by David Lender
He picked up the Koran and its kursi and placed it in front of Sasha. She opened the book to the page he had marked and began to read in halting Arabic:
“‘We shall certainly test you with fear and hunger and with the loss of goods or lives or the fruits of your toil. But give encouragement to those who patiently persevere, and, when calamity befalls them say: We belong to Allah, and to Him do we return.’”
She wondered if he’d chosen the selection to address her sense of being stripped of everything, including her dignity and privacy, when she’d been brought here. She doubted she would ever derive the comfort from their Koran she did from the peace she felt during her prayers to the statue of Ganesha—her Remover of Obstacles—on the improvised puja she frequently made out of her night table, even knowing the practice of any religion but Islam here was illegal.
“Life is a test for the life to come,” Yassar explained the passage. “Some are tested with poverty—will they become dishonest or lose faith? Some are tested with wealth—will they become selfish or will they act with responsibility?”
Some are tested with betrayal. Will they become embittered or continue to believe in love?
An hour later they finished the lesson. Sasha wrapped the Koran in its special cloth, then placed it above their heads on its shelf in the west corner of the room. She returned to her place in front of her chair, waiting for Yassar to sit before rising from the floor and sitting in her chair. In the dim light she forgot where she was, simply happy to be with Yassar.
Now, she thought. Subtly. Obliquely. She was aware of his stature in his world, now knowing their culture, and the gravity of what she would ask of him, a man in his position—any man at all—but she was determined to get his apology. It was the only way she felt she could recapture something of the closeness she’d once felt with him, even if only to satisfy herself she hadn’t been self-deluded in believing he’d once reciprocated her feelings. He must have. In that moment she realized she needed even more than that: she needed to see his respect for her again, and now felt the flutter of nerves in her stomach at the fear Yassar might thrust her aside. No.
“Yassar,” she said. She kept her eyes lowered to make it easier for him. “Change is sometimes a shock.” She sat perfectly still. “And this change in my life was particularly large and unexpected.” All right, Yassar, I’ve opened the subject. You know what I’m talking about. “I would hate to think that either of our actions as my transition occurred would stand in the way of the relationship we once had.” Too vague. He only knows me as one who speaks directly. She felt the flutter in her stomach again. “Why did you do this to me?”
Yassar didn’t look at her. “Do? This is an opportunity.”
“Perhaps for one who has no other opportunities.” She turned that over in her mind for a moment, glad she’d let it roll out spontaneously, wondering what she’d say next if he didn’t respond. She waited. She still didn’t look at him. “What kind of life is this?” she asked finally.
“In the old days a concubine could in time become a wife. We can have many, as you by now know.”
“And you have many such wives yourself?” She thought for a moment it was too forceful, then decided she didn’t care. She let him sit with the question hanging out, deciding she wasn’t going to let him off by answering her own question or continuing without a response again. She waited.
“I remind you that you came on your own volition.”
“Did I?” Really, Yassar. “I had precious few alternatives. Christina was wiped out. You seem to have known that better than I. One might argue you swooped in and plucked me for a song.” A long silence. That’s okay. Let that one hang around your neck for a few minutes. She waited, still not looking up at him, and ultimately deciding it was time for her to zero in on her point. “I’d like an apology. And an explanation.” Yassar didn’t respond. Sasha waited.
A long minute later she heard the rustle of his robe as he stirred in his chair. “Perhaps I didn’t handle things as I might have,” he said. “I want the best for my son, and I know he needs settling down if he is to be groomed for his role in one day running Saudi Arabia. I confess I was conflicted between that and my affection for you. In a way, Ibrahim is my biggest weakness. One day when you have children you will understand. If I was insensitive to your feelings I regret it.”
That was as close to an apology as Sasha thought she would get. Still Yassar. She felt a release, a calmness—almost a sensation of her chest being stroked. But she wanted an explanation. Now her feelings were rising, she felt her throat thickening, and she stopped thinking and let her emotions speak to him. “You were the kindest man I knew—until that day you made your proposal to Christina—and me.”
“Perhaps you will think well of me again one day.”
“I’d like an explanation. Why bring me here? What do you want from me?” She’d pondered those questions for the weeks since arriving, hoping there was more to it than simply being a piece of flesh for his son. Now she felt anticipation, eager to hear if he’d answer at all, now afraid he might.
“Your experience of the world with Christina prepared you for this,” Yassar said. Sasha couldn’t decide if he was answering her question, justifying himself, or still apologizing. “Your experience in most ways surpasses that of Ibrahim’s.”
This was taking an eternity, she decided, then resisted the urge to spur him along. In his own time.
“As such I thought you could help guide him, keep him out of trouble. And stand up to him, or deal with him with a cleverness the other girls couldn’t. Undoubtedly you’ve observed…well…” He trailed off. “Sometimes a father cannot interfere directly with any productive result.”
So he knows Ibrahim doesn’t spend his time studying the Koran. And the cocaine, too? She itched to meet his gaze, read what was in his eyes. She resisted. “Go on,” she whispered. “And how exactly does this involve me?”
“I long ago observed that despite your own lack of fear of the world and your fascination to try everything, you do have an ethical rudder, even if I am not always sure in what direction it is pointed. I need you to be Ibrahim’s gyroscope, to straighten him out. Maybe get him interested in something.”
“Why should I do that?” Her head shot up. Oh dear, forgot myself. She lowered her head again. “I mean, how…how should I go about that?”
“No, you mean why. For me. And my gratitude would be expressed in tangible ways. You would be rewarded financially beyond the generous stipend you are already receiving. And I would help you readapt to another life afterward. Do not underestimate the power of our influence. Or wealth.”
Sasha’s mind was now a tangle. The old fondness for Yassar, wanting to please him, warred with an anger and hurt that she could now let herself feel after forcing them away these weeks to keep her sanity, in her refusal to let her situation overwhelm her. She slowly raised her head, her jaw tense, eyes expectant. She met his gaze.
“Please,” Yassar said. She saw the emotion in his eyes. They pleaded to her, not at all the eyes of one of the most wealthy and powerful men in the world. The eyes of a father, of her mentor, now telling her he was sorry, but asking more.
Sasha nodded, but she’d already told him with the tears in her eyes that she’d do what he asked.
October, Twenty-Three Years Ago. Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Sasha sipped her glass of burgundy, rested it on the end table and slid out of bed, carefully so as not to disturb Ibrahim’s afternoon nap. She turned up the thermostat and opened the window to the courtyard. I swear I spend twenty-three hours a day around here with goosebumps. She slid back into bed and glanced at Ibrahim. It was extraordinary, the man got up, ate, had sex, ran off someplace, ate some more, drank, had sex, napped then got up and did it all over again. He still kept a few of his scheduled classes and meetings—a few—occasionally even sitting in on the Council of Ministers beside his father.
She looked at the clock. One twenty-two. She’d wake him in ten minutes so h
e could get to his two o’clock religion class. No early-afternoon prayers for him today unless he’d been thinking of Allah a half hour earlier in those last thrusts of his hips before he’d collapsed into sleep. She picked up her wine glass, reflected on how Ibrahim pulled rank to secure it for her this early in the day, admired the ruby color of the burgundy and complimented herself for overseeing the establishment of a decent cellar in the palace. All this money and nobody knew what Domaine de la Romanee-Conti was. Sasha sipped her wine and considered how she would segue back into the discussion she’d started with him earlier. Ibrahim was as adept at dodging subjects as she was determined.
Ibrahim stirred, inhaled as if someone had let the air out of him earlier and forgotten to reopen the valve. He blinked.
Always looks like some innocent child when he wakes up. It made her smile. She stroked his hair.
“You amaze me,” he said. “Just when I find myself thinking I liked you better when you didn’t know what you were doing, you do something totally outrageous.” He laughed and rested his head back on the pillow. “I think my spine is out of joint.”
“Are you trying to flatter me?”
“Begging for mercy.”
“It’s almost one thirty. You should think about getting ready for your class.” He didn’t respond. “And then afterward your father would want you to join him at the Finance Ministry for the meeting with the American bankers.”
“That again. I can tell when Miss Sasha has an agenda. You woke up with that on your lips this morning.”
This would be easier if he weren’t so perceptive. Or resistant. She recalled her meeting with Yassar, how he had implored her. But how was she supposed to get Ibrahim interested in something if Yassar couldn’t do it himself? Very little of what Ibrahim liked to do involved using his brains. She’d just have to try. “Your father has great hopes for you. He talks about it all the time, even when I visit with him for my religion classes.” He didn’t respond. “You know that’s why he’s tutoring me, don’t you? So I can better understand your practices, know how you’re supposed to live.”
“He’s known you a long time. I’m only beginning to understand why he regards you so highly.” He stroked Sasha’s thigh. “And he knows his teachings well. The Koran is full of instructions on teaching by example. So Father brings me someone who’s smarter than me and more interested in life, everything. And beautiful.” She met his gaze. There was tenderness in his eyes she hadn’t seen before. Her heart warmed, enjoying the spontaneity of his compliments. They made her feel close to him, then guilty for pushing her agenda. Still, acceding to Yassar’s wishes, nudging Ibrahim in the direction of something did no harm. She remembered Yassar’s words: be his gyroscope. A worthy enough cause.
“You’re sweet.” She stroked his forehead. “And it isn’t just for your father, I’d like to see you succeed at something myself. You have so much potential.” Oh my goodness. Her words came from her heart, surprising her.
Ibrahim kissed her hand. Then he stood up and walked to the window to open it. “You still cold? I’m roasting.”
Sasha nodded.
“Next time I’m in Paris remind me to buy you some sweaters. And okay, I’ll go to the Ministry with my father after my class.” He walked into the bathroom.
A minor victory, but a victory.
Fifteen minutes later he reappeared, drying himself. He walked to the bureau and began arranging two lines of cocaine.
“Ibrahim!” Sasha called. “I can’t believe you’re doing that before your religion class! And then you’re going to the Ministry with your father! What on earth are you thinking?”
Ibrahim glared at her, then turned back and began snorting the lines.
“Ibrahim! How can you be so disrespectful to your father?”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to deal with my father!”
“I obviously do if you’re behaving that way!”
He took two steps forward toward her, his mouth contorted. “Leave it! Don’t push your luck!”
Sasha leapt up from the bed, her hair flying, and strode into the bathroom. Stubborn oaf. She mocked herself for her warmth toward him moments earlier and ran into the shower, feeling suddenly unclean, needing to wash his scent from her.
She’d calmed herself by the time she emerged from the bathroom. When she walked back into the bedroom, Ibrahim seemed equally willing to make up, observing her with a smile as he finished dressing. “Feeling better now?” he asked.
She noted his condescension in implying she was the one who’d lost control. “And you?”
He smiled at her. “Come here,” he said. She didn’t move. “Come on, now.” She walked over to him and he drew her to him and kissed her deeply on the mouth. He started to pull her towel off, and she stopped him.
“Not now,” she said. “You upset me.”
“I’m sorry. But you needn’t be my policeman.”
“I’m just concerned about you. You’re using more of that stuff, and more frequently.”
“I’m alright,” he said.
She wasn’t convinced. “It isn’t good for you, and you know it.” She looked into his eyes. “You’re smarter than that. It just saps all your ambition. Maybe if you stopped it for a while you could decide for yourself if you’re alright.”
He nodded, then kissed her again. “Thank you,” he said. She looked at his pupils as he turned to go. They were dilated. She regretted that Yassar would see it, that is if Ibrahim showed up at the Finance Ministry at all. Through her frustration she admitted she was concerned about her lover. What did she need to do to convince him of that?
Sasha wore a formal gown for the party that night. She wasn’t feeling lazy or apathetic, just calm, secure, with a sense of ownership of the palace. It was odd, but she allowed herself to experience it, thinking perhaps it had something to do with Ibrahim’s recent attentiveness to her, despite his sharp words to her that afternoon. And she was beginning to think he would get himself more involved with his father’s work. Who knew? He might even take an interest in the politics.
Sasha followed the music in the hallway to the ballroom, her sandaled feet padding on the marble floor. Two of the ubiquitous uniformed Royal Guards stood at attention at either side of the double doors, accompanied by one of the bellgirls in her white-and-gold-braided uniform.
“Miss Sasha.” The bellgirl opened the door for her.
Brilliant light, a wall of sound, the fragrance of flowers and perfume, and elegance. The ballroom was eighty feet across, circular, and it rose up into one of the palace’s onion-shaped domes at least sixty feet to a twenty-two-karat gold ceiling. Crystal chandeliers hung from the dome and encircled the walls. Every woman in the room was dressed as if for a formal ball. Chanel, Yves St. Laurent, Prada and Halsten formal evening gowns were everywhere. Gleaming gold, glittering strands of jewels, even a few diamond tiaras adorned heads that must have taken hours to coif. It was all like a grand stage set and the women were performing a costume drama.
Sasha located Ibrahim from across the room and watched him for a few minutes. It didn’t take long to see that the men around him were his flunkies. He stood up and walked left, they followed; he stopped, they all froze. He gestured, and one of them scurried off. A glance said: “Get me a scotch,” and a glass appeared, cradled in a supernumerary’s hands. A sideways head movement: a girl was swept off someplace. Had she offended him? Then he moved off to one side, like Lord Byron, making himself available to be adulated.
Sasha walked up to him.
“Hello princess,” he said.
“Hello, prince.”
“Care to sit down?”
“Care to dance?” She extended her arm to him. “This one’s a little fast for you isn’t it?” He took her arm and led her out onto the floor, where perhaps half a dozen other couples were already dancing.
“We’ll see.” As he and Sasha entered the floor, the band slowed the tempo of its song, lost pace with each other for a few beats
, then synchronized themselves in a slow waltz. The other girls moved off the floor and Ibrahim spun Sasha in confident steps, smiling and admiring her.
“How did it go at the ministry today?”
“You’ll be pleased to know I actually found it interesting.”
There. That wasn’t so hard to say, now was it? A victory, but she lowered her eyes so he wouldn’t see her satisfaction. No sense in lording it over him.
“Go ahead, you can say it.”
She looked up and met his gaze. “I told you so.” He smiled that special smile, the one just for her. How long had it been? She’d never been able to doubt him, think ill of him when he looked at her that way. She rested her head on his shoulder, aware that many of the other girls were observing them. She didn’t care. The new favorite.
“Why don’t we get out of here?” she asked.
“What’s your hurry, the party’s just started.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean take me someplace.” She looked at him earnestly, searching his eyes. “Take me someplace—romantic.”
“All right,” he said. “In a few weeks. Father’s asked me to follow up with the bankers, so I’m going to New York for a few days. Strictly business, but I’ll make some reservations for when I get back. I’ll surprise you.” She rested her head on his shoulder again. You’re surprising me now.
CHAPTER 15
JANUARY, TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO. RIYADH, Saudi Arabia. Wow, is he high, Sasha thought. She pulled the silk robe tightly around her as if to protect herself from the unexpected—which she had recently come to expect from Ibrahim—and lay back on one of the sofas in the anteroom of his suite. She heard him through the open doorway into his living room, chuckling and sniffing. This has to stop, or at least slow down. Ibrahim burst through the door, gesturing as if speaking to someone. His eyes were red and he rubbed his nose.