“Good-bye, Amira. Don’t forget.” “I’ll never forget you.”
Closing her eyes, Laila sank back on the straw, exhausted.
Um Salih unwrapped the bundle from her basket. It contained an infant, its skin purple-blue, dead since late that morning. Among the poor of wealthy al-Remal, death often followed closely on birth. For Um Salih, it was not difficult to find this lifeless baby boy. It had been born to her niece, and it took only a few small coins and a little persuasion to buy its body. The old woman wet the tiny corpse with water, then smeared it with blood from the afterbirth. Placing the baby beside Laila, she covered it with a white linen square. “Guard!” she called. Footsteps were heard approaching from far down the corridor. “My work is finished,” Um Salih told him. “The child is dead. Allah took him early.” She drew away the handkerchief.
The guard looked for only a moment. “Just as well,” he said, not unkindly.
Um Salih signaled Amira brusquely. “Bring my things, worthless.” “Yes, Aunt.”
Leaving the prison, praying that the baby would be able to breathe but would not cry, Amira wanted to run. But Um Salih moved slowly, the picture of an old woman whose hard task was completed and who had no need to hurry. Of course, as long as they did nothing to attract attention, no guard would want to look in the basket: unclean things in it, female things. Amira matched the midwife’s pace, and the gate clanged shut behind them.
Sorrow
The hour’s walk to Um Salih’s village felt like a march of a thousand miles. Night had fallen, and the air was cold. Amira had never been so tired in her life. As if to make up for the enforced silence of her first moments of life, Laila’s baby began to cry lustily as soon as the cotton was removed from her mouth.
Amira wanted to stop, to hold the infant and rest awhile, but Um Salih insisted they move on. “She needs mother’s milk. Someone is waiting to give it.” “We can’t just let the baby cry,” Amira persisted. “Surely you can do something to make her feel better.”
Perhaps remembering that Amira was the daughter of Omar Badir, Um Salih relented. Wetting a cloth, she dabbed it with sugar and offered it to the infant to suck. The sweetness—or perhaps simply the touch of a human hand— seemed to soothe and comfort the child. A few minutes later, she was back in her basket, fast asleep.
Just outside the village, a silver Porsche shimmered in the moonlight. As the women approached, Malik stepped from beside it. Usually fastidious—Amira often teased him for being vain—he was unshaven and unkempt. His creamy white thobe, woven of the finest Egyptian cotton, looked as if he’d slept in it. He embraced Amira, held her close for a long moment.
“I was so worried,” he said without preamble. “I was afraid you’d been found out. I thought they’d taken you … I didn’t know what to think. I never would have forgiven myself if anything happened to you. But you’re here now. How is Laila? And the baby, what of the baby? Tell me quickly, for God’s sake!”
Ignoring the question about Laila—for how could she be in such circum- stances?—Um Salih lifted the cover of her basket. “A healthy baby girl, sir. She’ll be a great beauty, I promise you.”
Malik reached for his daughter, touching her face as her mother had. “I’ll call her Laila,” he said, more to himself than to the two women. “I’ll do every- thing for her. Everything and more. Everything I would have done—should have done—for Laila.”
“Don’t think of it now, Brother,” said Amira. “There’s nothing you could have done.” It was true.
O
When Laila’s crime came to light, Malik had wanted to step forward. “The sin is mine, too,” he said. “Why should I escape when her life is lost? We loved together; it’s just that we die together.”
But through Amira, Laila had forbade him to do so. “Giving up your life won’t save mine. It would be a useless sacrifice. Worse, it would make our child an orphan. I won’t allow it.”
All those terrible weeks Laila languished in al-Masagin, Malik paced and roared, like a caged animal. “I can’t let this happen, Amira. What kind of man just stands by when the woman he loves is in danger?”
“A wise man, in this case,” Amira said, trying to persuade her brother that self-preservation did not equal cowardice. “How would it help Laila if you com- mitted suicide?”
And still Malik refused to accept what seemed inevitable, hatching one wild scheme after another and trying them out on his cousin and best friend, Farid. Could the judges be bribed?
“Not for the sums you could raise,” Farid replied. “And while no one would be insulted by the offer of a truly princely sum, the risks in proposing an inadequate bribe would be grave, Cousin.”
Malik yielded to his cousin’s judgment. Within the Badir family, it was generally assumed that Farid, in spite of his fondness for jokes and play, had inherited the intellectual gifts of his father, Tarik, an eminent mathematician. So, it was Farid who kept Malik firmly anchored in reality after the trial and the foregone verdict, when all he could think of was an assault on the prison, a rush for the airport, escape in a commandeered private jet.
Though he had a few friends loyal enough—or crazy enough—to join him in such a venture, Farid pointed out that not one of them was a pilot. And though pilots could be found who would do many dangerous things for money, none would risk being shot down by the Royal Remali Air Force for protecting an adulteress.
In the end, it had all come down to this moment in the desert moonlight, gold tinkling palely yellow from Malik’s hand into Um Salih’s.
“Thank you, sir. A thousand blessings.” The old midwife touched her fore- head in a gesture of respect.
Amira stifled a smile as she recalled how the old woman had badgered and insulted her in the prison. Now that there was no need to play a part for the guards, Um Salih was once again a humble peasant, in the presence of wealth and power.
Malik responded with equal courtesy as he went over the arrangements he’d made for his child. “The wet nurse you’ve chosen. She’s healthy?” “Oh, yes, sir, indeed she is. My niece, Salima.”
“A true niece or an invented one?” Amira asked mischievously, recalling the part she had just played.
“Hush, Amira. Shame on you!” Turning to the old woman, Malik apologized. “I beg your pardon, Um Salih. Sometimes my little sister forgets her manners.”
The midwife inclined her head slightly, a gesture worthy of a royal princess. “As I was saying, sir, my niece gave birth only yesterday, but alas, her child—the baby boy we left at the prison—did not survive. A sadness of long standing … she and her husband have tried for many years to have a child. But let me assure you my niece is otherwise strong and healthy. This baby will have the best of milk and the best of care, I assure you.”
“I’ll come for her as soon as I can. It may be a few months, it may be a year. But don’t worry, you’ll be taken care of, you and your family, for as long as I live.” “Everything will be as you wish, sir. You have nothing to fear from your poor servant.”
Amira knew that was true. Malik would keep his word, she was sure of that. But even if something happened, if his gold stopped coming, Um Salih could never tell the story of what had just taken place in al-Masagin prison. If she did, the first word would be worth her life.
It was time to leave, but Malik’s gaze lingered lovingly on his sleeping daughter.
“Would you care to hold her, sir?” The midwife reached into the basket, picked up the baby, and placed her in the crook of Malik’s arm.
He held her in silence, his dark eyes glistening.
Amira and the midwife were quiet, too, as if by mutual agreement, while father and daughter shared their first communion under a sheltering desert sky.
Later, as Malik and Amira drove away, he said, “I mean it, you know. She’ll be my sun and moon and stars.” Amira studied her brother’s face. It seemed older, more rugged, than it had a few short months ago. The tears in his eyes had spilled onto his cheeks. But Malik ne
ver cried, she thought, not even when they were little.
After another silence, he said, “It can’t be in al-Remal, of course. I’ll be in exile, an expatriate. I don’t know if I’ll ever come back.” He looked at her penetratingly. “Someday you may have to make the same decision.”
As they approached the gate to their home, Malik cut the motor. “Go around to the back. The door will be open. I’ve arranged it with Bahia. She loves you, Amira … she wouldn’t even take the money I offered. Go to her room down- stairs. That way no one will hear you. She’ll have a nightgown waiting. Change there and then go to your room. If someone wakes up, say you couldn’t sleep. Bahia will back your story.”
It sounded so easy. Deceiving their parents. And though Amira had never before told them a really big lie, she found she was ready to begin. “What about you? Are you coming with me?”
Malik shook his head. “Too suspicious. I’ll stay out for another hour or so. I can always say I was with my friends.” He smiled, though his face was still sad. “It’s different for me, you know that.”
Amira knew. Malik was supposed to be enjoying his summer holiday, and even if he stayed out all night, Father wouldn’t really mind. As she opened the car door, Malik reached over and took her hand. “I’ve made a promise, Little Sister. To myself and to Allah. Now, I make it to you: Never again will I be powerless. Never will I be too weak to save someone I love. Remember that.”
A short time later, Amira was in her own bed. Though the grime of the prison lingered on her skin—she didn’t dare risk a shower—her nightgown was clean and crisp, her sheets fragrant with lavender. I'll never be able to sleep, she thought. If I close my eyes, I’ll see Laila’s face—and that terrible prison cell.
Yet, Amira did sleep, deeply, dreamlessly, not to open her eyes till the Sudanese servant, Bahia, shook her awake. “I brought you a tray,” she said with a conspiratorial smile that glinted with gold. On the tray was a steaming pot of tea, some toasted bread, a dish of olives, and a round of white cheese.
“Thank you, Bahia. And thank you for—”
“Hush, child. The less you say, the less I’ll know, the less I’ll have to answer for.”
“And Malik—is he still asleep, too?”
“Oh, no, your brother was in the kitchen when I woke. From the look of him, he didn’t sleep at all. But what do I know?” Again the conspiratorial smile. “He’s with your father now, in the big study. With the door closed.”
Amira bolted up in bed. Something important was going on. It had to do with the baby, she was sure of that. But what on earth could Malik be discussing with Father? Ignoring her breakfast, she gave herself a perfunctory wash. After running a comb hastily through her thick raven hair, she dressed quickly and ran downstairs.
The study door was indeed closed. Amira put her ear to it, but all she could hear was the rumble of male voices. Did she dare? She did.
Holding her breath, she turned the knob, gently, gently, then pushed, just a little. There was a creak. Amira froze. But the conversation continued.
“I’m not a boy,” Malik was saying. “I’m a man, and I’m old enough to know what I want in life. I have no interest in studying international law—or business. So why should I waste your money—and my time—at the Sorbonne? I want to make my way in the real world, as you did.”
Amira held her breath, waiting for an explosion. It didn’t come. But how could Malik turn his back on the wonders of a European college—when she would give anything to be in his place?
“An admirable goal, my son.” Was Father being sarcastic?
“And exactly what business—as the man you are—have you decided to enter?”
“Shipping,” Malik replied, as if he had given the matter a great deal of thought. “But I’m no fool, Father. I know I can’t do much without your help. And so I’m asking a favor, one that I’ll never forget. Will you put in a word with your friend, Onassis? Will you ask if he can fit me in someplace? Anything at all. I’m willing to work and learn. As you did.”
“Ah.” Amira was sure her father was smiling. How many times had he told the tale of how he had started trading in silk at seventeen, without any formal schooling worthy of the name? Of his success, the whole kingdom knew.
“But that was another time, my son,” Omar said, his tone mild rather than compelling. “Nowadays, a college education can be extremely useful for a man… some even say necessary.”
“You know I’m not a great student, Father. You’ve said so yourself, and more than once. I have my diploma from Victoria. Whatever else I need, I will learn, I promise you.” There was a pause. Amira could imagine Malik flashing the grin that few could resist. “Besides,” he continued, “aren’t you always criticizing so many of your friends’ sons who go to European colleges? I’ve heard you say the only degrees they earn are from the casinos and whorehouses. Surely, you can appreciate my wish to do better than that?”
Omar laughed. There was the sound of a telephone being dialed, then a conversation in English. When it was over, Omar said, “Onassis has a position for which you can be trained. Not in Paris …” He paused. Was he inviting Malik to protest? “Not even in Athens. In Marseilles.” “Whatever it is, I’ll take it. Thank you, Father.”
“Mind you, he’ll give you a chance, but that’s all. You’ll have to earn your own success.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
Hearing the scraping of chairs against the floor, Amira scampered away. But as soon as Omar left for his office, she waylaid her brother. Bahia was right, Amira thought—Malik hadn’t slept. Though he had shaved and dressed in a fresh robe, his eyes were bloodshot and weary. “I heard you talking to Father. Why did you tell him you didn’t want to go to the Sorbonne? That isn’t true, you know it isn’t.”
“It is now, little sister,” he said, ruffling her hair. “I have responsibilities, remember? It’s a small enough sacrifice …” His voice trailed off, his sentiment a reminder of what was soon to happen.
The morning stretched before them. What was there to do on such a day?
What was there to say?
Amira wanted to be with her brother, but he chose solitude, shutting him- self in his room. She tried to do the usual things, but when she tried to read her books, the words made no sense. When she tried to help Bahia in the kitchen, she felt as if she might burst out of her skin.
And still the hours had to be endured.
At one o’clock, after the noon prayers, Laila would die.
Just before eleven, Malik burst into Amira’s room. “I can’t help it, I’m going down there. To be near her.”
“No, Malik, don’t. Someone might suspect—”
“No one will suspect anything. I’ll just be a rich kid looking for a nasty little thrill.” Bitterness was hard in his voice.
“Then I’m going with you.”
“Absolutely not. This isn’t going to be something a girl—a kid—should see. “I wasn’t too much of a kid to see the inside of al-Masagin prison last night. Have you forgotten already?” Malik needs me, she thought. The way he is now, who knows what he might say or do?
They argued. Malik forbade her to go, and she defied him. “If you don’t take me with you, I’ll go on my own.”
Malik said nothing. Amira took that as consent.
Long before the sun reached its midday position, she stole out of the house, with her boy disguise in a bag. Retracing her steps of last night, she ran to Malik’s car, where she slipped on the white thobe, the ghutra, and sunglasses.
O
The barren square was baking with the strongest heat of the day, a thick wooden post planted at its center. Someone—who? Amira wondered—had dumped a pile of large, smooth, white river stones a few paces from the post.
At first, Amira thought there must be some mistake, some reprieve. Except for a policeman or two, the square was empty of people.
Then she saw them, dozens, hundreds, crowding in the shade of doorways and
prison walls. She recognized a few friends of her father’s or of Malik’s, but most of the people seemed to be the poor. And a great many were women.
As the midday sun burned the sandstone walls of al-Masagin, Laila, blind- folded, was led out and tied to the stake. Scarcely a dozen yards away, Laila’s family were lined up, as stiff and rigid as statues. By law, they were compelled to be here, the men to share Laila’s shame and dishonor, the women to witness what could easily happen to them if they strayed from the rightful path.
Amira felt as if she might faint, but when she looked at Malik and saw how terrible he looked—his skin pasty, his face contorted with anticipated pain—she found her courage.
Slipping her hand into his, she held it tight. He was whispering something, and as she strained to hear, she realized it was a prayer. An official read a declaration of the crime and sentence. Then, at some signal Amira missed, Laila’s eldest brother stepped forward, a fist-sized stone in his hand. Only a few feet from his sister, he suddenly hurled the rock with all his might straight at her forehead.
This image burned itself into Amira’s brain. Did he throw with such strength out of hatred, for the shame Laila had brought her family—or out of love, to kill her instantly and spare her what was to follow?
Whatever his intention, he failed in it: at the last split second, Laila turned her head as if searching for someone—Amira could swear she looked directly at Malik—and the stone struck a glancing blow.
Blood gushed. Laila sagged, straightened, shaking her head as if to clear it.
And then came a sound like the snarl of a vicious dog unchained.
The crowd surged forward, almost fighting one another to get at the rock pile. Suddenly, the stones were flying as thickly as a flock of frightened white birds in the square. To Amira’s horror, the women were the fiercest executioners, screaming curses as they threw, then scurrying to grab another stone.
For a few seconds, Laila twisted, first to one side, then the other, as if trying to avoid her unseen attackers; then she collapsed in her bindings, the rocks thudding into her body, knocking her head loosely, sickeningly, from side to side. It ended as abruptly as a desert thunderstorm, a last stray stone rattling across the baked earth.
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