“Will you come home early?” she murmured, staring at the floor.
He put a callused finger under her soft chin and tilted up her head, forcing her to stare into his eyes.
“I said, look at me.”
Haya flushed; her breathing seemed to be coming raggedly. Ahmed put a hand to his wife, and she gasped.
“So eager,” he said, with a grin.“I’m not going to work today. It’s our honeymoon. And I want to show you what pleasure means.”
He led her into the shower later, and bathed with her, washing her, until she was so stimulated she had to reach for him again. Haya found her husband was exactingly patient, deliberate as a lover; he insisted on knowing every inch of her, and discovering what brought her to the boil.
Haya realized her world had been black and white. She could hardly cope with the feelings Ahmed induced. At times he was rough, and dominant; at other times gentle, erotic, slow with her. The day ticked by wonderfully slowly, and she lost herself to her body, and his body, and the ferocity of her newly awakened love.
Their first month together passed in a daze. Haya was beside herself; her emotions ran at fever pitch; love of Ahmed, and desire for him, consumed her, so much that she could scarcely concentrate. And yet there was anger, which started slowly and had simmered into rage, against her father. As happy as she was now, Haya had grown furious that this major change had been done to her—that she never had the chance to decide for herself. Baba had tricked her, and now she was in Egypt.
Every time she could not make herself understood in the marketplace, or one of the servants turned against her, pretending her accent was too strange, Haya felt out of her depth. As though only Ahmed could protect her. And that, she hated.
She could hardly stay away from her husband. Ahmed was a dominant lover, not gentle, not soft, and he excited her, made her ready and hot in a way the dull American boys never had. Her passion excited him; her naked desire, visible to him even when she was fully robed, made Ahmed want her more; he was on her, all the time, taking her by surprise in the shower, locking the doors of their study, coming home from work at lunchtime, burning for his wife, and wanting to have her again.
Haya was unused to the sensations that rocked through her at his touch. She had never thought of herself as particularly sexual; never mooned over posters of the latest hot actors, like the other girls at school; never really considered men. And now she was addicted.The more he came to her, the more she wanted him.
Desire made her sick, almost. Haya was so feverish for Ahmed that she could not concentrate, could not get herself together. Her days and nights centered around wanting him.The depths of her responsiveness scared her.
But as Haya stayed in the house, barely improving her Arabic, she got restless.
“I need to do something,” Haya said, after they had finished a sticky session of lovemaking one afternoon. “Ahmed, I’m going stir-crazy here. I was not made to sit still in a house … even a beautiful one … and I have no friends, nobody but you.” She missed her girlfriends, dreadfully. “Maybe we should go back … the two of us, to America. Visit my parents. Have it out with Baba,” she added, grimly.
“I can’t.” He leaned over and kissed her on her naked stomach; she drove him crazy, lean and young and hungry for him. “I can’t take time off work—I’ve already spent too much time away as it is. And you can’t go.”
“I can do whatever I want.”
“No way. I’m not letting you out of my sight. I want you far too much for that.”
She softened, smiled.
“But you are going crazy. Even the birds in the garden fly elsewhere over the city.” He thought about it. “Why don’t you come with me? Into work.”
“Your work?”
“Yes, why not? Come and see what I do. Do you object to wearing the hijab?”
“Not at all.”
“The women in our workshops are very traditional. It would save some questions… .” He grinned. “And anyway, your hair is so beautiful … I want it all to myself.”
“Fine by me.” Haya groaned and pushed his hand away. “Don’t … Ahmed.”
“And why not?”
“We just did …”
“I remember.” But he was ready again. “Come here.”
She rolled to him, eagerly.
Maybe it was better he take Haya to work, Ahmed thought. Since when she wasn’t there, he spent every waking moment looking for excuses to get out of the office. And he loved her, and did not want her to get bored, or restless. Until the children came along, insh’Allah, could it hurt? Why not? She was still a teenager, after all, even if she carried herself like a young woman.
Business would be a fascinating diversion. And it wouldn’t last too long. Once his wife got pregnant, that was it.
“And this is the workshop.”Ahmed bowed, greeted the women who were sitting there, weaving; they smiled and nodded at Haya. “They make some carpets here. Mostly, I deal with importers … or find goods myself. It is all in the eye. Come upstairs.”
She smiled at his workers and followed him up the wooden stairs; every inch of the place was hung with beautiful carpets, and the storeroom smelled a little fusty.
“Mothballs,” he said, in answer to her question. “Nothing works better … no technology, even today. Mothballs to keep the carpets from being eaten alive. And here we are … this is the showroom.”
“Amazing.”
It was. A long room, full of windows, but they had muslin drapes across them all. She understood: daylight would bleach out the precious fibers. Instead, even in the day, the room was gently lit with candles. Piles of gorgeous silk and woollen rugs lay on the floor; they hung from the walls; they were suspended from the ceiling. To counter the mothballs, he had placed scented oil burners in strategic places; there was a strong smell of frankincense.
“Do you want some tea … pastries?”
Haya was hungry; she nodded.
Pleased to be showing off his work, her husband nodded to an employee; the man disappeared into a side room, and returned with a silver tray containing a teapot, glasses, and a delicate selection of tiny cakes, placed on a lace napkin.
“We keep a kettle boiling for customers,” Ahmed explained. “I serve them mint tea… . It is a way of enticing them to stay, to take time, and then the beauty of the goods …” He shrugged. “They sell themselves.”
As though to underline his point, there was a commotion downstairs; Haya recognized the guttural accents of German, stabbing at English.
“Would you like to watch?”
She nodded.
Ahmed bent down and kissed her on the cheek. It was a modest gesture, but he allowed the tip of his tongue to graze her cheek; he licked her, just a little, where the others couldn’t see.
Desire rushed through her, electric, insistent. Haya struggled not to gasp; she forced a smile, and withdrew to the side of the room. She wanted to watch her husband in action; and she couldn’t let anybody else know she was turned on….
There was a cushioned bench toward the back. Haya took away her tray, and busied herself pouring out the mint tea.
“Welcome. Come in.” Ahmed was smiling at his customers, but it was a smile without warmth. “Would you care for some tea?”
“Thank you,” said the wife. She was rather fat and kept her sunglasses on, even in the darkened room. Haya instantly disliked her.
Ahmed signaled to another employee; more cakes and tea were brought.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“We’re not going to pay over the value,” the husband said, rudely.
“Of course not.” He glanced back at Haya and winked at her, quickly.“You will find we offer excellent value.What size of carpet or rug are you looking for … ?”
“Something medium. That one.” The husband jabbed at a large red Persian silk carpet. “Or something like that,” he added, pointing to a completely different Afghan kilim in bright blues and yellows.
“Ah, yes,” Ahmed said, with a sigh. “Two of the finest pieces in my collection. But you knew that, of course. Are you a dealer? We do special prices to the trade.”
“Nein … no …” The little man puffed out his cheeks, and his wife smirked. “But I know quality when I see it.”
“Those rugs are very expensive. Can I show you something a little more moderate?” Ahmed nodded, and two workers swiftly ran forward and unfolded a large, extraordinarily fine Persian rug in creams and blues. Haya’s eyes widened; she was no expert, but she saw it was antique, and worth many thousands … maybe ten thousand. Or possibly more. She’d seen one in a Fifth Avenue gallery just like it.
“No, thank you.” The clipped tones were full of disdain. “Don’t try to fob me off with that cheap stuff. It’s clearly inferior. How much for that one there—the yellow one?”
Ahmed shook his head, sadly. “That one is over eight thousand Marks.”
“Two thousand,” he barked. “Not a pfennig more.”
Haya grinned, and ate a pastry. Fat fool! Her husband was going to fleece this idiot. And he’d been so rude and aggressive … he deserved it.
She hated that sense of moral superiority they came in here with. As though they were instantly going to be cheated. Well, their insults had created that fact. And she was glad.
If she had watched Ahmed bow, and scrape, and allow himself to be talked down to … it would have changed them, her and him, forever. How could she feel as owned, as possessed by him as she did … surrender herself to him … if he had been weak with other people?
Instead, he was expertly slicing these obnoxious tourists up. Not boorishly, but deftly. And it was not theft … they were paying only what they wanted to.
She listened carefully. He did not lie, or tell them the kilim was a work of art. Instead he praised its general qualities. And why not? It was a perfectly workmanlike rug.
But it was nothing like what they were paying for.
What fools, she thought. Demeaning another people, a great people, just because they saw them as poorer. It was an instructive lesson in manners.
As they went through the motions, paying with a credit card, filling out customs forms, Haya drank her tea, and drank in her surroundings. Beautiful carpets … impressive. And that Ahmed had a good business, she could see. Large offices, a staff, a comfortable house, prosperity, and servants.
But she thought about herself. Now she was his wife … they were a team; they could be more.
She was here, and married, very happily. Against the odds. She had never thought it could happen. Her parents’ choice … far more importantly, her own.
But she had tasted fun and independence in America, as well as romance in Egypt.Why give that up? Why put all those dollars spent on her education to waste?
Haya didn’t see why Ahmed should stay here, comfortable, prosperous, a man trading well within his limits. She admired him. And even if Haya was Ahmed’s, in his arms, outside them, she was her own woman. His wife. Couldn’t he be more?
Better, couldn’t they be more?
The fat Germans left, talking loudly in their own language; Haya didn’t know the words, but she recognized the tone … the same sneering contempt they had walked in with. Probably laughing at how they had ripped off the poor little carpet merchant….
She was surprised to find a sudden surge of anger, almost violent loathing, ripping through her. She wanted to kill them. No … she wanted to show them.
“So what did you think?”
Ahmed, slipping back into Arabic, came over to his wife, grinning. “Happy customers, no? And so generous. Five thousand, in the end, for that 500-mark kilim.”
“You are a wonderful businessman.” She leaned across, put her lips up to his, and kissed him. “And your carpets are magnificent.”
“Thank you, darling.”
Haya ran her hand possessively over his sleeve.
“Do you think I could be involved?”
“Involved?”
“Help you.With the business. I have better English … I know America. My father could get some contacts. Maybe you could export.”
Ahmed, surprised, smiled back at her.
“That would be good. I’d like you to take an interest.” He slid his hands up and down her waist, resting his fingertips on the underside of her breasts, stroking lightly.
Haya shuddered with pleasure, but pulled away, glancing downstairs in case one of the workers came up.
“That way you could be with me all day.” He released her breasts, but laid a hand casually against the flat of her stomach, letting her know he could feel the warm blood pooling there, hot under the skin, her belly tense with desire. Ahmed bent down and placed his mouth against her ear, and Haya pressed herself against his hand, her knees buckling.
“Please,” she murmured, “take me home… .”
“I should make you wait,” he whispered.
“Please, Ahmed …”
He straightened, and called to his staff that they were going home for lunch.
“Working together. An excellent plan.” He grinned.
He left her at three, bemoaning his lack of self-control. But Ahmed was so slow, so patient, a master at heating her and reheating her. He could awake desire when Haya thought she was drained. The Lord only knew when, exactly, they would do business …
Haya was excited at the prospect. The last of her doubts had lifted with it. Now she would go to America, too, see her family and her old friends. A wave of guilt ran through her at her immolation here, lost in Ahmed to the exclusion of all else. But since he was the first, the only man in her life, the other girls would understand, wouldn’t they? It had only been a few months. Extended honeymoon, if you like.
Haya dialed Jane’s number, squaring her shoulders, preparing to get a blast for being out of touch for so long. She knew she deserved it!
“The number you have called is not in service,” said a tinny American voice. “Please check the number and dial again.”
She did. Same message. Damn it, Haya thought. Jane had changed her phone number? Was it the holidays—had it transferred back to the embassy in Washington?
Never mind, Sally would know. She rang Green Gables. This time the phone did ring.
“Waterford residence. May I help you?”
“I’m sorry; I must have the wrong number. I was looking for the Lassiter residence.”
There was a pause.
“They don’t have this number any longer, ma’am.”
Haya blinked. “Okay—sorry—”
But the caller had hung up.
She felt bad. Just a few months and both her friends had changed numbers? It was Haya’s own fault for not staying in touch … okay, first she’d been embarrassed, but once she’d fallen in love with Ahmed, decided to stay married …
Haya thought for a moment, then dialed the British Embassy in Washington.
“I’m looking for Jane Morgan … daughter of Ambassador Thomas Morgan … I’m a friend of hers.”
“We have no information on her whereabouts.”
Haya tried again.This was fruitless.
“Look—I went to school with her at Miss Milton’s in Los Angeles. I’ve been out of touch … I got married. I’m in Egypt. She’s not at her house they rent in Malibu. I called our friend Sally Lassiter… .”
“Just a second please.”
Haya waited. There was a click, and another voice came on the line; cool, modulated English tones.
“This is Emmeline Berkley. I was Ambassador Morgan’s private secretary. Can I help you?”
Haya explained.
“Yes … I remember Miss Morgan mentioning you. And you left the country …”
“Three months ago.”
There was a sigh.
“I regret to have to tell you,” Ms. Berkley said, not unkindly, “that Ambassador Morgan committed suicide. Miss Morgan had herself legally emancipated as an adult, and after that the embassy lost track
of her, since at that point we had no responsibility for her. I believe she is somewhere in Los Angeles still, but I have no contact information. I’m sorry.”
“Oh. I see. Poor Jane,” Haya gasped. Now she really did feel low. “I have to find her … I’ll contact Sally …”
“Sally Lassiter? That was Miss Morgan’s close friend?”
“Yes,” Haya said anxiously, not liking her tone.
“Then you might not have heard … Mr. Lassiter’s oil company collapsed, and I’m afraid he had a heart attack.The government confiscated the assets; it was rather a big scandal.”
Haya’s knuckles tightened around the phone. Sally had been close to her father, very close.
“And where are Mrs. Lassiter and Sally?”
“The press reports said they went to Texas.” There was a touch of real sympathy in the firm tones now. “I’m sorry, that’s all I know.”
“Thanks for your help,” Haya said, hanging up.
Well—there was nothing she could do now. Nothing she could do from Egypt, anyway. Haya was wracked with guilt. Both her friends had lost a parent … not that Jane’s had been much use. And Sally, glorious confident Sally, how on earth would she cope? Life without money … Haya couldn’t imagine it. Sally had her own personal limo and chauffeur, did she even know how to drive?
She gave herself a little shake. No point in beating herself up, she had to get on with it now, travel back to the States and find them. She could set up some contacts for Ahmed while she was about it. Haya was convinced of her husband’s eye, his drive and talent. He needed to swim in a bigger pond. And she needed to find her friends.
Haya took it slowly at first. A week or two meeting the staff, getting to know Ahmed’s stock, his prices, how he found his carpets. Brushing up on her written Arabic, learning how he kept his books: the old-fashioned way, in leather-bound volumes. Her husband was a visionary, and in love with the beauty of the things he sold. Haya’s first move was to buy a computer, enter all his data onto spreadsheets, and start filing on his customer base. Ahmed didn’t like it much, but she ignored him, and kept plugging away. And within a few days he was staring, amazed, at the simple, easy system she had set up, and then trying to use it himself.
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