An Infidel in Paradise Read online

  Copyright © 2013 by S.J. Laidlaw

  Published in Canada by Tundra Books, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, One Toronto Street, Suite 300, Toronto, Ontario M5C 2V6

  Published in the United States by Tundra Books of Northern New York, P.O. Box 1030, Plattsburgh, New York 12901

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938139

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the publisher – or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency – is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Laidlaw, S. J.

  An infidel in paradise / S.J. Laidlaw.

  eISBN: 978-1-77049-305-6

  I. Title.

  PS8623.A394154 2013 JC813′.6 C2012-902852-5

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and that of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative. We further acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program.

  Edited by Sue Tate and Kelly Jones

  www.tundrabooks.com

  v3.1

  For Rafa and Gabe,

  who grew up in many different worlds

  but were always the center of mine.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Urdu Words

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  The snake is lying on the front porch like a present or a warning, blood pooled at its throat, glistening against the blackness of its leathery skin. The guard shot it at daybreak, execution-style. I’m glad it’s dead – better it than me – but I can’t bring myself to step over it. I imagine it suddenly arching up, its ghost fangs sinking into me. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong.

  “Emma, we’re late! What are you standing there for?” Mandy, my eight-year-old sister, has almost squeezed past me before she notices the snake. “Is that it?” she whispers.

  Mandy is the master of stupid questions. Mom told us about the snake at breakfast, a twelve-foot cobra sunning itself on our own front path.

  I don’t bother answering. Together we contemplate the snake blocking our way. It’s fatter than I expected. What has it been eating? Our front yard is a small rectangle of scorched grass with one spindly tree. It’s hard to imagine a cute little nest of field mice. One large rat is more likely. Or several, with long yellow teeth. And superior hunting abilities. And a taste for human flesh.

  Mandy clutches my hand. No doubt she’s had the same thought. “It’s gross,” she says. “Throw it away.”

  Right, like I’m going to touch it.

  “You throw it away.” I try to sound nonchalant. “You’re not scared, are you?” She increases her death grip on my hand. I think I hear bones cracking.

  “Are you sure it’s dead?”

  “I don’t know. Only one way to find out.”

  “No way!” She snatches away her hand, shrinking back like I might wrestle her to the snake. Drama queen.

  “Daddy would have liked to see it,” she says, a few steps behind me now.

  I wince as her words slice into me. Taking a deep breath, I quickly hop over the snake. “So, are you coming, or what?”

  Just then, our brother, Vince, appears in the doorway, his lanky frame towering over Mandy. He puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  “That’s the snake,” Mandy tells him, as if he couldn’t work that one out.

  “Really? Wow!” Vince always humors Mandy. It’s irritating yet impressive at the same time. You have to admire his patience. “A real live cobra in our own front yard. How cool is that?”

  It is so not cool, but I know what he’s thinking. It’s the First Day. Another new school, another new country. It’s not like we don’t have enough to worry about.

  “It’s not cool. It’s scary!” says Mandy.

  “But exciting!” Vince thinks if he says something often enough, he can make it true. For weeks after Dad left, Vince insisted it was only temporary. “Pakistan is going to be great. How many countries do you think we could live in where we could get this close to a real cobra without leaving the house?”

  “That’s right, Mandy,” I chime in. “Who needs movies, shopping, restaurants, and friends when we’ve got this kind of entertainment?”

  Vince gives me a look, but I’m busy trimming my nails with my teeth. I’m down to the cuticles now. They’re starting to bleed.

  “I wish we could show it to Daddy,” says Mandy.

  Vince’s jaw tightens. He takes Mandy’s hand and flashes her a totally fake smile. “You can tell him about it the next time he calls.”

  “But who’s going to take my First Day of School photo? Daddy always takes my First Day of School photo. It’s our tradition.”

  “Maybe we’ll have to start some new traditions.” Vince is trying his best, but Mandy’s no pushover. I give him a sympathetic smile, but he’s too focused on Mandy to notice.

  “I don’t want new traditions,” she whines.

  “Come on, Chipmunk.” It’s Dad’s name for her. Vince has recently started using it every time Mandy corners him. It’ll stop working eventually, but for now she lets him take her hand and help her awkwardly over the snake.

  “I could have used some help,” he says quietly, pausing beside me.

  “To lie to her?” I challenge, but I know he’s right. If we’re going to survive this day, much less this country, we have to help each other.

  “You used to be a lot more fun,” he says, which obliterates my remorse.

  I round on him angrily. “I used to be able to walk to the mall, grab a pizza with my friends, catch the latest movie, shop in stores that actually sold clothes from this century, and walk home for a poolside chat with our loving father. A lot of things used to be more fun.”

  My chest is heaving as I wait for him to deny the truth of what I’ve said, but he’s looking over my head toward the van. We should all be in it by now. I know he’s wishing he didn’t get into this, and he’s not the only one. I don’t want to be angry at Vince. He’s just trying to make the best of a bad situation. But since the night Dad dropped his bombshell
, I feel like my skin has become this fragile membrane, barely containing the anger that seethes beneath. It doesn’t take much to pierce its surface, and then I lash out at the nearest victim. I’m always sorry afterward, but for those few seconds that I let the anger take over, the relief is exhilarating. Since Dad’s departure, it’s the closest I ever come to feeling good.

  “That was Manila,” he says finally. “We’re in Islamabad now. You need to deal with it. It’s not like it’s our first move.”

  “It’s our first one without Dad.” I want to take back the words the second they escape. I’ve promised myself I won’t miss him. He chose not to be with us. He’s not worth my regrets.

  “I want Daddy,” whimpers Mandy.

  “Do you see what you did?” demands Vince, meeting my eyes for the first time. I look away. Vince doesn’t say anything more about it as he pushes past me and leads Mandy away, fast-talking about the joys of living at Terrorist Central.

  I stand alone on the walkway for a few minutes, staring at nothing. I can hear the voices of the other embassy kids greeting my siblings and the sound of a door sliding open as they load into the van. There are four other kids on this compound, all of them too young to be of interest.

  On Compound C, the other Canadian compound, there’s a girl, Michelle, only one year older than me. She’s a senior like Vince. I can already tell she has her eye on him. She hardly left his side last week at the welcome dinner, and she’s phoned every day since, taking him shopping in Rawalpindi and out to eat at the local excuse for a fast-food restaurant, showing him off to her friends like a fashion accessory. It’s not that I want to spend every minute with him, but we used to be close and – with all my friends thousands of miles away – I don’t know if I can bear losing him as well. I feel the prick of tears, but no way am I crying on the First Day.

  It’s a short five-minute drive from Compound B, where we live, to Compound C. In fact, everything in the diplomatic enclave is within easy walking distance. Embassies from all over the world are crowded together with homes and apartments for embassy workers. Most embassies have a commissary, sports facilities, even a restaurant, so diplomats can last for days without ever going outside the surrounding walls.

  We pick up Michelle, who sits unnecessarily close to my brother, and head for the gates out of the enclave. Half a dozen heavily armed soldiers are milling around at the entrance, smoking bidis and looking bored. One leans into our van and stares at each of us intently, as if he’s trying to memorize our faces. I plan to roll my eyes at him when he gets to me, but when our eyes lock, I change my mind.

  I can’t explain it, but it’s happened to me before. I see someone – in a crowded bazaar or on a railway platform in the middle of nowhere – and suddenly they’re all I see. Everyone else, all the noise and confusion, drops away, like in the movies when they cut the sound and zoom in on the heroes. I don’t know why it happens with some people and not others, but I feel this connection, like I know this person. Not their name or the boring details of their life, but really know them, their humanity, maybe their souls.

  In this moment, the army fatigues, the rifle and pistol, the heavy mustache all seem like props. I stare at the man’s gaunt, hawkish features and into his dark brown eyes. And I wait. I know he feels it too, and any moment he’ll smile or maybe nod in recognition. But abruptly, The Hawk looks away, steps back, and waves us through like swatting flies. I look down at my palms. My bitten nails have left crescents of blood.

  Just outside the gates, I see the beggar woman where she always sits, her acid-burned face peering out from under her veil like a reproach. I feel a rush of guilt that I forgot money for her today. Walking to the gate to give her a few rupees has been a daily ritual since I spotted her the day we arrived. According to Mom, she was burned by her own husband or in-laws. I’ve seen beggars before, but the agony this woman endured at the hands of her own family, before being abandoned at the side of the road like garbage, compels me to return day after day. And every time, as I trudge the wide, shaded boulevard to this spot, I fantasize that she won’t be here. That someone – her husband, her parents – filled with remorse, will have come back for her, taken her home, begged her to give them a second chance to love her.

  Mandy leans over the back of my seat. She and the other little kids have taken the two middle rows. Michelle and Vince are in the back, leaving me the whole front row to myself. I guess I should be pleased.

  “How long till we get there?” Mandy asks.

  “Forty minutes.” I timed it when we came out to register.

  “Why’s it so far?” She’s whining again.

  She’s right, though. It is a long trip. Like the diplomatic enclave, the school is deliberately built on the outskirts of the city. Unfortunately, it’s on the opposite side, and we take the farm-tour to avoid main roads or anyplace we might encounter the “local population.” We’re like pariahs. Our entire existence is set up to minimize contact.

  The first week here, I tried to leave the enclave to do some exploring on my own. In Manila I walked from my house to the mall all the time, but here I didn’t get as far as the front gate before soldiers escorted me home like an escaped felon. I tried to tell them I was allowed to go where I wanted, but they didn’t speak English and – to be honest – I’m not sure I have the same freedoms here. Mom spends half her time telling us what a great adventure we’re going to have living in Pakistan and the other half telling us to stay inside the compound. You’ve got to wonder what kind of adventure she has in mind with a bunch of other Canadian kids in a space the size of a football field.

  “Emma?” Mandy leans forward over my seat again.

  I stare out the window.

  “Emmaaaaaa?” She draws out the last syllable like a zombie gurgle. She knows I hate it when she does that. “Emmaaaaaa.” Now she’s punctuating the gurgle with jabs to my shoulder. “Emma! I’m hungry. Can I eat my snack now?”

  Mandy never used to ask my advice on anything, but since Dad left, she doesn’t make a move without consulting me. It might be flattering if I didn’t know exactly how misplaced her trust is. I let Dad slip away without lifting a finger to stop it. She was too little to pick up on the clues, and Vince’s a guy; covert passions never make it onto his radar. But I knew something was wrong.

  Dad always used to take a break from work to swim with us after school. I’d float in the pool and recount my day. Even if it had sucked, I felt better the second I hit the water. Dad wasn’t great with the wisdom, but he listened, and Zenny, our maid, would come out with cold drinks. She’d sit with us too, cracking jokes that were so lame they were funny. Dad laughed harder than anyone. And then he didn’t.

  At first, I thought maybe he just wanted to be alone with us kids. A look would pass between them as she laid down the drinks, like he was warning her not to stay. They’d both look away too fast, and she’d make some excuse about needing to get back to the kitchen. I thought maybe she’d done something wrong, and he didn’t want us to know.

  Until I caught them.

  It was late one night. Mom was still at work or at some event – typical for her. I’d said good night to Dad hours before, but I couldn’t sleep. I came down to the kitchen, and there they were, not kissing or even touching, just sipping tea and talking.

  They didn’t see me. I slunk back to bed and never spoke of it. I told myself there was nothing to worry about. My dad wasn’t capable of that kind of betrayal.

  Like I said, Mandy really needs to find a more competent advisor.

  “Don’t you have snack time at school?” I say finally. “You should wait.”

  “But I’m hungry now.”

  I rummage in my bag, pull out an apple, and offer it to her. I’m not trying to be generous by doling out my own food, but I packed her lunch myself so I know she has only one sandwich and exactly four cookies, and I don’t want her eating the cookies now. They’re homemade chocolate chip and worth more here than a cure for leprosy – which
is totally out of control, by the way, and I’m pretty sure there is a cure for that. Anyway, we brought the chocolate with us. You can’t even buy chocolate chips here, and the local chocolate is about as appealing as dirt, so no way is she wasting the cookies.

  The fact is, Mandy doesn’t make friends easily, which seriously sucks when you consider she has to make all new friends every two or three years. So not to put too fine a point on it, but the cookies are bribes. I’d rather she didn’t eat any of them herself, but at a minimum she has to give a couple away. I’ve gone over this with her about a billion times. I’m truly sorry that chocolate chip is her favorite and that she has to use them to bribe people to be her friends, but like Vince said, this is our life, Mandy needs to deal with it, just like the rest of us.

  She’s eyeing my apple like Snow White after the big sleep. I know she’s debating whether to demand something better, but finally she takes it.

  In other circumstances, I might have enjoyed this drive. Unlike our yard, the wheat fields show lingering life, a dried-out but hopeful green. In contrast, lumpish oxen erupt wartlike out of the brush every few feet, but their bovine complacency, as they chow down on their surroundings, is strangely reassuring. The occasional farmer seems non-threatening, pausing to gawk at our white faces hurtling past.

  I’m used to being stared at. This is my seventh year in Asia, and I spent three in Africa before that. I won’t say I like it, but I’ve come to view my own skin with a kind of detached reverence. I know it has a power, a life of its own. It gives me a status beyond my years. And it can get me killed.

  We didn’t have a school van in Thailand or the Philippines. It was always just the three of us with our driver. We’d fight over whose turn it was to sit in the front. Vince would always insist on giving Mandy a turn, even though she’d spend the entire trip turned around in her seat listening to us. Vince and I would talk about mutual friends, but we’d save the really juicy gossip for when Mandy wasn’t around. Sometimes I’d rant about teachers. Often Vince would bore us to death with details on some random sport. It’s weird how you don’t know you’re happy until you aren’t anymore.