by David Lender
It was beginning to make her feel estranged; not him, the cocaine. He was good to her when he wanted to be. She believed he cared for her. And weren’t there moments when she felt truly close to him? When he did little considerate things for her. Leaving the window open so she wouldn’t freeze from the air-conditioning. Her Earl Grey tea. Learning which her favorite burgundies were and having a glass of Pierre Bouree Clos de La Justice ready for her when she arrived, even though he never touched wine himself. But the drugs. Like tonight. Sometimes it was more like being with the cocaine than with Ibrahim. And she wanted Ibrahim tonight, for a rare quiet evening, to be close to him.
Sasha sat up. “Why don’t we stay in tonight?” she asked. He flopped down next to her, fidgeting.
“I don’t want to. I hired the band Chicago. Tonight’s the first of their three nights, and I want to be there. Besides, I need to be there.”
Why couldn’t he let go of being the center of attention? “Let Prince Abdul be the master of ceremonies.” She stroked his forehead. “He’d love to do it, I’m sure.”
He took her hand in his, kissed it and let it fall to the sofa. “He’d love to all right. Pretend it was his idea, too.” He glanced back and forth. “Besides, I want to hear them.”
He’s too far gone. Yassar will find out for sure. I need to do something. That was the other problem. She didn’t need to be reminded that Yassar was relying on her to keep Ibrahim out of trouble. She felt a wave of guilt. Not a comfortable sensation, nor one she was accustomed to. “I want you to myself tonight.” Sasha lounged onto the pillows and allowed the robe to part slightly.
“You have a strange sense of timing,” he smiled. He pulled out his silver case, laid it on the table and opened it.
“Why are you doing that?” Please, Ibrahim. Just be with me tonight. I need some quiet time.
“Why not? It’s none of your concern.”
“I’m worried about you.” She sat up, slid next to him, placed her hands on top of his and gently closed the silver case. He paused, gave in to her, stroked her hair, gently brushed it away from her face.
“Remember what your father dreams for you,” she said. Here she was making arguments about his father. Why wasn’t she simply appealing to him from her heart? That’s where she needed him tonight. Didn’t have the nerve? The girl with no fear? She felt any chance to get through to him slipping away.
He said, “I know. I’m the future of Saudi Arabia.” He looked away. Sasha reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sometimes I think you’re closer to my father than I am,” he said. She felt her own neck stiffen. “I can’t do it,” he said, glancing away. “Not like he wants me to.”
She leaned against him. “Have you talked to him? I can perhaps introduce the subject…he listens to me…”
“Listens to you!” He yanked himself away. She tried to reach for him again. He shouted in a sudden rage, “Don’t! Just don’t…He’s my father! Do you know how preposterous it is at times? The things he wants for me to do?” He raised his hand. Sasha thought he was about to strike her. Instead he slumped in his seat. “I never asked for any of that.”
Sasha massaged his shoulders. He continued, as if in defeat. “You don’t understand any better than he does. The fact is, I just don’t care that much. At least not as much as him. Or possibly even as much as you.” He stood up, stumbling into the coffee table. “We’re going to the party.”
Sasha had lost all interest in his affections tonight. But she wasn’t about to endure explaining to Yassar why everybody was whispering about Ibrahim. She stood up and spoke to him calmly. “Look. Like I said. I want to be alone tonight. With you, that is.” She heard it herself; the emotion was gone from her voice. This was business now. She stepped back and let her robe fall off her shoulders to the floor.
She wore the diamond necklace he had given her two days earlier, fifteen karats on the strand with a ten-karat stone hanging from the center, and a matching ensemble of ear clips, each dangling with five karats of stones. The diamonds and a white G-string and open-toed high heels. She stepped back a few more paces, cocked her head to the side and smirked. Then she reached down beneath the pillows of the sofa and pulled out two mittens made of beaver fur. That would get him interested. “And I brought these.” She turned and walked through the door, knowing he’d follow. Only problem is, after all that cocaine even I won’t be able to keep him happy. He’ll probably want me to call in Nafta. Her heart felt numb.
February, Twenty-Two Years Ago. Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. The din of the open market rose in a crescendo as Sasha approached its entrance. She walked confidently wearing a black abaya, her hair covered by a cotton scarf, her face hidden behind a hijav veil, chest thrust forward and back straight. She was slightly ahead of the rest of her party. Nafta and two Royal Palace Guards followed. She saw a Mutawwa’iin eyeing her from 30 feet away. She raised her chin higher as he stepped forward and blocked her path. Sasha stopped in front of him, glaring. Just as he prepared to speak, Nafta eased Sasha to the side, escorting her into the entrance to the outdoor market.
“You’re a small wonder,” Nafta grinned. “Not a picture of the restrained Saudi woman.”
“I’m not?” Sasha asked innocently. Nafta giggled.
They stayed for forty-five minutes, sampling spices, pausing to negotiate with vendors selling jewelry and clothing, frequently abandoning the sport even before discovering how low they could badger the salesman down. “I agree. Ibrahim’s very bright, but not very motivated,” Nafta said, looking disinterestedly at a table full of shoes.
He’s heading for a major collision with his father’s image of him, Sasha thought.
Nafta continued. “And he has a temper, if you haven’t seen it already, so you’ll have to be careful. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you”—she paused for emphasis—“like shipping you out.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. “At least it’s not a hard life, only monotonous at times,” Sasha said. “And claustrophobic.”
“It gets better, believe me. He takes one of the other girls skiing. I’ve never gone. Can’t get my legs to turn that way.” She smirked lewdly. “Ask him to take you again. Where did you go?”
Sasha felt warmed as she recalled her week with Ibrahim in December. “Aspen. It was wonderful. But I haven’t seen him open up to me like that since.” Sasha sensed surprise in the way Nafta glanced sideways at her. Jealousy? Concern?
They left the market and headed back toward the palace.
“You have to admit the work’s not hard,” Nafta said later after a long silence.
“No, but there’s certainly a lot of it.”
“He still treats you well, I assume?”
“Yes. Now he even turns the air-conditioning down for me. I froze to death the first few months.”
Sasha reflected on Ibrahim’s little kindnesses, sensed her longing to be close to him in a way she wasn’t. Was it possible? She could get glimpses of it when he was in his more serious moments. When he revealed his intelligence and perspective as he opened up to her, for example, about Yassar’s work. Yassar had said sometimes concubines became wives. You’re forcing it, now. She laughed at herself for her adolescent fantasy gone wild. Yet it brought to her the longings she felt for a lover. She deserved it. After all, she was a woman now, fully experienced—except in matters of the heart. Sasha took Nafta’s arm and pulled her close. Nafta wouldn’t laugh at her dreams. They walked on that way, clutching each other like sisters.
“Lonely?” Nafta asked after a while.
“Empty. I miss people. And I can’t help but ask myself, ‘Is this all you’re going to do with your life?’ I used to believe in love as something everyone would find. Now I’m not so sure, and it’s left me a bit lost.” They continued on, their arms still hooked. “I’d like something to believe in again.”
“The secret is to keep busy. Jammed full. So you don’t think about it. Then it’s fine.”
“I’m used to
that.” Sasha looked down at the ground. “I guess I’ve been doing that for a long time.”
Nafta brightened. “The season on the French Riviera starts soon,” she said. “Things will pick up. Ibrahim gets a break from his schooling and Yassar keeps him on a longer leash.”
“Yes,” Sasha said, feeling her emotions flowing again. “Ibrahim’s taking me to Paris in a few weeks.”
“Be careful, sister,” Nafta said. “Remember, I’ve been at this longer than you. Don’t let your imagination—or your heart—get carried away into believing you’ve found something just because you’re yearning for it. Don’t hurt yourself.”
Sasha squeezed her arm, thanking her without words. It was good advice.
March, Twenty-Two Years Ago. Paris, France. Sasha always felt like a princess when she descended the stairway of one of the royal family’s Lear jets wearing anything other than a black abaya. Today she wore an ankle-length, midnight-blue cashmere coat, sable hat, and maroon gloves against the late-winter cold in Paris. What she liked most wasn’t so much allowing herself that indulgent moment of vanity, but that Ibrahim played into it. “Lovely,” he said, dark eyes fixed on her, his hand out to take hers as she alighted from the last step, himself dressed in tan cashmere highlighted by a bold blue-and-gold silk scarf Sasha had given him for the trip. For a moment the two of them stood there looking at each other in a different way than before. Like honeymooners.
When they got into the limo, Sasha wondered how long it would take for Ibrahim to start groveling in his silver case for his coke, which had been absent the entire ten hours from Saudi Arabia. Relax, she told herself. Enjoy the trip. She had Ibrahim to herself for a week, and she’d explore those possibilities she saw for them. A week. And in Paris, no less.
She slid her arm through his and held him close until she could smell the scent of his coat and his cologne. He said, “How about a cruise through town before we go to the hotel?”
“Great,” she said. At 9:00 p.m. the lights of Paris would set the mood. Was he feeling romantic, too?
Ibrahim spoke to the driver. They entered Paris through Montparnasse, drove up past the Eiffel Tower, then crossed the Seine. Cruising past des Invalides, Sasha turned to Ibrahim. “Thank you for bringing me,” she said. She kissed him. “I needed some time. Quiet time, away.”
“Yes. It’s nice to get away,” he said.
She felt a sag of disappointment. Was she hoping for too much or reading too much into what he said? Or didn’t say? Stop being a schoolgirl. “How much time will you be spending on your business?”
“I have meetings with the bankers on the agricultural loan program all day tomorrow, then Tuesday, then depending how it goes maybe another day. Probably a dinner or two.”
“Sounds like I’ll need to amuse myself part of the time,” Sasha said. She allowed disappointment to show in her tone. Ibrahim stared at her as if perplexed, then looked out the window with a haughty indifference. It made her feel lonely.
Sasha thought about what she could do on her own in Paris. All the people she knew. The last time she was here was eight months earlier, only weeks before Yassar had come to the Countess’ in Switzerland with his proposal. In that moment she played a few of the reunion conversations in her head. So you’re well. And Christina? Smoking up her million-dollar fee. And so what have you been up to? Oh, just laying on my back around the Saudi Royal Palace. And what’s it like? Better than a slap in the face with a cold fish.
No, not an option. What did it matter? She’d never been ashamed of herself in her life. Why start now? If the people she knew couldn’t deal with it, that was their problem. Move on and see what comes next. Besides, what she was doing was no more mercenary than many of the marriages and less holy liaisons she’d witnessed growing up in Christina’s revolving circle of barons, socialites, pretenders and snobs. Trophy wife. Concubine. What’s the difference?
Sasha admired the familiar polished marble and brass in the lobby of Le Bristol Hotel as Ibrahim checked in. It would be a good trip, she thought. She felt somehow home again. Not so much at Le Bristol, although she’d been staying there on and off as long as she could remember, but Paris. She saw Renee, one of the frosty concierges who’d been melting into smiles ever since she was a preteen running up to him, pestering him about what she’d had for breakfast or where did the room service carts go at night? Now she wished she could run up to him and hug him like that again, and the thought made her feel distant from the world she’d left behind.
In the suite, Sasha unpacked her bag, humming an Indian melody. She realized how tired she was. Yet as she unpacked her negligee she felt a surge of energy, sensing her desire for Ibrahim. So far he’d been the companion she’d hoped for. Sober, dignified and authoritative, even if hard to figure. A bit of mystery was okay. Sexy. She heard him on the phone in the living room of the suite, speaking in French. He gave someone their room number and hung up.
“Ordering room service?” she asked.
“No. A little business.”
Sasha’s stomach wrenched. What was this all about? The way he said it implied he didn’t want any discussion. She stopped unpacking and turned to him, wondering how to raise a question without him exploding, seeing him hurry past her again toward the living room. “Anything I can help with?” she asked jauntily, botching it, realizing trying to sound cheery and offhand wasn’t her forte.
“No. I’m fine,” he crooned back, showing her how to do it, but adding a bit too heavy a dollop of patronizing dressing for Sasha’s taste. Now her antennae were up.
Is he buying drugs?
She heard a knock on the door and walked to the doorway of the bedroom to see two men enter the suite. She observed them sourly. The one who looked like a hollow-cheeked dealer looked away from her guiltily. She felt a swell of outrage, realizing she’d never seen one of Ibrahim’s transactions. Never wondered how he got the stuff.
Most of the exchange occurred out of her view in front of Ibrahim, who rounded his shoulders, as if he felt Sasha’s eyes singeing his back. She saw a wad of bills come out of his pocket and it was over.
Then it wasn’t over, something odd happening, the other man, taller and burly, pulling something shiny—handcuffs!—out of his pocket and slapping them onto Ibrahim’s wrists, declaring in guttural Parisian French: “I pronounce you under arrest,” with melodramatic aplomb.
“What are you doing?” Sasha demanded, knowing precisely what they were doing, arresting Ibrahim, but trying to defuse the drama. “Don’t you know that man is a member of the Saudi royal family? He has diplomatic immunity!”
She saw Ibrahim turn to her with calm in his eyes, as if what she said made perfect sense.
“Stand your distance. Or we take you too,” the smaller man said, reaching for the door handle. The burly one started ushering Ibrahim toward the door.
Sasha felt anxiety wash over her. She grabbed her purse as they had Ibrahim halfway out the door. “I’m coming with him!” she said. Why in God’s name was Ibrahim so calm, she wondered. Who could she call if they actually hauled him in?
“Not unless you want to get arrested too!” the little man shouted from out of sight. Sasha raced down the three flights of stairs, watching the three men ride down in the glass-walled elevator to the lobby, wondering where they were taking Ibrahim. It was an obvious setup. She felt her heart slapping against her rib cage and wondered what they did to drug offenders—God it sounded like something from American television—in France, then Oh my God, what about Saudi Arabia where taking drugs was against their religion as well as the law. She arrived in the lobby just after them and followed them out the door, avoiding the stares of the hotel staff. She regretted leaving her coat behind as she entered the cold night air, leapt into a cab and actually said the words, “Follow that car,” as the police cruiser pulled away from the curb.
The police car took Ibrahim into an alley behind a police station in the second Arrondisement. Sasha was obliged to enter the front door
after a gendarme blocked the taxi from the alley.
The inside of the police station was stark, fluorescent lights, glossy yellowish paint over bare-walled concrete. Gray-painted concrete floor. She endured the next hours in purgatory, twisting in her mind what Yassar would think, what he would do, and how she would tell him. And what was Ibrahim involved in? Was it simply a setup bust over drugs or had Ibrahim been targeted in some way to embarrass the Saudis? She couldn’t imagine how she was going to get him out of here, let alone deal with whatever the consequences would be.
She asked to see Ibrahim. No. Again. Not yet. What to do? She forced herself to think clearly. She knew a judge, a friend of Christina’s, but what was his name? Then Yassar’s face came to her, his mournful eyes chastising her, then enraged. How would she explain to him?
Three hours now. She asked to see Ibrahim again. Later. Now she was seized by concern for Ibrahim, how he must be feeling. She felt her strength draining out of her through a vacuum in her stomach, next the consuming need to hold him. She wanted to tell him how much she cared for him, how much she…what? Was she in love with him? What a time, what a place to wrestle with that one. Leave it until later, when she could focus, and her head didn’t hurt so. Her mind kept going anyhow. And how did Ibrahim really feel about her? He’d never said it to her, that he loved her. Wanted her yes, but…?
“Mademoiselle Del Mira,” the paunchy sergeant finally barked from behind his desk. Sasha approached. He motioned with his head toward the door where a young officer stood. “Ten minutes only.” Sasha walked to the doorway, her mouth dry.
“You will need to be searched,” the officer said, eyeing her handbag, then her body.
She just looked at him. “That will hardly be necessary,” she said. The man nodded and led her down the hall to a room before stepping aside so she could enter. Three chairs and a desk. A glass wall, the classic two-way mirror. A rumpled newspaper on the floor in the corner. And Ibrahim standing, looking at her calmly, his calm making her more upset, because she felt her pulse oddly thumping in her heels. “What do we do?” she said. “We can’t let them arrest you.”