It wouldn’t come. The music wasn’t the same, there was no Laila, nothing was right. She should work on the lessons Miss Vanderbeek had left her, or maybe experiment with makeup. Or do something else. But she was still dancing, mechanically and aimlessly, when her father’s voice thundered from the door.

“What are you doing! By God, that I should see this! Are you my daughter?” His face bloodless with anger, Omar reached her in one stride and dragged her from the room by her hair.

In the women’s country, there were gasps when he burst in. “Where is my wife?! Where?!”

Jihan materialized as the other women vanished in a whisper of cloth and a clatter of sandals.

“What is it? What’s wrong, my husband?”

“I told you. I warned you. It’s time and past time. It will be done now!” Jihan shook her head. “But, Husband, she’s not yet reached her time. She’s still a child.”

“A child I’ve just seen flaunting herself like a Cairo whore, in my study, to my radio. Go! It’s still on. Go hear the godless music for yourself.”

“I believe you, Omar. Punish her as you wish. It’s just that she hasn’t started yet and—”

“Silence!” Omar spotted Bahia hovering in a corner. “You! You know what’s to be done. Go fetch what’s needed.”

Amira had never known such terror. She had sinned greatly. Not just the sin of her shameless dancing, but the far worse sin of arousing ghadab, rage, in a parent. Children who did that endangered their very souls. She cried helplessly while Jihan made feeble protests that Omar, now stonily silent, ignored. Bahia reappeared carrying the abeyya.

“This is not her punishment,” Omar told Jihan. “I will decide that later. This is what God ordains. See that you do it.” He turned and left. They took her to Jihan’s room. Amira still wept. Veiling was supposed to be a happy and proud occasion, a passage into womanhood, but she had ruined it beyond hope. “It’s too soon,” she murmured. It was all she could think of to say in her defense.

But now it was her mother who was stern: “It’s soon enough. Do you dare dispute your father?”

The long black veiling robe came down, covering her face, dulling the colors of the room, the colors of her childhood, shrouding her face from all who might take joy in seeing it—but also, thank God, hiding her tears.

Part Three

Part

Three

9. Jihan

Jihan

“Mother, don’t you want to join us outside? Auntie Najla’s in rare form. Mother?” “I’d rather sit here, child. I’m tired.” “You can sit outside. Come have some tea. It’s a beautiful day.”