Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  Instinctively—and sensing perhaps that such a statement might diminish her in Ali’s eyes—Amira refrained from saying she had little interest in mate- rial things. And later that day, when it was time to dress for dinner, she chose what she felt might please him: one of her more elaborate Paris creations and the sapphire jewelry that had once belonged to her mother. She was rewarded with Ali’s murmurs of approval.

  They dined at the century-old Pera Palace, the most imposing of Istanbul’s grand old hotels. “I thought you might like this place,” Ali said, as Amira admired the ornate paneling, the majestic dimensions of the main dining room. “Greta Garbo stayed here. So did Agatha Christie, Mata Hari, Josephine Baker, and Leon Trotsky. Not to mention assorted kings and queens. And now you, Amira … a royal princess of al-Remal.”

  Amira clapped her hands and laughed. “How wonderful. But how do you know all this?”

  “A chap at the American consulate next door. He brought me here for drinks once. Gave me the entire history of the place, ever since it was built in the late nineteenth century. For the Orient Express travelers, I believe.” How attentive he was, Amira thought. And how elegant, as he ordered a sumptuous meal in impeccable French. No one had ever taken such care to please her before, she realized, as he offered her choice morsels of grilled pheasant before he took a single bite himself.

  She wanted to return the favor. So, when he asked if she’d like to visit a nightclub—“I warn you, however, that the entertainment will be limited to some mediocre belly dancing and some rather average singing”—she noted that his eyelids were drooping and thought he might be tired.

  “Perhaps you’d rather go back to the hotel,” she ventured. As soon as the words were out, she began to blush, thinking he might take her suggestion as a sexual overture. When he agreed readily, she became quiet and a little shy, in anticipation of the intimacy they would share again.

  Yet when they returned to the hotel and entered the elevator, Ali pushed the button that took them to the casino floor. The place was crowded with men and women in evening clothes and pulsing with the energy of winning and losing. Surely, Ali’s father would not approve of such a place, she thought, but she said nothing.

  With a familiarity born of practice, Ali took a seat at the blackjack table with the highest limit and threw down a thick pile of bills, barely glancing at the pile of chips he received in return. A moment later, a tuxedo-clad waitress appeared at his elbow. “Glenlivet. Bring the bottle.”

  His movements were languid, almost bored, as he played his hands with careless ease, signaling with a barely perceptible motion of his little finger whether or not he wanted another card. Within an hour, he had almost doubled his pile of chips. And though Amira had no idea what the game was, she gathered from the remarks of the people who’d gathered to watch that Ali played in a most unconventional way, taking “hits” when the odds called for standing fast. Soon, a crowd gathered to watch the dark, handsome prince in impeccably tailored evening clothes. But Ali’s eyes barely flickered.

  O

  Dutifully, Amira stood behind his chair, imagining they would soon leave. Yet as he refilled his glass again and yet again, he continued to gamble, tossing chips on the table, as if they had no meaning at all. Sometimes the pile grew; sometimes it diminished.

  “What nerve,” a man at the table murmured, “taking a hit on seventeen.” Ali smiled. The card he’d taken was a three of spades; it gave him a winning hand. Yet to him, winning seemed the same as losing, and Amira had no sense at all of what he wanted to accomplish before they could leave. She had been prepared to wait, but now she was tired, so very tired. Finally, at about three in the morning, she said very tentatively, “Perhaps we should go now, Ali. It’s very late.”

  A look of molten anger was his reply, so intense yet so fleeting that Amira wondered if she’d seen it at all. A few minutes later, he said, not unkindly, “If you’re tired, my dear, perhaps you’d like to retire. I’ll be here for a while.”

  She stood her ground for a while. Was her place here—or would Ali prefer her to go? Fatigue finally made her go.

  In their honeymoon suite, the bed had been turned down, her nightgown artfully arranged alongside Ali’s silk pajamas. It seemed like a reproach. Why was the appeal of the gambling tables greater than her own? She had no answer; yet one thing she did know: the story of the hammam that Bahia had told. In the days before all the fine houses had private bathrooms, women used the communal bath to perform their grand ablutions, the ritual total immersion that was required after sex. Bahia laughingly said you could always tell a new bride because she would come to the hammam every day—until her first child was born, then less and less often as the marriage grew older and the husband’s passion waned.

  But on a honeymoon—Amira had been told that the appetite of a new husband was insatiable, that she could expect to make love until her body ached from his demands. While she was pondering this against the reality she’d experienced so far, she fell asleep.

  When she awakened, Ali was there beside her, fully clothed, his silk pajamas swept to the floor. In spite of her insecurity about what to do next, she was hungry enough to get up. Walking barefoot so as not to make any noise, she went into the living room and called room service, as she had seen Ali do when they’d arrived.

  She ordered fresh fruit, pots of tea and coffee, and a variety of toasts and breakfast cakes. She dressed quickly and, when the waiter arrived, had her meal served on the terrace, where she could enjoy the parklike grounds below. Later, when she thought she heard a sound from the bedroom, she tip- toed inside. Ali was stirring. Softly, she called his name. His eyes opened, but they seemed dull and unfocused. “Shall I bring you some coffee?” “Whiskey,” he said.

  She was shocked but said nothing. Ali was her husband, and it was not her place to question him.

  “In the West, it’s called ‘hair of the dog,’ Amira. It’s like medicine. Nothing to concern yourself about.”

  She brought him a bottle and a tumbler. He took both into one of the bathrooms. She heard the sound of the shower being turned on. A half hour later, he came out. “That’s better,’’ he said with a smile, “don’t you agree?’’ Amira smiled in return. Her husband did, indeed, look better, restored to his former self. She hoped he would not drink so much tonight.

  The next few days followed the same pattern: a few hours of sightseeing, shopping in the European-style boutiques that lined the Cumhuriyet Caddesi and the Valikonagi Caddesi, splendid meals at fine restaurants. In the evening, there would be something for Amira—her first ballet (Giselle), her first opera (Madam Butterfly). Yet later, they would inevitably finish the evening at the casino, with Ali drinking too much and staying out almost until dawn, while Amira slept alone.

  On the fifth day of her honeymoon, just when she had resigned herself to this routine, Ali announced that he had arranged for a special evening.

  A short time later, she found herself aboard a sleek sailing yacht cruising the Bosporus, moving gracefully between the European and Asian sides, Ali pointing out the sights.

  “The Dolmabacha Palace,” he said, pointing out a white fairy-tale castle in a Turkish-Indian-Baroque style. “It was built by Sultan Abdel Mejid as a summer residence, so he could enjoy the same delightful breeze we’re enjoying now.”

  Amira closed her eyes, luxuriating in the moment. It was as if her husband had been away and then returned to her. There was no Scotch whiskey and no casino. Tonight, he was choosing to be with her.

  A white-jacketed steward served champagne and borek, cigar-like dump- lings filled with cheese and various fillings. Then came vine leaves and artichokes in oil, followed by lamb kebabs prepared with yogurt. Dessert was flambé fruit.

  “Simple food but quite good, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Amira agreed. “If you like, I could prepare this at home.” “We already have a Turkish cook in the royal kitchen,” he said. Then, seeing her crestfallen expression, he added, “But
it would make me very happy if you were to supervise the menu for our private meals.”

  “As you wish,” she said with a smile.

  When the dishes had been taken away, they reclined on cushioned bolsters, lulled into a pleasant drowsiness by the motion of the boat and the wine. He stroked her hair, and as the boat pitched gently back and forth, she fell asleep, wondering how long it would take to understand her handsome but rather puzzling husband.

  Marriage

  Lazy, languid days and long sleepy nights—these were the rhythms of Amira’s life in the palace. And how quickly she adapted to it—as if there had always been a masseuse to pamper and soothe her muscles, a fortune teller to entertain her with predictions and prognostications, a hair- dresser and cosmetician to carry out her daily beauty routines.

  Life at home had been very comfortable, but this was beyond imaginable. It was, Amira decided, even decadent—a word she’d read but didn’t really understand until now. Any material thing she wanted was here. If it was lacking, all she had to do was ask, and it would be flown in. Food, clothing, electronic equipment, toys and amusements, they were all hers for the asking. When Ali went abroad, she went, too. She saw concerts, operas, and ballets, visiting all the legendary places she’d imagined as a young girl, enjoying the freedom of appearing unveiled. These trips were like a dream come true, yet when she returned to her luxurious cocoon in al-Remal, she often asked herself which was reality and which was the dream.

  In the palace, she was rarely alone, but often lonely. The king’s various wives and concubines, their daughters and daughters-in-law, all these women were like a country within a country. Even Zeinab, who had a spacious villa of her own nearby, spent most of her days here.

  At the heart of the women’s country was the queen, Faiza. It was she who had built the communal hammam, where Amira now reclined on a bench of marble. The room was large and airy with diamond-cut skylights, the walls covered with intricate mosaic tiles in jewel-like tones of blue and green. There were several tubs for bathing; along one wall, a battery of nozzles regularly released powerful bursts of steam. Throughout the day, an elaborate music system piped in the queen’s favorite “easy listening” music.

  The hammam, Faiza often said, was an old custom worth keeping.

  “Nonsense,” said Zeinab, who reclined on a neighboring bench; the hammam was simply another of Faiza’s devices for snooping and prying.

  During the six months she’d been married, Amira had learned a great deal from Zeinab, who loved to chatter indiscriminately, and who was, even now, confirming the rumors of how her mother regulated the king’s philandering.

  “Just watch,” Zeinab giggled, “and you’ll see. When my father becomes irritable, when he begins to lose his temper with no provocation at all, my mother says it’s a sign that he requires a new woman. So—that’s when she finds a new maid, someone young and pretty and virginal. She sends the young woman to the king’s bedroom on some pretext or other, and voila, all is well. When he becomes irritable again, she finds the maid a new position and sends another in her place. It’s brilliant, don’t you think?”

  Was this, then, what Ali had meant, about learning to manage men from other women? Though he did sometimes lose his temper with no provocation at all, she could not imagine searching out other women and sending them to his bed. To her, the queen’s machinations seemed rather sad. It was true that, in al-Remal, saving face was all-important—but at what price did the queen ransom her pride?

  Amira sighed and exhaled as her personal maid scrubbed her back with a loofah, a treatment that kept her skin soft and fresh. Much to her own surprise, Amira had learned to enjoy the ritual of communal bathing.

  As her maid applied the henna that gave Amira’s hair reddish highlights and body, Zeinab called her son and daughter, who were frolicking happily in one of the enormous marble tubs. “Hassan! Bahija! Come quickly, so Nanny can give you a good washing.” The children laughed and continued to splash one another.

  How lucky they are, Amira thought, the young ones who could run free, bathing naked together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Suddenly, the door to the hammam opened and closed. It was the queen, wrapped in a sarong like Turkish towel embroidered with silver and silk. “Any news yet, Amira?”

  Amira rose to show her respect, wrapping her own towel around her. “Not yet, Mother, but soon, God willing.”

  “Let us hope so.”

  Amira returned to her bench, her sense of relaxation gone. She was not pregnant and therefore a disappointment to her mother-in-law. But how could she tell the queen that it was not her fault? That it was very difficult to become pregnant when sexual activity was so erratic and unpredictable?

  In the weeks and months that followed her marriage, Amira had come to believe that Ali had two faces—and as many personalities. Sometimes he was kind and attentive, interested in what she had to say, content to curl up beside her in bed, his body wrapped cozily around hers, talking about the planes he flew or the changes he envisioned for al-Remal. She loved those quiet moments when it seemed they might be friends, and not just husband and wife.

  But there were other times when he was moody and withdrawn, when her most innocent actions seemed to offend or anger him, when he came to her bed drunk and brutishly exercised his marital rights, as if she were there to serve him, nothing more. Yet since it was those occasions that were likely to give her a child, Amira endured them stoically, as a good wife should.

  O

  The gala to celebrate the opening of the al-Remal Cultural Museum was a glittering but fairly subdued affair. In honor of the Western guests—oil- company executives, foreign diplomats and their wives—Ali had arranged for a British orchestra, but they would play only classical music, for there would be no dancing here, no public touching between men and women. It went without saying that there would be no alcoholic beverages.

  Thanks to Ali’s powers of persuasion, however, the queen and assorted princesses were also present, albeit properly robed and veiled and segregated from the foreigners. Since Amira could not properly speak to anyone outside the palace group, she tried to engage her sister-in-law, Munira, in conversation. “I’ve just had a lovely note from Karin Vanderbeek, the woman who used to be my nanny. I want to invite her to tea next week, and I thought you might enjoy meeting her. She’s very intelligent and very beautiful.”

  “A beautiful woman can’t really understand the life of the mind,” Munira said decisively.

  “But how can you say that?” Amira protested. “There have been many accomplished women who were beautiful, as well.”

  “Accomplishments alone are not the hallmark of the true intellectual.” “Well, then, what is?” Amira pressed on, not liking Munira’s pontifical tone. Munira shrugged, as if to say: You couldn’t possibly understand.

  “Don’t mind her,” said good-natured Zeinab. “She’s just jealous because you’re beautiful and married and clever, too. But she can’t very well admit that you could be all those things, can she? Then life would be truly unfair.” Munira shot her sister an angry look and said nothing. Reluctantly, Amira accepted Zeinab’s explanation, for she had tried hard to win Munira’s affection and respect. Ah, well, she thought, perhaps in time she might yet succeed, for Munira would be an interesting companion, someone who might understand Amira’s interest in books and learning and the world beyond the palace walls. At least Ali seemed to be having a good time, she thought. Surrounded by reporters from the foreign language weeklies who served the country’s expatriate workers and the cameras of al-Remal’s single television station, he was explaining how important the new museum was.

  “For us in the so-called ‘developing nations,’ it’s important to know that on our land once stood a great civilization. By displaying its artifacts and teaching our children the lessons learned from our past, we may yet, inshallah, regain our national pride and dignity.” Ali’s remarks were well received, and the museum itself�
�a modern sand-stone structure with a vaguely Eastern cast—was enthusiastically applauded by the foreign visitors. By the time the reception was over, Ali was in a fine mood. “Did you enjoy yourself, my dear?” he asked Amira. “I thought the evening was a great success.”

  “I think so, too,” Amira said. “I just wish …” “What? What do you wish?”

  “I don’t know. I just wish I could be more … useful.”

  “Why not take those college courses you mentioned?” Ali suggested. “They’ll keep you busy. Unless …”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you’re afraid of offending my sister, Munira,” he said with a smile. “She rather fancies herself the palace intellectual, you know. She might not approve of a rival scholar.”

  Amira laughed. “I’m sure she wouldn’t. But what would I do with a degree here?”

  “A great deal, Amira. As an educated wife and mother, you’ll be even more precious. And one day, if you’re patient, you can be part of the changes that are coming. They’ll be slow, to be sure, but they are occurring even now. A few short years ago, my father never would have allowed a mixed gathering like the one we had at the museum tonight.”

  O

  As if to further prove his point about progress and change, Ali announced that they would be entertaining a foreign guest. “Dr. Philippe Rochon … he’s come to al-Remal to treat my father. I’ve invited him to dinner.” Amira was doubly impressed. Dr. Rochon was a well-known internist and diagnostician whose brilliant mind and healing skills were much in demand not only in his native France but throughout the Middle East.

  Normally, a dinner like this would be a male-only affair. For Ali to bring him here, to their private quarters, that was, indeed, progress.

  “And you may wear one of those dresses you brought from France,” he added. “Without the veil.”

  Amira was shocked—and pleasantly surprised.

  So was the palace staff, especially some of the older ones. The younger ones were simply excited. Amira empathized with both reactions. Regardless of what she did when she traveled abroad, she had never been unveiled in al-Remal, not since she was a girl.