by David Lender
She turned the options over in her mind. Rebel and get thrown out? Limp along, miserable? No, she had already decided she would adapt until she saved enough money to leave. Well, according to Nafta, she was in the right place for that. Go earn it. Move on and see what comes next.
CHAPTER 13
AUGUST, TWENTY-THREE YEARS AGO. RIYADH, Saudi Arabia. After a nap, Sasha abandoned any thought of going to the party and waited, reminding herself she wasn’t at all good at it, as if she needed reminding, as if the bloody pacing could keep her mind off it. The only thing she hated more than waiting was not knowing what she was waiting for. But the knot in her stomach told her that whatever it was she wasn’t ready for it. She now sat on the edge of the bed feeling like some prom queen poised for her date. In that moment she knew what was coming: Ibrahim. She just wanted to survive it.
A trapezoid of light flashed onto the floor as the door to the corridor was thrown open. Nafta strode through, jewel-bedecked, glittering, and resplendent, with her hair up. She wore a pastel, floor-length evening gown, breasts barely restrained within it, the sleek curves of her waist and hips accentuated through the silk fabric. She bore no relationship to the waif who had inhabited the bedclothes, peering out at the television only hours before. “Meditating or dancing in the dark, sister?” she said.
Sasha wondered why Nafta had returned so early. She seemed distraught, pulling her earrings off and tossing them distractedly on her bed, unzipping the back of her dress with a furious level of activity Sasha thought impossible for the girl she’d lunched with earlier that day. She slid out of her dress, exposing only panties beneath it.
Sasha wondered what she was so upset about as she strode past her without making eye contact, her lips pulled taut and her brow furrowed. She fumbled with shaking her hair out straight, whisked into one of the armoires, grabbed a handful of clothes and turned toward Sasha. “He wants you,” she said. “I’ll help you get ready,” and disappeared into the bathroom.
Sasha stared dazedly at the far wall in the dim light, trying to get her brain to catch up with her racing emotions. There wasn’t going to be any easing into this; as she’d feared, tonight was the night. She hadn’t even met the man, exchanged childhood stories with him, stood awkwardly awaiting his first kiss goodnight or felt him stroke her cheek, and yet she’d be spreading her legs in his bed in, what, an hour? It wasn’t suppose to be like this, at least not the way she’d imagined it when she’d felt the first tingling curiosity about who her first lover would be as far back as, when was it? Seeing that muscular carpenter repairing Christina’s stables in Switzerland, or, her mind jump-cutting now, that French aristocrat’s son who didn’t want to stop at just kissing her. She felt her heart pounding, now deliciously curious, hoping, expecting, wanting to enjoy it, now realizing her brain was rambling desperately—under the circumstances how could she possibly expect pleasure? All her senses seemed cranked up to unbearable perceptiveness at the same time. She heard strains of music coming from the ballroom as a roar. The smooth silk of her nightgown against her breasts was like ice. The forms of the furniture across the room grated on her eyes like sandpaper. Was it Tuscany? she thought, absurdly, flashing back to the first time she’d seen an electrical storm, the thrilling danger of those majestical swords of lightning arcing to the vineyards below, now almost believing she felt the synapses in her brain firing with the same intensity.
Her eyes detachedly perceived the bathroom door open and Nafta cross the room. Why did she appear so tense, even angry? Nafta switched on a light and then stood in front of Sasha, observing her. “Sister, you need to get ready now.” Sasha looked up at her, nodded, and knew better than to attempt to speak, feeling the dryness in her throat, certain her voice would emerge as only a squeak, betraying her nervousness. Nervousness? Was that all it was, because now her brain was screaming at her unintelligibly, speaking in tongues. She stood up from the bed, knew her face was too brittle to smile and then wondered why on earth she would even think of doing that.
“Relax,” Nafta said. “That’s the best advice I can give you for tonight.” Sasha saw Nafta’s face soften, the playful smile of earlier that day reappearing for the first time since she’d returned. “I’ll have time to teach you a few things later. For tonight just don’t be afraid to use your imagination.” Sasha felt herself nod in response. “Now off with this nightgown,” Nafta said, lifting Sasha’s arms and pulling the silk over her head. Nafta looked toward the armoire. “You’ll need something casual, loose fitting.” Nafta bent down in front of her, “You won’t need these either,” she said, pulling Sasha’s panties down. Sasha was conscious of Nafta’s voice changing to an ominous tone before she processed her words: “Oh, sister, you’ll need to shave.”
Sasha rubbed her hand over her thigh and uttered, “Smooth.”
“No, I mean everything. In our culture, it’s a sin to have hair on one’s private parts.”
Sasha felt her cheeks burn and turned away. Is there no limit to my humiliation? She clutched her arms to her as she ran for the bathroom door.
“You look beautiful,” Nafta said ten minutes later. Sasha now wore a simple ankle-length linen dress with sandals, and a short-sleeve off-white silk blouse that Nafta had selected for her. “Show some cleavage but not too much,” she said, adjusting Sasha’s blouse.
Cleavage! I’m braless in a see-through blouse. Her solitaire diamond, which had been silently returned in a velvet jewelry box while she’d napped, hung from its gold chain around her neck. Her hair and eyes were highlighted by the ivory colors of her blouse and skirt. Sasha heard a whooshing in her ears, and guessed her senses were shutting down after abusing themselves for the last quarter hour. She felt sickened. Was it Nafta’s musky perfume? She wished for a friend, thought of clinging to Nafta but knew it wouldn’t help.
Nafta kissed Sasha on either cheek and tapped on the mysterious door in their chamber. Sasha heard a muffled voice from within and felt the freezing cold of the brass doorknob without realizing she’d reached for it, turned it and pushed the door open. It led to Ibrahim’s quarters. She stood in the doorway, feeling on instinct she should pause, allow Ibrahim to survey her. She heard a race of thoughts telling her to appear nonchalant, excited, eager, bored, anything to keep from showing her urge to run from the room.
She saw deep-set eyes observing her from beneath puffy eyelids. She saw a dark face, clean-shaven and curly black hair that had been slicked back with some kind of gel. She thought the calm expression and bushy eyebrows could be mistaken for mournful, both like Yassar’s. The man had an air of command, maybe even arrogance, she quickly decided—her reason hadn’t abandoned her after all. Yassar’s looks, definitely his eyes. Quite fetching, actually. The fact that he was good looking made it easier for her to smile. “I’m Sasha,” she said. She thought he said something like, “I know,” and, “I’m Ibrahim,” and she knew he had stood to greet her, but she wasn’t hearing clearly, aware in that moment that somebody, it had to be Nafta, closed the door behind her and her mind, her body froze.
Then, how much later? a second? a simple perception, as if her mind was taking in small bits at a time to process her situation: Ibrahim wore a white collarless cotton shirt and tan linen slacks. Better now. She blinked and thought he looked older than his 17 years, more polished, more relaxed and self-assured than she expected.
Ibrahim stood in the center of a comfortable 15-by-20-foot sitting room. Persian rugs on the floor, a few draped over tables to convey an opulent informality, pieces jammed everywhere, antique Beidermeier and English Period pieces mixed with Ottoman Empire, two-foot high end tables designed for kneeling services of tea or meals. Pillows and throws every place on tapestried, overstuffed furniture and leather couches. Moose, elephant and antelope heads on the walls. A man’s room. No surprise. But over the top.
Now she wasn’t sure the jangle of images appeared as she perceived it, realizing her eyes were taking in pieces of mosaic as if by pops of flashbulbs, all su
rrounding the man who stood in the center of the room as the words, he’ll be my first lover, formed, then fixed themselves in her mind. Her knees were weak, she felt her pulse throbbing in her ears and she moved a step forward into the room to avoid appearing dumbfounded, then wondered why that would matter.
Ibrahim smiled at her, returning mine? she wondered. His eyes turned down at the corners. Yes, like Yassar’s. She saw him shrug, then turn his back to her and cross toward a sofa where he sat down. He motioned to the center of the rug in front of him, said, “You can come in now, please.” Refined, proper British English, like she’d been taught by her tutor. She walked to the center of the room where he had directed her, wondering what she was supposed to do. His gaze inched down her body, then back up again. She felt cheapened. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She lowered her chin, looking down into his eyes with as much as she could muster of her indignity, suddenly not caring if he saw it, even better he should see it than sense her fear. He didn’t react and she wondered, is he going to leave me standing here all night, for goodness sake, then saw the desire in his eyes and answered her own question. He motioned for her to sit on the sofa beside him.
“Father told me about you. Spirited.” She saw him pause, then nod to himself, as if he’d reconsidered his comment, then decided he’d let it stand.
Yes, he’s Yassar’s son: that deliberate manner. He pulled a small silver case out of his pocket, placed it on the table and opened it. A vial of white powder was within it. He took a silver spoon from the box, unscrewed the vial and spooned out some of the powder onto a mirror. He formed four lines of the powder using a knife, then picked a silver tube from the box. Cocaine! Sasha’s back went stiff as she realized he wasn’t just preparing it for himself. She shifted tensely as he placed the silver tube in his nose, bent over and snorted two lines.
Yassar certainly wouldn’t approve of that, and even as a prince, they’d skin him alive for it around here. She looked up at him to see his eyes upon her. She inhaled and her chest heaved as his gaze coursed down her neck to settle on her breasts. She knew he could see the shape of them beneath her translucent blouse. She felt a flutter in her chest.
He slid the mirror across the table toward her, held out the silver tube. She didn’t think he’d allow her to say no, then heard herself say, “No thank you.”
“Take it,” he said bluntly. “You need to loosen up. It’s not going to be a lot of fun for either of us unless you do.” Sasha froze. She saw him observe her like he didn’t have time for this, extend his arm with the tube in it toward her further. She reluctantly took it from him. She leaned forward and after a few inartful passes managed to snort up the two lines.
Now what?
He sat back and spread his arms across the back of the sofa. She wondered why she wasn’t feeling any different from the drug, then wondered if maybe she was, seeing the way he looked at her. “You are beautiful, even more than my father described you. Even more than your pictures from Switzerland.” She nodded because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, but felt a sinking sensation in her stomach at the realization that even his compliments weren’t going to make it any easier for her. He laughed, then said, “But you’re not much of a conversationalist.” Did he always laugh at his own comments before he made them?
How rude! She wanted to tell him so, but thought better of it, then thought to get up and leave, but realized he wouldn’t let that happen. “We’ll see in time,” was all she could think of to say. He abruptly stood, crossed the room and pressed a buzzer. Two servant girls appeared. One knocked on the door to Nafta and Sasha’s room and a moment later Nafta entered. Ibrahim stood near the doorway and watched as one of the servant girls unrolled a small rug and moved Sasha onto the center of it. The other girl approached with a bowl of water and towels. Nafta crossed the room and stood in front of Sasha, leaned forward and whispered to Sasha as she began unbuttoning Sasha’s blouse, “Everything’s all right,” she said in hushed tones, “everything’s all right,” her voice soothing, but Sasha wondered why her face looked so tense.
What in God’s name is going on? “What…?”
“We’re going to cleanse you to prepare you. It’s a religious thing, symbolic, really.” Nafta finished undressing Sasha and raised one of Sasha’s feet for the servant girl to splash water over it from the bowl. The girls washed each of her feet. Sasha observed Ibrahim from across the room, his eyes on her body, watching the ablutions with steadily heavier breathing, his head arching back with his rising desire. She wondered if he were aroused, what he would look like if he were, how he would direct her in the bedroom. She wasn’t so much afraid of it now, feeling the beginnings of her power as a woman as she sensed her ability with merely the shape of her body to transfix Ibrahim as she was doing at this moment.
The servant girls finished drying Sasha’s feet, picked up the bowl and walked noiselessly from the room. Sasha turned to see Nafta’s face as she held her by the hand and directed her toward the doorway to Ibrahim’s inner suite. Sasha stepped forward, her face within a foot of Nafta’s. She thought she saw sadness in her eyes, or perhaps tenderness, and was grateful for it as her pulse surged again, throbbed in her ears. She looked up at Ibrahim, whose mouth now seemed slack, and crossed the room toward him feeling in a way she was at her best when she was most afraid, trying to take everything in, absorb it and digest it. Walk into the fear. There was a first time for everything and she reminded herself that much of the majesty of it was in experiencing the sheer terror of it. Tonight would be no exception, she thought.
Thank God for some noise, Sasha thought, lying in bed the next day before dawn to the sound of the call to first prayers. She’d been awake for hours, listening to Ibrahim’s rhythmic breathing, itching to explore what seemed like the beginning of a new life. She had slept as deeply as she could remember, drained after a night of hurling herself into sensations that brought a smile to her lips remembering them now. Lips that did things the night before she hadn’t ever imagined under Ibrahim’s gentle tutoring. Nobody told me. She wished she hadn’t waited so long, thinking back on the glances she’d drawn from men decades older in Christina’s circle. And I’m sorry that French aristocrat’s son stopped when I said “stop.”
An hour later Ibrahim awoke, switched on the light, and looked around the room. “Good morning,” Sasha said. She pulled the sheets up over her breasts, embarrassed to allow herself the feelings of unrestrained freedom she’d explored in the dark.
“Mmmm. Morning.” Ibrahim rolled toward her and kissed her on the cheek. “I see you make up for your conversational reserve with athleticism.” Her instinct was to look away but she chose not to express modesty. After all, she’d relished his touch, and more. No need to feign prudishness.
“You’ll have ample time to become as enthralled with my dialog as you were with my body last night,” she said. A silly comment, she realized, but it made her feel sexy to say it. After all, she was experienced now. She could express such things without seeming like she was putting on.
Ibrahim laughed. “One night and you’re Marlene Dietrich.” He slid out of the covers without seeing the sheepish look his comment provoked. Perhaps she was overdoing it, she allowed. Still, nobody could take from her what she’d become last night. “Breakfast?” he asked on the way to the bathroom. She laughed to herself: hardly a fitting punctuation to her thought. Nonetheless, she liked the familiar tone, his informality. It made her feel he was pleased with her.
“Don’t you have to do prayers and such?”
“In time. I can miss first prayers. Ring for the servants, will you? They know what I take for breakfast. I’ll be in the shower. I’ll need help scrubbing my back.”
She felt a tingle of desire. Would he want her again in the shower? Was that his way? She admired his body from behind as he walked away. Maybe life here won’t be so unpleasant.
She got up and summoned the servants, then stood blatantly naked as she ordered breakfast from on
e of the bellgirls. “Bring me a robe from my room, please.” The bellgirl pointed to a closet, crossed the room and produced a luxurious silk robe.
“Miss Sasha, you also have a cotton robe in the bathroom,” she said and left.
Of course, I’m sure he’s got ten of them in there. She listened for the sound of the shower, found her way to the bathroom. It was a mirrored, pink marble palace—were those solid gold fixtures?—fully three-quarters the size of Sasha and Nafta’s room. Ibrahim stood in the center of a six-by-nine-foot shower walled with glass on three sides. A dozen showerheads sprayed from all directions. He saw her and turned, beaming and waved her to come in like a rich teenager showing off his new Ferrari. Oh, for goodness sake.
She entered the shower. “Come on, I’m getting waterlogged,” he said, handing her the soap. He pointed to a loofah, turned his back to her. “You surprised me last night,” he said as she began scrubbing. He stood with his hands on his waist, back arched, chin raised. The baronial lord of the manor of early last night had chased off the lad with the new car.
“In what way?” She took it as a compliment, expecting to be further flattered, or at least praised for her skill. She pulled closer to him, felt her breasts against his back.
“You lack experience but you throw yourself into it.”
Sasha stiffened and stepped back. I see. She felt her face flush. She resumed her scrubbing, responding to his comment by bearing down with the loofah.
“Hey!” he called, turning, “not so hard!” She saw the flash of anger in his eyes. The suddenness of his reaction surprised her, but she recovered and met his gaze without giving ground, then looked away, aware he knew she’d chafed him on purpose. She noted his temper, filed it away. She went back to her scrubbing, feeling the awkward sense of surrealism of her first moments with him last night. She shrugged it off, managed to laugh to herself and relaxed. She couldn’t expect to be an expert in one go at it. Besides, she hadn’t heard any complaints from him in the bedroom. Quite the contrary. It was awkward at first, but once she’d gotten into it, well…it was she and not the cocaine, she was certain. She grinned mischievously. It was she who initiated this time, groping for him with soapy fingers, until she’d assured herself there were no complaints from him in the shower either.