An Infidel in Paradise (23 page)

Stopping just in front of me, so close I can feel the heat off his body, he begins doing up the buttons. I would object, but my breathing has suddenly kicked into overdrive and I need to concentrate on not hyperventilating. He finishes the buttons and steps back, surveying the effect. I’m pretty certain no part of my figure is discernible. He reaches forward and rolls the cuffs of the sleeves so my hands emerge from the ends. Then he stands back again, and his eyes sweep over me. I’m suddenly glad the shirt is so loose.

“Perfect,” he says.

I don’t say anything because my breathing is still messed up, and now I’m dealing with a rise in body temperature as well.

We hear the others coming, and I step guiltily into the hallway like we’ve been doing something we shouldn’t.

“Emma, that’s perfect,” shrieks Leela, grabbing both my hands and spinning me around. “Aren’t you clever to think of it.”

“Mustapha,” I mumble in the same instant I feel him come up behind me, his body giving off little shock waves.

“Can we finally go now?” grumbles Faarooq.

I’m happy for the shift in focus. We head downstairs and pile into Tahira’s SUV.

We’re going to Rawalpindi, a city just ten miles – but light-years – away from Islamabad. We leave behind
the quiet tree-lined roads and enter into a chaotic jumble of narrow streets. Beggars lurch haphazardly out of alleys and bang on the car windows, trying to get our attention. Slow-moving rickshaws and throngs of people and livestock prevent us from moving quickly. When the driver eventually stops, I’m not sure if we’ve arrived somewhere or he’s just given up.

“We should have covered her head,” says Mustapha. He and Faarooq are sitting in the seats behind us. I turn round to see Mustapha looking worriedly out the window.

“You’re right. We should have thought of it,” says Leela. “Did you have a shawl, Emma?”

“I’m not a ninety-year-old grandma, Leela,” I snap and immediately feel badly.

“Maybe we could make that our first purchase,” says Leela to Mustapha.

“All right,” he agrees, “but we should leave her in the car until we get her head covered.”

“Are you kidding me?” I crane round in my seat to glare at him. “I am
not
staying in the car.”

Faarooq and Mustapha exchange looks.

“Maybe we should try a less crowded bazaar,” says Faarooq.

“But this is where the best shalwar kameezes are,” objects Tahira.

“And there’s the most amazing fabric shop,” says Leela with authority. “I buy
all
of my fabric here, and they have a wonderful tailor.”

“Look,” I say. “I don’t need to make a fashion statement. Can we just get this done?”

“Exactly,” says Faarooq, and for a minute it feels like we’re on the same team, until he continues. “She doesn’t need to look
nice
. She just needs to look
appropriate
.”

Leela, Tahira, and I all object at the same time. Leela’s aghast at the suggestion that looking good isn’t the most important goal of the outing. Tahira feels her brother has suggested I’m less than beautiful and demands an apology. And I’ve had enough of being told there’s something wrong with the way I dress.

I roll down the window and crane my head out, wondering how hard it would be to get a cab home from here. I did see some yellow cabs at the edge of the market when we drove in, but there are none nearby, and my view down the street is blocked by half a dozen beggars and twice that many children crowding around me, demanding money and treats. I really want Angie. I want to be with someone who gets me and doesn’t think I’m
inappropriate
.

Mustapha leans forward and yanks me back in as Faarooq sticks his hand through the seats and puts the window up.

“All right,” says Mustapha, “we’ve come this far. We’re all going to get out of the car, go to Leela’s fabric shop, Tahira’s ready-made shop, and then we’re going home. And we will all stay together and try not to draw attention to ourselves.” He looks at me when he says this, as if it’s my fault.

The driver gets out of the car first and opens the door for us, scrutinizing the crowd like a Secret Service agent on a presidential detail. The boys scramble out and stand on either side of me, which is totally embarrassing, and I’m sure it just makes me more gawk-worthy.

Leela leads the way into the crowded market, which consists of narrow cement walkways between open one-room shops. I’m determined to get this outing over with as quickly as possible and get home, but as we leave daylight behind and make our way into the dimly lit interior of the market building, my irritation dissolves under the onslaught of sights and smells. The pungent spices are intoxicating, and I can’t stop myself from pausing to examine the variety of things on sale. Pickled snakes, monkey skulls, perfect replicas of Viking helmets, stone-inlaid jewelry and weapons, intricate handmade carpets and wall hangings, vibrant painted crockery, and fabric – woven, embroidered, batik – the choice is overwhelming. I keep stopping in awe, picking things up and gushing worse than Leela ever does. I am expecting Mustapha or Faarooq to scold me for slowing us down, but when I look up, eyes shining, to show Mustapha an ornate silver pendant with a leaping lion carved into the inlaid blue stone, he’s smiling.

“It’s the same blue as your eyes,” he says.

“Can you ask the trader how much?”

Mustapha starts a long conversation with the merchant, which I’m sure goes far beyond the price of
the pendant, but finally he turns to me and tells me he can’t get him down below fifty dollars because it’s an antique. I put it back, smothering my disappointment, and as we carry on, I’m quickly swept up in the excitement of just looking at things. Finally we come to Tahira’s shop, and I have to admit even the shalwar kameezes are beautiful. Despite Leela’s advice, I choose a plain one, in earth tones, that I could wear in the squatters’ settlement without feeling totally overdressed.

When we move on to the fabric shop, though, I allow Leela to talk me into two amazing lengths of cloth, one silken batik and another embroidered with tiny geometric diamonds. I even pick up a gorgeous woven shawl, despite my insistence I don’t really need one. By the time we’re ready to leave, more than two hours have passed, and I can’t stop smiling. I know it’s just retail therapy, but it’s like the weight of the last few days has eased and it’s such a relief to have fun for once.

We’re almost back at the entrance to the market when we hear the shouting. At first, I don’t pay attention. It’s just one more voice among many, but when I notice people stop what they’re doing to stare behind me and then at me, I realize something’s up. I slow down, but Mustapha puts his hand on my elbow and firmly propels me forward. I look back and see an old man behind us, coming closer. He looks enraged, and I wonder what we’ve done to upset him. It’s only then that I realize he’s shouting in English and I can actually understand what he’s saying. Faarooq nudges me to keep moving.

“Infidel!” shouts the man. “You will burn in the fires of hell for eternity. Who are you who touch the unbeliever? Strike her down, or you will bear her fate.”

My heart bangs in my chest like a caged bird trying to escape. It’s impossible for the five of us to make quick progress through the crowded market. I think he’s gaining on us.
Does he have a weapon?

“Keep moving,” hisses Mustapha. “Don’t look back.”

“Your skin will burn black and melt from your bones!”

I stumble and fall against a counter of embroidered cushions, knocking several to the ground. Looking up at the trader who’s come around to the front to retrieve them, I try to apologize, but he stares right through me.

Mustapha helps me to my feet. I pause for a moment to catch my breath, but all I can see in every direction are dark unreadable eyes.
How many of them want me dead?

Tahira and Leela walk just ahead of us. Tahira looks back at her brother, her face fearful.

“Keep walking,” says Faarooq.

“You will drink the oozing pus of your own flesh!”

“Be quiet, old man!” shouts Mustapha.

“Leave it, Mustapha,” says Faarooq.

“You dare to say no? You want to share the fiery grave of the harlot?”

“You don’t know anything.” Mustapha stops and faces the man. We all stop, and I’m torn between horror, admiration, and a desperate fear he will be hurt.

Faarooq grabs his arm and pulls at him. “You’re putting the girls in danger,” he says urgently. “We have to get them out of here.”

“Your blood will spill at the gates of hell as your body is lashed with iron rods!”

The blood is pounding in my head. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I’m no longer holding my packages. I don’t know where I dropped them.

Mustapha turns away from the man and again urges us on. Finally, we emerge into the sunlight, and the car is where we left it. The driver rushes forward as he registers the distress on our faces. Faarooq says something to him in Urdu, and the driver runs to the car, throwing open the door so we can scramble inside. Only when he’s closed it again do I discover Mustapha is nowhere in sight.

“Mustapha,” I gasp.

“Don’t worry,” says Faarooq. “Someone called a policeman. Mustapha stayed back to give a statement.” Faarooq says something to the driver and we pull away from the curb, inching forward through the crowd that has doubled since we arrived this morning.

“What are you doing?” I shriek. “We have to wait for Mustapha. We can’t leave him!”

“I have to get you girls to safety,” says Faarooq calmly, turning around in his seat to talk to me. “He’s meeting us at a nearby hotel. Don’t worry. It’s very nice, and air-conditioned.”

“I couldn’t care less about the hotel,” I scream,
unable to rein in my rising hysteria. “Stop this car at once!”

Faarooq furrows his brow and looks at Leela for support.

“I think we should wait for him,” she says.

“Fine,” he sighs. He speaks to the driver, and we roll to a stop.

“Are you going to go back for him or am I?” I ask. I really hope he volunteers because just the thought of going back makes me feel queasy again.

“He won’t be happy I left you alone,” Faarooq grumbles. But after giving more instructions to the driver, he hops out of the car and disappears into the market.

It’s twenty minutes later before they reappear. By then, the three of us have imagined about a zillion different ways they could have been murdered. I’m weak with relief to see Mustapha unharmed and can’t stop grinning at him, which, given the ordeal we’ve all just been through, seems a little crazy. He gives me a surprised look but then smiles back.

“S
o, you were really worried about me?”

We’re sitting around a table in perhaps the most beautiful hotel I have ever seen, quite likely the most beautiful in the world. Admittedly, I’m still freaked from our morning, and – after the crowded, garbage-strewn streets of Pindi – my standards may be lower than normal, but from the multicolored, mosaic marble floors to the stained glass skylight a hundred feet up, this place is amazing. And it’s so effectively air-conditioned I pull my new shawl out of one of my shopping bags, which Mustapha had the whole time, and drape it over my head and shoulders.

Faarooq nods approvingly.

“I wasn’t worried about you, Mustapha.” I flush, fidgeting with the fringe on my shawl. “I was more concerned for that poor, delusional old man.”

“Really?” he says with a smirk. “You were concerned about the man who wanted to see you burn in hell?”

“Well, you’re a big strong boy,” I say, dabbing my lips with my napkin.
Did I mention I’m drinking a real cappuccino?
Not the best cappuccino I’ve ever had, but at this moment, it tastes pretty damn fine. “You were hardly in danger from a little old man. Or were you?”

“You think I’m
buff
,” he grins.

“I didn’t say
that
.”

“You did, actually,” says Leela, looking searchingly from me to Mustapha and back again.

Tahira nods, and she and Leela exchange glances.

“Emma, they’ll be bringing our food soon,” says Leela. “We should wash our hands.” She pushes out of her chair and stands up. She takes my hand, which is one cultural weirdness I’m still getting used to. Leela and Tahira often hold hands or link arms. Strangely, you never see a boy and a girl doing that in this country, so maybe when two girls do it – or two guys, for that matter, because they do it too – it’s just a natural need for connection. However, at this moment, it feels more controlling than chummy.

I’m surprised when Tahira doesn’t join us in the bathroom, and I get the distinct feeling that she and Leela have some kind of agenda.

“What’s up between you and Mustapha?” she demands as soon as the door closes.

I stop halfway to a stall and turn to face her. “Nothing.” I honestly don’t know the answer myself,
and she’s not the person I want to explore this with, though with Angie I would.

“I know you think Angie was the only one who cared about you,” she begins, like she’s just read my thoughts.

“I don’t think that,” I cut in.