host; trust me not to force myself upon you; nor speak again of money?”

“No. As my host.” Helen bit her lip. “My kind host,” she said.

She half wanted to stay, half to run. Feeling him so near was disturbing. And his anger at her dishonoring him made him all the more attractive to her.

“Very well, then. It is settled. I’ll call the embassy tomorrow. Will you eat supper?”

Helen had been bored out of her brain; she jumped at the chance.

“Yes, please. And you can tell me all about your work.”

Ahmed’s eyebrow lifted. “I was going to arrange that your meal be sent to your room.”

Helen started. “Oh, no, please don’t. I want to talk to you, to spend time with you. It’s been so dull without anything to read, and I don’t dare go outside and get lost. . . .”

Now he looked at her with a flicker of amusement, and the dark eyes ran assessingly across her pretty outfit.

“But we are not staying married. Do you think it is proper?”

Helen had the strong feeling he was teasing her, toying with her. She felt a rush of desire across her skin, her knees weakening.

“I am your guest. And we are relatives,” she reminded him. “So I think . . . it’s okay.”

“Very well, then; we’ll eat.”

He clapped his hands, and one of the serving men ran in.

“Bring us some supper,” he said. “My cousin and I will eat.”

Helen lifted her face and smiled radiantly at Ahmed. She was so grateful. And she was longing for his company.

He chatted lightly and pleasantly enough, as the waiter bustled about them, bringing
fattah, kaltah,
spiced kebabs with tomato paste and cumin, a dish of tomatoes and herbs, vine leaves wrapped around goat’s cheese, figs and honey, and wine. Everything was home-cooked, and there was a pitcher of iced mineral water and another of pomegranate juice; the flavors of the Middle East blended against her tongue, everything natural, nothing processed. Ahmed ate lying sideways, lounging against his silk divan, and Helen, nervously at first, imitated him, picking at a date or a grape and then the meat and rice dishes.

It was so good to have conversation; she had no idea how isolating it would be not to speak the language. Her
own
language.

She could hardly look straight at him. Helen felt so grateful, and so indebted.Without Ahmed, she would be confronting her parents right now.

And Ahmed was so confident; so tough, upright, uncompromising. The thought of how he had driven through the night, sought her, saved her, danced in Helen’s head. His proud distance from her, afterward. His eyes, just now and again, sweeping across her, and finding her beautiful.

And she found she desperately wanted him to find her beautiful.

When he was angry, she wanted to please him.To placate him. His dominance lit up something fundamental in her, and the female animal in her responded, setting her blood racing, making her long for his arms, his deep, owning kiss.

Of course, Helen didn’t have Sally’s dazzling style or blonde halo of hair. And she didn’t have Jane’s strength and grace, or her newly discovered pale English good looks.

But there was something about Ahmed that assured her he would not glance twice in either girl’s direction. He liked Helen; she was not “foreign” to him, except insofar as she had lost her culture. He would—you could argue, did—marry her.

As he talked, politely and inconsequentially, about his business, about the embassy, the Cairo traffic, Helen stared at him.

And she realized, she wanted him.

The evening stretched on, and Helen ate slowly, trying to draw it out.When he finally washed his fingertips in a small bowl of rosewater, she followed him, then scrambled lightly to her feet and walked around the table to be closer to him.