An Infidel in Paradise (30 page)

“Your mom’s
amazing
,” breathes Aisha.

“Yeah,” I agree, with a hint of sarcasm but – strangely – no bitterness.

Aisha decides to get in the ambulance with Mustapha, which is just going around the block to the American embassy. They have the best-equipped clinic. It turns out they also have a lot of bored medical personnel, since everyone leaped into action when the bomb went off, but there were no major injuries to attend to. The truck
bomber who attempted to crash the embassy’s front gate didn’t get farther than the huge cement barrier that runs down the middle of the road. And there weren’t enough explosives in the truck to do serious damage anyway. Someone didn’t do their homework on this one.

At the last minute, Mom decides to go in the ambulance with them to make sure they don’t have a problem getting into the American compound, but just as they’re closing the doors, she shrieks at them to stop and jumps out. She’s on me in two quick bounds and pulls me into a fierce hug.

“Things are going to change around here, Emmy,” she promises.

I cringe at the name I haven’t heard since I was younger than Mandy, but I hug her back and enjoy the moment.

I go inside and find my brother and sister still in the kitchen, drinking tea. I collapse into a chair, and Vince slides Mom’s cup across to me.

“She won’t really change,” I predict, wincing as the cold tea slides down my sore throat.

“Don’t be so sure,” Vince replies. “You should have seen her tonight. She was out of her mind when she thought something might have happened to you.”

I want to tell him that something
did
happen. But then I realize he’s not the one I want to say that to.

“Was she here when the bomb went off?” I ask.

“No, but Guul came running from the servants’ quarters when he heard the blast. He got to Mandy before she even got downstairs. Right, Chipmunk?”

“I went into your room, and you weren’t there,” says Mandy accusingly.

“I know.” I reach across the table to squeeze her arm. “I promise you I’ll never do that to you again.”

Like Mom said, there are going to be some changes around here.

“So Guul, The Ghoul, is a hero,” I say.

“You need to stop calling him that.” Vince says.

The phone rings, and Mandy and Vince exchange glances.

“Dad’s been calling all night,” says Vince.

“Then I guess I better answer.” I get to my feet and walk to the phone. Before picking up the receiver, I look across at my sister, whose head is drooping toward the table. “Mandy, don’t fall asleep on me. I have a story to tell you tonight.”

“
Tell
a story?” she asks, immediately straightening up.

“Absolutely. It’s about a little girl named Mandy who could stop time. I finally figured out a use for that power.”

I wink at her sweet shining face, then I pick up the phone and talk to my dad.

L
ight is filtering through the curtains of my bedroom window, but I have one final thing to do tonight. I talked to my dad for over an hour and spent another hour finishing Mandy’s story. We both reveled in the power of the little girl who stopped time so her older sister could get home to her. Of course, I no sooner finished that story when she demanded an ending for the wolf story as well. Only when I confided that I needed to call Angie did she agree the wolf could wait.

Now that I’m alone, I feel a flutter of anxiety that Angie won’t be as anxious to talk to me as I am to her, but it’s a chance I have to take. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I resolutely punch in the number she sent me in her first e-mail, the first of at least a dozen e-mails that I never answered. I try to remember why it was so important to me to sever our friendship and wonder if she’ll give me a second chance.

She picks up on the first ring.

“Emma,” she says before I can tell her who it is.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt. I’ve wanted to say it for too long to wait another minute.

“It’s been all over the news,” she says, her voice cracking. “I’ve been trying to call you all night, but I couldn’t get through. God, Emma. I was so scared.”

“I should have answered your e-mails. I want to stay friends, Angie. We have to stay friends. You were right about everything.” Tears are flowing down my cheeks.

“They didn’t know the extent of the damage –”

“Well, not everything,” I interrupt. “Mustapha doesn’t like me the way you thought –”

“My dad tried to get news through his contacts –”

“I did like him. I even ran out on my sister to go to him –”

“But no one could tell him anything –”

“I shouldn’t have left her –”

“I was so worried about you –”

“But after he kissed me –”

“What?” she asks.

“What?” I echo.

“Did you say Mustapha kissed you?” she squeals excitedly.

I smile into the phone. “Twice, but it didn’t mean anything. He’s totally into Aisha.”

“You have to tell me every detail,” she demands. “Don’t leave anything out.”

I punch up the pillows on my bed and lie back to get comfortable.

“It’s kind of a long story,” I begin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says. And this time I believe her.

I
hurry across the field, pulling my sweater more tightly around me. I never would have thought I’d be cold in this country, but just when you think you have things figured out, there’s one more surprise in store. Frost is on the ground now, though it’s usually melted by midday, and the leaves are changing color like they do in Canada. In Canada, however, it happens a few months earlier. It’s been a lot of years since I’ve been in a country that had anything close to winter. Last night, Guul built a real fire in the fireplace while Mom unpacked boxes of ornaments, and we decorated the tree all together, just like a family.

The greenhouse feels almost too hot, so I shed my sweater as I make my way to the back. The water is already boiling, and Mr. Akbar is in his chair. He smiles happily when I emerge through the foliage, and I set about making our tea with a confidence born of experience.

“The Americans might return next semester,” I say, shaking the cinnamon into the boiling water. This is always my favorite part of our ritual, when the smell of spice first mingles with the scent of flowers. Many years from now, I will smell this same scent, perhaps in a market in some exotic country or in the home of a Pakistani friend, and I’ll be transported back to this moment.

“It would be good if they return,” says Mr. Akbar. “You’ll see your friend.”

“I have other friends,” I say, looking at him fondly. “Besides, I’ll see Angie in a few weeks. We’re meeting in Thailand for New Year’s.”

“How are your plans going for
Basant
?”

Basant is this huge festival in February, where everyone goes outside and has kite wars.

“Amazing,” I gush. “We’ve raised over a hundred thousand rupees. I never would have thought the kids at this school would pay that much money just to enter a kite-flying contest. At this rate, we’ll be able to start building the trash-pickers’ school by spring.”

Mr. Akbar smiles in satisfaction. The contest was his idea.

“I still think we should get Aisha into a kissing booth, though,” I say. “She’s being such a priss. It would totally solve the rest of our money problems.”

“Aisha is a good girl,” says Mr. Akbar firmly, his eyes twinkling.

“But it’s for charity, Mr. A. Surely Allah would look the other way if it’s for a good cause.”

I hand him his cup and settle in my chair.

“Besides,” I continue, “Mustapha would never allow it. He’d pay off every guy who signed up
not
to kiss her. She keeps her virtue, Mustapha can play the hero, and we get our hands on his cash. Everybody wins.”

Mr. Akbar laughs. “You will see your father at Christmas?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Yeah. I’m spending a week with him and Zenny in Manila. It’ll be weird, but I’m looking forward to it, and I’ll see some old friends.”

“And what will you tell them about Pakistan?” he asks, taking a sip of his tea and stroking the petal of a flower that has grown over the back of his chair.

“Fishing for compliments, Mr. A?”

He smiles and puts down his cup, takes pruning shears out of his pocket, and turns away to trim the overhanging branch. Settling back, he takes another sip of tea and gazes out at the vista of his kingdom, color and life spreading in every direction.

I think about his question and the one right answer. No matter how often the landscapes change, that question never does. After so many moves, I wonder how it could have taken me this long to understand it. The answer isn’t in the beauty of a tropical setting or the squalor of a refugee camp. It doesn’t change if the buildings are ramshackle, with garbage on every street
corner, or if the manicured lawns front gleaming mansions. The answer is not a place.

“Mr. A?” I call his attention and he turns to me, his deeply rutted face as familiar now as the creases in my own hand. “I’ll tell them it’s paradise.”