I choose to speak over Zaid. “Baba, if you had been there and seen how this program is helping heal this people, bringing the refugees together with the volunteers from Caritas, the teachers from WorldTeach with the children.” I shake my head, not wanting to deny my duty as the son of the King. “While Zaid’s duty is to be your right hand, I feel it is mine to not leave this project as untouched as I had originally planned. Not with the recent attacks near us threatening their safety. It is our responsibility to protect them while they are in our country.”
“It is not my duty, Rajaa,” Zaid says smugly, reinforcing his position. “Baba, this is what I was talking about, his complete delusion and loss of touch with our ways here. The West has influenced him too much.”
My father mumbles in Arabic, then quickly shifts to English. “I suspected this would happen,” he says, looking at me. My brother is thriving on my father’s agreement when he says, “Your principles for human rights are too strong to relinquish your involvement.”
Carefully, he rises from his chair and walks to the window, his hand seeking the support of the cane he is using today. His right hand wobbles as it pushes down on the top of the cane. He stops at the window and looks out onto the courtyard below before speaking again. “Your mother is the same. Now, her life has been threatened; she has had to back away.”
Zaid speaks to my father like I am not even in the room. “We can’t afford to have him making poor decisions, Baba. This whole thing is bad ... kul eshee! Just as it was for the Queen.”
“Everything is not bad.” I bring his awareness back to my being in the room. “To someone who has no sense of humanity it may seem bad!”
“Raj, you are wanting to mingle among refugees, a prince among the poor, the outsiders from another land. They have no loyalty to us!”
While my brother’s argument is valid, it is only to an extent. “Loyalty is earned. Tell me, would it be more likely they give loyalty to the country that has flushed them out or the one that has given them safe haven?”
The argument between us becomes a rally back and forth, Zaid next to volley. “Do you know them, Raj? No! This program will not change them or anything about this crisis!”
“We will not know until we try.”
“We have to secure it, feed it, house it, give it medical care, schooling. This program is a dream, brother, one soon to become our most painful nightmare if we aren’t fucking careful!”
I shake my head. “You are wrong, Zaid. I can see this program succeeding, transforming the people and the crisis!”
Zaid flutters his hand as if to brush off my defense. “You are wasting your energy and your mind on this small, insignificant stepping stone when you could be using the skills you have received at that big American university to influence policies, change sanctions, and give us the upper hand to fight back against the revolution pushing the crisis here! Rajaa, I don’t think you have the wisdom to speak on this matter. While you have been off at college, I have been in the depths of what you are reading about over a cup of coffee with friends.”
“That is enough, Zaid!” My father’s raspy voice attempts a yell, but falters.
“Ana asif, Baba,” my brother quickly offers his apology.
“I’m tired of this chatter. It is pointless, especially among brothers who should be bound together no matter their differences.”
Zaid squirms in his chair, and angles to my father as he clears his throat. “Father, I didn’t mean...”
My father interrupts again with rising anger, his quivering voice exposing his decreased health. “Chatter is for women! Are you a woman, Zaid? I would hope not, as I would never make a princess a king!”
I can see the anger from the verbal slap my father has given brewing in Zaid’s downcast eyes. “No, father, I am not. My apologies. Ana asif.”
Looking between both my father and brother, I can see the resemblance they share; the thick jaw snapped shut because of anger, the long nose flaring from displeasure.
My father puts his cane first as walks back to his chair. “Going to the people, being at their side, it is something your mother and I have always tried to instill in you both and Tamanna.”
He watches Zaid as he sits. “While strength can come from a powerful leader in war.”
Shifting his eyes to me, he adds, “It can come from a vision of peace and act of humanity just as swiftly. The combination of both is necessary.”
My father’s eyes move from mine to Zaid as he says, “A king must have both; if he doesn’t the land will eat itself alive.”
The silence between the three of us is broken by the heeled footsteps of my mother and little sister, Tamanna.
“I didn’t know you had returned,” my mother says as she walks to my father and places her hand on his back. My father’s temperament shifts as soon as he looks upon her. My mother is beautiful, and while her beauty should make any man’s temperament calm, I know he has calmed only to disguise the conversation we were having.
Zaid pushes his chair away from my father’s desk and rises, quickly turning to leave.
I notice my mother’s eyes follow him, then she looks at my father, concerned. “Is everything all right?”
My father pats her on the hand. “Everything is fine, zahrat baladi. Everything is fine, my flower.”
Even with his soothing words and my explanation of it just being the difference in the way we see things, my father brings up his concern for Zaid’s changing ways again.
“He doesn’t see things as we do. I have spent years trying to break down the walls he keeps building around himself! Lately, I have watched Zaid change. He is always gone, says he is in meetings, talks with influential people that can help with this civil unrest, but I know nothing more. He tells me nothing of these people!”
“He says he helps you, has been by your side as an advisor,” I comment.
My father nods. “Yes, he has been by my side and has done all I ask of him, but when he isn’t…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know if he is doing things in the best interest of our country or for himself.”
This doesn’t sound like Zaid. My brother has always been wise, focused on the best for our country, never putting any of us or our people at risk. I give my brother the benefit of the doubt. “He loves our country, would do anything for it, Baba. Maybe he is trying to eliminate stress for you.”
His brow furrows, lost in my logic. “Why?”
He is already angry from my highlighting his weakened health and I wish I could take it back now, but it is too late. “Because of your health.”
He pounds his fist against the table. “My health is fine! It hasn’t affected my mind, Rajaa! What is affecting it is how Zaid is undermining my rule.” He leans over the desk toward me, his eyes reflecting both fear and worry as he lowers his voice. “Undermining the Prime Minister, the Cabinet by going behind our backs!”
My father looks at my mother, then back at me as he grabs his chest. “I have this feeling inside he is involved in something that could destroy all of us.”
Growing up, Zaid and I worked hard to be the most competitive, most accomplished, and most daring in the family; racing motor bikes in the Wadi Rum sand dunes, rock climbing, playing football, known as soccer in America. Weight room challenges of who could bench press the most became a daily competition in the recent summers. Athleticism has always been a strength for both of us and so has achieving what we set out to do. Since being home this summer, I can see Zaid’s extreme focus on the security of Jordan.
My mother rests her hand at my father’s shoulder. “While I am only half a mother to Zaid, I have loved him as my own and tried to talk with him, but he has rejected me. He only sees one half of what it takes to being a strong king. Your father is a strong leader, a faithful follower of Islam, and a man of hope, dignity, and honor. That is what your brother should be trying to accomplish. His late nights ... sometimes not returning for two and three days. His eyes bloodshot and his temper shifting
from moment to moment. I fear he is dealing in things over his head. Over our heads. It frightens me. I swear I have tried to be good for him.” The pain in her eyes is saddening. I know she has tried with Zaid and been faced with rejection of not being his mother, the woman he idolized and loved so much.
My father looks up at her, puts his hand on top of the one she has left on his shoulder. “Layaali, you have been as much of a mother to him as you have to Raj and Tamanna. Do not blame yourself, little flower.”
The exerted energy this conversation is taking on my father is apparent as he inhales deeply, leaning back into his chair. “Rajaa, while he won’t turn to us, he will turn to you.”
My brother, turn to me? “I’m not sure that will happen.”
“Your brother will turn to you, Rajaa,” my mother adds. “He speaks highly of you all the time, has talked about your return for months. He has even discussed the vital role you both will have in the future of Jordan. He wants you by his side.”
My father speaks up, “She is right, Rajaa. He has talked to me about your involvement after graduating. Even if you don’t believe it, he is so happy you are home.”
I lean forward, my elbows on my knees as I observe both of them. “He isn’t too happy about what I am doing at the center.”
My father assures me, “What you are doing, the difference you are hoping to make for the refugees and the people of central Amman is good, Rajaa. I know your brother feels otherwise, but he doesn’t see the possibilities. I am counting on you being the one to show him.” He suddenly lowers his eyes to his desk. “Time is not on my side, as you can see.”
The King’s orders are for his private staff of doctors to not discuss his health publicly under any circumstance. Parkinson’s disease has begun its consumption of my father’s body over the span of two years. Each time I see him, I find a new tremor or tick he has developed and it seems like every time he gets a cold or virus, he adds a new symptom. The latest being the nagging cough from the cold he caught in December. While it isn’t a direct symptom, it is still one I associate with his weakened immune system from Parkinson’s. With my father’s age, sixty-seven, the symptoms of the disease and other illnesses he may contract are heightened and even worsening quicker due to the final stretch of mortality.
My mother chides him in Arabic and he reprimands her for it, telling her that even though he is keeping his illness hidden, it must be discussed among our family. “Don’t you think I despise not taking long walks with my wife? Standing by my family’s side in front of our people when Rajaa arrived?”
He has become very private due to his visible symptoms, not wanting to show weakness in front of the people. We have told him it isn’t a weakness, but it only angered him, as he demanded he wouldn’t have his people feel they were being led by a weak man just because his body was wearing. “My body may be weak, but my mind is strong! Something you all keep forgetting!”
“We haven’t forgotten, Baba. We know your mind is strong,” I say to him as he shakes his head.
Since being home, it is apparent Zaid, my mother, and sister have had to endure observing his bad days while celebrating his good days. While I’m here, being a support is the least I can do for him.
His head begins to shake, a tremor taking hold, as he brushes my other hand from his shoulder and looks at me wearily. “Rajaa, he is to be king. I do not want to spend my last days fearing for his reign. Please keep your eyes open for me.”
My father’s plea holds the weight of a king’s dying wish. I can’t deny my father. “I will, Baba. I will.”
My search for Zaid after leaving my father’s office isn’t long. He is on the phone in the courtyard. He sees me, says a few remaining words, then hangs up. “These phone calls don’t stop. You would be surprised how many I field in a day for our father.” He shakes his head and smiles as he tucks his cell phone into his pocket.
I had noticed the number of phone calls. The times I have come into the office, interrupting him mid-call, having him quickly find reason to get off so I won’t hear the conversation.
“Well, it is good our father has you to take them.”
Zaid looks at me with a hint of surprise and curiosity. “You think so?”
“Does my saying that surprise you?”
Zaid starts to walk along the pool, as I fall into step with him. “I don’t know I am what they expect,” he says, laughing a little, then quickly changes his tone. “As you have seen, our father’s health rises and falls from day to day. I have tried to relieve as much of the stress as I can.”
I nod. “I have noticed.”
“Raj, I may not lead like him, but I do everything he says, handle all the affairs as he commands. I am working to make Jordan a better place.” Zaid’s declaration is sincere, but to what degree of sincerity, I’m not sure. He places his hand on my shoulder as we casually walk. “I have a dream of you and I working together to make Jordan rise above this crisis. Help the entire Middle East transform.”
He pulls me closer to him. “Ah, I’ve missed you, brother. We have not been out since you have come home.”
My brother and I have always celebrated my returns to Jordan. In the past there have been parties held at one of the palaces or a small intimate gathering at my cousin Anwar’s, or even at one of the clubs here in Amman. It always seemed to get the media going, but I was hoping to keep this return subdued with my involvement in the center and my father’s desire to remain reclusive.
“There is a party tonight,” he says, smiling from ear to ear as he puts his Versace sunglasses on.
Knowing my brother’s social needs and desires, it doesn’t surprise me. “Ah, of course there is a party. With you, there always is,” I say jokingly as I recall the party at the penthouse before leaving D.C. I heard him fucking that woman from the hallway all night long.
He plays along, laughing loudly. “What? There is a time to work and a time to play!”
“How big is this party?” I ask, hoping it isn’t a large, indiscrete party at a nightclub.
He rolls his eyes. “Answering your question isn’t important. You are going to say no.”
“I may surprise you.” It had been a stressful day and relaxing over a couple of drinks sounds good actually.
He looks over at me and grins. “It is very private, the host has made arrangements. There will be a certain princess there.”
Ah fuck.
Zaid continues, “One the Queen and King hope you propose to sooner than later.” His singsong, teasing voice annoys the shit out of me. He is talking about Daya, the Amir of Kuwait’s daughter.
“Princess Daya,” he says in a high-pitched voice. Zaid is completely aware of my aversion to the idea of a planned marriage. Even though my parents have transformed many traditions during their reign, one that has stuck with both of them is for me to marry a Muslim woman with royal lineage to ensure the longevity of our Islamic faith and the forming of a political alliance with other Arab countries.
Kuwait is an ally my father has wanted to form stronger ties with for years, something my grandfather wanted, but couldn’t achieve. When Daya was born two years after me, the Amir, Husaam al-Sami al-Akram al-Satar, and my father vowed to have their two children form ties for Kuwait and Jordan through marriage.
I stiffen as I momentarily consider the custom. Feeling my tension under his hand, Zaid laughs. “You know this is inevitable, Raj, and it doesn’t have to be bad. I mean, Daya has become a beautiful woman. Fucking her won’t be so bad.”
He pulls out a cigarette and lights it as I look at him with astonishment. “Really? Fucking her won’t be so bad?”
The lengths he goes to with his crudeness continues to surprise me. “What?” he comments through his teeth clasping the dangling cigarette. “It is true. I would fuck her.”
His narrow mindedness is irritating. “Fucking her isn’t the point! The point is we don’t know each other, and while I know we would get to know each other, it isn’t love.”
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br /> He takes a long drag then pulls out the cigarette and hands it to me. I shake my head and he immediately responds. “When did this happen?”
I had only smoked one summer. “For a while. That shit will kill you, Zaid.”
In the past he has smoked here and there, but since being here his chain smoking has become excessive.
He looks at me like I have just pissed all over his dream or some shit. I laugh at him staring at me through his fucking blinged -out Versace’s. “What?”
He puts the cigarette back in his mouth and looks up into the sky. “I know a lot more shit that can kill you here in the desert and it isn’t fucking cigarettes.” He puts the cigarette back in his mouth, then abruptly stops walking and turns to me. “Hey, so do you want to go to the party or not? Because I’m going. Raj, it is important to be seen together at these parties. There will be influential and powerful people there tonight and this is how connections are made here. Not behind some fucking desk in some office. Seeing you and I together, the two Princes of Jordan, bound by blood and our country is what we need. ALittifaqiya?”
“Naam.” I nod, understanding what he means.
We leave just after dusk. Two of our family’s guards follow us as Zaid drives us farther beyond Balq and As Salt in his white Pagani Huayra, one of the rarest cars in the world. So rare it is no longer available being manufactured. “While you are here, you can drive my Pagani, Raj.”
He had offered his Lamborgini about a hundred times since being home. “No, I’m fine with the guards driving me,” I tell him.
“Suit yourself.” Zaid shifts gears, taking the car faster. Out here in the desert, the roads are pitch black. Rural until you come into a well-occupied area, like the one we are approaching. We turn off the main road, drive along a side road, before turning into a set of gates to a private residence. I’m surprised how well the two guards tailing us have kept up with the speed Zaid has been pulling tonight.
Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1) Page 10