This is a new area that has developed within the past year. Everything west of Amman is new development and very expensive as Jordan’s expansion continues to thrive. “So who’s party is this?”
“A friend to Sheikh Tariq bin Qasim,” he says, somewhat distracted as we are permitted by the guards through the gate. “He is the son of...”
I finish his sentence, “The son of Sheikh Qasim bin Khaddam of Syria.”
It’s rumored Qasim fled his country to London while his son Tariq stayed behind to hold down their palace in Syria, defending their territory from the civil unrest, revolutionaries seeking takeovers. Other rumors have spread as well. Rumors that the Khaddam family has been involved in funding the revolutionaries involved in the war within the Syrian borders. I’m curious why he is here in Jordan if the rumors say he is defending their territory.
“So Tariq is here,” I state flatly, not thrilled about his presence.
His glare is cutting as we drive on beyond the gates. “Look, while you cater to the impoverished refugees of Syria, I attend to the influential ones when they need our help. You haven’t had to experience unrest in your cozy penthouse in the States.”
His dig is meant to shut me up, but it has the opposite effect. “You know the rumors, right?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah, fucking rumors from the media, just like the rumors this bullshit war is contained in Syria. It has a long reach and it is spreading, Raj. Poor or rich, royal or peasant, it is all around us. And to be clear, I sought out Tariq, invited him to come to us whenever he needs to, not the other way around.”
He lights up a cigarette hastily and I grab for the steering wheel. He brushes my hand away, already having lit up. “I got it. Look, Samir Fadel is a good friend. This is his house and Tariq is his guest.”
“How long is he staying?”
Zaid pulls up behind a red Ferrari. “As long as he wants.”
I think of how our father reacted to this, if he even knows. “Does the King know?”
He cuts the engine. “Is it law to inform our King of Syrian houseguests? If that’s the case we should report every illegal refugee at your fucking center.” He laughs maniacally.
He opens the car doors and we get out into the chilled desert night air. His voice is calmer, more controlled when he speaks. “Rajaa, The King is aware of what he needs to know, so is the Prime Minister and Cabinet.” He comes around the car to me and places his hand on my shoulder. “We can’t expect him to make decisions like he once did. Some days he does not think straight and while he says he is strong in mind, it’s weakening ... I see it. I made the call on this when Sami offered his home. I have met with Tariq many times and he is someone we can trust.”
“Who knows he is here?” I can’t help questioning him for fear of the unknown with Tariq.
“Only the people close to me.”
Zaid walks away toward the staircase leading to the estate entrance, leaving me standing there with a swarm of questions.
Zaid looks back at me. “Are you coming?”
“Yeah.”
I follow behind him just as our guards pull up in the SUV, watching us ascend the steps. As I catch up to Zaid, he speaks quietly, “It is easy to tell someone else what to do and when to do things when you are not walking knee deep in this fucking shit crisis on our side of the world. That is why I wanted you to come tonight. So you will learn how things are done, not in some political arena where everyone pretends crisis can be worked out on pen and paper, some fucking resolution. Words that have no meaning here. This is how things get done, Raj and the sooner you learn this the better.”
He stops at the top of the steps. “You said it yourself not too long ago. Sometimes risks need to be taken to gain the security we desire for our country.”
He smiles, the desire to set me straight by using my own words achieved. “Come, let’s not keep our host waiting.”
Security opens the doors to Sami’s grandiose estate. Modern, and very American, music resonates beyond the foyer where only a couple of people are mingling. My brother knows the man, as he walks over to him, kissing him on either cheek. “Sami!” my brother announces him jovially as he pulls away gesturing to me by his side. “My brother.”
“Prince Rajaa!” Sami announces my name as if he knows me. “So nice for you to come. Your brother talks about you endlessly.” He pulls me in and I reciprocate, kissing him on each cheek. “The semester at Georgetown has come to an end?” Sami asks.
“Yes, I will be here for the summer, then finish my final semester in the fall.”
Zaid moves back around to the man, gesturing for me to give the woman the customary kiss. “This is the beautiful Rima!” Zaid says, stepping toward her and exchanging a peck on either cheek. I watch Sami’s reaction, thinking Zaid kissing her cheeks is bold in our culture, but he doesn’t react.
She laughs delicately. “Thank you, Prince Zaid. That is very kind of you,” she says somewhat flirtatiously. She leans over to me and I hesitantly kiss her cheeks as Sami continues to make conversation with me. “So when you finish, you will return home to Jordan.”
My head is swimming from the strong perfume Rima is wearing. Before I can respond, Zaid answers, “Yes, that is his plan.”
It is my plan, but I don’t like to be answered for. “Yes, I will return.”
“Good, good,” Sami says as he holds Rima close to his side now.
“Tariq?” my brother inquires about his whereabouts.
Sami signals behind him and grins. “In the courtyard ... entertaining, of course.”
Zaid’s smile matches his tooth for tooth as he moves past the couple.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, left to close the conversation.
They both smile at me as I follow my brother into the heart of the estate.
The adornments of Sami’s family have been overrun with Tariq’s display of mosaics, alabasters, and busts of his Syrian royal lineage. I try to give credit to Tariq for finding pride in his family’s bloodline, while intruding on Sami’s home like he has, but this isn’t a typical fucking house guest.
“Looks like he has moved in?” I comment.
Zaid’s eyes, filled with caution, flit back at me, then keep moving ahead.
Massive floor-length windows and doors are entries from the courtyard into the dining hall and living spaces of the house. Sheer window trappings sway in the trivial breeze, filtering through them the sounds of laughter, mingling bodies, and small talk among the guests.
Walking onto the portico is like walking into another domain. The sound of splashing and laughter draws my attention to the pool on the far side of the courtyard. Dressed in slacks and a collared shirt, I suffice that my brother and I didn’t come prepared for a swim.
“I see him,” Zaid announces.
As we walk toward the source of the music and the largest cluster of women, I see a man much shorter than Zaid and I emerge. “Z!”
“T,” my brother announces with open arms.
Tariq holds his tumbler of milky liquid aside as he dances to my brother. It is hard to not notice the bright-red speedo donning the Jordanian flag. Having seen more than I want, I divert my eyes to the mass of women ogling both Zaid and me. The stares and whispers among men and women come with the territory of being royalty, but it’s concerning as to what is being said about us, especially in the company of Tariq, a man wearing our country’s flag on his ballsack.
Some of the women are dressed eloquently in sequined and embroidered jalabiya dresses, while others are wearing see-through wraps to appear modest in their scant bikinis and thongs. A few men and women are in the pool, splashing and swimming.
“Rajaa!” Tariq is standing next to my brother, smiling with his arms open to me. Reluctantly, I walk over to Tariq and move in to give him the traditional greeting of a kiss on both cheeks when he takes hold of my face, guiding the greeting, then pulling me into a hug. “As-salaam ‘alaykum!”
“Wa ‘alaykum Salaam,” I manage to get out through
the forcible pats on my back he is giving. He holds me at arm’s length, seeming to look me over. The smell of hard liquor on his breath is overwhelming.
“Ah, Zaid, he is just as you described. Young, but he has the eye of a man that will make a great advisor to the King of Jordan someday, yes?”
He points at me with the hand holding the drink and nearly spills its contents onto me. “You need a drink, Rajaa. Come with me.”
As he turns to walk away, he calls on his entourage, “Come, ladies. Taalo!”
Smiling and dancing to the rhythm of the music, a few of the women fall into step on either side of him. My brother drapes his arm over my shoulder and pulls me closer. “He’s a good guy, Raj. You will see.”
As Zaid and I follow behind Tariq, I notice him place a free hand on the ass of one of the girls, squeezing and making her squeal. It sends the other girls around him into a frenzy of laughter. Zaid notices, laughs savagely, and nudges me for approval.
“Come on, Raj. This is a place we can enjoy our royal indiscretions. T?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tariq says, pausing to look back at Zaid. He seems nervous and hyper, like he is on something.
“Is Daya here?”
Ah shit.
Tariq looks around the courtyard aimlessly in an attempt to find her. He speaks quickly to his security detail walking along with his crew.
“Zaid, just leave it alone,” I say under my breath to him.
“What? If she is here you should say hello. It would be rude for you not to,” Zaid says as he searches for her as well.
Tariq pats his guard on the back, then calls back to us. “No, Daya left a while ago.”
I breathe a sigh of relief for Daya’s absence. One less encounter to have. Noticing my relief, Zaid comments, “There, she isn’t here. Now you can let go relax a little. Remember two summers ago, those girls I surprised you with? They were perfect; tight asses, tight tits, tight everything, yeah?”
I don’t know why the fuck he is bringing this up now, but it isn’t the time or place.
He continues to speak though. “The one you had, she was not cheap. I made sure you received the best for your first time.”
I continue to ignore him as we walk on, only to remember the situation vividly. Zaid surprised my cousin Anwar and me with three beautiful women delivered to Anwar’s private residence for my first time two summers ago. While sexual encounters outside of marriage are an obscenity, a disgrace in the eyes of Allah, both my cousin and brother coached me on how the mores and cultural rules bend for royalty. I had the safety net and guidance of my brother and cousin; my first time turned into multiple times that summer.
While my indiscretions were free in Jordan, I kept my desire at bay back in the States. I didn’t care that Zaid had paid the women to have sex with us then. I was fucking naive, just looking for sex, invincibility even. My sophomore year, invincibility became fragile and conquerable when my father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. Eternity wasn’t an option and the way I lived meant more to me. I fucked a couple of women at the beginning of that summer, but it had lost its luster, unlike my brother and Anwar, continuing to screw like rabbits.
Anwar got married the fall of my junior year, so my brother was left to his own sexual deviance with me out. I always made an excuse and he always had a reason to party. Fuck, looking back at it now, he was starting to change then and I hadn’t realized it. He was less reserved about his escapades with women, so much that the media caught him in rather compromising situations, his pants literally around his ankles as he fucked a waitress in the back alley of a club.
The more I observe the atmosphere of this party, the women, the alcohol, the music, the seclusion in Sami’s magnificent mansion outside of Amman, hidden from tradition, the more I’m led to believe this party isn’t as dignified as Zaid made it out to be.
One of Sami’s servers comes up to my brother and me with two glasses filled with a milky liquid. “Ah, Arak! Shukran!” Zaid takes one of the glasses, handing the other to me.
I take the drink and raise it to my nose, taking in its aroma. Arak is unlike the average American gin, whisky, or scotch.
With Zaid watching me as he takes a hefty gulp of the absinthe-like drink, I man up and match his sampling. The cooling effect of the ice is smooth and the taste of anise settles onto my tongue before I swallow the spiced fire of the drink.
He raises his eyebrows as he pulls the drink away from his mouth, licking his lips as if the drink has quenched a thirst he has had for far too long. “Arak!” he bellows.
Tariq continues to march on ahead of us with his harem of women, calling back to Zaid, “Arak!”
My brother takes another long draw of the creaming alcohol and I do as well, the fiery burn now doused with the numbness it provides with potency.
“Too strong for you, Raj?” Tariq prods.
Pretending to ignore his comment and accepting his challenge, I drain the rest of the Arak in my glass, making my brother cheer again, “Arak!”
The waitstaff is waiting at my side to take my empty glass and hand me a freshly prepared iced glass of Arak. I take it from the server and drink half of it as I walk on, following Tariq and his women disappear beyond the glowing candescence of white curtains. Once on the other side, the mood of the parlor-like lounge is clear, erotic. Men and women exercising their sexual escapades occupy the deep burgundy chaise lounges, the darkened plush sofas, and the enormous ottomans spread around the room, fucking, riding, and writhing in ecstasy. I can’t help staring at the show going on around me. Zaid continues past me only to pull me along with him.
We descend a stairwell to a lower floor. Once at the bottom, Tariq kisses each of the women by his side before they retreat back up the stairwell. Tariq sits on a lavish oversized chair. “This is the wing Sami and his beautiful wife have given me when I come to visit. Here, let’s talk ... eh chit chat as they say, right, Raj?” He gestures to the two chairs across from him. He drinks down the rest of Arak, then sets it to the side of him.
Tariq smiles widely as he looks at Zaid, then me. “I need to thank you, Rajaa. When my father fled our palace in Al Raqqah, he told me to go with him, seek asylum in Europe. A palace in London was waiting for us to run away to, but I refused to leave.” He shakes his head and waves his hand aimlessly. “I do not run.”
He covers his mouth as he belches, then continues to speak. “He is old and I understand his reasons. He has done what he can for his territory, he does not have the strength to do any more. We have similar situation, right, Zaid?”
Zaid nods and raises his glass to Tariq before gulping another hefty portion of his Arak.
Tariq looks back at me as he explains, “He feared death by the hands of those fucking bastards. Fucking President Faraj.”
President Faraj Al-Dawood, the notorious president who has built a regime of torture and devastation to the Syrian people for over two decades. Tariq’s disgust is evidence of his feelings toward the regime and maybe the reason for him seeking partial refuge here in Jordan. Either way, it is fucking bullshit Zaid is keeping him a secret.
Tariq shakes his head, “While Faraj has many enemies, my father’s vitality was his; he was afraid of losing his life because of the revolution. But I, I wouldn’t leave our land without a fight. If I ran, I would be showing weakness,” he continues, glancing from Zaid to me. “Running away from the Middle East, our history, the birthplace of my royal bloodline thousands of years before me ... How can you run from that?”
He shakes his head, seemingly affected by recalling the history his statement entails. “I met Zaid shortly after my father left. Sami introduced us. From that day, your brother promised my safety and I promised to aid in the rise of both of our countries.”
He settles back into his chair. “You have done right by me and I plan to assist your family any way I can, Rajaa.”
Tariq downs the rest of his Arak, licking his lips for any remains.
I speak freely, the Arak giving me lo
ose lips. “Assist our family. How exactly?”
Tariq looks to Zaid, then leans forward in his chair. “Your brother and I, my people, we have it under control.”
His avoiding my question strikes a nerve. And who the fuck are his people? He scratches the back of his neck, then stares at me with his own curiosity. “Your brother tells me you are promoting a center for refugees from my home.”
I nod, but clarify where he is mistaken. “It is a program to support and aid the refugees that would otherwise would be living on the streets with no food, no shelter. I wouldn’t call it a promotion. It is a necessity.”
Tariq looks at me queerly. “Ah, a necessity, yes, I am aware of necessities during war and crisis.”
I’m not sure of the purpose of his comment, but he continues, “I suppose you could say that what I am doing is like your little center.”
His confidence that he is like me is provoking, and his diminishing the center fucking pisses me off. “Really, how is that?”
“Your brother says you are acting as a silent benefactor. I am also a kind of silent benefactor.”
“For what?”
He sits back and takes me in, studying me. “Well, then I wouldn’t be so silent if I disclosed that, would I!” He laughs maniacally and looks at Zaid, exchanging a nod and smile. Tariq settles back in his chair and settles his laughter. “It wouldn’t be wise of me. Ah, look at him, Z! So young and eager, like a baby learning all of these things for the first time.” The glimmer of excitement in his eyes is menacing and his condescendence is unnerving.
“Well, I’m sure I can handle it.”
He leans forward immediately, his excitement no longer present as he narrows his eyes on me. “That remains to be seen, Rajaa. For now, I can tell you the new Middle East will start with Syria and Jordan under your future king and,” he tilts his head from side to side, “whomever will be in control of Syria.”
He breathes in deeply and sits back as he shifts his gaze between Zaid and me. “As the storm comes, we will be ready.”
He suddenly glances at the stairwell behind us. A guard has descended and come into view. Tariq snaps his fingers. “Nursil lahum fi. Send them, oh, and drinks. We need more Arak!”
Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1) Page 11