by Jean Sasson
I wanted to ask Kareem what was on his mind, but I feared the subject of his introspection might be something I did not want to discuss. I cringed when Kareem began to speak.
“Sultana,” he said with a smile, “I want you to know that I am very proud of you.”
Anticipating criticism, I was confused by this compliment. I sat and stared without speaking. What was his intent?
He repeated, “Yes. I am very proud.” Kareem looked at me with such affection that I thought he might kiss me. But since this conversation was taking place during the daylight hours, and we were still in our Ramadan fast, he merely stroked my hands.
Bewildered, I could only sputter, “Proud?”
“Yes, my darling.” Kareem’s smile widened. “Sultana, since the first year we wed, I have witnessed the great struggle you undergo each Ramadan. I know that for you to succeed in your fast is a thousand times more remarkable than it is for an ordinary person.”
I squirmed, uncertain what I should do. While I had determined it best not to confess my failure to keep my fast, I felt overwhelmed with guilt at accepting congratulations for a feat I had not accomplished. The weight of my conscience came down full force on my heart.
I knew that I must tell my husband the truth, no matter how disagreeable it might be for both of us. “But, Kareem…”
“Do not protest, Sultana. You should be, and you will be, greatly rewarded for fulfilling your vows.”
“Kareem, I…”
“Darling, I realized long ago that Allah creates some people to be more highly spirited than others. And I believe that He does this for a great purpose. Although such people can create turmoil, often it is for the best.” He smiled sweetly as he stared into my face. “You are just such a person, Sultana.”
“No, no, Kareem, I need to tell you that…”
Kareem put his finger across my lips. “I’ve often thought that you feel more deeply than anyone I’ve ever known, and that your profound feelings often bring you great suffering.”
“Kareem, listen…”
Maha interrupted, “Father is right, Mother. You will be rewarded many times over for conquering your desire for earthly pleasures.” Maha turned a cheerful look at Kareem, “I’m very proud of Mother, also.”
I shouted, “No! You do not understand!” I placed my head in my hands and let out a low cry. “You do not understand! I must make atonement!”
At that moment, I finally felt that I had the courage to explain the reasons for my desperate need to make amends, and to confess that I was less pure than either of them believed.
But Amani chose that same moment to taunt me, sneering, “You praise a Muslim for doing what is the minimum normal requirement of every Muslim?”
Ignoring Amani, Kareem’s tone was puzzled as he pulled my hands away from my face. “Atonement? For what, Sultana?”
I realized I was unwilling to confess my shortcomings in front of such an unforgiving child as Amani. I let out a deep breath. “I must make additional reparations for past sins.”
I felt guilty seeing Kareem’s eyes glisten in pride and affection. How could I sink so low? Lowering my head, I mumbled, “I’ve always been so sinful, as you know.”
Now I was being manipulative, even more reason for guilt! I was certain that God would severely punish me for continuing such shameless deception. I made a silent but sincere vow that I would wait no longer than until the first moment Kareem and I were alone to right this wrong. I would confess everything.
My thoughts drifted to Mother. I sighed and unintentionally spoke aloud, “I wish Mother was with us.”
Amani spitefully declared, “Only the weak cannot accept the will of God.”
I stared at Amani with a long look of resigned misery.
She opened her mouth as though to insult me once again, but Kareem gave her a stern and reproachful glare. “We are practically at the end of Ramadan, Amani, and you insult your mother?”
This stopped Amani from saying more.
Suddenly, a melodious voice came over the neighborhood Mosque loudspeaker announcing that the new moon for the month of Shawwal, which is the tenth Hijra month, had been sighted and confirmed. Ramadan was over! The celebration of Eid-ul-Fitr could now begin. We expressed our joy by embracing and congratulating each other and our servants, each of us asking God to keep us in good health until the next Ramadan.
My favorite time of Ramadan had arrived, although my joy was somewhat tempered by the knowledge that I had not yet made atonement.
Eid, the most special holiday of Islam, continues for three days and is marked by a variety of events organized by the government, including fireworks, poetry recitals, dramas, painting contests, and folk singing concerts. Individuals celebrate by visiting family and friends, and bringing gifts.
We celebrated into the night until the golden rays of morning sunlight began to appear on the horizon. Thus, there was no opportunity that night to confess to Kareem.
The next morning, we did not wake from our exhausted sleep until noon. As I lay in bed, I steeled myself to tell Kareem of my broken oaths, but as soon as he finished dressing, he reminded me that he would be spending much of the day at the Jeddah palace of our beloved King Fahd. Kareem’s mind was already so engrossed with the various traditions of Eid, that I thought it best that I leave our talk until later.
Still, I found myself in a quandary. Whether or not I confessed to Kareem, I still must make appropriate reparations. And I must do so before I started my round of visitations and gift giving.
Just as Kareem was about to walk out the door, I ran toward him and took him by the arm. “Darling, did you forget? I feel a great desire to feed many poor people this year.” My fingers plucked at his sleeve.
“Even more than in previous years.”
Kareem smiled, “Do I need to feed more poor families than I did when you ate that large plate of Maamool Bel Tamur?” (Pastries filled with dates.)
I reddened as I bit down on my lip. “Yes.”
That humiliating incident had happened two years before during Ramadan. Our cooks had spent many hours mixing the spices, flour, and dates for the pastry that our family would enjoy after the evening meal. All through the morning, the scent of that delicious pastry had drifted throughout the palace, causing me to salivate with longing for my favorite dessert. I was so hungry from fasting that I lost all good sense, and fantasized about date pastries all day.
Later that afternoon, once I knew that everyone was resting in their rooms, I slipped into the kitchen. I was so focused on the thought of tasting those pastries that I did not notice Kareem. Using the refrigerator door to shield myself from view, I consumed one pastry after another.
Kareem watched silently as I continued my voracious eating. Later he told me that once he saw the first pastry disappear into my mouth, he pragmatically decided that I might as well satisfy my hunger, as the sin of eating many pastries was the same as that of eating one.
Kareem’s mischievous smile grew wider as he watched me squirm at that memory. “Surely, Sultana, there is no need to feed as many families as I did last year when you smoked more than a packet of cigarettes during Ramadan. Is there?”
“Stop, Kareem!” I turned around angrily. “Do not tease me!”
But Kareem continued, “Yes, I discovered you crouching inside one of your closets, surrounded by discarded cigarette butts.”
He laughed gently at the memory, mingling tenderness with his teasing. “Come, tell me, Sultana, what sin is it that you have committed this time?”
God finally had given me the opening that I had been praying for, but I had already decided there wasn’t time to make my confession this morning.
“I’ve done nothing!” I declared defensively. “I simply want to share our great wealth with those less fortunate.”
Kareem looked at me skeptically.
“Is not our good fortune an obligation for generosity?” I asked.
In his rush to join his cousins and
uncles at the palace of the King, Kareem took me at my word. “All right, Sultana. I’ll have Mohammed purchase enough food to feed thirty needy families. Is that enough to cover your sins?”
“And tell Mohammed to buy them clothing, also,” I quickly added.
Mohammed was a loyal Egyptian employee. He would not gossip to the other servants about the large atonement that our family was making.
“And clothing, too.” Kareem agreed wearily.
I breathed a sigh of relief. As whoever breaks an oath becomes liable to the penalty of feeding ten needy persons, I thought that feeding and clothing thirty families would be more than sufficient to cover my sin of breaking the fast and drinking wine.
After Kareem left our quarters, I called out for Libby, one of my Filipino female servants, to prepare my bath. I felt lighthearted and free to have my sins so easily reconciled by mere almsgiving, and I began to sing Arabic love ballads as I soaked in my bath.
Once I had adorned myself with make-up and perfume, my Egyptian hairdresser arranged my long black hair in a complicated fashion consisting of braids, which she fastened in place with expensive hair clasps that I had recently bought at Harrods in London. Searching through the many dresses in my closet, I selected one of my favorite red satin gowns designed by Christian Dior.
Once I was satisfied with my reflection in the mirror, I called out whether Maha and Amani were ready, because I was eager to begin an afternoon of celebrating the Eid festival by visiting various relatives.
I watched attentively as three of the servants loaded the many gifts my daughters and I would present to our family and friends into the trunk of our new Mercedes. The elegantly wrapped gift boxes contained delicate chocolates molded in the form of a mosque, silk scarves embroidered with golden threads, bottles of the finest French perfumes, colognes, and pearl necklaces.
I knew exactly the palace that I wanted to visit first! The previous year an eccentric cousin whom we didn’t know very well had built a magnificent palace that I had long been anxious to visit, because I had heard many fantastic stories of its wonders from friends. This cousin, named Faddel, had reportedly spent unimaginable sums of money to construct a palace and surrounding gardens to closely resemble the likeness of paradise itself—the heavenly paradise as described in our Holy Koran.
The Holy Koran gives many details of the glory and pleasure that await those who honor God by living the earthly life of a good Muslim. Patient and obedient souls can look forward to spending eternity in one vast garden, watered with pleasant streams and shaded with green trees, dressed in silk and jewels. They will spend their time reclining on couches while eating the finest food. Wine will not be forbidden, as it is on earth, but will be served in silver goblets carried by handsome servants.
For a Muslim man fortunate enough to reach paradise, yet another reward awaits him. Seductively beautiful virgins, never yet touched by another man, will attend to his every need, and fulfill his every sexual desire. Each man will possess seventy-two of these lovely virgins.
Pious women will also enter paradise, and it is said that these women will receive the greatest joy from reciting the Koran and experiencing the supreme ecstasy of beholding Allah’s face. All around these women will be children who never grow old. Of course, since Muslim women do not have any sexual desires, there will be no sexual partners awaiting them in paradise.
Although I was filled with the greatest curiosity, wondering how my cousin Faddel had emulated the wonders of paradise on earth, I also had a feeling of foreboding. For some reason, my heart was telling me not to go to that palace, to turn back. Despite this warning, I plunged ahead, taking along my two daughters.
Upon our arrival at “Paradise Palace,” as one of our cousins had mockingly named it, our driver found the iron gate to the entrance locked. The gate guard was nowhere to be seen. Our driver went to search for him, and reported that he could see two bare feet protruding from under the guard’s chair through the gatehouse window.
I ordered our driver to pound on the glass partition. Finally, a sleepy Yemeni guard awoke and opened the gate, and at last, we were able to enter.
Although the driveway was made of many costly polished stones reflecting a glittering luster, it provided a jolting ride for those arriving in an automobile. I looked about with great interest as we passed under the dense branches of a thicket of trees. Once we had passed through the grove of trees, we saw before us a scene of breathtaking beauty.
Faddel’s palace was not one large building, as I had expected, but rather a succession of snowy white pavilions. Perhaps as many as fifteen or twenty identical pavilions with billowing sky blue roofs were arranged in a circle around a larger pavilion, creating an imposing sight.
The grass surrounding the pavilions provided a lush carpet of green. Colorful beds of rare flowers were artfully arranged throughout the grounds. The combined colors of the white pavilions, the blue-tented roofs, the green grass, and vivid blossoms were truly an inspired and beautiful composition.
“Look, children,” I said, “the grass here is as green as my new emerald necklace!”
Maha exclaimed, “There are more than ten pavilions!”
“Eighteen.” Amani said in a flat tone of voice.
“Amani,” I said, pointing at an ornate gold sign with “Stallions” written on it in green lettering. “There’s a path leading to the stables.”
I was somewhat surprised that the Faddel I knew had stables. While a large number of my cousins purchase and breed expensive horses, I had never heard of Faddel having an interest in horses.
Amani leaned over me to peer at that sign, but said nothing.
Our driver followed a winding road that took us beneath an imposing white marble arch. This surely was the entrance to the largest pavilion. A tall, handsome Egyptian doorman opened the door of our Mercedes and welcomed us profusely, then rushed forward to open the immense double doors that led into a large reception room. The doorman stood thus waiting while our driver retrieved the particular gifts I had selected for this cousin and his wife.
Once satisfied that I had the appropriate packages in hand, I moved into the reception room. My daughters followed along behind me. We were greeted in perfect Arabic by a lovely young Asian woman who introduced herself as Layla. She smiled sweetly as she welcomed us as the first guests of the day. She reported that her mistress, our cousin Khalidah, would be with us shortly. Meanwhile, she would escort us to the main residence.
As I followed Layla, I carefully took note of everything that dazzled my eyes, as none of my sisters, nor even Kareem, had visited this so called “Paradise Palace.”
We were led down a wide corridor. The walls were covered in pale yellow silk with a delicate floral design. The carpet featured many lively patterns of exotic flowers and wildly colorful birds. It sank under our feet as we walked.
Amani suddenly asked Layla, “Where do you keep the birds that I hear?”
Only then was I aware of a distant chorus of birds.
Layla laughed lightly. “What you hear is only a recording.” Her voice sounded as pleasant and musical as the melody of the birds. “The master insists that every sound heard here be pleasing to the ear.”
“Oh.” Amani replied.
Master? I thought to myself. Cousin Faddel?
Maha began to question the young woman who was near to her own age. We learned that Layla had been working in Saudi Arabia for Faddel and his wife, Khalidah, for the past five years. She proudly added that with her wages she was very happy to be able to support her large family who lived in Sri Lanka, in the capital city of Colombo.
Amani was abrupt with the question that I hesitated to ask. “Why do you have an Arabic name, Layla?”
The young woman smiled once again. “I am not a Hindu. I am a Muslim. My family descended from Arab seafarers.” She paused before saying, “Of course, only Muslims are allowed to enter this paradise.”
Maha nudged me with her elbow, but I managed to keep my
face composed.
The long corridor suddenly opened up into an immense round room. Ornamental columns, lavish furniture, crystal chandeliers and clocks, priceless tapestries, vast mirrors and elegant ceramic panels came together in a stunning overall effect.
Several low divans covered in soft-colored silks were neatly aligned under arched windows composed of intricate triangles of jewel-toned stained glass that depicted scenes of famous Arab warriors in battle. Sparkling clear water flowed from a two-tiered, silver-edged fountain. Chinese porcelain vases were centered on tables of polished mahogany inset with mother-of-pearl designs. A blue tile floor glistened underneath the edges of the thick Persian carpets.
Looking upward, I saw a magnificent canopy that appeared to arch into the sky. The ceiling was painted to give the illusion of soft, feathery clouds against a background of the bluest sky. The overall effect was breathtaking.
I could not deny that my cousin had built the most awe-inspiring dwelling that my eyes had ever seen. So far, this palace was even more dramatic than any built by our own King. Surely, I thought, Faddel has attained his objective. Paradise could not be more beautiful than this dwelling.
Layla rang a small bell and announced that refreshments would soon be served. She then left us to inform her mistress of our arrival.
I settled on one of the silk divans and patted the spot beside me.
“Come, sit with me in paradise,” I joked.
Maha laughed and sat down.
Amani looked at us sternly as she said, “Paradise is no joking matter.” She frowned in disapproval as she looked around the extravagant room. “Anyway, too much sunshine makes a desert.”
I looked around again, with a more critical eye. Amani was right! Faddel’s palace was too perfect! Too beautiful! When the eye sees nothing but perfection, even perfection loses its power to astonish.
Just then four serving girls entered the room. One carried small crystal plates and neatly folded napkins; others held aloft large copper trays heavily laden with food. Delighted, I selected a few sugared almonds, while Maha crowded her plate with tiny sandwiches, delicate cheeses, figs, and cherries.