An Infidel in Paradise (27 page)

“Stop!” Aisha screams.

Mustapha brakes instantly. I’m grateful to be on the floor because otherwise I’d be through the front
windshield. I climb onto the seat and wish I hadn’t. We’re surrounded. White-clad Islamists close in on us not more than fifteen feet away in both directions, cutting off any hope of escape.

“Down there.” Aisha points down an alley that is surely too narrow for our car and only feet ahead of the approaching army, but Mustapha doesn’t hesitate.

Our tires squeal and the car skids, ricocheting off the corner of a storefront as Mustapha takes the turn too fast. He shouts what I think are curse words as the car fishtails. A sickening crunch of metal rings out as we sideswipe another building, but finally he regains control and we roar down the narrow laneway.

“Right!” Aisha shrieks.

Mustapha turns again.

“Stop!”

I’ve been on the floor since the last turn and decide to stay put this time, but Aisha flings open her door and jumps out.

“We need to hide,” she hisses.

I
am
hiding, in a bulletproof car, which seems like a much better idea than whatever she’s got planned. I don’t move.

My door swings open and Mustapha reaches in, trying to haul me out, perhaps thinking I’m frozen with fear or haven’t heard Aisha’s insane instruction. I prove harder to haul than expected.

“Aisha, she’s stuck,” he groans, which is just stupid. I’m holding on to the far door handle with all my might.
He leans in farther and puts his arms completely around my chest and yanks hard. It is
so
not where to grab a girl, and I gasp as I release the handle and let him drag me backward from the car. I land on my butt.

“Quickly,” says Aisha, helping me up.

We crouch low, as if it’s going to make a difference, and run from the car into a building. Once inside, I realize it’s a covered market. There are rows of stalls and shuttered stores in an organized grid. A few bare lightbulbs hang from the ceiling, providing some light.

Mustapha looks back to see if we’ve been followed. “They’re not here yet, but we need to hide. They’ll see the car and come looking for us.”

“Why are they chasing us?” I ask, but I know the answer. I’m white, an infidel, and female; Aisha and Mustapha are rich and helping me. We’re screwed on so many levels.

“Do you think they saw her?” asks Aisha. Perhaps my question has prompted her to reflect on their chances of getting away if they turn me over to the crowd.

“I don’t think they could have seen who was in the car,” says Mustapha as we walk quickly through the market, looking for a place to hide. “The fact that we’re driving such an expensive car would have been enough to anger them.”

We’ve passed numerous closed-up shops, and I’m still trying to figure out what kind of market this is. There isn’t the usual smell of rotten vegetables and freshly slaughtered animals that permeates the food markets.
There’s no smell of spices either. Finally, we come to a shop that has an open storefront, with several empty tables in the middle and two closed wooden counters along the back.

“We could hide behind those,” I say, and we all walk back to check them out.

They’re not a great hiding place. We can crouch behind them and not be seen from the front of the shop, but someone would only have to walk to the back and we’d be in plain view. Mustapha crouches down next to one of the counters and lifts the padlock on a sliding wooden door.

“If I got the crowbar from the car, I could get this open,” he says.

“Mustapha, you can’t,” Aisha gasps. “They weren’t that far behind us. They could be at the car by now.”

“Let’s keep looking,” I say. “We’ll find a better hiding spot.”

“We won’t,” says Mustapha grimly. “This is as good as it gets. I’m going back for the crowbar.”

“Even if we get the lock off, they’ll see from the outside that it’s unlocked,” Aisha argues.

“Not if I lock it again after you’re inside.” He stands up and walks around to the front of the counter.

Aisha shoots me a look.

“What are you saying, Mustapha?” I challenge.

“I have to keep you two safe.”

Aisha sinks back against the counter and rests her hand on it for support.

“No,” I say. “It’s my fault we’re in this situation.”

“I’m not arguing,” says Mustapha. “My decision is final.”

He stalks off, but Aisha chases him to the front of the store.

“Please, it’s too big a risk,” she implores, pulling at his arm.

“Aisha.” He stops and turns to her. “The only risk I can’t take is losing you.” A look passes between them, and Aisha drops her hands. “Hide behind there until I get back.” He quickly disappears round the corner.

Aisha stands in the center of the room. I go to her and lead her by the arm to the back. She follows like a sleepwalker, her face twisted with anxiety.

M
ustapha’s been gone a few minutes when we hear angry shouting nearby. Aisha and I exchange frightened looks. I wish I could understand what they’re saying. There are two, maybe three voices, and they’re having some kind of argument. For whatever reason, they’ve stopped just a few feet from where we’re hiding.

Our fear turns to horror when we hear a new voice.

Mustapha.

Aisha clutches my arm, digging her fingernails painfully into my flesh, and looks at me with huge eyes.

“What are they saying?” I whisper.

“They’re asking him what he’s doing here, who he’s with.”

We listen as Mustapha responds to their questions. I don’t understand his words, but I hear the desperation in his voice and the increasing anger in theirs.

“He says he’s alone,” whispers Aisha, “but they don’t believe him.”

The shouting continues. The fury of the interrogators escalates by the minute, and Mustapha’s voice becomes frantic as he tries to make them believe his lies.

Suddenly he’s cut off in mid-sentence by a terrible thud, followed by a second thud. I don’t have to see to know it’s his body hitting the ground.

“We have to help him,” I whisper urgently. I try to stand, but Aisha pulls me back.

“If they see you, they’ll kill you both,” she hisses. She crawls away from me until she’s at the far end of the counter, then, taking off her dupatta, which she normally wears around her neck like a scarf, she drapes it over her head, pulling it tight so her hair is completely covered. She looks back at me and gives me a small nod before she stands up and rushes forward.

I lean around the counter for one brief look, and the scene in front of me is both horrific and startling. Mustapha lies on the ground in a pool of his own blood, and Aisha has prostrated herself, forehead pressing against the floor at the feet of three bearded men. I slump back against the counter and close my eyes, but the image of the proud beautiful girl at the feet of men who look no different from the farmers I see along the roadside every day is seared into my memory. As I replay the image, I see that one holds a hoe, dangling at his side, the sharp blade still dripping.

Aisha’s voice is one I have never heard from her before, or imagined her capable of. I don’t understand her words, but the tone of humility as she pleads for
Mustapha’s life transcends language. As she babbles on, I hear an occasional word from the men, angry at first but gradually softening as her hot wet tears weaken the foundations of their hatred.

Finally, I hear footsteps recede and I sneak another look. Aisha is sitting tensely over Mustapha’s body, her hand resting lightly on his chest, perhaps reassuring herself he’s still breathing. The men are nowhere in sight.

“I think they’re gone,” she says in a low voice.

Mustapha lets out a feeble groan and his eyes flutter open.

“How did you get rid of them?” I ask, my voice betraying my awe.

“I told them he was my brother,” she says, standing up and picking up the crowbar that has been discarded on the ground. She goes behind the counter. “I said he was taking me shopping to buy things for my trousseau. Help me, I need clean towels to stop the bleeding.”

I follow her behind the counter, wondering why she would expect to find towels here, but sure enough, when we break the lock and slide open the door, we find neatly piled towels of every size and color.

“This is the towel market,” she says, carrying a hand towel back to Mustapha. He’s half-risen to a sitting position and I feel a rush of relief. But when I get closer, I see the wound on his head, its edges gaping open to reveal tissue and skull beneath, and I think I might faint. When it occurs to me how much worse it will be for my beautiful little sister if she falls prey to these
hate-filled men, the blood pounds in my ears so loud I can barely hear Aisha’s terse instructions as she folds the towel and presses it against the wound.

“Hold this,” she orders.

I replace her hand on the towel as she takes off her long dupatta and winds it tightly around Mustapha’s head to hold the towel in place.

“Good god, Aisha!” he says. “Does it have to be so tight?”

“Don’t be a baby,” she chides, but her voice shakes with emotion.

“We need to get him to the car. Can you drive?” she asks.

“I have my learner’s permit.”

“Well, that’s more than me, so you’ll have to do your best.”

We lift Mustapha and, supporting him between us, shuffle him out of the store. He’s more wobbly on his feet than I was when I heard of the bombs, and he stumbles and almost falls a few times as we guide him down the dim corridor toward the entrance.

“Just a little farther,” Aisha croons.

I’m terrified the men will come back, but whatever Aisha said must have satisfied them because when we emerge from the building, there’s no one in sight. But what we do see is almost as frightening: our car a smoldering wreck. Unable to break the bulletproof windows, the rioters must have doused it in kerosene, inside and out, and set it on fire. I want to cry in
frustration, but this is no time for tears, and as I look at Aisha, I see she’s come to the same conclusion. Her eyes have the hard sharpness of fresh-cut emeralds.

“We need to take him back inside,” she says. “One of us will have to go for help alone.”

“No,” croaks Mustapha, but even he knows he’s no longer in charge.

We make the slow journey back to the same store and walk Mustapha right to the back, lowering him behind the counter. Aisha pulls out a pile of towels, laying them on the ground as a makeshift bed. Mustapha refuses to lie down, even though it’s obvious he’s going to pass out before long. Aisha’s dupatta is already soaked with his blood.

“I should go,” I say. “You should stay with him.”

“You don’t know your way around town,” she argues, but it’s halfhearted. We both know it has to be this way. “They’ll kill you if you get caught,” she says.

“Then I won’t get caught,” I bluster, turning away so she can’t see the fear in my face.

“No one should go,” rasps Mustapha, collapsed against the wall, his eyes closed. “We should wait here until morning.”

“You need a doctor,” I say. “And I still have to get to my sister. I’m just sorry I got you two into this.”

“Well, personally, I knew you were trouble the first time I saw you,” says Aisha, managing a small smile.

“Right back at you.” I try to smile, but it’s a shaky effort.

We walk together to the front of the store. As Mustapha croaks out my name from behind the counter, we both stop.

“I’ll wait here,” says Aisha.

I give her a grateful look before hurrying back to Mustapha’s side. He’s still slumped against the wall where we left him, but his eyes are open, looking at me intensely.

I kneel in front of him. “You need to lie down,” I say, trying to press him down to the nest Aisha made.

“I have to tell you something,” he says. He winces as he shifts to a more upright position so he’s level with my eyes.

“Tell me later,” I say. “I’ll be back.”

“No,” he gasps, but I don’t know if it’s in pain or with the urgency of what he wants to say. He closes his eyes again, and I wonder if he’s passed out.

His breathing is ragged, and I put my hand on his chest, reassured by the steady pulsing.

His eyes snap open and he looks at me with the forest-green depth that only he is capable of.

“I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you –” he begins.

“Not now,” I cut him off.

“I’ve loved Aisha my whole life,” he continues, as if I haven’t spoken. “I never questioned whether I wanted to be with her. It’s just the way things were. And I was happy.”

“Okay. I get it.”

“But that day you leaped into my arms …”

“I tripped,” I say indignantly, and I catch his playful smile before he winces in pain.

“And you looked up.” He grimaces with the effort of speaking. “It was like being struck by lightning. The feeling. You can’t imagine.”

“I think I can.” I smile and gently stroke his creased brow, wishing there was some way I could take back the last few hours.

“I think I love you too,” he says.

“You know, I’m not into polygamy,” I quip, but we look into each other’s eyes and a whole lifetime of conversation passes between us. Conversations we will never have. I know what’s coming next.