An Infidel in Paradise (29 page)

T
he shock and dismay on the men’s faces is almost laughable as they stare into the headlights. They look back at me as if I might offer a solution to this interruption. A gunshot close enough to scare all of us confirms their worst fears, and leaping off me, they scuttle away into the night, leaving their weapons on the ground.

I pick up the scythe, still dripping with blood, and roll up onto my feet, ready to run or continue the battle. I’m not sure myself which one I’m hoping for as rage and anguish course through my body. I stare into the headlights, loosely swinging my blade and feeling a grim pleasure as it catches the light.

“What are you doing here?” A man’s voice barks out in perfect English.

Though the tone is not friendly, I’m so relieved to find someone speaking my language that I give up the idea of flight, at least for now. As he steps into the light
of the jeep, I see he’s wearing army fatigues and sporting enough weapons to start his own war. He also has a rifle pointed right at me.

“I’m trying to get home,” I say. “I was visiting a friend, and he was driving me home when we got caught in a demonstration.”

I don’t tell him the other less innocent details about deserting my sister.

“Where is this friend?” he demands.

“I left him at the towel market. He’s hurt. I need to go back to him quickly.”

“Drop your weapon,” he orders.

I consider his request. If he’s not going to help me, I’ll need it to protect myself. I don’t doubt for a moment that I would use it.

“Will you take me back to my friend?” I challenge.

“Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be out tonight? The only place you’re going is back to our headquarters.”

“No,” I say with a steely calm. “You take me to my friend and then the Canadian compound, or I’ll go by myself.”

“That’s out of the question,” he says firmly. “The diplomatic enclave is closed. You will come back with us to headquarters. You’ll be safe there until things are sorted out.”

He takes a step toward me, his rifle still cocked. I raise the scythe.

“Be a good girl now,” he says in a placating tone. “You’re not safe out here by yourself. Let us help you.”

“No,” I repeat. “If you won’t take me where I want to go, then I’m not going with you. You can help me, shoot me, or let me go.”

He takes another step forward but lowers his gun and reaches out a hand in a gesture of conciliation.

“I won’t go with you!” I shout, backing away and wondering if he’ll bother to pursue me if I run.

Suddenly another voice calls out from the jeep. In the glare of the headlights, I can’t make out anything more than a dark shape climbing down and striding toward us, but as he steps into the light, I recognize his tall lean build, the thick mustache, and his gaunt hawkish face. Everything around us drops away like extraneous props on a stage. I look into his shadowed eyes and I wait.

Without looking away, he speaks in Urdu to the first man, then he gives me a curt nod and walks back to the vehicle.

“Come on, then,” says the first man impatiently.

“I said no,” I say harshly, though my anger is no longer at him. For the second time, The Hawk has failed to acknowledge our connection.

“Hussain has spoken for you. We’re taking you where you asked.”

I look at him in surprise and let the scythe fall to the ground.

“What did he say?” I need to know.

“He said he knows you.”

“That’s all?”

“He also said you are a strange girl,” he adds. “At least he got that right.”

I follow him to the jeep, and he directs me to climb into the backseat. The two soldiers already there scoot over to make room. The Hawk sits in the front, his eyes fixed on the darkened road ahead, but as I pass, his gaze flickers in my direction so briefly I wonder if I’ve imagined it.

“Shukria,” I say to his impassive profile.

Not turning in my direction, he gives the slightest of nods, but it’s enough.

I stare out the window as we make the short ride back to the towel market. Every shadow seems to move with malicious intent, and several times I’m sure I see my attackers, but I don’t ask the driver to stop. My blood lust has leaked away as my imaginings turn back to what I might find when we get to my sister. If anyone has hurt her, or even tried, in the way they went after me tonight, my life will be over. I alone will carry the responsibility for her suffering. The madmen roaming the streets tonight will be only instruments of my selfishness. And I won’t be able to live with that. I stroke my damaged throat, close my eyes, and I tremble.

Leaping from the jeep before it’s come to a complete stop, I race into the market, trusting the military will be on my heels.

“Aisha, it’s me!” I shout before I even reach the shop. I don’t want her to be frightened when she hears me coming.

She’s at the front by the time I get there, her face crumpled and tearstained.

“He’s been unconscious for at least thirty minutes,” she whimpers. “He’s lost so much blood.”

“He’s going to be okay, Aisha.” I try to sound confident, but I can’t meet her eyes as we run behind the counter and I take in the gray, inert body on the floor. I drop to my knees and put a hand on his bloodstained face. I’m reassured by the warmth of his skin, but there is so much blood it’s hard to imagine this can end well.

The army guys appear and immediately speed up when they see us, either because we look so freaked or because Aisha, even bedraggled, is probably the most gorgeous girl they’ve ever seen. Together they pick up Mustapha, and they’re surprisingly gentle for such hard-faced men.

The Hawk rounds the corner last and starts asking Aisha questions. English-Speaking Guy has stayed in the jeep, so I have to follow the next few minutes without the sound track. There seems to be some disagreement about the best way to carry Mustapha, and they put him down while they argue. I’m just on the point of grabbing Mustapha’s ankles and dragging him to the jeep when they manage to come to some resolution and lift him exactly like they had him the first time.

Aisha wants to go straight to a hospital, but I convince her we’ll get better service in the enclave. I’m thinking of Mandy’s best interests and not Mustapha’s, and I only
hope I can help him when we get home. Every embassy has a clinic and doctors on call, though the Canadian clinic is no better equipped than a regular doctor’s office. But now that I’m past the immediate crisis of bringing help for Mustapha, I’m desperate to get to my sister.

The streets are quiet, and the only other vehicles we see are military. I wonder if the demonstrations are over. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning. I suppose even jihadists have to sleep. When we get to the enclave, The Hawk and English-Speaking Guy both get out of the jeep to argue with the guards on the gate, who clearly don’t plan to let us in. English-Speaking Guy wasn’t lying about the enclave being closed. Finally, the entire pack of guards comes over to the jeep to stare in at me. I really wish I could do something that would be more worthy of their scrutiny than just exist in all my weirdness, but it seems good enough for them. They return to their posts and wave us through.

W
e see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles when we’re still blocks from the Canadian compound. Approaching from this direction, it’s impossible to see if the violence targeting the American embassy has damaged us as well. My heart twists with anxiety, and I’m almost grateful when we slow down for a roadblock. I take the opportunity to jump out and run while The Hawk begins another heated negotiation with a guard to gain entry. I hear Aisha call something after me, but the only thing on my mind is Mandy.

No one stops me as I dodge past fire trucks, ambulances, and military vehicles of every description. The guards at the Canadian compound take a gazillion years to unlock the gates, but it gives me a moment to look around. From this vantage point, I can’t see any damage to our compound or to the Americans’. I’m tempted to walk around the far wall so I can actually look down the street at the full length of their compound
and not just the corner that’s visible from where I’m standing. But I have other priorities.

I dash through the gates, cross our carport, and run up the front path to our house. I pause a nanosecond at the door to promise Allah, the Fates, and anyone else who’s listening that I will be a totally reformed, loving sister and an obedient daughter if I can just find my sister unharmed. I don’t even get my hand on the doorknob when Mandy flings open the door and leaps into my arms.

The tension spills out of me so fast I almost drop her as I bury my head in her hair and breathe her in – baby shampoo, sweat, and something else that’s all Mandy.

“I’m so sorry.” I hitch her up to eye level so I can see her whole beautiful face when I say it.

“Are you crying?” she asks, her eyes round.

“Oh my God,” cries Mom, bursting out of the house and throwing herself on me. “We thought you were dead, or worse,” she sobs.

I manage to shift Mandy to one arm and put the other around Mom. Vince is right behind her. He doesn’t try to hug me, keeping a safe distance so as not to get hit with flying estrogen, but he gives me a goofy, relieved smile.

“Where were you?” demands Mom, pulling away to look me over. I’m pretty sure this is the part where she tells me I’m grounded, if not disowned, and I try to think up a believable lie. “I’m so sorry,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

Clearly she’s got her facts wrong. She must think I was kidnapped or something. She steps back, examining me carefully from head to toe, like she can’t believe her good fortune to have me returned without having to shell out a pile of dough.

“I’m so sorry,” she says again, grabbing me. “I shouldn’t have taken the conference call from Canada. I should have been here. I knew how much you wanted to go to that party, but I thought Vince would stay, or I didn’t think. But when you didn’t come home tonight, I thought I’d lost you too.”

In the midst of my sympathy and guilt, I’m reminded of that other night when she cried with this same desperate abandon. I look past her to Vince and know he’s also remembering the night we failed her. I hug her tightly as Vince walks forward, puts an arm around her shoulders, and gently pulls her off me.

“I’ll take Mom inside,” he says. We share a smile, both of us grateful for this second chance. They hobble into the house.

I hesitate. Aisha and Mustapha should be here by now. I wonder if they couldn’t get through the roadblock. With Mandy still clinging to me like a koala, I head out to our gate to look for them and find Aisha arguing with our guard.

“This idiot won’t open the gate!” she shouts.

I cringe, but the guard lets the insult roll off him and eyes Aisha defiantly. I’m impressed by his ability to protect our compound from uninvited princesses
and almost regret having to tell him to open the gates. The second they’re open, Aisha flounces through, hissing something in Urdu to our guard that I’m really glad I don’t understand.

“How is he?” I ask. Now that I’ve found Mandy totally fine, I feel even worse about what happened to Mustapha.

“He’s breathing,” says Aisha.

“Right,” I say. “Well, just let me talk to my mom.”

I’m halfway through the door, Aisha right on my heels, before I remember how upset my mom just was. I put Mandy down.

“Why don’t you wait with Mustapha,” I suggest to Aisha, who stares at me and stands her ground. I try to stare her down but she doesn’t blink. Together we stomp into the house.

I find Mom at the kitchen table, her face puffy from crying. She’s holding a cup of tea and staring off into the distance with a glazed expression. Vince is leaning against the counter behind her. Trying to block Aisha’s view into the room, I give him a questioning look. He shrugs.

“Mom,” I say, “I know this isn’t the best time, but I have this friend outside with a gaping wound in his head. He got it when he was trying to get me home safely, and he needs a doctor.”

Mom springs to her feet, her eyes shining. “I’ll take care of it,” she says fervently. Maybe I wasn’t the only one wishing for a second chance.

She punches numbers into her cell phone, and we all listen as she orders an ambulance from the American clinic next door. I’m relieved to hear that one has been standing by in anticipation of their own casualties and can be dispatched immediately. Mom puts down the phone and turns to Aisha.

“It’s taken care of,” she says and gives me a squeeze on the shoulder as she rushes past me out of the room.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” I ask Aisha.

“Shouldn’t we get back outside?” she asks, her tone slightly indignant.

“Knowing my mom, Mustapha’s halfway to a clinic by now, but you’re right, we should check on him.”

Once outside, we see the ambulance has already arrived. I hold Aisha’s hand as we watch Mustapha get loaded into it. He’s still unconscious, which is probably a good thing. Paramedics hook up an IV while Mom runs around bossing people, like she picked up a medical degree on summer vacation. Not a single person tells her to back off.