Glamour (18 page)

“Rent?” Jane was dismissive. “I’ll never rent again. I’m going to buy my own house.”

CHAPTER 6

“So here we are,” Ahmed said.
“Mash’Allah.”

He stopped to pray before they entered the courtyard. It was a crowded Cairo street, and Helen was tired, and hot. It had been a long flight, and the city seemed strange to her, even after L.A.The flood of traffic, the constantly honking horns, workers on bicycles, a choking sense of dust, it was all completely overpowering.

She felt out of her depth. Lost—and she was slightly ashamed. Helen had been foreign in L.A.—too dusky, too Arab, only protected by her girlfriends. And now, she felt foreign here. Her native tongue had atrophied; she thought in English, she groped about for Arabic words.The garish billboards with their smiling photos embarrassed her; she could not read the Arabic inscriptions.

Helen felt herself between two cultures—and not fitting in with either one.

“Mash’Allah,”
she repeated, bowing her head.

Whatever happened, she was determined to use this time. How long would it take to arrange a divorce? Let them bathe, and eat, get some sleep, and she would discuss it openly with Ahmed in the morning.

“This is our house.” For the first time, he smiled warmly at her. “I worked on it—many years. The garden, especially. I hope you like it—since that is your name.”

She nodded. HelenYanna—al-Yanna, the garden. She’d always liked that part of her name.

She glanced around, drinking it in.

“Do you approve?” He was hopeful. It touched her that Ahmed desired her approval.

“I do.” Helen nodded. “This is beautiful.”

The doorway was hidden—almost secret—a gray-painted nothing of a door, set anonymously into a wall of the city street.While Helen waited with their suitcases, Ahmed reached into his wallet and pulled out a small brass key, old, she thought, with intricate casing. He inserted it into the lock; she heard the clicks and tumbles, like a puzzle solving, and the little door, heavy, swung open on its hinges. She had to stoop to enter, and then they were inside.

Now she looked around. The effect was magical. When the small door closed, the sounds of the street disappeared. She was standing in a high, ancient courtyard, where the walls were many feet thick, strong enough to drown out the traffic.The height offered a pool of natural shade.The garden was green; shady palms, as many as seven, were placed strategically around gravel paths. Tiny bricks, painted blue, fenced off flower beds dotted with azaleas, blossoming cacti, and thick beds of lilies. In the four corners of the garden, low-level fountains bubbled with water; it spilled, burbling, into square pools, giving the air a moist feel, a sense of a true oasis. There were birds in the trees, singing; she saw Ahmed had discreetly placed feeders and boxes for them. Butterflies darted around the flowers.

The garden was set in a Roman peristyle. There was a covered walkway around the outside, with flagstones like a European church underfoot, and the pillared arches covered in mosaics, in the Moroccan style; tiny squares of glass, blue and green. Islamic art and architecture, and she felt her soul thrill with unexpected pleasure.

“Wow,” she said, in English, as it sank in.

Delighted, he looked at her and chuckled.

“It isn’t rich—not a big house,” he said, apologetically. “My business is not as good as it should be, not yet. But you will like it, I hope so.”

“We can try in Arabic,” Helen said, switching, awkwardly.

“You’ve forgotten?”

Ahmed spoke softly, and looked into her eyes with a new confidence. As though he were assessing her.

“I will remind you,” he said. “I will teach you.”

To Helen’s amazement, her stomach started to churn. She blushed and lowered her eyes. A tendril of something . . . desire, she realized . . . was trawling over her belly.

To cover her confusion, she said “I would like to bathe. . . .”

“Of course. How tired are you? Can you manage dinner?”

She was rocky with exhaustion, but she nodded, still blushing.

“And then . . . bed.”

Helen’s head snapped up. He was still looking at her in that way. As she opened her mouth, wondering what to say, Ahmed lifted his hand and traced a fingertip across her mouth, softly and possessively.

“You are afraid—like a mare, before saddling. No, not tonight. I do not want you tired. I want you fully awake.”

“The bathroom . . . ,” she said dry-mouthed. “Please . . . ?”

He grinned and extended his arm, opening the house to her. And as Helen walked inside, she was aware of Ahmed watching her.Wanting her.

She didn’t know what she was feeling.

The house was not as spectacular as the little garden; it had some tile work, some old woods; she thought it was beautiful, modest, and comfortable. Three large bedrooms, a master suite with a bathroom and two dressing rooms, a kitchen, some servants’ quarters, a living room, a dining room, and a small ornate room set aside for prayer, with the mats and a window facing Mecca.

But the decoration! Every room carpeted with a priceless antique: exquisite scrollwork, Persian silks, rough kilims, each gorgeous, lining the house with beauty. And there were artworks: mosaics, brass lamps that cast intricate shadows, scrollwork on the walls, glass vases, sculpture. Small pieces, but carefully collected. The house was like a museum, she thought, but lived-in, warm; the servants who bustled through it, wearing baggy linen trousers and shirts, or traditional robes, greeted her kindly and seemed genuinely happy that Ahmed was home. He introduced Helen, and she was polite.

Now that moment had passed, she was getting a grip; getting her control back.

“I will bathe, also.” Ahmed stood back from the master bedroom. “When you are ready, come downstairs; they have made us a little supper.”

“Okay.Thank you.” She turned aside, toward the large copper tub with the modern, rainlike shower attachment . . .

. . . and then his hand was on her shoulder, firmly turning her toward him, and a strong arm lowered her down into the crook of his shoulder, and his lips pressed onto her mouth, teasingly, lightly brushing over hers, his tongue flickering against hers, probing, owning her.

Helen shuddered, taken utterly by surprise, and feeling his strength; she had never been kissed, and he knew what he was doing. She was light, nothing in his arms; she could feel the strength, the hardness of his muscles under his shirt....

And then, as she was in turmoil, he let her go. And stunned, Helen, seventeen, stood there, her thumb on her mouth, her lips half-open, staring at him. . . .

“Later,” he said. His dark eyes swept across her again. And then he suddenly turned and went down the stairs.

Helen went into the bathroom and shut the door; mechanically, she turned on the taps. She didn’t know whether that word, ‘later,’ was a promise or a threat.

She chose, deliberately, a Western dress for dinner; a long-skirted, fitted, navy blue dress from Armani that Sally Lassiter had treated her to. It was modest, with long sleeves and a square neckline, but chic and simple. Helen teamed it with the tiny diamond studs Baba had given her for her sixteenth birthday.

Very important to keep that connection to home. She vowed not to be angry about the fast one her parents had pulled. They had only her best interests at heart; but Helen was determined, she would be the judge of that.

The kitchen was full; servants, cooks, had materialized out of nowhere. Helen greeted them shyly, and went through to the dining room.

It was transformed.

Ahmed had hung up red silks, gloriously embroidered, on the walls. Antique glass and brass lamps were lit, casting detailed shadows across the walls. Perfumed candles, scented with attar of roses, were dotted about floating in water in the powder blue ceramic bowls he had laid out, their flames adding a cheerful light to the ambience.

In one corner of the room, a musician, his head studiously lowered, played a tune on the sitar.

“Will you start with a drink?”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Ahmed had changed, too. He was now in traditional dress. Long black trousers and an open-necked shirt revealed to her that he was slim, but strong. It was his own house, and he was sprawled comfortably against the ornate cushions piled on the divan. Master of his own domain.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Hello.” Helen blushed. After that kiss, she did not know how to look him in the eyes.

“They have spent a month deciding on the menu,” he told her, lowering his voice. “So I hope you eat something.”

There was coconut-scented rice, and small roasted birds; tabbouleh salad and some delicious local pastries served in a dish of sweetmeats. Helen, not really hungry, picked a little at everything; it was all good, delicious, she was sure, if she had her appetite back. For dessert, Ahmed’s servants laid out chilled fruits: lychees, dates, and pomegranate seeds, carefully scooped out and laid in a crushed bed of freezing ice crystals.

For drinks, they offered freshly squeezed orange juice, pure, icy water, or hot mint tea, heavily sugared and served in frosted glasses.

Slowly, she began to relax. After all, he had said he wouldn’t come to her tonight. So why worry?

“This is wonderful.Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Ahmed said, dark eyes on her, carefully watching. “You are not a guest here. This is your house.”

Helen bit her lip. Should she tell him?

But no, they were both zoning out, exhausted from the flight. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

She made polite conversation instead.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Four years. Since I found the market in America, and my business has done well. It is also four years since Badiya died,” he added, unembarrassed. “Had she lived, we would have married and settled in her father’s house. He owned land in Qatar—she was in Egypt to pursue her studies.”

“And you loved her?” Helen was curious.

“Infinitely.”

The answer overcame her reserve; she was conscious of an unwanted, new feeling, a stab of jealousy.

“Then why agree to this? We never met, before that day at my parents.”Why would you want to marry me?”

“Because,” he said. “Because your mother and mine are related, and I knew you were a Muslim girl, of good family. Because I heard tell that you were a believer. Because I loved Badiya so much that I thought never to be in love again, as long as I lived, with anyone.”

Helen noted how he put that in the past tense.

“Because I want to have the joy of a family, and of children,
insh’Allah
. And what better for that than a young girl, intelligent, a believer of good family? I saw it as my duty.What was the point of looking for love?”

“And now?” she demanded. Her pride, stung. It was
she,
Helen, who was doing her duty here. Ahmed should be
desperate
to marry her. Inflamed for her. Who was this Badiya? And she chilled to the unpleasant idea of competing with a ghost.

“And now, I find you interest me,” he said. “You seem . . . on the brink. Like a ripe plum, not yet fallen.You stir me . . . you are different. I want to train you.”

His eyes bored into hers.

“I am not an animal,” Helen managed.

“You are.We both are. Human animals.” Ahmed smiled, confident and suddenly attractive. “Tomorrow . . . in our marriage bed . . . I will show you, little American.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Talk all you want.” He grinned, not allowing her to drop her eyes.“You are a virgin . . . untouched, and terrified. After tomorrow, you will be mine.”

“You’re very sure of yourself,” Helen said.

He smiled. “That’s right. I am.”

She had no idea how she made it to bed. Ahmed, soon afterward, had clicked his finger for the
aya
, and the woman came and helped Helen away from the table and through the house to the master bedroom. “Here,” she said, opening the bathroom cupboard.There were new toothbrushes, in their packaging, cosmetics, and flannels.

“Thank you.
Shokram.
” Helen bowed, and eventually the woman went away.

Drained, she brushed her teeth and passed the flannel over her face. It made her feel clean, good; combine it with the bath, and she no longer sensed dust and grime clinging to her every pore. Air travel . . . such a nasty, unhealthy way to go.

She did not have any energy left to hunt around for a nightdress. As soon as her ablutions were done, Helen flopped onto the bed, and she was asleep almost before she had closed her eyes.

“What time is it?”

Helen rolled over, onto her side, to find Ahmed lying next to her, dressed in white, his eyes closed. Groggily, she rubbed her eyes.

“Ah.” He sat up. “I thought you would never surface. I was about to call the doctors.”

“It can’t be that late. . . .”

“Try three p.m. You’ve been asleep for almost eighteen hours.”

Helen groaned. “It’ll take me days to get over the jet lag.”

“I would not worry. You have years.” Ahmed smiled down at her. “I have taken a nap myself, after lunch; very civilized, the Spanish siesta. So I will be full of energy tonight, also.”