My brother joins in on the call for more alcohol. “More Arak!” They both feed on the other’s laughter as they rise from their seats. I follow in suit and rise as I puzzle over this phantom plan lingering in the air around us. The room spins a little and my feet feel heavy suddenly. Shit, it’s hitting me hard.
I glare at my brother, the future King of Jordan being motivated by Tariq, the man laughing maniacally drunk on Arak, a Syrian Sheikh wanting to show his daddy what a brave motherfucker he is by being the first to return home if this crisis ever ends. I am not sure which of the two poses a greater threat, but I fear a threat is coming either way.
I look down at the half-drank milky drink I’m still holding and down the rest of it. Tariq and Zaid applaud my stout consumption of Arak as I notice three women come into the room holding a fresh glass of Arak each. They are dressed in lingerie, covered only by the sheer mantle they each wear. Nothing is left to the imagination as they parade toward us, silencing both Tariq’s and Zaid’s laughter.
One of the women focuses on me with her deep-set eyes and moves in handing me my fresh drink. “Drink, prince, and let me take care of you,” she says as she guides me back to my chair.
Even though my mind is against her offer of pleasure, my dick says otherwise as it twitches against my trousers. I down the new glass of Arak this mistress has given me like water; the sting of it no longer exists with it flowing in my veins now.
My brother and Tariq both yield to the commanding hands of their consorts as they slowly sit down in the chairs they rose from moments ago. They take the glasses the women have brought them and raise them to each other in a silent toast, one I am not a part of. The mistress stands above me as I sit back in my chair. She slowly lowers the sheer blue mantle, letting it drop to the ground just before she moves in time with the music rising in the room.
The elixir ebbs and flows, making the room hazy and her movements a seductive smooth tease meant to arouse. My cock is pushing against my zipper as she runs her hand against my tensing thighs. As her hands feather upward, she slowly unbuttons my shirt and runs her hands over my bare chest, over my abs, my nipples. Tariq’s seducer has wasted no time on seduction, having straddled his legs and given him full access to her as she starts to ride him.
I look back down at my seducer, just as her hand slips down beneath my belt, reaching and teasing my cock with her touch. She asks me if I’m ready for her in Arabic, but I don’t answer. My head is heavy and my tongue mute from what has to be the Arak, but it has never affected me like this in the past.
Something isn’t right.
I pinch my eyes closed and let my head fall back, hoping that will help. As soon as I do, images begin to flash in my head, like an electric storm. The courtyard at the center, fast-moving children running and hopping, then a shift to an empty space with the blue-veiled woman, her golden hair blowing in the wind. The sky is darkened and she turns to face me. As clear as day, it is her, the same eyes, the same presence as it was far away from here that night. The mixture of her seduction, her veil slipping from her head, down along her fair skin, and the persuasion of Tariq’s mistress’ hand loosening my belt blends too easily, too tempting, too arousing.
Groans from the other participants in the room get my attention as I pull my paramour’s hand away from my throbbing dick. She slithers along my chest with her tongue, her lips brushing against my skin. She works her way up, her almond-shaped eyes targeting mine as her tongue fondles my nipple.
Zaid groans with pleasure as the woman buried between his legs moves in rhythm with the forcefulness of his hand wrapped in her hair. Tariq growls with pleasure as his riding concubine rises and falls above him faster and faster.
“You like your whore, Rajaa?” Zaid’s gasps and groans as he looks over at me.
“Of course he does, Zaid. My whores are the best money can buy. We will have them all night long.” Tariq hisses and slaps his concubine’s ass, making her writhe faster. “Do you feel the difference with it, Zaid? It’s Qaa’ed.”
Captain?
Zaid pulls the woman sucking him off up with him, bends her over the chair like a rag doll, then takes her from behind as he pulls her hair. “Yes, I feel it. Do you fucking feel it, whore?” he asks the woman, who winces as he yanks her hair harder. He peers over at me. “Do you feel it, brother? The Captain and Arak coursing through your veins, mixing, energizing you? It is fucking amazing, isn’t it?” His words are enunciated to match each thrust as his invincible rage to take her harder and harder becomes his only obsession.
What the fuck?
The scene I seem to be watching from above, the game they are playing, the prostitutes, the warped pleasure, the fucking drug Captagon, they fucked me up.
I look back down at the woman beneath me; she has already undone my belt and unzipped my pants, partially setting my throbbing dick free. I’m not sure if it is the shock of being drugged by Tariq and my brother or the disgust of almost surrendering to this sick fucking orgy Tariq and my brother have devised, but either way I gain enough strength to push the mistress off of me before she takes me any further.
The words I push from my mouth come out slurred, almost incoherent. “You fucking drugged me. I can’t do this.”
“What the fuck, Raj?” Zaid’s voice is full of disappointment and anger as I stumble forward, almost falling over the woman beneath me. “Get back here and fuck her!” If not for the pain of my hard-on, I might not have sobered enough to focus on getting the fuck out of here.
Tariq growls from behind me as I find my footing and ascend the stairwell, “Get back here, Rajaa!”
I nearly fall at the top of the landing and somehow make it through the maze of loungers and sofas draped with men and women and sex. Once I’m beyond the white curtains of the indulgent carnal congress, the chilled night air of the desert hits my face, rousing me from the influence. Ignoring the stares and whispers, I move through the courtyard, the interior, the entry, and out the front door.
Our guards are waiting at the SUV that followed us. As they see me approaching, they look at each other questioningly. “Where is Prince Zaid?”
“Busy. I needed to get out of there.” As I shut the car door, I submit to the darkness and close my eyes. Both doors in front shut and one of the guards asks me if they should wait for my brother in Arabic.
I let my head lull to the side and look up at Sami’s estate. “No, let him stay.”
The classrooms are closed on Saturday and Sunday, so walking there this morning to meet Ana and the other volunteers to catch our ride to the Roman amphitheater and a late lunch is off beat. Faces I don’t normally see peer back at me as I walk along the less-busy sidewalks. An elderly woman is sweeping the sidewalk in front of her home. Two boys about Ghalib’s age are sitting on the step watching her, eating what I would guess is breakfast.
Hoda got up early this morning to make me something to eat. I hadn’t expected her to and thanked her. In Hoda’s own way she appreciated it, even though she waved her hand, dismissing me. “Thank you, no! Ana bikhayr!” she whispered sternly. Her saying it’s okay in her native words made me smile as she guided me by my shoulders to the door as I ate my favorite carb overload of Shrak, the best bread ever.
The small tour bus Tom offered us yesterday has already pulled up to the center and the soldier posted at the entrance to the courtyard is visible. As I walk past the bus and soldier and into the courtyard, I see Ana and five of the other volunteers chatting near the front door to the center.
“Hey,” she says casually. “We are just waiting on a couple more volunteers. There is coffee inside the staff work room if you want some.” She holds up her Styrofoam cup for effect.
The food has definitely grown on me, but I can’t get used to the bitterness of the Turkish coffee. “I’m okay.”
“I know,” one of the volunteers comments. “I’m waiting for the Starbuck’s near the Amphitheater.”
“No shit,” Ana’s statement is hushed.
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Tim laughs a little. “Yeah, just a few blocks supposedly.”
David, the volunteer spearheading our outing, comes out from the center and looks beyond us. “Ah, there they are. Let’s get going.”
I turn to see Isabel and Laura, the two volunteers we were waiting on, walk through the gate past the guard.
I have Ana take a picture of me standing in the center of the Amphitheater with the center’s borrowed digital camera. Tim brought it along so we could send the pictures to our family once he uploaded them after we get back.
Here at the site we appear to be average tourists, not volunteers at a refugee center with specific guidelines and code for dress. It gave some lenience and it was really nice to let my veil fall around my neck to be worn as a scarf today. It is strange running my hands through my hair in public.
The green and white logo of Starbuck’s is a sight as we walk from the amphitheater to the coffee shop. All of us opt for a cold coffee instead of hot with the Eastern heat. After trekking back to the bus at the amphitheater, we drive a short distance south to Hashem Restaurant. Tim has been talking Hashem up all day and I can’t wait to taste the stuffed falafel he keeps bragging about. I’m not disappointed; heavenly. Our waiter is so nice and welcoming, and even sends me away with an extra order of falafel before we leave. I try to pay for it, but he refuses to take my money. He keeps saying, “A gift, A gift.”
The entire day is a win, but after lunch I’m really feeling the drain from the dry heat here in Jordan. I am more than grateful when we get back on the air-conditioned bus. On the ride back to the center, I close my eyes and think of how this day was bittersweet.
I had the opportunity, the freedom, and resources to travel and visit centuries-old landmarks here in Amman, while the families living along these deteriorating streets, the families I live among for the next two months, don’t have the luxury of travel or touring. Their perspective is focused on putting food on the table and holding their family and faith close to their hearts. There is no money nor time to spare on site seeing. As for the refugees, there is no money period, many of them not getting paid for their work around the city. I feel the guilt of not knowing the Ahmadi family’s situation again and tell myself I need to ask. I want to know their story.
When I left this morning and Hoda shooed me out of the house, she rushed me along like I was going off to work at the center. Did she realize I was going for leisure, not work?
The sun is setting as I walk back home. My veil is wrapped over my head now that I am back in our neighborhood. A few children are playing on the sidewalk, running back and forth while being watched by a woman from a high window. She smiles gingerly beneath her hijab then turns her attention back at her children, telling them it is time to eat in Arabic. “Waqtul Akil!”
She looks beyond me, her smile buried with suspicion at whatever she sees. I turn around quickly to see what she has, but there is nothing. Looking back up at the window, she has already retreated, the children running through the door of their home, shutting it tightly behind them.
I look back again and see only a handful of passersby making their way toward me now from around the corner, but nothing to cause suspicion.
Once home, I pass the large room the Ahmadi family occupies and notice Jasara and Hoda along with all the children sitting together within it. I am about to ask what’s going on when I hear Ismad arguing with another man upstairs. They are speaking too quickly for me to attempt understanding them.
Hoda takes hold of my arm and pulls me into the room. “Come, come!” she hisses.
The volume of the men above suddenly rises, then tapers off into a long discussion. I sit down next to Ameena and Laila. Ameena smiles over at me timidly, then bows her head back down and continues to write in the journal she received at school. She is writing in Arabic, so I don’t linger too long on its content.
I lean over to her and ask, “What is going on?”
She stops writing and closes the journal with her pencil inside to save her place before speaking. “Laila’s uncle, Jasara’s brother, has made it across the border. He crossed two weeks ago and has been looking for us.”
I can’t imagine how he could have found them. It would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. “How?”
Ameena shrugs, then opens her notebook and begins writing again. Laughter from above draws all of our attention as we all look up at the ceiling. Jasara and Hoda look at each other with smiles on their faces and I trust the fast-talking Arabic the men are exchanging now is good news.
“Hoda, Jasara, atfal tallo! Come! Ella, please come up!” Ismad calls to us. The sound of a smile on his face conveys with the tone of happiness in his voice.
“What is going on now?” I ask Ameena. She closes her notebook, smiling widely and holding Laila’s hand tightly as cries tears of joy.
“He can stay,” she says.
He can stay? I didn’t understand.
“Why wouldn’t he be able to stay?”
“My father. It is not respectful for a man to come into another man’s home without permission. With Jasara, Laila, and Rushdi staying down here, Nazeer has to claim his responsibility for them and ask for permission to stay here. They have been talking up there for hours.”
“He has accepted?”
Ameena smiles widely as we climb the stairs. “Yes.”
Nazeer Ahmadi, Uncle Nazeer, is equal in age to Ismad, Hoda, and Jasara. I instantly see the resemblance that Nazeer and Jasara share as they stand side by side, tears streaming down their faces. The long embraces of Ameena and Rushdi with their uncle and the numerous kisses on the cheeks between the four of them were so overwhelming I couldn’t contain my own tears. The Ahmadis clung to each other while Ismad asked Hoda make dinner in Arabic.
“This is a happy occasion, Ella!” he says, smiling under his heavy beard. I haven’t heard him speak this openly with me before; it’s kind of disarming. Ismad lifts Ghalib up into his arms, as does Nazeer with Rushdi, and they walk into the other room, leaving the women in the kitchen area.
Ameena, Laila, and Jasara jump into action, helping Hoda prepare food. Since being here, Hoda has always shooed everyone out of the kitchen, but tonight it seems like a family affair. I step aside, feeling out of place, when Hoda notices me. “Ella, tati al-musaaeda!”
Tati al-musaeada, tati ... I’m not sure what that means.
I notice Ameena mouthing to me from behind her, “Come help!”
I jump too, realizing she is asking me to help! “Oh, yes, help. Musaaeda. Shukran.”
Hoda smiles at me as she kneads the dough for a fresh batch of Shrak.
Once the men and boys have eaten, the women sit at the table and eat our fill of Shrak, Tabbouleh, Fattoush, and Hummus. I’m nearing my food coma when I remember the stuffed falafel from Hashem’s, the extra order the waiter gave me.
Remembering him saying it was a gift, I tell them, “Oh! I have a gift! Laday hadiyya!”
With a spring in my step, I rise from the table and rummage through my bag at the top of the stairs and return with the white paper back. All the women are looking at me, then at each other curiously, which only builds my excitement to share this with them. I open the bag, remove the Styrofoam container, and open it to reveal the stuffed falafel. “Laday hadiyya from restaurant ... mataem,” I say in broken Arabic mixed with English, mostly to clarify my choppy pronunciation.
Hoda reaches for the Styrofoam plate, rising from her seat, then looks up at me seemingly for permission. I hand it to her happily. She turns to the kitchen counter and places the falafel onto one of her own plates and takes it into the men, as it is a rule for the men to be served first. I hear her talking to them and catch the Arabic words for restaurant, gift, and my name in English. Seconds later Ismad appears around the corner with a falafel in his hand.
His dark, deep-set, almond-shaped eyes find mine and even though his beard hides his mouth, his smile is more than visible as he bows his head and holds the fal
afel out to me. “Shukran, Ella.”
I bow my head as he has. “Al afo.”
He disappears around the corner and Hoda comes back in with the remaining falafel, smiling from ear to ear. As she sits down across from me she reaches her hand across the table and squeezes mine, then pats the top of it. “Shukran.”
Getting thanks from them for something so small compared what they have done opening their home to host me and give shelter to the Ahmadi family, I can’t seem to form the words past the knot in my throat. I bow my head and lower my eyes instead. The eyes of all of the women are wide as they take their first bite of the stuffed falafel, then they seem to melt a little into their chairs from the flavor, just as I had at the restaurant.
Hoda finishes chewing the small morsels in her mouth then begins telling a story. From the few words I gather, she is talking about the restaurant, Hashem. She sees I am listening intently, so she pauses. “Ameena,” she says, peering at me.
Ameena holds the falafel in her hands mid-bite, then sets it back down on her plate. “Oh, she is talking about my father taking her to Hashem just after they married.”
Ameena’s English is impressive, but it shouldn’t surprise me; she is a smart girl. “Oh.”
She continues to translate as Hoda tells her story. We all ooh and aah when she tells us King Amaar was there that night and he greeted everyone at their tables. Hearing Hoda speak seemed to open the levy for me to want to know more.
“Were you and Ismad in love?” I ask in English, hoping Ameena will pick up and translate for me just as she has for her mother. Instead I find all of them staring at me like I have asked something off limits. “Ana asif. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so bold.”
“No, it okay,” Hoda says. I guess she is getting better at pairing together English words as I am with Arabic. “Eh,” she says as she appears to find the English words to explain, but can’t. “Eshroon sanah.”
Cross the Stars (Crossing Stars #1) Page 12