The Caribbean Caliphate

By Bernhard Grdseloff

About the Book.

A young Palestinian woman desired by a jihadist and an Israeli.

A monstrous plan for revenge by religious fanatics.

A paradise that turns into hell.

Faisah is the daughter of a wealthy family of Palestinian descent residing in Cairo. At the celebration of her eighteenth birthday, she narrowly escapes being raped by her uncle, a senior Egyptian secret service official. The young woman takes refuge in piety and gets involved with the opposition Muslim Brotherhood. To shield her from the influence of this islamist movement, the concerned parents send Faisah and her brother to study on the small Caribbean island of Grenada. This turns out to be a momentous mistake. The siblings get caught in the murderous network of an offshoot of the Islamic State. Omar Gazawy, the commander of a cell of former ISIS fighters, wants to use Faisah for a spectacular attack that is supposed to avenge the expulsion of his Moorish ancestors from Spanish Granada.

Dramatic, tough, touching.

"The turn of events was enough to unnerve the most hardened fighter."

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Mar 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667428321

Book preview

The Caribbean Caliphate

About the Book.

Faisah is the daughter of a wealthy family of Palestinian descent residing in Cairo. At the celebration of her eighteenth birthday, she narrowly escapes being raped by her uncle, a senior Egyptian secret service official. The young woman takes refuge in piety and comes into contact with the opposition Muslim Brotherhood. She thus gets caught between the fronts of religion and politics. To shield her from the influence of this religious movement, the concerned parents send Faisah and her brother to study on the small Caribbean island of Grenada. This turns out to be a momentous mistake. The siblings get caught in the murderous network of an offshoot of the Islamic State. Omar Gazawy, the commander of a cell of former ISIS fighters, wants to use Faisah for a spectacular attack that is supposed to avenge the expulsion of his Moorish ancestors from Spanish Granada.

––––––––

Dramatic, tough, touching.

Author

Bernhard Grdseloff was born in Cairo in 1957, where he spent his childhood and early youth. He worked as a journalist in Vienna and founded an advertising agency before sailing the world's oceans in a catamaran and settling in the Caribbean, where he ran a tourism agency for many years. Today, he lives on a farm in South Africa.

Bernhard Grdseloff

The Caribbean Caliphate

Novel

This book is a novel and thus a fantasy product of the author, although the institutions present in it are partly genuine and the locations authentic. The persons, events, thoughts, and dialogues described are fictitious. Any resemblance to existing or deceased persons, their names, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Bernhard Grdseloff

For the English Language Edition:

Translation: Sarojini Seeneevassen

Editing: Dunja Chinchilla, Helmuth Fellner, Daniela Grdseloff-Gwercher, Helga Longin, Veslutchmei Nagura.

1

Cairo, Egypt

A civil servant like him, Tarek Al Bessouki thought, could not afford to throw such parties, even though he held such a high position in the secret service.

He dropped a few ice cubes into his glass, grabbed the whisky bottle and poured himself generously. After taking a sip, he leaned back, and raised the glass to his eyes. Over the surface of the yellowish liquid, he glanced across the room.

It was a parlor the size of a small hall. Two crystal chandeliers, large as tractor tires, sparkled from the ceiling, heavy, gold-coloured brocade curtains lined the windows and along the walls stood rows of baroque-style chairs and curved-legged sofas. And between all the gold-leaf and red velvet, young people crowded everywhere.  Many wore jeans and T-shirts, and some girls wore short skirts and dresses in the latest European fashion. They drank and laughed, and through the open double doors to the terrace, Tarek Al Bessouki saw even more young folk romping around the swimming pool where a pop band was playing while some danced to the music.

Manservants in wide, embroidered Gallabiyahs scurried around deftly carrying trays with ice-cooled sharbat, a sweet, non-alcoholic rose lemonade. But most of those in the room had gone for beer or wine from the bar. 

Tarek Al Bessouki sat in one corner of the living room with the older guests. He raised his glass over the coffee table in a toast to the host. To your health. It looks like business is going well.

His brother, Hussein Al Bessouki, lifted his whisky glass towards Tarek. To your health. I am content; God be praised. People just love the films I make. And do you know why? He wrapped his left arm around his wife Karima, sitting next to him on the sofa. Because this beauty performs in all my films. I am lucky to be married to the most popular actress in the entire Arab world!

Karima brushed her light brown hair with the dark blonde strands from her face and kissed her husband on the cheek. After all, it was your merit to discover me.

Hussein put down his glass. You were nineteen then, just a year older than our daughter Faisah is today, he said to his wife.

Karima nudged him teasingly in the side with her elbow. And you were fifteen years older, a womanizer who only became a film director to seduce young actresses.

Hussein pretended to be offended. Have I ever been unfaithful to you?

Only because I don't give you a chance. Why do you think I play in all your films? Certainly not for lack of other offers!

Tarek looked at his sister-in-law. You could clearly see that her mother was German. Her bright blue eyes and light-colored, slightly wavy hair added a great deal to her impact on the Arab audience, together with, of course, her seductive figure, which didn’t show that she was the mother of two almost grown-up children. On the contrary, her shape had become even more feminine over the years, in keeping with the oriental ideal of beauty. What are you shooting at the moment? he asked.

The story of a Palestinian girl and her family chased from their home by the Zionists, Hussein replied. She ends up in a refugee camp in Egypt where she befriends a Palestinian boy from a neighboring village and, against all odds, starts a new life with him in the shadow of the pyramids.

This almost sounds like our parents' story, Tarek said. By the way, where's our mother? I didn't see her anywhere today.

Hussein pointed to the ceiling. She's upstairs in her realm. You know that she doesn't enjoy this kind of party. Above all, she sees this as an abomination. He pointed to the whiskey bottle on the table. Since her return from the pilgrimage to Mecca, she will only be addressed with the title 'Hajja' and is stricter than ever on religious matters.

Tarek moaned. Our beloved mother, God bless her. But she's sure to like your new film, provided, Karima, you dress modestly and don't dance provocatively. He winked at his sister-in-law.

It's actually a romantic love story, said Hussein. But with a clear message for our Palestinian cause. We don't want to lose sight of our duty to the homeland.

Tarek laughed derisively. That will scare the Zionists, God willing.

Hussein held up a defensive hand. Don't underestimate it. The pen is mightier than the sword, and the film camera is even more powerful than the pen. And what are you doing for the liberation of Palestine, Tarek?

My work with the Mokhabarat is secret, you know that. I'm in charge of the operational department for Palestine, and we're doing what we can.

Hussein cocked his head. I hear that you work very well with the Israeli secret service.

Tarek took a sip from his glass. Egypt has a peace treaty with Israel, and the Mokhabarat is the Egyptian intelligence service. We have certain interests in common with the Jews, such as the fight against fundamentalist terrorists. But that doesn't mean that we love the Zionists.

The conversation was interrupted by the bright drumming of a tabla. A lad had tucked the goblet-shaped instrument under his arm using both hands to skillfully draw out the rolling and skipping rhythm characteristic of the music for belly dancing. A couple of young men stood around him, clapping in time. Dance, Faisah, dance, they began to chant, Faisah, Faisah, dance for us!

Gradually, everyone in the room joined in the clapping and shouting. The band outside by the pool stopped playing pop music and switched to the local Baladi sound. Faisah, Faisah, dance for us, echoed from all sides.

Faisah walked from the pool deck through one of the patio doors and stopped on the threshold, her figure sharply outlined by the spotlight which the band's lighting technician had directed on her from outside. She was tall and slim, and her dress, which ended a hand's width above her knees, showed off her long legs. Her dark, almost black hair cascaded down her shoulders. The beams of the spotlight shining through her curls created a sparkle and glow like the crystal chandeliers that enveloped her narrow face in warm light. She had thick eyebrows and a predominant Greek nose.

Tarek was overwhelmed by his niece's entrance. In his enthusiasm, he choked on the long swig he took from his whiskey glass.

Faisah placed her hands on her hips and looked around. Her big black eyes glittered teasingly, and a mischievous smile played on her lips. Her mouth was noticeably large but fitted harmoniously into her narrow face, giving it a unique look. Whose birthday is this, she called out, mine or yours? You should be dancing for me, not the other way around!

That did not impress the others. Dance, Faisah! Dance, Faisah! they continued to chant, clapping to the beat of the tabla.

A girl took a long silk scarf from her neck, knelt next to Faisah, and tied it around her waist. Faisah opened the clasps of her sandals and slipped them off. She raised both arms over her head, and the room fell silent.

The tabla player slowed the rhythm, and the clapping followed his tempo. Faisah's thigh showed through the fabric of her dress as she moved her left leg forward. She bent her knees a little, placed her hands on the sides of her head and lifted her hair behind her temples. While her shoulders and upper body remained almost motionless, her hips came into a life of their own, swinging forward to the left and the right alternatively to the beat of the drum.  Then she gracefully lowered her left hand to her navel and set her belly in a slow wavelike motion.

Tarek stared spellbound at his niece. He gulped down his whiskey and refilled his glass without taking his eyes off the dancer. In his mind, he compared her to the professional belly dancers in the nightclubs he frequented. She lacked the soft curves and trembling love handles, and yet her movements were ravishingly sensual.

As the tabla player increased the pace, Faisah included arms and legs in her flowing movements. Some girls in the room started trilling.  Appreciative calls from the boys echoed through the room: Oh, divine creation. Oh, beautiful. Like the moon.

As Faisah placed both forearms against her nape under her hair, pushed and swung her hips, bringing the lurching motion over her belly upwards until her bosom trembled under her dress, cheers broke out.

Tarek could hardly restrain himself anymore. He placed the whiskey glass that he had again emptied on the table and jumped up. He clapped loudly with sweeping movements, falling somewhat out of rhythm with the beat of the tabla.

Faisah looked at her uncle and danced over to him. On the opposite side of the coffee table, she turned her back to him and bent backwards until her curls almost touched the table top. To the rhythm of the drum, she moved her shoulders up and down. With her head thrown back, her hands circled each other over her breast.

Tarek stared into her décolletage at her firm young breasts under the dress. He felt ashamed at his rising hardness but then gave way to desire. A pity that this beautiful thing was his brother's daughter, he thought. He found it hard to resist stretching out and grabbing the body in front of him.

Faisah straightened up, stretched her left leg, and let her foot vibrate on its ball as if electrified while the tabla's rhythmic drumming turned into a roll before dying out. There was a burst of applause.

Hussein jumped up and, pulling his daughter to him, pressed a kiss on her cheek. A splendid performance. Not just splendid - Oscar-worthy! he praised her exuberantly. You have your mother's talent.

Karima turned around in her seat. What did I say? A lecher, an aging, shameless filmmaker who is after every young thing, she laughed. He doesn't stop at his own daughter.

How can one resist such beauty? declared Tarek from across the coffee table. By God, Faisah! You should become an actress like your mother!

Faisah looked at her mother. No, by God the Almighty, not an actress! She turned to Tarek. I want a real profession. Like you, Uncle Tarek.

Tarek couldn't make out the expression on Faisah's face. Was she serious, or was she joking? But ... but the secret service is not something ... not for women, he stammered, annoyed at not finding a wittier reply.

Faisah blew him a kiss and disappeared into the verandah.

Karima watched her go. I sometimes get the feeling that my daughter hates me.

Oh, come on, Hussein waved it off. It's just normal defiance at this age. And perhaps a little jealousy as well.

I don't know, Karima expressed her doubts. Whenever she has something on her mind, she runs to her grandmother, the Hajja. She never comes to me with any problems or questions.

That's probably because the two of us are often not here, said Hussein. That comes with the film business. My mother looked after Faisah, even as a little girl. That makes her Faisah's mentor.

Karima sighed. Anyway, your mother would not have been enthusiastic about the dance her favorite granddaughter just performed so skillfully.

Later that evening, when the first party guests began to say goodbye, Faisah's brother Yasser strolled over to his parents. Yasser was a year older than his sister but a few inches shorter and plump. His chubby, clean-shaven cheeks gave his head a round shape. He looked more like his stocky uncle Tarek than his tall father and had his mother's blue eyes.

From behind, Yasser leaned with both hands on the back of the sofa where Hussein and Karima sat. His gleaming, dark hair was styled with gel in an audacious shape. I'd like to go out with a few friends. It's still early, and the party here is nearing its end.

His father half-turned toward him. Where are you guys going?

Over to Zamalek to have a drink somewhere on the Nile promenade.

Leave the car and take a taxi. Hussein reached into the back pocket of his trousers and pulled out a thick bundle of banknotes. He gave his son a handful of hundred-pound notes. Enjoy yourself and be careful. Godbless.

Tarek watched his nephew leave. A strong and healthy young man, a true Al Bessouki, praise God. He will honor the family, God willing. He reached for the whisky bottle to fill up, only to find it empty.

Hussein pushed his glass away. I've had enough of that stuff.  Let's go out into the fresh air for a while. He rose and, reaching out to his wife, pulled her up, put his arm around her waist, and walked with her toward the verandah. Tarek also stood up and wavered at first as the alcohol hit him. Then he pulled himself together and followed them.

Once outside, they strolled around the pool and sat in wicker chairs away from the hustle and bustle. There were only a few young people left. Two of the band musicians played a slow piece while the others were already packing. Faisah's bright laughter rang out as she sat with a small group of friends next to the dance floor, on the opposite side of the glittering water surface. It was a mild evening. Swarms of insects swirled around the lamps and lanterns, illuminating the grounds of the large villa, while the chirping of the cicadas competed with the music.

Hussein waved a servant. Bring us hookahs, he told him. Turning to Tarek and Karima, he asked: For you, too?

Of course! his brother replied.

Karima shook her head. None for me. I'll stick to wine.

The tobacco with apple aroma, as usual? asked the servant.

Hussein nodded.

Moments later, the servant placed the hookahs next to the men. Hussein took a puff and kept the smoke in his throat for a few moments allowing its sweet aroma of tobacco, molasses, and apple to develop before blowing it out again. When the servant was out of hearing, he pulled a small plastic crucible out of his left pocket, opened the lid, and fished out a brown lump that he held out to Tarek. Do you want to add some?

Tarek reached for the pellet. May God reward you for your goodness.

May God bless you, Hussein replied.

With practiced fingers, the two brothers crumbled the hashish over the tobacco mixture of their hookahs. They smoked and told old stories, laughing at every nonsense. At some point, Tarek wanted to stand to go to the toilet. He tried to push himself up on the armrests but fell back into the armchair when he let go. He managed at the second attempt. Hussein and Karima watched as he walked unsteadily toward the verandah door.

Your brother is sloshed, said Karima. We shouldn't let him leave the house in this state.

Hussein nodded. He can sleep in the guest cottage.

Tarek came back and dropped heavily into his armchair. He laid his head back and moaned.

You've had quite a lot to drink, Tarek, Hussein said. From Maadi to your apartment in Medinet Nasr, you have to cross the whole city. Please stay here and sleep in our guest cottage.

Tarek put his hands to his head. You're right; I probably had a glass too many. I gladly accept the invitation.

That's when Faisah walked in. I wish you all a good night. My friends are gone; I'm going up to my room.

Sleep well, my child, Karima wished her. But before you go, please bring Uncle Tarek over to the guest cottage.

Faisah looked at her obviously drunk uncle. But...

Do as your mother says, urged her father. He got up, patted his brother on the shoulder, and helped his wife from her seat. The two left arm in arm towards the house.

Faisah watched them go and then turned to her uncle. He had loosened the red and green striped tie, his collar was open, and a shirttail was hanging out of his pants under his belly. Well, come on, Uncle Tarek, she said curtly.

At your service, my beauty, he slurred.

Tarek followed her through the garden on a cobbled path illuminated by lanterns. Faisah walked briskly, and Tarek tottered after her on unsteady legs. The young woman's body moved in front of him as if she was dancing. Her hips swayed at every step, and Tarek imagined her breasts, rocking seductively under her dress. He felt his aroused stiffness, and suddenly, the dullness of his inebriation seemed to lift.

Faisah had reached the guest cottage and opened the door. Tarek caught up with her. With both hands, he grabbed her enticing hips from behind and pushed her into the room. Faisah was first paralyzed. Tarek turned her around and tried to kiss her on the mouth. Faisah smelled the alcohol and hash reeking from his breath and drew her head back in horror. Tarek pushed and pressed her against the wall.

No, Uncle Tarek, no, let me go! begged Faisah.

Come on, my duckling, that's what you want. That's what you suggested to me with your dance. Do you think I didn't notice?

Tarek slid his hands up to Faisah's breasts and kneaded them through the dress. He pressed his erection against her lower abdomen and Faisah's head suddenly cleared. She grabbed her uncle by the shoulders and shoved him away from her. At the same time, she lifted her right knee and smashed her shin between his thighs with all her might. 

Nothing happened. Tarek held out his hands to her again, took her arm, and pulled her toward him. But then, he suddenly let go and doubled over. Groaning with pain, he clutched his genitals with both hands. He lost his balance, fell on his side, and rolled about on the floor, whimpering.

Faisah hurried out the door and slammed it behind her. She ran down the path back to the house as fast as her high-heeled sandals allowed. She ran through the living room where the servants were tidying up, climbed the stairs to the first floor, and went down the corridor to her room. She yanked the door open and turned the key twice from the inside before throwing herself fully dressed on her bed. Lying on her stomach with her head pressed into a pillow, she cried hysterically. As her panic slowly subsided, she turned on her side and wrapped her arms around her legs, pressing her head against her knees. She went on crying for her disappointment and disgust at her uncle, anger at her parents, and pity for herself.

2

It was still dark when Faisah got out of bed. She had hardly slept and was still wearing the party dress from the night before. With her face puffy from crying and with disheveled hair, she slipped out of her room and walked barefoot down the long corridor. The Hajja's premises were in the other wing of the villa. Faisah stopped at her door and knocked.

Who is there? came a few moments later.

It's me, Faisah.

The door opened, and light flooded from inside onto Faisah. Appalled, the Hajja slapped her hands on her cheeks. I seek refuge with God from the cursed Satan, she blurted. Look at the state you're in, girl!  Come inside to your grandmother, my treasure. What happened?

The old woman led her granddaughter to a sofa and sat next to her. Between her sobs, Faisah reported the incident with her uncle. The Hajja pulled a few sheets of tissues from a box at the side table and wiped the tears from Faisah's face. 

It will soon be daytime, she said. I have to do my morning prayer. You will pray with me. But first, we'll do the prescribed cleansing. Come with me to the bathroom.

They washed their faces, arms, and feet. After Faisah had changed into a full-length, long-sleeved robe belonging to her grandmother, the Hajja helped her to drape a veil thoroughly hiding her hair and neck. The old woman then spread two prayer rugs side by side in the living room.

We don't pray together as often anymore, she said. Can you still remember the words?

Yes, Hajja, I often pray when I am alone.

They stood beside each other with their faces to Mecca, praised God together and kneeled, asking God for forgiveness, bowing before him until their heads touched the ground.

When they were done, the Hajja turned to her granddaughter and looked into her eyes. Do you feel better now, my child?

Yes, Hajja. Somehow, what happened yesterday is further away from my mind. It doesn't burden me as much.

The old woman waved Faisah to the sofa, and they sat, facing each other. Faisah breathed in the Hajja's clean scent of soap, which she had been familiar with since her early childhood. Her grandmother's round face radiated warmth and peace.

The Hajja scrutinized her granddaughter. Praise God, the headscarf and the abaya suit you, she said, stroking her granddaughter's head. Now tell me everything that happened yesterday at your birthday party, from the start to the end. Don't leave anything out.

When Faisah was finished, the old woman turned sharply on her. You should be ashamed. Ask God for forgiveness!

But... but Hajja, why? Faisah stammered, bewildered.

You alone are to blame for what happened. You provoked your uncle with your dance and suggestive clothes. He only reacted like a man when encouraged by a woman.

But I'm his niece, his brother's daughter, how could he ...

He had been drinking. Alcohol is the source of all evil, a horrible work of Satan. May God protect us from it and keep it away from us. Alcohol had clouded Tarek's mind and caused him to lose control. But you, you acted with full awareness. You behaved as shamelessly as your mother acts in the films.

I'm not like my mother, said Faisah.

But you dress like her, and wear your hair loose as she does, and dance provocatively in public like her. Where’s the difference?

I adhere to the rules of the Koran, just like you. I try ... as much as possible.

The Hajja raised her hands in reproval. Well, how? As much as I? Or as much as possible?

I would like to be like you, grandmother. I admire your dignity and your loyalty to your principles, how you adhere strictly to the Koran.

Well then? Why don't you behave the way I taught you as a child? With humility and decency?"

Faisah looked around the room. Her gaze fell upon the big rusty key hanging on the wall behind the sofa. It belonged to the house in Palestine that her grandmother and her parents had to leave when the Zionists drove them out. Next to it hung the yellowed photograph of her grandfather in the military uniform of the Egyptian army. How often had the Hajja told Faisah the story about her husband's volunteering from the refugee camp in 1967 to help drive the Jews out of Palestine. And all the other anecdotes. All the legends about the Prophet she had listened to here, on this very sofa. As a child, Faisah recalled, she had been downright in love with Mohammed after hearing her grandmother’s beautiful narration of his kindness to others.

Faisah took the Hajja's right hand and kissed it. Even as a little girl, I always felt safe and secure with you, she said. When I pray with you, I feel a warm, healing power pouring through my body. For me, you are someone special, someone noble and perfect. But I grew up in two worlds, and I don't know which of the two I really belong to.

What do you mean, two worlds? asked the Hajja.

Your world, and the other one, replied Faisah. You know what my parents are like. They are totally unlike you. Although they sometimes pray and fast during Ramadan, apart from that, they live as if the Koran didn't exist. My friends and fellow students are all exactly the same. They want to have fun and lead an exciting, enjoyable life. Religion is of marginal importance to them.

This other world is only a deception and superficial, the old woman exclaimed. A devious deception by Satan, God protect us and keep him away from us. You mustn't let it lead you astray.

Faisah lowered her eyes. I coming and going between two worlds which I find very difficult to bring together.

There's nothing you need to bring together, the Hajja insisted. There is only one real world and one right path. If you succumb to the lure of Satan and turn away from God's commandments, you needn't be surprised if other people only see you as fun, something to be enjoyed. What happened with your uncle yesterday will unavoidably happen again and again.

Help me, Hajja, begged Faisah. What must I do?

The prophet Mohammed, may God's salvation and blessings be upon him, has told us exactly in the Koran what God wants you to do, replied the Hajja. And tell the women believers, she quoted, that they should lower their gazes and preserve their chastity, and not flaunt their charms except what can be decently exposed.

So, should I wear the veil?

The Hajja caressed Faisah's cheek. I have told you what is in the Koran, my child. Everything else is your free decision. Do you want to be judged by your external appearance or be seen and taken seriously as a whole person?

Of course, I want to be taken seriously as a whole person!

Then you mustn't flaunt your outer appearance. God recommended that women should wear the headscarf to protect them from lewd eyes and to draw men's attention not to the sexual charms of a woman, but to her face, her personality, and her character!

There was a knock on the door. Your coffee, Hajja.

The old woman turned around and called: Come in, Umm Ibrahim.

The Hajja's personal servant entered the room, dressed like the country's common women, with a loose black dress that reached the floor and a translucent black cloth over her head and shoulders. She held a brass tray on which were a copper beak pot with a long, black wooden handle next to a small mocha cup. She put the cup on the table in front of the couch and poured the coffee perfectly by letting the black liquid slowly trickle into the cup from a height of about two hands.

Would you like one too? asked the Hajja.

Yes, with pleasure, but with less sugar, please, answered Faisah.

And bring us breakfast as well, said the Hajja to the servant.

When they were done, Faisah stood up. Thank you, Hajja, for your comfort and help. I'll go to my room now; I still have homework to do.

The Hajja held her back. One more thing.

Faisah sat down again. Yes, Hajja?

The old woman looked at her intently. Swear to me by God that you won't tell anyone about the incident with your uncle. It would only bring misfortune.

By God, I swear, said Faisah solemnly.

Faisah went back to her room and locked the door behind her. She stood in front of the large mirror and looked at herself in her grandmother's wide abaya. She turned back and forth, looking at herself from all sides. The dress was a little too short for her, showing her narrow ankles. Otherwise, nothing of her figure was visible. Faisah moved her face toward the mirror. The white veil that wrapped tightly around her forehead, cheeks, and neck made her oval face appear rounder. Without her thick hair to frame her face, her mouth, and salient nose were more conspicuous. But it was her eyes that stood out the most under the pronounced, dark eyebrows, with their long eyelashes and the white spark in the middle of their jet-black pupils.

Faisah moved closer to the mirror. She gazed into the reflection of her own eyes. I'm eighteen years old now, she said to herself. And yes, from now on, I want to be taken seriously as a full person.

She opened her closet and examined her clothes. She pushed aside one coat hanger after the other and ran her hand thoughtfully over the neatly folded stacks of jeans, tops, and T-shirts. I'll need new things, she thought. And some matching veils.

3

The Maadi Sporting Club was an exclusive facility of remarkable size. Between shady old trees, blooming bougainvillea, and trimmed lawns, the facility encompassed several swimming pools, football fields, tennis and basketball courts, a cinder track, a fitness center, a restaurant, several cafés, a cinema, and even its own mosque. This was the social center of the fashionable suburb of Maadi, bordering the south of the Egyptian capital.

The club was less than a five-minute drive from the Al Bessouki villa. Yasser Al Bessouki parked the SUV that his father had given him a year ago for his eighteenth birthday in the avenue near the club entrance. He nodded briefly to the security guard at the club portal. The gatekeeper eagerly waved the young gentleman through without asking for a membership card. His family was one of the long-standing members, and he went in and out almost every day.

It was Saturday afternoon and the club was very busy. People crowded under the cafeteria's parasols near the entrance, mostly families with children of all ages. Waiters in uniform were bustling back and forth. Yasser spotted a couple of friends at one of the bamboo tables in the guest garden. He walked up to them.

What's on? he asked. How was the water polo match?

Nadir, whose T-shirt stretched over the strong chest and shoulder muscles of the accomplished swimmer, casually laid his head back. We won, of course, by God's grace. Even though you didn't play with us, Yasser.

Thank you, water polo is not for me.

Nadir grabbed Yasser's tummy. But you'd swim well with this floating ring.

The others laughed.

Yasser did not let the mockery sit on him. You only like to play water polo so much, Nadir, because you're keen on someone from the opposing team ripping your swimming trunks off your bottom underwater, he countered.

Everyone laughed.

Yasser grabbed his crotch. I have something to lose down there, unlike you!

The laughter got louder.

Yasser had gotten started. How can you enjoy a sport where you have to swallow chlorinated water all the time? he said, pointing to the beer glass on the table in front of Nadir. I am surprised that you can still have a drink afterward.

Nadir waved it off. Alright, Yasser. Your favorite sport is joking about others. I admit defeat. Come sit with us.

Yasser ordered a large bottle of beer and refilled his three friends' half-full glasses before pouring himself.

He raised his glass. To your health.

Suddenly, Nadir stared spellbound over Yasser's shoulder. What goodies do we have there? he exclaimed.

Yasser turned around in his bamboo chair. Two girls came down the path from the entrance. One had blond hair that fell over her shoulders, an angelic face with freckles, and a stunning figure. She wore cut-off jeans and a short top that not only exposed her navel but also offered a seductive glimpse into her voluptuous cleavage. Her companion was brunette and the opposite of attractive. Her bobbed hair was lank, her eyes were set deep in the sockets, and her teeth jutted out conspicuously. Besides having a flat and bony figure, her legs looked like two thick, clumsy chunks protruding from her dress.

I know the blonde, said Yasser. She's been here a few months, living not far from us. Her father has something to do with the German embassy, and she goes to the German school. I've never seen the other one before.

Nadir wrinkled his nose. I don't care about the other one. She's uglier than a monkey.

Everyone laughed.

Can't you bring them both to our table? Nadir urged Yasser.

I can try. A mischievous grin crossed Yasser's face. But on one condition.

I'd do anything for the blond angel, by God the Almighty.

Alright. The condition is that you only speak Arabic as long as the two of them are sitting with us. Not a word of English. Deal?

And how am I supposed to communicate with this beautiful child and convey my adoration and admiration to her? asked Nadir. She surely doesn't speak Arabic.

Don't worry, Yasser replied. I'll be your interpreter.

Nadir hesitated.

So, what do you say? urged Yasser. Should I get them now or not? I'm not running after them through half the club for your pleasure.

Very well, Nadir gave in. Deal.

Yasser rose. Well then, in the name of God, the Good and Merciful!

The girls had passed the table and were already some distance away. Yasser hurried after them and tapped the brunette on the shoulder.

Excuse me, he said in German. His maternal grandmother had often spoken to him in German as a child, and he could still express himself passably well in the language.

Surprised, the girl stopped and turned around. Her blond companion also turned to Yasser. But he paid no notice to her and continued to address the brunette, switching to English.

My friend over there, he pointed to Nadir. He just saw you walking by and says that he has never seen such a beautiful girl in his whole life.

Nadir noticed that Yasser was pointing in his direction and waved to them.

I think, Yasser went on, that he fell in love with you at first sight.

With me? marveled the brunette, smoothing down her dress.  She was perhaps sixteen years old.

Of course, with you, Yasser assured her. He is besotted with you. His heart is beating so hard he can only manage to stammer. He is a little shy, you see. He begged me to ask you in his stead whether you would perhaps like to come to our table and have a drink with us. Together with your friend, of course.

The brunette eyed up Nadir's sporty figure and salient face. She turned to her friend. What do you think?

The blond girl shrugged. If you want.

Yes, come. As if attracted by a magnet, the brunette went straight to the table, leaving Yasser and the blond girl to follow.

The blonde looked at Yasser. Do I know you from somewhere?

Here, from the club. And I live in your vicinity. I am Yasser. And what's your name?

Margit, answered the blonde. And that's my cousin, Gudrun. She is visiting us for two weeks; she lives in Germany.

By then, they had reached Nadir and the others. Yasser grabbed an empty chair from a nearby table and pushed it next to Nadir. He motioned for the brunette to sit. She took a seat and immediately looked expectantly at the person next to her, her deep-set eyes reflecting her infatuation.

Gudrun, this is Nadir, Yasser introduced his friend. Do you speak French, Gudrun? he asked.

No, only German and a little English, answered Gudrun without taking her eyes off Nadir.

What a shame, Yasser said regretfully. You see, Nadir went to a French college and speaks only Arabic and French, - he glanced entreatingly at Nadir over Gudrun's head - but not a word of German or English.

Really? exclaimed Gudrun with obvious disappointment.

Unfortunately, said Yasser. But that doesn't matter; I'll be your interpreter.

Oh, thank you! Gudrun whispered and continued to stare at Nadir.

Nadir leaned back, slid his right arm behind Gudrun's chair to discreetly show Yasser the middle finger. Thinking that Nadir was trying to put his arm around her, Gudrun leaned closer to him. Yasser took the opportunity to grab Nadir's hand, place it on Gudrun's shoulder and hold it there.

Outraged, Nadir turned to Yasser and snapped at him in Arabic. What is that supposed to be? What tricks are you pulling on me?

Startled by the sharp tone, Gudrun stiffened.

Okay, okay, said Yasser in English and demonstratively withdrew his hand. He's upset because I touched your shoulder. Nadir is very jealous, you know.

Oh ... well then, Gudrun stuttered, disconcerted.

Yasser fetched another armchair and placed it opposite Nadir's. He offered Margit a seat and sat down too.

Nadir gave Yasser a venomous look across the table. In Arabic, he said: So that's how you planned it, you son of a bitch. You grab the cute blonde and hang the other one on me.

Only in God is such strength and power. It is beyond my control. Gudrun is just crazy about you. That's wonderful, isn't it?

Nadir snorted. Wonderful? He looked straight at Gudrun. You have teeth like a camel, he said to her in Arabic with a smile.

He says you have beautiful, sensual lips, Yasser translated.

Gudrun beamed. Nadir's buddies tried hard to keep a straight face.

Taking a liking to the game, Nadir ran his hand over Gudrun's head. Do you smear tar on your hair to make it so sticky?

He asks if your hair is made of silk because it feels so soft and smooth, Yasser lied in English.

Gudrun looked embarrassed. Really, is that how it feels? Tell him that I've never met such a nice boy.

Nadir's buddies made frantic efforts to suppress their laughter.

Nadir leaned back in his chair, and looking upwards, held up his hands to the sky. By God, when I look at this nightmare, I understand why some women cover themselves from head to toe in the burqa.

He thanks the Lord, said Yasser, turning his serious face to Gudrun, for sending him one of the wonderful virgins from Paradise here to earth.

Nadir and his buddies burst out laughing, to the confusion of the two girls.

Engrossed in their game, the group didn't notice that Faisah had come to the table to stand behind her brother. She nudged Yasser roughly on the shoulder from behind. Stop this mean game at once, she ranted in Arabic. Then she turned to address the two girls in English. Don't you see that they're just having fun at your expense?

That’s just the feeling I got now, exclaimed Margit, glaring angrily at Yasser.

She jumped up, grabbed Gudrun by the arm, and pulled her from her chair. But her friend still didn't seem to catch on and looked at Nadir adoringly. With a jerk, Margit tore her away and dragged her from the table. Yasser hurried after them.

Piss off, Margit hissed at him, her face flushed.

Yasser did not give up. But I can’t help it. Nadir set me up. He pretended to like Gudrun and begged me to bring you over to us. Then he suddenly began to say mean things about her. I did everything to avoid hurting Gudrun's feelings.

Margit stopped and gave Yasser a withering look. Ah, I see. You only meant well; you are real angel, aren’t you?

Yasser looked at Margit innocently with his blue eyes. That's how it was. Please forgive me and don't be angry with me. We're neighbors, after all. Maybe we can meet again soon.

Margit seemed unsure. In any case, not when your mean friends are there. She turned and walked away with quick steps, still pulling her friend Gudrun behind her.

They're not really friends, just some acquaintances from the club, Yasser called after the girls. Then he went back to the table.

Faisah was still standing in the same place. Spoilsport, Yasser blurted out at her.

Faisah swung the tennis racket as if to hit her brother over the head. She had just come back from a match against a friend. She wore a white headscarf, a loose white shirt that came down to her thighs over long, fluttering white trousers, and white sports shoes.

Nadir, the water polo player, eyed her ostentatiously from head to toe. Is this the latest tennis fashion from Saudi Arabia? he said, smirking. You must be sweating like a sheep on a spit under all these clothes while playing!

Faisah cocked her head. So, you don't think I belong to the nightmares that should be hidden from head to toe under a burqa?

You certainly don't need to hide, flattered Nadir. You are a real beauty, perfect like ... like your mother.

... or like the beautiful virgins in Paradise, eh? Faisah teased him.

Seriously, why are you suddenly wearing those headscarves and loose dresses like a peasant woman? asked one of Nadir's buddies. You've been running around like this for a few months now.

So that morons like you guys can't make fun of me, Faisah replied. I don't want you to judge me by my appearance; I want to be seen by you as a whole person.

We liked your looks so much. Nadir got up and emulated a few belly dance movements, letting his hands stroke sensually over fictional breasts and hips.

Faisah's face darkened.

Yasser felt compelled to come to Faisah's help. She is my sister, Nadir! Don't insult her, otherwise ...

Otherwise, what? Nadir gave Yasser a sardonic look. And turning to his buddies, he said: Listen, Yasser is now going to the holy war for the honor of his sister. And he'll probably grow a full beard soon, according to the latest Afghan fashion. Nadir put his thumbs to his cheeks and waved his hands under his chin. His two pals laughed.

And then Faisah's mother will no longer play the seductress as usual in her next film, grinned one of the two, but the role of Fatimah, the chaste sister of the Prophet, may God bestow his grace upon her.

Faisah turned away. Please, drive me home, she asked her brother.

Yasser stood up. Sure, I will. he said to his sister. And to the others at the table: Wait for me, I'll be right back.

4

Sitting on the hard ground was not uncommon for Ibrahim Tantawy. Nevertheless, the timeworn marble tiles were slowly becoming uncomfortable. The meeting dragged on for an unusually long time today. As always, it was about various organizational issues. In the present circumstances, even the most minor decision had to be considered with great care. Illegality forced them into extreme caution, and they sorely lacked resources.

They met every second Saturday late afternoon, men and women strictly separated. One group always sat in the right end of the shady colonnade lining the small mosque's front courtyard, the other in the opposite corner. 

Glancing sideways, Ibrahim noticed a commotion in the circle of veiled women as they rose and dispersed. His gaze wandered over to the full-bearded faces of the men. Most were, like him, in their late twenties or early thirties. Their expressions revealed that they, too, were hoping that the meeting would soon end.

Ibrahim waited for Soliman to finish his remarks before quickly taking the floor. It will soon be time for the sunset prayer. I suggest that we break off now and continue later, God willing.

His proposal met with approving murmurs.

Ibrahim got up and stretched. Although the muezzin had not yet called to prayer, many believers were already in the courtyard, and more trickled in through the gate. Apart from the street cafés, in which only men were allowed, the mosque was the only social center for those poor quarters of Cairo, where there was the opportunity to meet and chat before the religious service.

Some children were playing with marbles at the far end of the walled area. Ibrahim sauntered over to them. As he approached, he noticed a boy picking up another player's colorful glass marble and putting it into his own pocket.

Ibrahim confronted him. Why are you taking the marble of your friend?

I won it, the child justified himself. I shot it down with mine.

"Don't you