An Infidel in Paradise (5 page)

“You shouldn’t be in here.”

I jump at the disembodied voice that sounds alarmingly close, though all I can see in every direction is leaves. A man steps into the corridor, emerging from the plants like a pod-person.

“What are you looking for?” His voice is stern, but the eyes in his deeply lined face are gentle.

“We had these at home.” I finger one of the branches.

“In America? Are you sure? That’s Medinilla. They
don’t grow in cold places.” I don’t bother telling him I’m not American. Once you leave Canada, everyone on the entire planet assumes you’re American. After a while, you just go with it.

“I meant the Philippines.”

“
Achcha
, the perfect climate. You don’t look Filipino.”

“No.”

“And now this is your home.” He takes a step closer, and I look away.

I don’t know how to answer. There are a million words in my head right now, but none of them cuts it.
Why is one place home and another place just isn’t?
We have an awkward moment.

“How do you like Pakistan?”

I really want to say something nice.
After all these years, why am I suddenly overwhelmed by this question?
We have another awkward moment.

“Come.” He gestures that I should follow and turns away into the greenery. I’m not sure I want to follow, but what else am I going to do? Taking a few steps after him, I see there’s a narrow overgrown walkway through the branches. We walk for several minutes, twisting and turning deeper into the maze. It occurs to me this would be the perfect place to murder someone. No one would ever find the body, and you could use the rotting corpse for compost.
Why didn’t I think of something nice to say about his stupid country?

Suddenly he stops and points to a large flowering bush with frilly orange petals and hanging tendrils. “It
is my favorite. The Red Bird of Paradise.” He smiles proudly.

I definitely don’t see the big deal, but I smile politely. I wonder if the heat’s gotten to him as well.

“This can grow in your country.”

“The Philippines?”

“Yes. And America. And Pakistan.” He gives me a look like he’s sharing something important. “Allow me to show you.” He seems a little frustrated now and starts scrabbling in the dirt at the base of the plant. I surreptitiously look around for an exit. “Look!” he shouts triumphantly and yanks a long gnarly root out of the ground. “The roots are very deep. You see? The temperature can be very cold or very hot. The plant gets no water for many days. Still it will not die. One day you think it is dead; the next you have a flower.”

“Can you tell me how to find the theater?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and I fidget with my bag while he reburies his root. Turning away, he heads back the way we came. “Follow me. I will take you.” His voice is über-polite, and I know I’ve disappointed him. I wonder how many more people I’m going to let down before this day finally ends.

We emerge from the greenhouse, both shielding our eyes against the blinding intensity of the late-day sun. “It is your first day, isn’t it?” I don’t even wonder how he knows. “How is it?”

“Great,” I lie, finally having the wherewithal to put my game face on.

“It is always difficult in the beginning. You think no one will like you.”

I know no one likes me. Well, maybe Angie. But that’s not the point.

“Soon you will make a friend.”

I have friends, or I had them anyway. I’ve made friends everywhere we’ve lived and had them wrenched away every time we moved. You could sink an ocean liner with all my friends. But not one of them is here.

“I think I got off to a bad start with some people,” I say.

Where did that come from? I’m blurting out my life story to total strangers now?

“A known mistake is better than an unknown truth.”

Oh God, another Yoda moment.

“So, what do I do about it?”
Rewind! What did I ask him that for? What the heck am I doing?
This man is not my friend. He doesn’t even know me. But I hold my breath as I wait for him to answer.

“You make it right,” he says, as if anything can ever be right again. I wonder what it would be like to live in his world.

“How?” We’re crossing a field now. I wasn’t even close to the theater.

“Allah will show the way. You just have to let him,” he says calmly. I sigh and pass my hand over my eyes. It’s been a really long day, and my head is throbbing again.

“This is the theater.” We stop outside a large freestanding building that does indeed look like a theater. “
Aap ka naam kya hai?
”

This is the first thing he’s said that I completely understand. Mom makes me take survival language lessons every time we change countries. I do my best to learn nothing so she’ll finally take the hint and stop moving us, but no matter how hard I try, I always pick up the basics, just like she knows I will.

“Emma Grey,” I tell him, looking up into his wizened face and wondering how many kids like me have passed through his life and what difference it makes who I am.

“I’m always in the greenhouse, Emma Grey. I am Mr. Akbar.” He gives me a look so full of empathy that I feel tears welling up in my eyes and have to look down to blink them away.

“Okay, well, thanks.” I wish he would leave so I can duck around the corner and cry in private. I cross my arms tightly over my chest, as if the emotion struggling to erupt is a physical thing I can mash down. But he continues to stand there, so I have no choice but to enter the theater. I don’t even care anymore how late I am. I just want to get through the next hour without falling apart.

The theater, which must have nearly a thousand seats, is in almost total darkness, with only a few stage lights on at the front. I can see a bunch of kids milling around, engaged in some kind of activity that involves a lot of laughter. I make my way down the aisle toward
them and only at the last minute – like opening a drawer and discovering a huge hairy spider – do I see Mustapha Khan is among them. If this is Allah’s idea of showing me the way, he certainly has a sense of humor.

“Y
ou must be Emma,” says a man almost as round as he is tall. He strides toward me with his hand extended. I think he’s going to shake my hand, but instead he grabs my arm, drawing me in like I might try to escape. “You’ve missed the introductions, but don’t worry. Had some trouble finding us, did you?”

I mumble something that must sound like assent because he rambles on for several minutes about how confusing the campus is. I don’t hear a word and I can’t take my eyes off Mustapha, even though I know I need to stop staring. Finally, the cheerful cherub pauses and looks at me curiously. “I hear you and Mustapha already know each other. Why don’t you join his group?”

Now
that
gets my attention. I tear my eyes away from Mustapha to look at the teacher. Inconveniently, I’m struck speechless, allowing just enough time for the voice that has been ringing in my head all day to call over, “Yes, Emma. Why don’t you come join us?”
Can anyone else hear the challenge in his voice?

I look at the teacher for support, but he’s smiling happily and gives me a small shove in Mustapha’s direction. “There you go, then. He’ll take good care of you.”
Is he kidding?

Mustapha certainly isn’t. He’s grinning with all the warmth of a tiger that’s just caught sight of a gazelle. I try to remember what Mr. Akbar said about making things right, but it no longer seems relevant. My goal here is pure survival. Mustapha walks toward me because I’ve stalled somewhere beyond the shove but still a safe distance from him. I have no intention of going closer. Wordlessly, he takes my arm and leads me over to two other guys.

“This is Ali and Faarooq.” He doesn’t bother to introduce me. No doubt he’s told them everything.
Is it my imagination, or is it two hundred degrees in here?

“How’s it going?” Ali smiles warmly, and I wonder for a minute if I’m mistaken, but Faarooq cuts in.

“Mustapha’s told us all about you.” Well, that’s blunt. I look at him for some hint of warmth, but his eyes are as cold as his voice.

“So, what are we meant to be doing?” I croak, cursing myself for letting my nerves show.

“We have a week to prepare a five-minute skit,” Mustapha answers.

I’ve got to work with them all week?
It must be some kind of cosmic retribution, and I’m sure I deserve it, but I’m still hoping it won’t be as bad as I fear.

“Any theme?” I ask shakily, still not doing a good job of keeping my emotions in check. No one answers. Faarooq and Mustapha exchange glances. I get a queasy feeling and wonder if it’s too late to retract my question.

“Something to do with colliding cultures,” says Mustapha, his lips twitching.

“Mustapha suggested it,” Ali interjects. As if I needed to be told that.

“Well, that’s just great,” I snap, anxiety finally giving way to anger. “Have you come up with any ideas yet?”

“As a matter of fact, I
do
have one,” Mustapha exclaims.

“Really. Well, I can’t wait to hear it,” I say coolly.

“Maybe we could do something about a foreigner who comes to a new country and goes around telling the people who live there how awful their country is.”

“I don’t know,” says Faarooq, and for a second I think maybe he’s on my side. “Would anyone really behave so rudely? I’m just not sure it’s
believable
. What do you think, Emma?” I could get radiation poisoning from his smile.

Now would be the moment to apologize, but for me, the moment’s long passed. The anger courses through my bloodstream like a drug, and I’m grateful for it.

“Maybe we should do something about male-female relationships,” suggests Ali enthusiastically, oblivious to the tension.

“Well, that could certainly be part of it,” says Mustapha, not taking his eyes off me. “What do you think, Emma?
Can you think of any possible cultural misunderstandings a guy and a girl could have?”

“I don’t know, Mustapha,” I say. It occurs to me it’s the first time I’ve said his name out loud, and I find it curiously appealing.
Can you hate someone and be hot for them at the same time?
“I think you need to be more specific. Do you have a situation in mind?”

“I do have one, yes. But perhaps you also have an idea you’d like to share.”

“Not at all. I can’t think of a single thing.”

“You surprise me. You seemed so quick with your opinions this morning.”

We stare at each other for a long moment. My breath is coming in short bursts. I can hear his breathing as well and feel the heat coming off him in waves.

“How about arranged marriage?” Ali suggests. We all whip round to look at him, but he smiles back cheerfully.
Don’t they do basic IQ tests to get into this school?
He continues, obviously proud of his brain wave. “We could do a play about this Pakistani guy who falls in love with this American girl, only his parents don’t approve, and she has to go through this meeting with his father and his brother so they can vet her.”

“That would never happen,” cuts in Faarooq angrily. “It would be the boy’s mother who checks out the girl.”

“That’s a great idea,” Ali says excitedly. “I could dress up as the mother, and you could dress up as an aunt. It would be funny.” I like this guy. He’s dorky-looking, with a round face that matches his body, but it works
for him. He’s cute and not in a scary-Mustapha sort of way either.

“It’s a stupid idea,” says Faarooq sulkily.

Just then, the teacher announces the end of the class, and we agree that we’ll work on a script next time, which is actually two days away because of block scheduling. I hope it’ll give me time to come up with a way to make things right.

As we leave the class, someone comes up behind me, lightly tapping my shoulder. A charge rifles through me because I assume it’s Mustapha, but it’s not. Faarooq looms over me in the gloom at the back of the theater.

“Stay away from my sister,” he says. Not waiting for a reply, he pushes past me and storms out. At this moment, I can’t imagine any request I would be happier to oblige. I wouldn’t go near his third cousin if she was handing out hundred dollar bills and Snickers bars. The only problem is, I have no idea who his sister is.