Entering the palace, she was met by a group of young female cousins, who were all dressed in white and carrying tall white candles. When the women had shed their veils, Aunt Najla lit the candles, and the zaffa, the procession, began— stately, solemn, the little girls in front, the bride and her aunts behind them. They made their way through the cavernous entrance gallery, down the long marble corridor towards the main reception hall.
Suddenly, the sound of a hundred female voices trilling rang out, and Amira felt an answering joy in her heart. As she entered the vast room, which was lit by a hundred crystal chandeliers, all the guests, women and children alike, rose to applaud.
The Lebanese chanteuse Sabah, accompanied by a troupe of male musicians hidden behind a screen, began to sing “Dalaa ya dalaa”—“Cuddle me”—as Amira made the circuit of the room, to be admired and complimented, to receive good wishes for the future.
“May you have only sons,” one woman called out. “A thousand nights of love,” said another.
“A blessed old age,” yet another.
When Amira sat down in a throne-like gilt chair at the head of the room, the feasting began in earnest: caviar from Iran, foie gras from France, lamb, accompanied by rice, cooked a dozen different ways; grilled pigeons and roast chicken; fish from the Red Sea; desert truffles sautéed in butter and onion; heaping platters of fruit from the four corners of the globe; pastries and ice cream; a giant wedding cake flown in from France.
O
As the food was served, Sabah sang of love—lost, regained, lost again— her husky voice rising and falling, sometimes breaking, her audience calling out their understanding of the feelings she expressed.
When her set ended, the musicians launched into the folk songs that had been passed on throughout the Arab world, from one generation to the next. The entertainment went on—a troupe of Lebanese belly dancers, a female magician.
The room buzzed and hummed with gossip and laughter. “Amira’s not so beautiful,” a buxom thirteen-year-old said to her mother. “Why would a handsome prince like Ali al-Rashad choose her?”
“Hush, hush,” her mother replied. “Prince Ali is Amira’s nasib, her destiny. In a year or two, your father may find a handsome prince for you, inshallah.”
Unfettered and uninhibited, the women traded stories and enjoyed the impromptu fashion show as much as they did the entertainment. On a day such as this, everyone wore her best. For some, that meant the finest of European couture; for others, it was the best effort of local dressmakers who specialized in copying Western fashions from magazine photos. The room fairly glittered with gems—for here was an opportunity to show off not only a husband’s wealth but the depth of his affection.
As coffee flavored with cardamom and mint tea were served, a half- dozen guests went to the center of the room. Accompanied by the tabla (a small drum) and oud (a lute-like instrument), they began the local circle dance. Arms at their sides, hips almost still, they took tiny skipping steps, moving their heads and shoulders in small, delicate circles in rhythm to the music. Compared with the enthusiastic gyrations of the belly dancers, their dance, at first, seemed quiet and measured, yet as it progressed, the subtle movements became sensual, even erotic.
The audience shouted its appreciation, and as the dancers approached Ami- ra’s table, their remarks grew louder and bawdier. Amira blushed as the women around her speculated aloud on what she was wearing under her gown—and how quickly her husband would remove it; on the size of the prince’s member— and how vigorously he would use it.
Yet embarrassed as she was to receive this kind of attention, Amira couldn’t remember so much unrestrained gaiety and laughter. She savored every minute of her celebration, and when her aunts said it was time to leave, she did so with genuine regret.
O
Outside the reception hall, her father was waiting. With a solemnity Amira had rarely seen, he extended his arm and slowly walked her through the corridors, up the marble staircase of the palace that was now her home.
He stopped in front of a richly paneled mahogany door, then patted her on the cheek. Though he seemed on the verge of serious words, he settled for an awkward embrace. “May God protect you always, Daughter.”
Unbidden tears flooded her eyes. Strange, she thought. She had dreamed of the time when she could leave the stifling protection of her father and her aunts, yet now that it was here, she couldn’t help but feel the loss of all that had been familiar.
She kissed her father good-bye and stood for a long moment before her husband’s door. She had seen fuzzy photos of him, in newspapers and during ceremonial events on television, and she vaguely remembered his face from child- hood. But what would he be like now, in person?
She tapped lightly on the door. It swung open immediately, welcoming her to the most beautiful suite she had ever seen, opulent beyond anything she’d known in her own wealthy home. The furnishings were European antiques, the walls almost hidden by paintings she remembered from books—a Picasso, a Renoir, a Signac … on and on.
Prince Ali al-Rashad was as elegant as his surroundings. Wearing a monogrammed white silk robe over matching pajamas, he was handsome as a film star, slightly built, not tall, but finely proportioned, with coal-black eyes and dark silky hair.
For perhaps a full minute, he studied Amira, as if she were a painting or a statue. Then he smiled. “May eternity be as beautiful as you are at this moment.”
Amira exhaled a sigh of relief.
Ali held out his hand. Obediently and with something very much like gratitude—after all, he could have been old and like Laila’s husband—she took it. He led her into the bedroom, which was dominated by a majestic Chinese bed, hand-carved and decorated in gold. Silently, Amira tried to take in the lavishness of her new home. “Champagne?”
She was startled. Amira wasn’t a religious fanatic, and she knew that plenty of people drank in al-Remal despite the strict laws against it. But she had never tasted alcohol herself.
Ali handed her a crystal tulip filled with bubbling gold. He smiled. “Relax, my dear. It won’t hurt you. Champagne’s not even liquor. It’s liquid happiness.”
Amira sipped. Her mouth tingled, an interesting sensation.
Still smiling, and in the same pleasant tone, Ali said: “Take off your clothes.” Amira froze. This, of course, was expected—but not so suddenly. She knew what she had learned from her aunts, learned all her life, in fact: that, no matter what her husband wanted, she must do it. Not just tonight, but always.
Otherwise, she could be sent back to her father’s house in disgrace. To be ruled by her aunts. To become one of them herself in time. She shuddered at the thought, and Ali, mistaking the cause, laughed. “Is it so terrible to be alone with me? You’re my wife, after all.”
Blushing, Amira retreated to the marble bathroom. She removed her bridal gown, the layers of silk underwear. When she reached the flimsy teddy, about which there had been much ribald comment at the women’s celebration, she stopped.
She didn’t want to make her husband angry, but she couldn’t stand naked before him, she just couldn’t. Timidly, she edged back into the bedroom, her bare feet sinking in the luxurious white carpet.
He didn’t seem angry or even annoyed as he admired her once again, almost as if she were an artwork.
“You have a lovely body,” he said, “lean and supple and strong … like a true thoroughbred.”
Amira smiled her appreciation of the compliment. Since reaching womanhood, she often worried that she’d grown too tall, that her hips hadn’t filled out enough, that she lacked the voluptuous fleshiness that so many Remali men seemed to prefer. Yet, from the way he spoke, it was clear Ali was pleased with her.
He led her to the bed and began stroking her, as if she were a kitten. Basking in the warmth of his approval, Amira allowed herself the pleasure of his touch. How lovely it was, she thought, to be petted and caressed.
As Ali brushed her breasts with his fingertips, the champa
gne-tingle spread throughout her body. So this is what it was all about, the whispering and laughing. This warm fluttering, this weightlessness, this was what had been forbidden.
But when Ali parted her legs with his knee, she stiffened.
He stopped, again more amused than angry. “Are you afraid of me, Amira?”
“No,” she protested, though she certainly was afraid of disappointing him. “Then perhaps you simply don’t wish to do what you’ve been told you must do—is that it?”
Amira lowered her eyes. How could she wish or not wish for something she had never experienced?
“If you’re reluctant, there’s no need to go on.”
“But that’s impossible,” she blurted out. “What about …” she trailed off, too embarrassed to proceed.
“Ah, yes.” Ali smiled. “The requisite show of blood to prove your virtue. Well, my dear, I have no need of such proof. But if you feel there must be some display, I’m ready to shed my blood in place of yours.” From the night- stand drawer, he pulled out a jeweled stiletto, rolled up his pajama sleeve, and extended his arm. “Just say the word.”
“No! No, I don’t want you to … I mean, there’s no need.”
Ali put the knife down. “Well, then, perhaps you require more champagne.” “Yes, please.” She stole a glance at her husband as he got up to refill her glass. Above the silk pajama bottoms, his body was well muscled and smooth.
Turning quickly, he saw her looking. “Do I pass muster, dear Wife?” She blushed furiously. “I didn’t … I mean I wasn’t …”
“Of course, you were,” he teased. “There’s no need to be so demure—as long as those glances are reserved for me.”
She took the glass he offered and drained it quickly.
“Slowly, slowly, Amira. Such pleasures are meant to be savored.”
She giggled. Such a lovely feeling, this light-headedness, the cocoon of Ali’s bed. He opened his arms and kissed her slowly, deeply.
“That’s more like it,” he said. “This isn’t an execution, you know.” Totally relaxed, she fell back on the bed. He began stroking her again, outlining the curve of her breasts, the swell of her belly. When he reached her thighs, she parted them readily, no longer apprehensive. As his fingers probed her, first gently, then insistently, she felt a liquid heat building inside her.
“Lovely,” he murmured, his dark eyes glistening. As her body began to shudder, he straddled her legs quickly and entered her. When she cried out, he stopped for a moment, then began to move inside and against her. The pain gave way to a rush of new sensations, rising and swelling—and when she cried out again, it was from joy and the thrill of discovery.
She did not notice—nor could she have known—that her husband did not reach a climax. She fell asleep peaceful and content, thinking that if this was marriage, everything else was pale and insipid by comparison.
Honeymoon
“Why Istanbul?” Ali asked when they were airborne in the king’s private jet, on loan to the newlyweds for the duration of their honeymoon.
“Because … because someone very dear to me went there for her honeymoon. She said it was beautiful—and exciting.”
Ali smiled indulgently, as he had done when Amira first expressed a wish to see the place Laila had enjoyed so much. “Well,” he said, “to someone who hasn’t seen much of the world, I suppose Istanbul can be impressive. But you, my dear, you can expect to see much more, that I can promise.”
Amira could scarcely imagine “much more.” Here she was, flying for the first time, in a luxurious craft fitted out with a stately seating area, an opulent bedroom and marble bath, and a well-appointed dining room, complete with bone china, crystal goblets, and gold eating utensils. And though Ali had insisted on taking the controls himself during the Boeing 727’s takeoff, they had, at their service, the king’s most experienced pilot and a flight crew of five. Being served orange juice in crystal goblets at forty thousand feet made Amira feel as if she were a fairy-tale princess, an impression that lingered long after they landed at the city on the Bosporus. A limousine picked them up at the airport, whisking them quickly to the Hilton, Istanbul’s premier hotel, where Ali had booked a penthouse suite.
Amira had never stayed in a hotel before. She thought this one even grander than al-Remal’s royal palace, with its lushly landscaped grounds, crystal-clear pools, and inviting tennis courts. And the people who crowded the lobby—Amira could not take her eyes off them—the fair European men, so different from what she was used to, and the beautiful women, unveiled, wearing their fashionable clothes for all to see.
As the manager personally escorted them to their quarters, he proudly informed the honeymooners that “the famous American actors Kirk Douglas and Anthony Quinn’’ had recently stayed there.
Amira was enchanted. American film stars, no less! In this very place. As soon as she and Ali were alone, she dashed from room to room, throwing open the curtains and exclaiming over the dazzling cityscape below.
“Don’t be such a bumpkin,’’ Ali said, but with a tender smile that took the sting from his words. “As it is, most Europeans think all Gulf Arabs live in tents and know nothing of indoor plumbing.”
“Of course,” she said, stopping in her tracks, “of course, you’re right.” Yet far from upsetting Amira, Ali’s words made her feel important, as if she had a purpose outside her own home: to represent her country in a small way, to bring honor to the royal house of al-Remal. She began to walk around the room, slowly and with a measured pace, imitating the elegant European women she had seen in the lobby.
“Brava,” Ali said, clapping his hands, “you look like a queen. Let me show you off to the world right now. And while you’re practicing your royal walk, let’s leave your veil behind.”
“Really?” she asked, with some trepidation. “In the streets of Istanbul?” “Yes, of course. Atatürk did away with the veil when he founded the Turkish republic. You might see it in the countryside, but not here. We don’t want to look as if we’ve come from some primitive backwater, do we?”
So, Amira went sightseeing unveiled. At first, she felt quite strange, as if everyone were staring. But as time passed, and her self-consciousness slipped away, she savored the breeze that ruffled her hair, the sunlight that warmed her skin.
At her request, their first stop was the Topkapi Palace. Once the royal residence of the Ottoman sultans, it had been converted into a museum housing dazzling collections of jewels, tapestries, and porcelains. “It’s just as Laila said,” Amira whispered under her breath as she gazed at the magnificent gems—the imperial diamonds and rubies and emeralds—that had once adorned sultans or graced their favorite wives. She wanted to linger here, as if perhaps she could feel something of Laila’s brief presence at a time when she had been a young bride, happy and full of dreams for the future.
But Ali urged her on, studying various exhibits and making notes in his leatherbound notebook. “Hope you don’t mind, my dear, but the king will expect some recommendations for the museum project at home.”
Amira did not mind. She was impressed by her husband’s cultural back- ground and wished her own were not so limited. Yet, Ali seemed to enjoy playing teacher and tour guide, as he walked her through the nearby archaeological museums, studying the exhibits from the ancient civilizations of Mesopotamia and the Hittites.
Next, came the city’s great mosques: the magnificent Saint Sophia, with its superb Byzantine interior and immense soaring dome; the Sultan Ahmet, with its sublime blue frescoes; the graceful Suleymaniye, where Suleyman the Magnificent and his wife were buried.
After pausing for lunch at a small waterside restaurant, where they dined on a fine Turkish meza and bass steamed in earthenware, Ali took Amira to the Capali Carsi, the vast and sprawling covered bazaar. “Choose as many souvenirs as you like,” he said, clearly enjoying her look of wonderment.
“It’s like Ali Baba’s cave,” she said. “I’ve never seen anything like it in al-Remal.”
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“That’s because we don’t have anything like it. I’m told there are more than four thousand shops here. Spread out over sixty-odd streets.”
The choices laid out before her were legion: carpets woven of richly dyed wools and precious silks, tapestries from the time of the Ottomans, heavy silver jewelry set with amber and carnelian and onyx, perfumes from Europe, inlaid furniture set with mother-of-pearl, brass coffeepots and trays and candlesticks, bags and shoes made of Kilim carpets, housewares fashioned of copper and brass. So much more, Amira’s head was spinning.
Not wanting to appear greedy—or childlike—Amira strolled through the cavernous arcade, admiring a fragment of tapestry here, an intricately carved perfume bottle there. Shopkeepers called out to the couple, entreating them to stop and look, to enjoy a delicious cup of tea. Ali bestowed a princely smile on all. And when Amira lingered over a silk carpet and later an antique writing desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl, he entered into spirited negotiation with the shopkeepers. In spite of his great wealth, he understood, as did Amira, that haggling was an expected—and much-savored—part of any transaction. “That’s all? Are you sure that’s all you want?” he asked after the bargaining ritual had been concluded.
She nodded tentatively, wondering if perhaps she’d disappointed him in some way.
He laughed. “Perhaps you haven’t spent enough time among other women, learning how to manage a man. Else you’d have been taught to be more demanding.”
Amira was silent. Was Ali mocking her? It was certainly true she knew precious little about “managing” a man. She had believed it would be enough to simply bow to his wishes.
“Don’t look so serious, Amira. I was just teasing you. I’m very touched, actually, that you require so little by way of material things. That will make it much easier for me to spoil you.”
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