by David Lender
Ibrahim smiled. “It would seem they already have.”
“How can they? Don’t you have diplomatic immunity?”
He laughed. “Now you seem to think there’s some question about it. Back in the hotel you were very convincing. Barking at them like my lawyer.”
Sasha was pacing now, imagining the hollow-cheeked, wormy little man who had entrapped Ibrahim now watching behind the two-way mirror. She knew they were recording their conversation, certainly listening at least. Ibrahim seemed to be turning something over in his mind. She positioned herself in front of him so they couldn’t see her whisper into his face, hoping they couldn’t hear either. “What about it? Diplomatic immunity?” She felt her chest rising and falling unevenly.
“It’s drugs. I don’t know,” he said. She looked into his eyes and now saw that his placid expression was only a front. There was strain at the corner of his eyes, and his mouth was tense. She felt her heart soften toward him. They’d get through this together.
“I’ll call your father.”
He shook his head. “That’s a last resort. I think I’ll try the Saudi Arabian consul first.”
“You know him?” She looked at her watch. “It’s two a.m.”
“No. But he’ll respond. He works for us. It’s his job.” Sasha sensed a muffled wail from someplace within her, perhaps the sound of a belief being shattered. She continued to look into his eyes. The concern in his face, the stress at the corners of his eyes, were gone, replaced by an arrogant look of entitlement. Sasha felt a tremor of despair.
Ten minutes later in the bright entrance hallway of the police station, Sasha stood erect, muscles tensed as if preparing to defend herself from a physical threat. She felt the same melancholy she’d sensed in the interrogation room with Ibrahim. Her mind replayed his words, “He works for us. It’s his job,” then she remembered Nafta’s words: don’t let your heart convince you it’s found something just because you’re yearning for it. Now she was feeling like she was trapped in a stalled elevator. No. Worse. Inside someone else’s body, another life.
Her hopes for her and Ibrahim were ridiculous, she knew. He’d just told her by implication she was only an employee. But maybe he did love her and the drugs were just in the way. She could give it more time and see. She owed herself that much now that she’d brought the question out in the open for herself.
Oh, come off it. You heard him in there. He didn’t love her. She was being a fool; she was his concubine, so this pubescent pining…for what?
Deal with this: Yassar. What’s he going to do? Ship her back? To where? To what? Remember your pact with yourself. Make enough money and get out. She didn’t have enough yet, just getting started. She’d go make peace with Yassar. But it wouldn’t be easy. Tears came to her eyes. Disaster. The one person she didn’t want to disappoint. She now realized the depth of her bond to Yassar. Was that why she tried with Ibrahim: for Yassar? Maybe. With nobody, nothing in her life, she could at least please Yassar. Now look where things stood.
Think later. Feel later. Now, concubine, get this fixed.
March, Twenty-Two Years Ago. Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Sasha hurried across the courtyard to the stolid granite columns and facade of the Finance Ministry, trailing a long-legged Royal Guard behind her as if he were a Chihuahua on a leash scampering to keep up. She was uncomfortable in the noon sun in her black abaya, headscarf and hijav veil, jet-lagged from her flight, but thankful that her discomfort and exhaustion kept her from obsessing more than she already had on her impending conversation—confrontation?—with Yassar. She had left three urgent phone messages since leaving Paris. No response. She hoped it was only because his aide wouldn’t give priority to some girl, probably knew she was a concubine at that, who struggled with broken Arabic. Or worse, she feared, Yassar knows about Ibrahim in Paris and he’s furious at me, too. Even worse, he blamed her. “Be his gyroscope,” she kept hearing Yassar’s words in her mind. She quickened her pace.
Once in the waiting room, she glanced nervously at the Royal Guard who positioned himself by the doorway. She wasn’t as uncomfortable as he was, and probably not as much as Yassar would be with her visiting him here at the Finance Ministry. No, wrong. Neither of them would experience the sensation she now felt of a vice clamping her head. This couldn’t wait, but how on earth was she going to tell him? Some gyroscope.
A moment later Yassar came through the door, wearing his formal Saudi robe and headdress. The Royal Guard came to attention. “Yes, Sasha, what is it?” He carried the gravity of his business in his frown. She could see he didn’t need this interruption, was annoyed at it. No matter. In 30 seconds she’d have more of his attention than she ever cared to experience. She forced herself through her fear, feeling adrenaline buzzing through her system.
“It’s Ibrahim,” she said. She glanced at the Royal Guard, as if to say she wasn’t sure she could speak in front of him.
Yassar nodded at the guard and the man disappeared. Sasha felt a palpable increase in the tension in the room.
“What about him?”
No way to position it. Do it fast. “We’ve just come back from Paris.”
“I know. And?”
She swallowed hard. “He was arrested. Then released, on diplomatic immunity.” She looked away. “Possession of cocaine.”
Yassar’s back went stiff, then he slowly, deliberately sat down. “Is he all right?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. We just got back.” I’m sorry! she wanted to shout.
“Did the newspapers find out?”
“No. But I’m not sure for how long.”
“How did it happen?”
“We were in the hotel in Paris. He bought some cocaine. They set him up, the police. I…I’m sorry. They just took him away. We were at the police station for six hours. Ibrahim finally called the Saudi Arabian Consul. Got him out of bed. He came down and sorted it out.”
“I’d better call the consul,” Yassar said distractedly. She could see it was an automatic reaction.
“Yes, he was quite exercised.” Her breathing was shallow. She wanted Yassar to get on with it. Explode. Whatever he was going to do.
“Anything else?” Yassar looked at her again. Sasha saw the concern replaced by disappointment. It rattled in her soul. She’d let him down, too. She felt as if something was oozing out of her heart.
“Only that he’s not been in a good way in general lately.” She saw the questions in his eyes. “I’m afraid he’s not listening to me at this point.”
Yassar simply nodded. “I’ll take care of it,” he said.
Oh, God, Yassar, I’m so sorry.
Ten minutes later Yassar rounded the last turn toward the entrance of Ibrahim’s suite. He should have anticipated such things, should have taken drastic steps at the outset of Ibrahim’s slide into this self-destructive lifestyle. First off, the arrest must be kept quiet. That consul’s instincts were good. And he understood the looming penalty if he leaked the story. But the police might be another matter. A tabloid headline, Wastrel Playboy Prince, formed in his head. His worst fear or his self-torment for his soft hand on the tiller? Either way he wasn’t leaving here without a resolution.
The Royal Guard positioned outside Ibrahim’s door moved to the side. Yassar turned the knob and went in without knocking. Ibrahim wasn’t in the suite. He entered the bedroom, where he opened each bureau drawer, fishing underneath Ibrahim’s underwear. He found the silver case, opened it, then dumped the contents onto the top of the bureau, walked back into the living room and sat down on the sofa. He checked his watch, opening and closing a meaty fist around the silver case. This would be dealt with. Today.
An hour later, Ibrahim arrived. Yassar didn’t get up.
“Father,” Ibrahim said. His gaze went to his father’s hand, in which he still clutched the silver case. Stoic exterior intact, Yassar saw the recognition in Ibrahim’s eyes. Ibrahim bowed his head, then looked around sheepishly as
if to find support from one of the pieces of furniture. Seeing none, he sat seemingly against his will in the chair across from his father.
“I understand you are making quite a name for yourself. Most recently in Paris.”
The air came out of Ibrahim’s lungs in a whoosh.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“No. I’m only surprised it took this long.”
“Do you have any idea what this could do to our kingdom?”
Ibrahim looked up at him. “Is that all you can think about!” He leaned forward in his chair. “What it will do to the kingdom?”
“That is always the first thing on my mind!”
“Why isn’t that a surprise to me?”
“What in Allah’s name is that supposed to mean?”
“Only that if you took more of an interest in matters other than your precious business perhaps we wouldn’t be having this conversation!”
“Don’t give me some trite nonsense about the neglected son. For a young man born with every advantage you seem to be convinced you’re underprivileged. Most people born to your wealth and station would be out doing something constructive instead of siphoning their lives away through some ridiculous tube!” Yassar was yelling at him now, unconcerned about giving his rage free rein. He threw the silver case on the coffee table. “You’ve shamed us! You’ve shamed the entire kingdom, your family, your religion!” Ibrahim lowered his head and averted his eyes. “What have you got to say for yourself!” Yassar stood, shouting directly down at Ibrahim. “I said, what have you got to say for yourself!”
Sasha opened the door from her room to Ibrahim’s suite. Her heart felt as if it would fly out of her throat. Oh God, Yassar’s unleashing on him! She had to see if she could intervene, at least slow Yassar down. And Ibrahim, with his temper! She lowered her head and ran into his bedroom.
“Sasha, your presence is inappropriate. Leave us,” Yassar said.
“Please, Yassar, I’m as much a part of this as anyone.” She saw him hesitate, and she sat down next to Ibrahim, clasped his hands in hers, as if to say she was here now, she would help, do what it took to sort this out.
“She stays,” Ibrahim said, emboldened by her presence. “What do you want from me?”
Don’t overdo it, Sasha thought.
“You’re going to straighten out.”
Ibrahim opened his mouth to speak.
“No discussion,” Yassar said. Sasha had never seen him look like this.
No one spoke for a half minute. Sasha saw the glazed look in Ibrahim’s eyes. He was still high. She wanted to slap him.
“Perhaps we can go someplace,” Sasha said to Ibrahim. “A few weeks, a few months, whatever it takes. One of those clinics.” The prince didn’t reply. He hung his head as if he were waiting for his father to leave so he could crawl out of his shame, then finally straightened himself in the chair. “I’ll only go if Sasha comes with me.”
Sasha looked at Yassar. “I’ll take him.”
Yassar walked to the doorway and paused with his hand on the doorknob. He looked back. “Our Secret Police will make the arrangements. The events of the last two days will never be repeated, or spoken about.” He opened the door and walked out.
March, Twenty-Two Years Ago. Ford Clinic, California. No bars. Not even latticework. He could walk out of here any time he wants, Sasha thought, looking out the windows in Ibrahim’s simple room. She heard him stir in the bed and turned to see him observing her, wide awake, lucid and eyes clear. “Feeling better?” she asked.
He nodded. “Physically.” They sat in silence for a few minutes. “Has father called?”
“Yes. I told him you had a few rough days, but that now you’re doing splendidly.
“And?”
“I think he’s prepared to forgive you.”
“Thank you for joining me here.” A breakthrough. Particularly after he’d insisted he wouldn’t come without her to attend to him. And God only knew what Yassar had to do to get them to bend the rules to allow her to stay with Ibrahim. “You don’t know what it’s like, to have a famous father to live up to,” Ibrahim said. “Everyone admires him. Everyone. The leftists, the rightists. Foreign governments. Even the fundamentalists admit he’s the only one inside the royal family they think they could deal with. He’s a giant. How do you live up to that?”
His words tugged at her heart. They stirred her own feelings for Yassar, at the same time giving birth to new feelings for Ibrahim. Tenderness toward him welled in her, and even as she tried to savor it, she realized it was more sympathy than affection. With all his talents, all he was born to, he amounted to a spoiled adolescent afraid to live fully because he couldn’t measure up to his father.
She stroked his head, as she would a child’s, and he nodded off to sleep again.
CHAPTER 16
JUNE, TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO. RIYADH, Saudi Arabia. It’s okay, you can admit it to yourself. You like it here. Sasha hurried through the perimeter corridor in the Royal Palace toward Prince Yassar’s study for her lesson in Islam, wearing her abaya and headscarf. The lesson was at a later hour than usual, after the second evening prayers, because Yassar wanted her to have prayed twice to purify herself before this session, which he said would be a ceremonial one. She didn’t want to be late. Not just because she knew it was to be a special evening, but out of respect for Yassar.
She’d long ago noted that Yassar was rigorous in his adherence to the five-times-a-day prayers, that he made his annual pilgrimage to Mecca, and that he insisted that those who worked with him in his ministry do the same. He had shown her from the outset that the Muslim religion formed a part of the daily routine, the daily temperament and interactions with others, as distinct from other religions she had observed. Indeed, it was akin to her experience at Swami Kripananda’s ashram in India.
Her role in Ibrahim’s life wasn’t inconsistent with either teachings, she reflected. While Swami Kripananda neither espoused nor condemned them, the Tantric Yoga studies she’d brought with her from India taught that shared sexual experience was a natural celebration of one of the gifts of life. Not so different from the Islamic teachings: sex as the gift of Allah, the bliss of Paradise in advance; celibacy as ingratitude toward Allah. She was no longer troubled about enjoying her role as a concubine.
Yes, I’ve settled in all right. She’d seen how, when she’d arrive for her Islamic studies, Yassar’s eyes glowed with parental pleasure at seeing a favorite child. She knew that his feelings grew for her well beyond simple fondness, and that he came to care for her as a daughter-in-law, even though she was not a Believer. And these days Yassar did not do all the talking. Many times while Sasha sat at his knee as she had with her Guru’s swamis, she told him stories from the Indian myths she had learned as a child, about Ganesha, her Remover of Obstacles. Ganesha, the elephant-headed boy, whose statue—now that as the “favorite” she had a single room—she secretly said Sanskrit prayers to on a makeshift puja she set up on an end table.
Yassar opened the door, the Koran in his hand. “Come in, Sasha, you’re right on time.”
They sat together, Yassar in his chair, Sasha on a low stool in front of him. She held her gaze at the floor, not wishing to be perceived as too aggressive or disrespectful, but she knew of the kindness in his black eyes and the sereneness of his demeanor.
He’s tired, she thought. His role as Finance and Economy Minister was beginning to weigh on him. That and the growing rift between the royals and the Saudi people that Ibrahim told her he and Yassar dealt with daily, now that Ibrahim was back for the summer from his first year at Harvard and involved in helping his father with the jobs programs.
“The entire Koran was revealed over twenty-three years by the angel Gabriel to the Prophet Mohammed, who had to recite every word back to Gabriel shortly before Mohammed died, so that the entire text could be checked,” Yassar said. “Many say this process was done twice.”
Perhaps that’s what killed him, Sasha co
uldn’t help thinking.
“As one who has indicated she can respect the teachings and who has the intellect and the integrity to understand them, I present to you this copy of the Koran.” Yassar held the book out to Sasha, who took it with a flush of guilt for her thought. She held it in her lap and momentarily hung her head as if in prayer, feeling a warmth flow into her at the gift, then simple peace, a grace. He handed her an embroidered cloth like the one he wrapped his own Koran in, and she placed the Koran he’d just presented to her in it and held it to her breast.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She knew the feelings the senior prince stirred in her were precious. She wondered if other young women who had grown up with fathers to guide them, scold them, teach them, and protect them felt as she did now.
She stood, still clutching the book in both hands and leaned forward. Dear, dear Prince. Constant, gentle Prince. You are my anchor, my rock. She kissed him softly on the forehead. “Thank you,” she said again.
July, Twenty-One Years Ago. Nice, France. People really do live like this, Sasha thought. But sometimes I feel like my heart’s going to dry up and blow away. She walked with Nafta into the Sea Wall Cafe and Lounge at the Baron David de Duval Hotel at the quiet, east end of Nice. Ibrahim always stayed at the Baron David because it was more subdued than the hotels in the center of the city. Sasha loved Nice. She had visited nearly every season with the Countess at the Negresco, in the center of town facing the sea. But Sasha now preferred to be both figuratively and literally above it all on the outskirts of town, high on the hill where the elite Baron David was located.