An Infidel in Paradise (15 page)

We’re still smiling like fools, and I think if I was in the backseat right now and she tried to hug me, I wouldn’t pull away. It’s a stop-time moment. If I could, I would capture it so I could come back to it, savor it. It’s the first moment in this country I’ve wanted to hold on to. The first moment I haven’t wanted to get through as quickly as I could so I could start the business of forgetting.

We’ve been driving alongside high stone walls for several minutes now, and I’m on the point of asking Ahmed what’s behind them. I’m thinking military installation or terrorist training ground. Suddenly he pulls into a short driveway leading to an ornate iron gate. A guard emerges from the guardhouse, and I’m surprised
to see he isn’t wearing the government-issue fatigues, though he is armed to the teeth with an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder and a wicked-cool pistol on his belt. He’s better equipped than our guards, which kind of confirms my first suspicion about the terrorist training ground. After a brief chat with Ahmed, the guard opens the gates for us.

It occurs to me Ahmed could make a packet of money turning Angie and me over to terrorists – American and Canadian diplomat kids. The press would be all over it. The terrorists could keep us hostage for years and just trot us out every so often to keep up the pressure. It would never get old. We’d keep getting thinner and thinner and look more and more desperate. People would write articles, like about how we’re going to be messed up for life even if we do get out, and they’d speculate on whether we’d been tortured or abused. Our parents would go on television and make tearful pleas for our release. Somehow, even in fantasyland, I can’t imagine my mom crying to get me back, but maybe Angie’s mom could do that and my mom could be all angry and threatening. Maybe the trauma would bring my parents back together, and my dad would feel bad for ever ditching us and missing the last few months with me, and he’d beg for my forgiveness right on TV.

I don’t notice we’ve stopped until Ahmed comes around to open my door. He doesn’t normally do that. It’s not like I’m a princess or anything. He looks at me curiously as I slowly climb out of the car.

We’ve pulled up beside a small mansion. A minute ago, I wouldn’t have referred to this as a
small
mansion, but I can see a much larger one in the distance, beyond what looks like a stable with a dozen or so horses milling around it. Not too far off in the other direction is a swimming pool. I’d bet my allowance it’s Olympic size.

As if he’s been watching for us, Mustapha emerges from the mansion and strides toward us. He’s wearing a loose white
kurta
over jeans, and his smile is blinding. For a second I start to smile back – until he brushes right past me, leaving just a hint of cinnamon, and goes to Angie, taking her hand with a warmth that makes me want to slap her, a momentary betrayal that I immediately regret.

“Angie, what a nice surprise. Emma didn’t tell me you were coming.”

I could point out that I didn’t even know I was coming until yesterday, but I figure we’re going to be arguing soon enough. Better to save my energy.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Angie simpers, all giggly and flirty. I don’t blame her. He just has that effect on girls.

“Not at all. You can be our first audience and give us suggestions. We could use the help.” He leans in and fake-whispers in a voice clearly loud enough for me to hear. “Emma seems to be having trouble with some of her lines.”

Be nice
, I remind myself. If he’s going to spend the whole day antagonizing me, though, it’s not going to go
well. I don’t want to get angry, but if I’ve learned anything about myself in the recent past, it’s that I don’t have great self-control. If he pushes my buttons, I’ll go off on him and say mean things and feel elated for the first five seconds and terrible for eternity. It won’t be my fault, or not entirely, but it will still feel like my fault.

“Emma!”

He’s standing right in front of me. He’s speaking to me.
Why is he so good-looking? It’s totally not fair
.

“Emma, come inside. My mother wants to meet you.”

I used to be good with parents. My old friends always said their parents would tell them to be more like me, polite and well-behaved. I
used
to be a lot of things.

Angie’s wandered off in the direction of the house; so much for sticking together. Mustapha waits for me to start moving before he follows.

We walk into a large, dimly lit entrance hall. The ceiling sweeps up to the second storey, and I see there’s a massive chandelier that’s probably pretty impressive when it’s turned on.

He comes up behind me. “Go through there to the right.” He gestures to one of several doors. I can feel his breath on my head.

Where’s Angie?

I
walk through the doorway but stop abruptly just inside. The first thing I notice is a stone fireplace that’s so massive you could walk right into it and roast a full-size deer with room to spare. And I’m not just randomly thinking about deer, because the second thing I notice are dozens of glass eyes staring at me from every direction. To say it’s disturbing would be an understatement. I’ve never seen so many dead animals outside a museum. There are two tigers posed on either side of a sofa, which I figure is two more than anyone needs in their living room; at least six gazelle-like things; plus several mouse deer posed au naturel, nosing under the ottoman for grass.
And is that a lion?
I didn’t think they even had lions in Asia, but there it is, lounging right on the hearth, with a full mane of hair and its head thrown back, yawning and enjoying a cozy afternoon by the fire.

“My grandfather was a bit of a hunter,” says Mustapha.

“You think?” I say, unable to take my eyes off the
carnage. “Do you hunt?” I’m not sure I want to hear his answer.

“Not often. There’s not a lot left to kill.”

I whip around to see if he’s joking and think I catch the faintest twinkle in his eyes.

“How disappointing for you,” I say dryly. I look around the room again and realize the one thing missing is Angie.

“We go through there,” says Mustapha, pointing to a door on the far wall, and I hustle through the gauntlet of dead animals, hoping Angie is on the other side.

Instead, I find myself in another cavernous room, with glass-enclosed bookcases that reach up to the ceiling against every wall. There are a couple of large armchairs in the corners, but a huge leather-topped table that looks like it came from a palace dominates the room. In spite of its size, there’s something about this room that’s strangely soothing, though it may be just the lack of dead bodies. I want to check out the books, but Mustapha nudges me onward.

“Almost there,” he says. As I skirt past the table, I run my hand along the backs of some of the twenty-or-so ornately carved chairs that are pushed up against it.

Finally, we’re in a room that you might find in an ordinary house. An ordinary house owned by very, very rich people but not so big you could roll up the carpets and play softball, so I feel a little less like I’ve stumbled into an alternate reality peopled by giants with bloodlust.

The room is some kind of sitting room, though the two embroidered sofalike things and half a dozen matching chairs don’t look at all comfortable to sit on. Which is perfect, really, because the inlaid ebony coffee table and matching side tables are way too fancy to actually put coffee on. I figure this is one of those rooms loved by socialites and interior designers the world over, reserved exclusively for photo ops and visiting dignitaries.

A man in a crisp white shalwar kameez, obviously a servant, is standing against one wall, but after nodding politely, he disappears. Otherwise, the room is empty. Still no Angie.

“Sit down,” says Mustapha, but he doesn’t sit as he eyes the doorway the servant disappeared through and fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt. I continue to stand, taking note of the exits.

“Where are the others?” I ask.

“My mother wants to meet you.”

I’m reminded that he said that earlier. I should have been paying closer attention.

I don’t have time to respond because, at that moment, an extraordinarily beautiful woman sweeps into the room followed by the servant I saw earlier. I glance quickly at Mustapha, who manages to look both relieved and anxious at the same time.

“Emma, it’s so lovely to meet you. I’m Mrs. Khan.” She comes straight to me and takes both my hands in her own. “Musa hasn’t stopped talking about you all
week.” She has the same clear green eyes as her son and a smile that makes you want to smile back, though right now, that’s the last thing I feel like doing.

I shoot a look at Mustapha, who’s turned an alarming shade of burgundy.

“Come sit down,” says his mother, pulling me onto a sofa beside her. “You’ll join me for tea, won’t you?”

I don’t answer since it’s clearly not a question. The servant also seems to know the drill because he slips out of the room without instruction.

“Stop hovering, Mustapha,” scolds his mother. “Don’t you have other guests to attend to?”

A look of sheer panic flits across his face as he debates how to answer.

“Go on,” says his mother firmly. “Emma and I want to enjoy our tea in peace. I’ll send her to you when we’re done.”

“But we need to practice our play,” objects Mustapha without conviction. We all know he’s lost this battle.

“Emma will be along shortly,” says his mother, making a shooing gesture with slim manicured fingers.

Mustapha gives me a final look before he leaves.

The tea arrives almost immediately, making me wonder if the servant was standing outside the door with it the whole time. A tray displays a variety of cakes and pastries, and I politely take one as instructed, even though there’s no way it’s going anywhere near my stomach, which is currently roiling uncomfortably.
What has Mustapha been saying about me to his mother?

“So, Emma,” Mrs. Khan begins and then hesitates like she’s just realized she has nothing whatsoever to say to me. And there’s this awkward silence while I madly try to think of something I can talk about, even though this is clearly
so
not my responsibility. The servant pours tea into a dainty cup and saucer and hands it to me. I carefully place the pastry next to the cup.

“You have a very beautiful home,” I blurt finally, surprising us both with my good manners.

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you,” says Mrs. Khan. She does look genuinely pleased and more than a little relieved, which makes me worry again what Mustapha’s told her.

We both stir sugar and milk into our tea, and the sound of silver on fine porcelain echoes through the room. I’m sure she’s running down a list of my alleged crimes in her head, and I try to think of something else I can say that will make her smile and think well of me.

“I like your …,” I begin. But then it occurs to me I haven’t figured out how I’m going to finish this sentence. I raise my cup and shift uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa-thing. The tea is scalding. The excessive amount of milk I added has only served to make the cup dangerously full, but I can’t return it to the saucer because the pastry has slid into the middle of the plate. Perhaps I could nudge it aside with my brimming cup. I gaze longingly at the coffee table, which, like every surface in the room, has million-dollar artwork inlaid into it.
I try not to think about the blisters rising on my fingers.

Mrs. Khan waits politely for me to finish, an expectant look on her face. I have to say something.

“Dead animals,” I finish, realizing immediately it was
not
the thing to say. Truthfully, the death room has not really left my head since I saw it, and I’ve been doing amazingly well up till now not mentioning it.

Mrs. Khan gives me a startled look.

“I mean,” I continue hastily, “they’re so …” An image of a stuffed mouse deer, its adorable striped face and hopeful white chest emerging from behind an armchair, suddenly floods my consciousness. “Lifelike,” I say, which is totally stupid because they’re not statues. They actually were alive.

Mrs. Khan looks at me quizzically, so I feel obliged to try again, though I’m pretty sure I’m on an adrenaline rush now because any idiot would know it’s time to shut up. “You know, they look very alive for formerly living things that … aren’t,” I explain, sweat popping out on my forehead.

Mrs. Khan breaks into a wide smile and suddenly looks exactly like her son. “They really are hideous, aren’t they? After my father-in-law passed away, I tried to convince my husband to get rid of them, but, of course, that was all the more reason not to part with them. He’s never picked up a gun himself, but they remind him of his father.”

“Does Mustapha hunt?” I ask, fairly certain I know the answer.

“Mustapha?” She looks surprised. “Mustapha won’t even let us kill insects. He’s forever carrying spiders out to the garden.” She stops for a moment and says something in Urdu to the servant, who’s been silently watching us from his position beside the door. He opens one of the side table drawers and rushes forward with a coaster. I hastily put down my cup, sloshing half of it onto the table, which provokes frantic mopping by the servant. Mrs. Khan pretends there’s nothing amiss, and I pretend I didn’t wish I was dead.