Omar married his cousin’s daughter, and then she was pregnant, and then she was Um Yusef.
The Koran said that a man must not have more than one wife unless he could treat them equally. Omar tried to give as much attention to Jihan as to his bride. She disdained him. If she could not be the only one, she would not be anyone.
The concept of depression as a clinical illness did not exist in al-Remal. There was not a single psychiatrist or psychologist in the country. When Jihan’s affliction became unbearable, she tried folk remedies, including hashish. Although illegal, the drug was widely available and sometimes used medically; Jihan had seen women take it as an anesthetic and relaxant in childbirth. It did not help her. The initial pleasant dreaminess evaporated when she glanced in the little mirror on her dressing table. Look at the lines! At thirty-two, she was old and ugly. She left the room and immediately ran into Um Yusef, who seemed as youthful and beautiful as an angel. Jihan never tried hashish again.
In the end, at the urging of Najla, Amira, and even Um Yusef, she sent for the same doctor who had examined her after the miscarriage. He assured her that this time there was no need for her to disrobe. All she needed was something to help her sleep. He gave her a large bottle of pills, instructing her to take one just before bed, but never more than two in a given day.
Jihan used the pills for three nights and slept like the dead. That was just the trouble: she woke feeling as if she were dead. She knew why: although she could remember nothing from her deep sleep, she was certain that she had had the dream and had dreamed it all the way through, without the escape of waking up. She was dying every night. She put the pills away. From then on, nothing was better, everything was worse. There was no help for her, none on Earth.
O
“You called me, Mother?” Even though she had watched Jihan decline for months, the way her mother looked still shocked her: unhealthy complexion with no makeup, hair disheveled, clothes smelling of too-long wear.
“Called? Yes, I suppose. Sit, child.”
Amira obeyed. For a long time, Jihan said nothing, merely stared into space. Then suddenly, she blurted, “To fight with a man brings only pain and suffering. Obey your husband and bend to his will. Remember that, and you’ll be happier than I have been.”
“Yes, Mother. Of course.”
Another long silence, then: “Times change, as Omar says. The world changes. People say they wish they could turn back the clock. I wish I could turn it forward. I wish I were your age. I wish … ah, well.”
Her mind wanders so, thought Amira. It was getting worse and worse. Yet, what was to be done? No one knew. Bahia was sure that her mistress was beset by jinn, and sometimes Amira herself wondered if there weren’t something to the ancient superstitions about these malevolent spirits.
Miss Vanderbeek, as worried as anyone, took a far different tack. There were doctors in Europe who treated illnesses of the mind, which was what this was. One of these specialists should be summoned regardless of the cost. Her explanation of the field of psychology sounded almost as fantastic to Amira as Bahia’s pronouncements about jinn, but anything was better than doing nothing. Just yesterday, Amira had taken the unprecedented step of bringing the suggestion to her father.
At first, Omar had bridled at the idea—or perhaps at his daughter’s presuming to advise him. “I’ve heard of this sort of thing,” he grumbled, drawing himself up. “Doesn’t it seem to you to go against God, who holds all our fates in His hands?” Then he slumped. “I don’t know. I’ve racked my brain and thought of a thousand things, none of them worth a grain of sand. Perhaps there is no harm in trying what you say. I’ll make inquiries.”
O
“Let me brush your hair, Mother,” Amira said now, noticing that Jihan was tugging at the tangled strands.
“What? Yes, that would be nice. Thank you, Najla. I mean Amira.” Amira brushed out the knots, then neatly braided her mother’s hair. “There! Much bet- ter. Do you want the mirror?”
“No. I know you did well. Look.” Jihan opened her hand. “My father gave it to my mother. I don’t know why I’ve never shown it to you.” “Mother! It’s beautiful!”
It was a ring, a sapphire, almost midnight blue, set in gold.
“It’s like the night sky, isn’t it, little princess? Dark and deep. And see, there’s the star. Only one. Do you see?”
“Yes, it’s beautiful.”
“It’s for you. You’d have it anyway, of course.”
“Mother, what are you talking about? It’s yours. You keep it. Many years from now—”
“No. I’m setting the clock forward. It’s for you.”
Once Amira finally accepted the ring, albeit under protest, Jihan became almost cheerful. She bathed, put on fresh clothes, and allowed Amira to do her makeup. “Make me beautiful again,” she said with a little laugh. “You are beautiful, Mother.”
That night, waiting for sleep, Amira had hope for the first time in months that her mother had turned a corner. Still, she wished that Malik were here. She wondered if he had received her letter yet. She pictured him pacing, sleepless with worry, in an apartment in France. Had she been too alarmist? She would write him again tomorrow.
She woke in the night to find Jihan standing by the bed. “Mother? Is something wrong?”
“No, dearest. I went to refill my water pitcher—there was no sense in trou- bling Bahia—and looked in on you to say good night. But you were asleep.”
“Asleep? Yes. It’s late, isn’t it?”
“Is it? I suppose it is. Good night, little princess.” “Do you want me to sit with you?”
“No. No, darling. Good night.” “Good night, Mother.”
O
When she woke again, it was still not light, and she thought for a moment that the woman standing over her was Jihan again. But it was Aunt Najla.
“You’re awake, child? Oh, my child, a terrible thing has happened. Amira, your mother is dead.”
By dawn, women were everywhere in the house—aunts, cousins, in-laws, all in black. No one would tell Amira exactly what had happened, but once she heard a voice from the men’s section loudly cursing the doctor and his pills, and then she walked into the kitchen to hear Najla saying, “She was wrong to leave her daughter.”
“No!” Amira shouted. “She never did anything wrong! What did she do wrong? Tell me!”
The women in black shook their heads and clucked. “A terrible thing for the child,” someone muttered, but Amira could tell that they were shocked at the disrespect she had shown her aunt.
“Forgive me,” she said, and soothing hands comforted her.
O
The women prepared Jihan for burial, which would come that same day, according to custom. They washed the body, wrapped it in white linen. As the cloth was wound, Amira took a last look at her mother’s face. In death, the sadness and weariness had vanished, and Jihan looked even younger than the young woman she still had been—as beautiful, perhaps, as on that long-ago day at the riding club in Cairo, when a king had desired her.
Suddenly, Amira could not hold back the tears. “Wake up, Mama! You can’t leave me alone. Please don’t leave me alone!”
“Stop it! Stop it, shameless girl!” It was Najla again, pulling on Amira’s shoulder, dragging her away. “Don’t you know that your mother is in paradise? Do you want your tears to torment her there?”
Amira knew that it was wrong to cry for the dead, but she couldn’t seem to stop.
In the hallway, there was a hubbub, and Bahia scurried up. “Little miss, your brother …”
Behind her was Malik, shock written on his features. “I got your letter,” he said. “I took the first plane. I …”
He stopped. They both knew that there was nothing to say.
Good-Byes
“I should have been here,” Malik said, his voice hoarse with sorrow, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I could have done something … surely there was something …”
A
mira reached out, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘‘It was my fault, Brother, not yours. I was here, and you were not. I was the one who saw that she wasn’t well. I should have watched over her more carefully. I should have spoken to Father sooner. If she’d seen one of those specialists, one of those doctors who heal the mind … If we’d—”
“If, maybe, perhaps … what does it matter now? I failed her. It’s a son’s duty to protect his mother, and I failed.” Staring into the velvet darkness of the garden, he drifted into a misery too private to share.
Amira wanted to comfort her brother, but how could she when she was without comfort herself ? At least Malik had been able to say good-bye to their mother, for it was he who had led the procession of men who buried her. It was he who uncovered Jihan’s face before her body was laid to rest; it was he who would cherish that last precious glimpse of the woman who had given them life. Jihan Badir had loved both her children, Amira knew that, but to the world, she was first and foremost Um Malik.
Amira sighed heavily.
As if he heard what was in her heart, Malik squeezed her hand. “I marked the place,” he said softly. “I marked Mother’s grave with a stone … so you would know it.”
Amira was touched, yet also faintly shocked by her brother’s gesture. The grave of a good Muslim was always unmarked. “What a strange thing to do. What kind of stone?”
“Just a rock I picked up on the beach at Saint-Tropez.” He shrugged. “I’m an idiot, you know. When I saw it in the water, I thought for just a heartbeat that it was a ruby. It was that red. I picked it up and saw that it was just a stone, but still, it was pretty. When it dried, of course, it was nothing, but, by then, I had decided it was lucky. So I kept it.”
“You left it there for luck … for Mama?” Amira found this paganistic idea disconcerting.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Mama didn’t have the luck she deserved. Who knows? Anyway, as long as it’s there, you’ll know where she is. Maybe then, you’ll forgive me for being a man,” he said with a gentle smile.
Startled by his half-serious observation, Amira protested, “But there’s nothing to forgive, not with you.” She flushed with guilt, remembering just how recently she’d resented Malik for having privileges denied to her. “Any- way, it isn’t you I get angry with. It’s just the way things are.”
Malik nodded gravely, as if her thoughts and feelings were as important as his.
“So now you’re without your lucky piece.”
He smiled again. “I’ve decided that I’ve got more luck than anyone needs. Either that or I don’t need luck. Things are going well for me, Little Sister. I wrote you that I’d moved up in the organization. I’ve moved up again since then. But I’ve made some deals on my own, too. Complicated stuff, no need to go into the details. I try not to conflict with my duty to dear old Onassis—not too flagrantly, at least. But I don’t think I’ll need to be with him much longer.” He paused. “Remember what I told you, Amira? If you ever need my help, I’ll be there.”
Amira nodded. She knew Malik meant what he said, but what kind of help would she need, living as she did, having so little to do with the outside world? “And you, Brother, will you be choosing a wife soon, someone to help you with Laila?”
“Not likely,” Malik said ruefully. “When it’s time to send Salima home, I’ll hire the best nanny money can buy for my daughter. But as for me, well, there’s no one woman in my life just now. Many more than one, to put it another way.”
Amira averted her eyes. It was one thing to know that Malik had loved Laila in that intimate way; it was quite another to imagine her brother with legions of faceless foreign women.
“Don’t worry about me, Little Sister. Life is good in France. It’s not like here. Oh, people are much alike everywhere. All the same, it’s freer there. Easier. You don’t have to worry every time you turn around whether you’re com- mitting a sin in someone’s eyes.” His mouth took a bitter little twist. “I think I’ve seen real sin. You have, too. You were there.” A long pause. “It’s a different thing to be a woman in France. Girls there can go to university, become what- ever they want. Professors. Lawyers. Doctors. Maybe … maybe you should come over sometime. If you stay here … well, look at Mother’s life.”
Amira had thought about it, daydreamed about it in a what-if sort of way. But to actually leave al-Remal … her imagination had not yet made that leap.
O
Sleep was fitful as Amira awaited the sun. When, at last, it came, she dressed quickly and slipped out of the house. If her father knew what she was doing, he would be furious. But in her desolation, Amira didn’t weigh the risk. Everyone she cared for was gone, everyone except Malik, who would soon be leaving.
Wrapping her veil tightly around her, she walked the three miles to the mosque. Eyes cast downward, she searched.
Where was it, the marker her brother had left? Perhaps someone had picked it up … perhaps the sand had covered it over during the night. Frantically, she searched, pacing forward and back. There, at last, the oxblood-colored stone Malik had described, a solitary jewel against a bed of sand.
Amira dropped to her knees, her lips moving in silent prayer. Surrounded by silence and stillness, Amira knew she was not alone. She felt her mother’s love, sensed her mother’s heart reaching out to her, from beyond the grave.
She looked to the sky—for so strong a feeling there should be a sign, a fire in the heavens. But there was only the blinding sun. She whispered good-bye, drew her veil, and began the long walk home.
Alone
“Wake up, laziness, wake up. Are you a queen in a palace that you sleep until noon?”
Amira rubbed her eyes and stretched, glancing at her bedside clock. “But Auntie Najla, it’s only half past eight, and I was up very late studying for my examination …”
“Only half past eight? Only? Allah, Amira, a good wife could prepare food for an army before nine o’clock—and see to her husband and children, as well. Examination indeed! When I suggested to your father that some education would make you a better wife, I didn’t expect you to neglect the really important elements of a woman’s life. Or do you think, my high-and-mighty miss, that the diploma you crave will make you better than the good wives of al-Remal? More important than the other women of this house?”
Amira bit back a sharp retort. No, she didn’t think she was better than the other women of the house. But she was different; she felt that every day of her life—and never more so than since Jihan had died. The books she devoured, the home study courses she took, the secret yearnings she harbored, all these set her apart. Yet, what was the point of trying to explain herself ? Anything she said would be taken as disrespect and reported to her father. All in the name of teaching her to be a good and modest woman, of course.
“Well, then,” Najla went on, apparently appeased by Amira’s silence, “hurry up and get dressed. Your father mentioned he would enjoy a good saleeq—yes, that’s what he specified—and if we don’t hurry, Allah only knows what will be left in the market.”
Only half listening, Amira pulled out of bed, slipping a cotton robe over her nightgown as she moved towards the bathroom. She didn’t feel comfortable showing herself to either Aunt Najla or Aunt Shams. Maybe it was because they were so shapeless and—in spite of their preoccupation with other people’s sexuality—sexless.
To Amira, in their dark, cheerless clothes, they resembled the witches in the illustrated Macbeth she had stayed up most of the night to finish. Sometimes she felt sorry for her aunts—living here, in her father’s house, this was all they would ever have or hope to have. But did they have to make her life so uncomfortable—spying, prying, telling tales on her just to curry favor with him?
Bending over the marble bathroom sink, she brushed her teeth and scrubbed her face vigorously with the perfumed French soap Malik had sent—a fragrant reminder of the wonderful world that existed outside al- Remal.
“Yallah, yallah, hurry, hurry, Amira,”
Aunt Najla called out. “All the best cuts of meat will be sold by the time you rouse yourself—and we’ll have nothing left but gristle.”
Amira hurried. If she did everything her aunt asked now, perhaps she would be left in peace later, so she might study with Miss Vanderbeek, who now acted as her personal tutor. The time they shared was like a magic carpet that transported Amira to other places and other times. To eighteenth-century Russia, where a great queen named Catherine ruled with as much power and ferocity as any man. To nineteenth-century France, where a woman took the name of George Sand, wrote provocative novels, and lived openly with the composer Chopin—a man who was not her husband. To England, where Jane Austen, who had been almost as cloistered as Amira, exquisitely dissected the society she lived in.
“Never have I had a more eager student,” Miss Vanderbeek said approvingly. Yet now that the coveted diploma was within reach, Amira felt a growing sadness. What meaning would a piece of paper have to someone like her? She could dream about Paris, but the only journeys she could make were to the souk.
Or to the homes of other cloistered women.
These were the boundaries of her life. She thought of Malik, wondering what his day would be like, trying to imagine a life as rich and varied as hers was limited.
She slipped on a favorite cream-colored linen dress, then tried on her new gold earrings, a gift from Um Yusef on Amira’s sixteenth birthday. But who of any consequence would see—or care—whether she looked pretty or not? With everyone she loved dead or far away, it seemed as if all the warmth and pleasure had gone from this house. Now there was just fussy Aunt Najla and picky Aunt Shams.
A few minutes later, wrapped in identical black abeyya and veils, Amira and her aunt climbed into Omar’s black Bentley, one of a collection of expensiveforeign cars that afforded him both pleasure and prestige.
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