Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  Strange, Amira thought, as she watched the fashion show that had been created for her alone. Gres was a name she had often read in magazines, a world apart from al-Remal. Now that world had come here, to her, and all because she was marrying Ali al-Rashad. And this was just the beginning. Perhaps marriage would be more than just an escape from her father’s house. Perhaps it could be wonderful, after all, just as poor Laila had once imagined. Amira studied the gowns thoughtfully, nodding dutifully as her aunts made comments on this one and that. When she pointed to the simplest of all—a princess style in creamy white silk, its bodice delicately embroidered with seed pearls—the designer murmured her approval. “A fine choice, ma’mselle—my personal favorite.”

  Next, the models began showing selections for Amira’s trousseau: fashionable suits, stylish dresses, and chic, daring evening gowns. Though she expected to be veiled and covered for the rest of her life, Amira would wear these beautiful things for her husband. Her prince.

  “The white linen suit,” she murmured, as a tall, willowy model paraded before her. The designer’s assistant noted her choice.

  “That dress,” Amira said, indicating a flame-colored silk, “and the emerald green gown.”

  “The Empire style will suit you, ma’mselle,” the designer said. “I think you might also like the white strapless gown that’s coming out next.” “I’m sure it’s lovely,” Amira said, “but I don’t think I need any more gowns.”

  The designer laughed. “Your fiancé disagrees, ma’mselle. He feels you should choose at least a dozen gowns. And suits and dresses, as well.”

  I already have so much, Amira thought, but not wanting to offend either Madame Gres or Prince Ali, she complied.

  When the fashion show was over, she thanked the designer for bringing such lovely things and then adjourned to her bedroom with two fitters. As an accommodation to the royal house of al-Remal, the fitting process, which was normally complicated and time-consuming, would be accelerated.

  As the women took her measurements, Amira gazed at the ever-growing trousseau that spilled out of her closet and filled every available surface: hand- made Italian shoes in a rainbow of colors, silk lingerie from Hong Kong, most pieces in virginal white but a few nightgowns in soft shades of apricot and peach; richly embroidered sheets and pillowcases of Egyptian cotton, ordered by her aunts so Amira would not go to her husband’s house empty-handed. Small chance of that, she thought, not with the abundance of lavish wedding gifts accumulating in the library—all destined to be part of her new life as a married woman.

  How curious a woman’s life was, Amira reflected. Ever since Jihan died, she might as well have been invisible in this house; now it was as if the world revolved around her. It was a feeling she didn’t fully trust. Laila had had such a moment— and Jihan, too. Perhaps most of the women of al-Remal had felt like this when they were wed. And then, they had become invisible once again.

  Perhaps that wouldn’t happen to her, Amira thought hopefully. Her prince had been educated in Switzerland and England. He couldn’t be like her father or the man Laila had married. Perhaps he would be like the men in the novels she read, men who adored their wives—and treasured them in ways she’d not yet seen in al-Remal.

  O

  By the time the Gres entourage left, it was time to dress for tea. Not just any tea—for today, Amira’s aunts would receive Prince Ali’s mother and sisters. Today, Amira would meet her in-laws for the first time.

  She showered hastily, then scrubbed her face with a rough washcloth, bringing a smudge of color to her cheeks. Carefully, she brushed her thick, dark hair to a glossy sheen. Should she wear it loose, in a flattering cascade of waves that reached her shoulders? Or pulled back in a more modest but less flattering chignon?

  She could almost hear one of Aunt Najla’s favorite sayings: “Eat what you please but wear what pleases others.” Amira pinned her hair back and chose a dress that would surely please her aunts: a demure navy blue silk with a crisp white collar. I look like a schoolgirl, she thought. That should please my family—and perhaps Ali’s, too.

  O

  Faiza al-Rashad, known as Um Ahmad in the royal court, swept into the Badir house as if she owned it. Amira’s aunts fluttered around the great lady, murmuring politenesses as they bowed respectfully before her.

  With great deference, the king’s ranking wife, followed by her two daughters, Munira and Zeinab, was shown into the large salon. A servant stood by as she shed her veil and robe, revealing a gray silk Lanvin suit. She was seated in the largest, most comfortable armchair, a footstool placed beneath her Ferragamo-shod feet.

  A moment later, Amira presented herself to Faiza. “God’s peace be with you, honored Mother,” she said, lowering her eyes decorously as she kissed the older woman’s hand.

  “And with you, my child.” Faiza tilted Amira’s face upward and studied it for a long moment. She nodded, as if satisfied with what she saw.

  With a slight gesture of her hand, she summoned her older daughter, Munira, who produced a velvet case from her Hermes shoulder bag. “May God’s happiness be with you always,” Faiza said, presenting the case to Amira. “Wear this on your wedding day with our blessing.” She opened the box, which contained a magnificent, diamond-studded platinum tiara.

  Amira’s breath caught in her throat. She had never seen gems like this before, and for the first time, she understood that the life she would lead as a princess was far, far beyond the comfort she had known in her father’s house.

  “Your blessing is more precious than diamonds. I pray I’m worthy of your generosity.”

  Faiza nodded her approval of Amira’s words. As the aunts oohed and aahed over the gift, pots of mint-flavored tea appeared, along with platters of sweets, the product of hours of baking. First came the kanafi, a shredded wheat pastry stuffed with sweetened cream and drizzled with honey. This was followed by ma’amul, a rich shortbread filled with dates and nuts, and baklava, made of phyllo dough and pistachios, sweetened with sugar and rosewater syrup.

  Amira took a fine porcelain plate from the sideboard, filled it with pastries, and offered it to Faiza, who acknowledged the gesture with a slight inclination of her head.

  “Please try the kanafi,” Aunt Najla urged. “Amira made it herself.” Faiza took a bite, chewed it carefully, then swallowed. “Very nice,” she pronounced, “though the syrup could use a bit more rosewater.” Encouraged by this demi-compliment, Najla continued, “The French dressmakers say Amira has a perfect figure. She will look like an angel in her wedding dress.”

  Faiza’s eyes flicked over her two daughters, neither of whom could merit such a compliment. “Physical beauty can be a blessing—or a curse, especially if it leads to vanity.”

  Aunt Najla retreated.

  “My Ali has just been appointed minister of culture,” Faiza announced proudly—though in fact the appointment had been made by his own father. The women murmured their appreciation of this honor.

  “It’s a position of great responsibility and respect. My Ali will supervise the completion of our new cultural museum. And he will travel all over the world, to England and France and Italy, perhaps even America, to show what is best of al-Remal.”

  Amira was dazzled. England and France and Italy—storybook countries rich with delights she could only imagine. Perhaps the prince would take her with him. Perhaps they might one day visit Malik and see all the glorious places she’d been reading about for so many years.

  “His wife will have to set the highest standard for herself,” Faiza continued. “She will have to be chaste and unassuming—and above all, obedient and modest.”

  Amira lowered her eyes. Was the woman a mind reader, too? Did she suspect Amira’s fantasies were not of modesty or obedience, but of adventure? Knowing all too well how powerful a mother-in-law could be—in al-Remal, after all, at least half of the married men still lunched regularly with their mothers—she resolved to be careful to keep out of Faiza’s way as much as possible,
much as she had tried to do with her aunts.

  While Aunt Najla and Aunt Shams engaged Faiza in polite small talk, Amira studied Ali’s sisters. Zeinab, who was almost as wide as she was tall, appeared to be rather simple, even by prevailing standards of womanhood. Elaborately coiffed and heavily made up, she wore a flowered dress that emphasized her formidable arms and massive thighs.

  With heartfelt sighs of appreciation, Zeinab tucked into the pastries. When she ordered Bahia to refill her plate a second time, her sister Munira asked dryly, “What happened to your latest diet regimen, Zeinab? Only this morning, you vowed not to eat more than one sweet a day.”

  “I did, I truly did.” Zeinab giggled. “I know I should be stronger, but I just can’t resist such delicious pastries.”

  “Just pastries? It seems to me, dear Sister, that all food is irresistible to you— even after you’ve consumed enough of it to satisfy two or three women with less … hearty appetites.”

  Faiza shot Munira a warning look, but Zeinab just rolled her eyes and giggled again. “Everything you say is true, alas. But what can I do when Allah clearly intended for me to be plump? I can only be grateful that, in his infinite wisdom, the Almighty blessed me with a husband who prefers a well-rounded woman to one who is bony.”

  “As you say, you are indeed blessed,” replied Munira, who, though not unattractive, was both bony and husbandless.

  Of Ali’s two sisters, it was she who interested Amira more, for although Munira had studied only with palace tutors, it was said she could quote at will from the poetry of Kahlil Gibran, the work of historian Ibn Khaldun, and the writings of the fourteenth-century traveler, Ibn Battutah. These examples of learning met with the king’s approval, but Amira’s aunts said that Munira often overstepped, citing the works of such Egyptian feminists as Huda al-Sharawi. “The king pretends not to hear such nonsense,” Najla had said, “so if the girl makes any subversive speeches, smile and say nothing.”

  Amira waited eagerly, hoping to hear something “subversive.” But after jibing at her sister, Munira subsided, half-smiling as she took in the conversation around her, appraising Amira with her eyes as she expressed her good wishes.

  O

  When the al-Rashad women left, Amira wanted nothing more than to go to bed and dream about the future, but her aunts, still brimming with nervous energy, began dissecting the royals.

  “She gives herself a great many airs, our queen,” said Shams, “especially when you consider that she came from a very poor desert tribe.” “With nothing more than her beauty for a dowry,” Najla chimed in. “But it’s not her beauty that is the source of her power.”

  “What do you mean?” Najla asked.

  Shams put a finger to her lips, as if swearing her sister to secrecy. “Well, you know that our king has a prodigious sexual appetite …”

  “That’s well known throughout the kingdom. I doubt that even he knows how many concubines he has—or how many children.”

  “What is not so well known,” Shams said, with a satisfied smile, “is that the queen herself selects these women.”

  “No … you don’t mean to tell me …”

  “I have it on very good authority. Therefore, it is the queen who controls all who live within the royal hareem.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Shams moved on. “A bitter young woman, that Munira. Already past her twentieth birthday and without a husband.”

  “And yet, it’s well known that the king favors her above all his daughters. He has even been heard to say that she was more than a daughter.” “But certainly less than a son,” Shams insisted.

  “That goes without saying.”

  O

  Where once Amira’s days seemed to drag on interminably, they now flew by. The marriage contract, the katb kitab, was signed—first by Omar and the king, next by Ali—and last by Amira. But there would be no consummation until the doukhla, the party at the royal palace.

  Then it seemed as if all of al-Remal came to call, to offer good wishes, to take a close look at the young woman who would marry the ruler’s second son. To bring gifts, to take her measure as a soon-to-be princess, and to speculate on how her life in the royal palace would be.

  But the best gift of all came just two days before the doukhla. As Amira sat in the garden, enjoying the cool breeze that stirred after sunset, a familiar voice called out: “Daydreaming, little Sister? I would have thought our aunts would have a million tasks and rituals to keep you busy.”

  “Malik!” With one fluid movement, she rose from her seat and threw herself into his arms. And then, to her great surprise, she began to weep.

  “Amira, what’s wrong? Amira, you must tell me. Are you unhappy about this marriage? Because if you are, I’ll talk to Father at once. Prince or no prince—” “No, no,” she protested, tears now yielding to laughter. “I’m not unhappy, at least not about the marriage. It’s just that seeing you here, now, it stirs up all kinds of feelings.”

  “I know,” he said softly, stroking her hair. “I don’t think I’ll ever be in this garden without remembering, without wondering …”

  Wiping the tears from her face, Amira looked up at her brother. He seemed different, yet the same. The lines of his face were harder, yet his dark eyes were filled with the same love she had always seen there.

  “So you are happy, then?”

  “Yes, Brother, yes, of course. I’m about to be married. To a prince. Isn’t that enough to make any woman happy?”

  “That’s a question, not an answer. And you, my dear, are not just any woman. You’re my sister, and I will personally skewer any man who fails to—”

  Amira squeezed his hand. “I know, but I am all right. Truly. I want to be married.”

  “And I want this marriage to be everything you desire. I need to know that your life is rich with happiness … enough for both of us, Amira.”

  “But surely, you have a good life, Malik. Your daughter must be a source of great joy.”

  “I adore her,” he said fiercely. ‘‘More each day.” “And your letters are filled with comings and goings.”

  “Indeed,” he laughed. “I’m in perpetual motion, buying and selling and trading, all over the world, Little Sister. As the Americans say, I have my fingers in a great many pies.”

  “And what about the rest? When will you take a bride?”

  “When I meet someone who touches me as Laila did. Meanwhile, I have acquired a splendid new apartment in Paris. And a new French nanny for Laila.” He dug into his pocket and produced a photograph of a chubby little girl laughing as she played with an enormous and expensive-looking doll.

  “She’s beautiful,” Amira said, longing to see her niece, to hold and kiss her. “One day soon, Little Sister, one day I’ll find a way for us to be together, as a real family should.”

  O

  Amira woke at dawn and said her prayer. She slipped into an almond-scented bath prepared by Bahia, who vigorously exfoliated her skin with a loofah, then scrubbed it with French soap. “And now your beautiful hair,” the servant said, applying the shampoos that had been imported from America, but using a final rinse of chamomile, just as she had done for Jihan.

  Wrapping herself in a thick terry-cloth towel, Amira climbed out of the big marble tub and stretched out on a nearby chaise lounge. Bahia disappeared for a moment, returning with a saucepan filled with a taffy-like substance made of cooked sugar water. Scooping out a ball of this homemade depilatory with her fingers, she began spreading it over Amira’s body—her legs, her arms, under her arms, her pubic area. “Your skin will be so smooth, so beautiful, like a baby’s skin,” Bahia crooned, as she yanked the first strip, tearing with it a clump of hair from the roots.

  “Ouch, ouch!” Amira cried out. “That hurts, Bahia, that really hurts!” “Of course, it hurts, young miss. What did you imagine marriage would be?” Bahia smiled, as if to indicate she was joking, then said gently, “Your husband will prefer you this way, and you must learn to please hi
m.” When Amira’s skin was finally as hairless as Bahia’s efforts could make it, the servant massaged Amira with a soothing aloe vera lotion and left her to rest.

  O

  The vision in the mirror was not like any Amira had seen before. In the brightness of the afternoon, with the sun streaming over her shoulder, she looked like a queen—no, an empress. On her hair, which had been gathered into an intricate topknot, she wore her new diamond tiara. From it cascaded a veil of handmade lace that spilled over her shoulders and onto the creamy white rich- ness of her magnificent gown.

  Now, discreetly covered by a veil of gray silk, she was on her way to the palace. Accompanied by her father and her aunts, she rode in Omar’s prize limousine, a vintage Mercedes. Today, he wore his finest thobe, a white robe woven of finest Egyptian cotton; over it, a beige linen bisht edged in gold. Her aunts, resplendent in silk and lace, were so jeweled and adorned they were almost unrecognizable.

  Like a queen, Amira waved to the well-wishers who lined the streets, calling out congratulations and prayers for health and happiness. In al-Remal, celebrations for this wedding had begun at dawn, when, by order of the two fathers, hundreds of sheep had been killed and distributed to the poor.

  Though Amira had seen the palace many times before, today, it was like a fantasy garden drenched in flowers—tens of thousands of blooms flown in from Holland at dawn. Baskets of tulips, hyacinths, lilies, and gladioli lined every room and corridor; garlands of roses and carnations were draped over doors and windows and stair rails.

  Omar escorted his daughter as far as the steps, where a pair of guards stood impassively at attention. Kissing her forehead, he murmured, “God be with you,” then returned to the car, to be driven to the farthest reaches of the palace grounds.

  There, under brightly striped tents, the men’s celebrations had already begun. Amira could hear the sound of male voices raised in song, accompanied by the rhythmic pounding of the drums. She could smell the pungent aroma of lambs cooking over open fires, their juices dripping into huge cauldrons of seasoned rice.