by David Lender
An hour later Sasha and Ibrahim walked into a side chamber in his suite. “My breakfast room,” he said, lip thrust in the direction of a table and chairs arranged near windows facing a courtyard and set for breakfast for two—white wicker, bright sunlight from the windows, china designed for an English garden, with topiaries and boxwoods to accompany.
Oscar Wilde gone mad, trapped in one of his plays.
“Bright and cheery, eh?” he asked. She saw his look of expectation, knowing her compliment was supposed to follow.
Was he joking? No. The Self-Importance of Being Ibrahim. “It certainly looks English,” she said as enthusiastically as she could. They sat. He buzzed someplace and two bellgirls appeared. One served his eggs Benedict, with generous spoonfuls of hollandaise, the other Sasha’s Earl Grey tea, strawberries and oatmeal. She watched him eat, well-mannered, like a gentleman. At least he’s cute. Sexy, really. She smiled as she thought it, swirled her tea with a spoon. Not my lover, but maybe in time? Sexy helps. She felt comfortable with him now. “Not in training for the Olympics, I see.” He looked up, puzzled, and she felt a jolt of alarm at remembering his ugly glare in the shower.
He looked down at his eggs. “I agree with Western culture that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. You should see what my countrymen eat.” He smiled.
Yes, like Yassar’s smile, in his eyes. She remembered now, from last night. “So, don’t you have prayers soon?”
“Later.”
Odd. Not at all like Yassar. She knew Yassar was always the first up when he visited in Switzerland, praying on the rug he carried with him everywhere. “So, what exactly does a prince do all day, then?” Ibrahim pursed his lips. Ah, must be important. Ibrahim inhaled, preparing to speak. Maybe someday he’ll grow into his demeanor.
“The fun parts are fun, the dull parts are dull. Which do you want to hear?” He smiled again, the engaging smile she’d seen but was unable to fully respond to last night. It rolled over her cynicism.
“All of it,” she said. She propped her chin on her clasped hands, elbows on the table.
“Well, let’s see, suppose we just use today as a typical day. First, up early”—he looked at his watch— “by 5:30 I’d guess, then a shower.” He looked down at his eggs. “So far, fun parts. Good company.” He looked up from his plate. The smile again, focused, as if she were the first person he was trying it out on, the real smile he’d use as the platinum iridium against which all the subsequent copies would be measured before they were released. “So far you follow?”
Sasha nodded. Maybe he doesn’t take himself so seriously after all. She waited for him to continue, aware that with this most mundane of descriptions he held her attention, even had her earnestly interested in what came next. The light caught the swirls of dark hair on his arms. She remembered the firmness of his biceps as he’d embraced her last night. Yes, she cocked her head to the side, content for him to take his time before going on, perhaps a lover in time.
“Next, I will get to those prayers you keep pestering me about…”
“Pestering, really…”
“…believe it or not. Then I study for my afternoon class.”
“Are you a serious student?”
“Don’t know. Enough, I guess.”
“Your father says you’re going to Harvard.”
“Yes, that’s what one does, I suppose. Father had his heart set on Harvard. Glad I didn’t disappoint him.” He shrugged. “I guess I write a good essay. Then again, not everyone can write about being a significant factor in the future of a country.” He said the words as if he were reading from his application. Practiced. And without enthusiasm.
“Next?” she asked.
“Next comes my first really dull part, a meeting at the Finance Ministry with Father’s aides. I must review their work on some new plans Father has for securing long-term private-sector jobs for graduating Saudi students. Instead of letting them plod the typical track to some unimaginative government bureaucratic position.”
It surprised, even delighted her, hearing him speak with apparent authority about one of Yassar’s projects. “You find your father’s programs dull?”
“Not at all, he’s a visionary, but I find his subordinates dull. After all, they’re unimaginative government bureaucrats.” He laughed. “And yet they have the audacity to be arrogant and self-righteous. Like Father, I don’t suffer fools easily.”
To the contrary; I’ve seen Yassar sit politely for hours listening to nonsense from twits like Ophelia Deneau. “Tell me more about the jobs program. Your father’s always been so guarded about what he does.”
Ibrahim shrugged and pushed the remnants of his eggs to the side of his plate with a piece of English muffin. “Father’s ideas are brilliant, but I find dealing with the whole process a bore. No patience for it. The people are morons. Progress is slow. There’s no action.”
“And you’re a man of action?” Uh-oh. She felt that flutter of unease again, afraid she’d allowed her impudence too much reign. She detected the first signs of an angry retort in the wrinkled brow, then saw the ridges soften.
“Well, I’m training for the Olympics,” he deadpanned. Sasha burst into spontaneous laughter. No, he didn’t take himself too seriously at all.
“Then what?”
He shrugged. “Then I suppose back to the palace, a workout in the gym and then a massage.” He looked up at the ceiling like he was thinking.
“You sound like you’re making this up as you go along now.”
“I am. I don’t have anything scheduled again till midday. Maybe a little lunch, then perhaps a nap with one of the girls.”
Quite the Don Juan, I see. Sasha felt a flash of, what was it? Disappointment? Jealousy? Don’t be absurd.
“Then prayers, then off to my religion classes.”
“Even on a Saturday?”
“Absolutely.” He looked out the windows as if bored. “That’s the way we do it here.” He looked back at her and she detected his sudden impatience, as if he had to be someplace else. Finished with her for now? He had his hands on the table as though he were ready to push his chair back and stand up. Had she become one of the dull parts? “Then prayers, dinner, then my party.” His eyes brightened at that. “You must be there tonight. Nafta will fill you in. It’s the highlight of the day around here.” He stood up and gave her a curious nod of his head as if he were acknowledging a servant. “Don’t get up,” he said, even though Sasha hadn’t stirred. “Relax and finish your tea. I’ll see you later. I must go now.”
Sasha inclined her head just so, trying to effect a superior version of his nod, not sure she’d carried it off, then glanced away affecting indifference to his leaving. Two bellgirls appeared seconds after Ibrahim left. “Not now,” Sasha said with authority. “Leave me.” She felt a hollowness, as if she were waiting for an emotion to come to her and fill up the space where there was nothing. She raised her teacup to her lips mechanically, lifelessly. The tea was cold. She put the cup back in the saucer and pushed it away.
Later that day Sasha reclined in the half acre of tiered terraces, stone benches and cultivated shrubbery, flowers and trees that comprised the central octagonal courtyard within the women’s section of the palace.
She lay in a cushioned lounge chair shaded from the sun by an umbrella surrounded by boxwoods and flowering magnolia trees. The nook had appealed to her instantly, inviting her with its calm. A fountain trickled in the terraced level above, and a stream of water ran underneath the stone patio in which she reclined, emerging beneath a wall into a thirty-foot-long rectangular channel that was bordered on either side by paths of geometric shapes in brick, and lined with fruit-bearing grapefruit and orange trees.
The previous day’s events replayed themselves in her mind in a seemingly endless tape. Nibmar. She’d rather jump in a cold pool than be around her. The less I see of her the better. Her cheeks burned at the thought of standing before Nibmar naked, stripped of all dignity, furious
and in pain at the same time, yet forced to swallow it all, an image she realized would haunt her for some time. But Nafta, after having me foisted upon her as a roommate, after her tone in our first introduction, why would Nafta attend to me last night? And this “sister” routine and the kissing. Very curious. A friend is too much to ask for. Maybe somebody to reciprocate in keeping each other out of trouble? She thought of the frostiness of the other girls she’d encountered earlier, as she’d entered the courtyard, closed her eyes and smelled the seductive aroma of the flowering magnolias that encircled her haven. She thought next of her hours in bed with Ibrahim, as if it hadn’t dominated her consciousness all day, recalled her exhilarating spontaneity. Was it the cocaine, after all, Ibrahim’s artful touch, or her own innate sexuality? She felt her womanhood stirring in her, a thrilling sense of abandon at the thought of embracing the profane world she’d chosen.
Then her thoughts and emotions were all upside down again, and she was crying without the ability to control herself. She buried her face in her knees and pressed her hands to the sides of her head. The sex last night had hardly been consensual. She’d been offered up like some kind of pastry. Oh, God, what kind of life is this going to be? She willed the warmth of the sun to penetrate into her bones, her heart, and revive her.
All right, sister, she mocked herself, get hold of yourself. Stop wallowing in your misery. Think. Regroup. She started by facing her situation. There wasn’t anybody to run to who would make it all better, not that Christina ever did, anyhow. She always knew that. It was probably what made her so self-reliant. And look what else it made her. You’re a royal concubine. That isn’t going to change any time soon. Going back to being some hurt, tentative teen who was dropped in over her head in a strange, unfathomable life was not an option. Move on and see what comes next, she reminded herself of her decision of the previous day. Yes, I can do this, and do it well.
She dozed.
“Sister, that sun isn’t to be trifled with at noon.” She awakened to Nafta’s voice.
Okay, ask me about last night. I know you’re dying to hear. Then Sasha felt silly, realizing Nafta was no novice herself. She looked out over the multi-terraced courtyard. “The patio is beautiful.”
Nafta sat next to her. “Yes, for our own exclusive use, exactly as you are doing right now. You see the latticed windows? They’re all the girls’ rooms—ours too. That way we can sunbathe, paint our toenails, or just reflect, away from the eyes of even the Royal Guards. It’s the one place we can be our own queens. I’ve never even seen Nibmar come in here.”
Sasha’s pulse picked up. “That Nibmar, she’s positively dreadful.”
“She’s not so bad,” Nafta said.
“Oh for goodness sake, Nafta, did you hear what she said to me? ‘Are you honest, subtle and submissive?’”
Nafta laughed. “That was nothing. Better than what she told me on my first day: ‘Cultivate a mysterious aura of magical possibility about you.’”
Sasha laughed. “What does that mean?”
“Learn to wiggle your ass.”
Sasha inhaled the fragrance of the flowers. She smelled the scents of cooking, of Arabian spices curling into the air as well. She exhaled and rested her head back on the lounge, closing her eyes.
Nafta pulled Sasha’s robe up over her. “I’m serious about this sun. It doesn’t sneak up on you. It overwhelms you.”
“Thank you. And thank you for helping me last night.”
“Don’t mention it,” Nafta said. She paused and there she was, tightening her lips like last night, as if tense. Sasha resolved to find out why. “How are you getting along?” Nafta asked before Sasha could probe her.
Sasha shrugged. “The girls I’ve seen today have been icy.”
“Know why?”
“Only what you told me about them being catty. Makes sense if I’m the new girl.”
“Wrong. You’re a sensation around here. And they all knew about last night.”
“Oh?” Sasha raised her eyebrows. What on earth…?
“The reactions of the other girls shouldn’t surprise you. You came heralded.”
Sasha frowned. “Heralded?”
“You were selected by Yassar himself. No small distinction. That already placed you high in the hierarchy around here.” She leaned to within a foot of Sasha’s face, her expression serious. “Do you know what an insult Ibrahim’s behavior was to me last night?”
“No.” Whatever are you talking about?
Nafta looked from side to side as if what she were going to say was confidential. “It was Friday night last night.”
Sasha looked back at her blankly.
“Even though the men are fairly egalitarian in revolving their ‘couchings’ with their women, Friday nights are reserved for all the first wives. The favorites. The Koran said, ‘If one wife does not suffice, take four.’” She added as an aside, “Although there’s no limit on concubines. And if they’re not married, Fridays are for the favorites in general. Ibrahim knows that better than anyone else. I’m the favorite. Yet he told me he wanted you.” She lowered her eyes and played with one of her bracelets.
Sasha didn’t respond. So that would account for why you looked so tense. You were hurt? What a strange culture, what a strange creature you are, Nafta. Sasha clasped her hand. Nafta reached forward and hugged her, kissed her on the cheek. “Be nice to me, sister, when you assume your role.”
CHAPTER 14
OCTOBER, TWENTY-THREE YEARS AGO. RIYADH, Saudi Arabia. Sasha felt her excitement as she knocked softly on the door to Yassar’s study. She didn’t want to be late. Today’s the day. Her quick adaptation to the culture—she’d decided it was because she’d been raised to “want to experience everything”—had left her curiously without anger toward Yassar. But there was a distance between them: he’d betrayed her. How else could she look at it? But she didn’t want that distance and was determined for it not to be so. Here, as before in Switzerland, she wanted her hours with Yassar to be bright moments.
A young servant girl opened the door and nodded. Yassar looked up from a comfortable sofa on one side of the room. The study was eclectically furnished with carefully selected antiques from other cultures and eras—French provincial end tables, a Beidermeier kas, fifth dynasty Chinese vases—mixed with more traditional Middle Eastern and Saudi low-slung tables, Persian rugs and tapestried settees. She’d remarked to herself on her first visit to Yassar’s room that it was the tasteful model on which Ibrahim’s decorators had received their instructions in creating his garishly overdone anteroom. “Hello, Sasha. Please come in.”
“Hello, Yassar,” she said and sat in the stuffed chair next to him. She smelled tea steeping on the end table.
“How are your classes in Saudi history and Arabic going?”
“Tolerably well and only fair,” she said in awkward Arabic.
“Not bad.”
Yassar’s raised eyebrows warmed Sasha, the way she’d felt about him when he was a houseguest at Christina’s chateau.
“And as of today, I’m taking over your classes in Islam. I understand you’re an enthusiastic student. You know how important it is to all of us here, including Ibrahim.” Yassar reached for the tea, but Sasha stopped him and served them both. He asked, “How are you getting along with Ibrahim?”
“Quite well,” she said, lowering her eyes. She felt embarrassed at the thought of enjoying the sex, wondering, if like a new toy she’d tire of it, not for a moment deluding herself she was in love with Ibrahim. Yet she acknowledged a grudging fondness for him. Thank God for that. How would she deal with it otherwise? She suppressed the sudden urge to giggle. There are some things a young girl isn’t supposed to disclose to her lover’s father. Then: Except maybe here? She let the thought drop and reflected on one of the Koran’s teachings Yassar would probably not be asking for her interpretation of during studies: “A Muslim man must not satisfy his need of her until he has satisfied her need of him.” She smiled to herself.
And Ibrahim is a good Muslim man.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now to the teachings. Following them will be very important for him, if he’s to become a leader of the Saudi people. And therefore it will be important for you, as well, to understand and live by the ways that will keep him on his path.”
“I understand.” She wondered if Yassar had any idea what Ibrahim did with his time.
“You’ve been here long enough to observe some of the issues we need to deal with, what we need to do to help our people. I have great hopes that Ibrahim will one day be a committed and educated leader, with a strong base in our Islamic ways.”
You may be the only one who believes he can fulfill those expectations. I’ve never heard him express your level of commitment to those issues, or to his being a leader. She exhaled silently. Ibrahim could be fun, even sweet, but she was beginning to find it odd that Yassar expected so much from him and seemed so out of touch with what Ibrahim did with his life.
“You must have more than a basic grounding in Islam so that you can be responsive to Ibrahim’s religious practices and restrictions. So now, before we begin our lesson, we must prepare our hearts by consciously thinking about Allah and seeking refuge from Satan.” Sasha slid out of her chair and sat, her legs crossed in front of her on the floor. Yassar joined her, placed the special stand, the kursi, in front of him, and rested his Koran on it. “Reading with heart, soul and mind and strength is known as Tilawah, and the practice of correct pronunciation is called Tajwid. Learning to recite the verses without understanding them is insufficient. As you progress in your studies, you must also discover the meanings of the scriptures and see how the messages apply to you and how they should alter our lives.”