Authors: Lydia Crichton
Rome. He always dreamed of going there, to see the great capital built by a civilization “almost” as great as that of his ancient ancestors. The would-be lovers made plans to meet there, to marry.
If anyone ever, in her wildest dreams, suggested to Julia that she would consent to—even consider the thought of—becoming the “second” wife of any man alive, she would have collapsed in hysterical laughter. Julia Grant: dedicated feminist and proponent of equal rights. But there it was. Mohamed was unquestionably the man with whom she wanted—needed—to spend the rest of her life, and this was the only way.
So be it.
The day drew near for departure and he hadn’t told Shahida. Although Islam technically allowed him four wives, the practice was rare. He was obliged to inform her before he took a second wife and, of course, dreaded the thought of the unhappiness it would bring her. It was unthinkable to him that she might choose divorce, as their religion entitled her to do. She would do what was best for the children and, eventually, come to accept the arrangement. Once he had his visa and plane ticket, he told Julia, he would take Shahida away for a couple of days and they would talk it out. She must be told before he left for Rome.
Julia shared his anguish at the thought of this difficult responsibility but couldn’t begin to contemplate the alternative: the alternative of giving him up.
Calls between the two countries were often problematic. When Julia phoned at the appointed time to finalize their plans, Mohamed’s mobile phone rang endlessly without answer. Suppressing her irritation, she waited a few minutes and called again. And again. Finally he answered. In that one word of greeting, she heard his pain.
“I’m sorry, Julia, that I did not answer before. I could not bear the thought of telling you this bad news.”
A long silence ensued as she heard him take a ragged breath.
“My visa has been denied.”
Neither ever acknowledged the glaring unlikelihood of a thirty-something Arab male obtaining a visa to travel in the West. The Islamic Jihad saw to that.
~
Julia’s head cracked against the window as the plane jolted and shuddered through the air.
“Sorry, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve hit a patch of unexpected turbulence. It may be a bit bumpy for a while. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts,” instructed the captain.
Julia gingerly massaged the sore spot on her temple as she shifted in her seat and resolutely returned to her painful memories. She remembered all too well how, following the failure of their marriage plans, she drifted into a kind of paralytic limbo. Mohamed said they should wait and take some time before making any more plans. She reluctantly agreed. What else could she do? She sensed something was happening, an almost imperceptible, indefinable shift in his devotion.
Tourism was down again and work slowed to barely a trickle. He spent more time at his prayers and at the mosque. Without his saying so, Julia thought she understood this subtle change of attitude. Oh, he still wanted her, desired her, needed her. That was plain enough. His ardor came loud and clear across the six-thousand miles that separated them. But his burgeoning religious fervor brought with it increase of another emotion: guilt. And she knew that the guilt, for him, was another torment.
Julia tried to go back to work but found herself unable to bear the thought of having to deal with other people’s painful problems. After several months of endless soul-searching, she reached a decision: She would return to Egypt. Maybe they could start some kind of business together. Whatever happened would happen.
Mohamed was wary. “Things will not be easy for you here,” he cautioned. His prophecy quickly came true. From the time of her arrival, circumstances contrived to keep them apart. Inexplicably, he was suddenly in great demand at work.
Julia did her best to fill the days. She visited and revisited the many museums of Cairo. She made a few friends among other English-speaking expatriates, like her, drawn to the island oasis of Zamalek. She volunteered at a shelter for Sudanese refugees. But after a few months of this, she descended into a valley of loneliness and discouragement. In the beginning, the days were not long enough to revel in the wonder of her new-found love. As reality crept across her heart, time stretched monotonously ahead.
And life in a patriarchal society quickly became an unanticipated irritant, like grains of desert sand trapped in a favorite shoe. Almost every encounter with an Arab male left her feeling uneasy, sometimes even sullied in a frustrating way. The endless demands from vendors selling unwanted wares and beggars with hands outstretched depressed and exhausted her compassion. With Mohamed by her side, she could’ve endured these ordeals.
But he was seldom by her side.
Darkness obscured the view from the airplane window as Julia absent-mindedly rubbed the sore spot on her forehead. Mohamed did, she forced herself to recall, hold himself just beyond reach. His religious beliefs made it impossible for him to be with her without terrible guilt. They both knew if they were alone together again he might succumb to the temptation. She suspected he might be hoping, in his passive way, that she would seduce him, thereby fulfilling his ardent desire while relieving him of the decision to sin. And she couldn’t deny that she’d thought about it. That fantasy kept her company many a lonely night. But she fought against her own powerful desire. She refused to take that responsibility, knowing that he might come to resent her for it. Maybe even despise her.
Mohamed’s conflict was palpable. He didn’t know what to do. The truth was, even with his busy schedule, he could have found more time to spend with her. He admitted that he wanted to be with her—desperately so. He admitted that he lay awake at night beside his sleeping, faithful wife and imagined being with his angel.
Even after all these many months, Julia’s body tensed at the memory of his tormented confessions. They sat, side-by-side, close enough to touch but holding back, on a bench in the garden of the Egyptian Museum. He told her how the thought of her soft, sweet-smelling skin, her exquisite firm breasts and moist inviting lips made him ache with need. How he found it impossible to even be near her without wanting to enter her inviting, loving, beautiful body…making her finally, utterly, forever his.
But he could not.
The miserable realization of the impracticality of having two wives only brought more guilt, and more pain. He could not have her—but he could not let her go.
~
One day, when he carved out some time for her, they sat on stools in their favorite coffee shop, crowded with local businessmen, sipping cappuccinos.
“My Mohamed, you know how much I love you, but I’m going back to California.”
He stiffened as he turned to her. “Why, Julia? Why now? I know I haven’t spent much time with you, but when things slow down we can be together. Then we will make our plans.”
She steeled herself against her heart. “Well, my friend, I think the time has come for us to be honest, with ourselves and with each other. And to face the truth.” Inhaling deeply, she delivered the carefully rehearsed words. “The truth is, there’s no place in your life for me. Another truth is that I can’t bear to be here without seeing you, without being with you.” Not wanting to add more pressure to his already stressed state of mind, she reached down to touch his arm under the counter.
“We will always be friends. Always. And this doesn’t mean that I won’t come back. It doesn’t even mean that we won’t somehow find an answer. But I need to go home for a while, take care of some business and personal matters, and think things through.” She couldn’t keep from adding, “If you still want me, you know that I’m yours.”
She smiled in spite of the tremendous effort it cost her to keep the tremor from her voice, and the tears from her eyes. “The decision is, as it has always been, yours. Tell me you still want me, as your wife, and I’ll come back, in a heartbeat.”
His dark eyes spoke eloquently of the deep and conflicting emotions tearing him apart. The clatter of the coffee shop faded from their collective consciousness, as they communicated wordlessly through their intoxicating bond.
~
A few days later they met in a small garden in Zamalek, along the river Nile. Courting couples sat, crooning softly, on benches facing the ever-flowing water. Julia looked down at her palm, at his parting gift: a golden charm, in the shape of an angel. Tears threatened to spoil her determined calm at the sight of the exquisite object that he could so ill-afford. It meant all the more for that.
They strolled toward the arched wrought-iron gate, both sensing that passing through the portal represented an inevitable change in their extraordinary, their unlikely, their bafflingly complex relationship.
When they parted, neither allowed a look back.
Chapter 14
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We’ve begun our descent into Cairo. Estimated time of arrival is on schedule, at twelve-fifteen.”
The captain’s voice filtered through Julia’s semi-consciousness. Even at this late hour, lights glittered on the land below as far as the eye could see. Once on the ground, after the tedious process of obtaining her visa, clearing customs and the passing of much baksheesh, she looked out over the throng for the driver sent to meet her. In the midst of the agitated crowd, she spied a man in a much-worn suit and tie holding up a sign with her name. At her approach, he lowered it to eagerly grab her hand.
“Welcome to Egypt, Madame Grant! Welcome! I am Hassan. Did you have a comfortable journey?” His every word, spoken in scrupulously precise English, reverberated with excitement, as if he’d waited his entire life for this moment.
“Yes, thank you, Hassan, but I’m very tired,” she said, stifling a yawn.
“Of course, Madame. I shall take you promptly to the hotel.” He commandeered both her bags and reached for the laptop case hanging on her shoulder.
“Thank you. I’ll carry this one.” She kept one hand firmly on the strap. “You lead the way.”
Sixteen million people lived in the chaos that comprised Cairo. Another four or five million converged on the city each day, culminating in a thriving, colorful, heaving, congested mass of humanity. It never ceased to amaze Julia what nocturnal people these were. Of course, activities were more pleasurable after the unrelenting sun went down. The populace certainly made the most of the cool evening and early morning hours.
Once in the back seat of the van, she opened her window to better absorb the endless layers of exotic Egyptian life. Driving through Cairo at midnight was always like rush hour in Manhattan. In that metropolis, however, people did generally observe the traffic lights. Here, they were completely ignored, with shouts, gestures and honking horns taking their place. Manhattan also tended to be relatively free of livestock, such as the abused little donkeys pulling carts overloaded with fresh corn or other produce, or the occasional surly camel being urged through the din.
The van crawled through the traffic and turned onto a street that ran alongside the edge of a market, or suk, pulsing with life. Next to the vendor in a ragged galabeeya selling oranges from his donkey cart stood a businessman in a Western suit, jabbering into his mobile phone. Short, wide women in voluminous black robes, their faces covered by the burqa, elbowed their way through the crowd. Young girls, arm in arm, heads modestly covered with the hijab while bodies appeared to be poured into skin-tight jeans, giggled at the boys looking their way. Two young men wielded razor-sharp knives, slicing away with practiced hands at a cone of shawarma as the spiral of sizzling meat sent a tantalizing aroma wafting through the air. Barefoot children darted in and out of it all, shouting and laughing.
Julia leaned her cheek against the window, allowing the sights, the sounds and the smells to infiltrate her every pore. She was back. For better or for worse, she was back.
~
The child wailed, tears staining his smooth brown cheeks. Exasperated, Mohamed picked him up gently and held his face inches from his own.
“No, Yahiya. You cannot have my mobile phone. It is not a toy. And Papa has to go to work now.” He carried the boy to the next room and sat him on the rug amongst a scattering of games. A fan in front of an open window stirred the hot, dry air. “Play with your own things and stop crying.”
The front door slammed and a moment later a small woman, head and arms modestly covered, hurried into the room. “What’s the matter now?” Shahida asked anxiously as she picked up the boy and cradled him in her arms.
“The matter is that he has turned into a little devil,” Mohamed said evenly as he turned away. “He is spoiled and cries whenever he does not have his way.”
Returning to the room he shared with his wife, he zipped up the suitcase lying open on the bed. She followed, still holding the now-silent child. “You are leaving?”
“Yes, it is time for me to go. I have left money for you on the dresser.” He sighed as he turned to face her, placing a hand on the back of his son. “I know it is not enough. But it will have to do. For now.”
She nodded wordlessly and watched him collect the rest of his things.
“I am to be well paid for this tour. It will hopefully bring what we need for the mortgage payment. Inshallah,” he added reverently.
“Inshallah,” echoed his wife.