She fussed over the menu and lingered longer than usual with her toilette. As she prepared for dinner, she felt as if she were wearing only a negligee. The feeling gathered force and nuance when the Frenchman arrived.
“Peace be with you, ya Ali,” he said, his voice deep and rich.
“And upon you. Itfuddal, doctor, you honor our humble home,” said Ali. “Allow me to present my wife.”
Philippe Rochon was perhaps forty, pepper-black hair just showing the first sprinkling of salt. Not much taller than Ali, but one of those men who seem to gain stature through some special aura, some sheer power of their presence.
More than anything else, it was his eyes, Amira thought. Though he greeted her in good Arabic with conventionally elaborate courtesy—“Your Highness, you do your poor servant too great an honor”—his eyes, the changeable expressive blue of Normandy, spoke far more eloquently.
Later, Amira would remember that first glance as one of the sincerest compliments she ever received. (Ali still called her beautiful from time to time, but too often, his voice carried the smug pride of ownership, and his words sounded recited by rote.)
“It is the guest who honors the house,” Amira replied, also convention- ally courteous.
“No, no,” Ali laughed. “This is not a school for diplomats. Tonight, doctor, we are doing things à la mode de l'ouest. Please call me Ali, and my wife Amira.”
A Gallic shrug and a smile of helpless acceptance. “Ah, well, then you must not call me doctor, but Philippe.”
Champagne was served, as was Ali’s custom with foreign visitors. “Tell me, Philippe, how is my father?”
The doctor smiled. “The king’s problem is one I can do nothing about. Meaning no disrespect, but he eats like a gourmand run wild in a forest of three-star restaurants—and he’s not a young man anymore. I’m told he listens to you—perhaps you can persuade him to exercise more moderation. Certainly, he pays no attention to my advice.”
Ali threw up his hands to indicate his helplessness in this situation. “My father might consider my opinion on some matters, but not when it comes to food. But he has an iron constitution, Philippe. He’ll be around long after you and I have gone; I’m sure of it.”
Dinner—especially prepared by the palace cook in Philippe’s honor— began with foie gras that had been flown in from Strasbourg, followed by quail stuffed with wild rice and a salad of baby greens lightly dressed with champagne vinegar and delicate sesame oil.
“My compliments on a delectable meal,” Philippe said to Amira. “I don’t believe I’ve enjoyed anything as much in years.”
“You are too kind, Philippe, but I don’t deserve your compliments. It was our cook, Fahim, who prepared the meal.”
“Nevertheless, it is you I thank, for I am certain it was your guidance that inspired his efforts.”
Amira blushed, lowering her eyes.
“Ali tells me you’re taking university-level correspondence courses, Amira. Have you found a particular interest yet?”
“No. I’m enrolling in a general program, some literature, some history, some science, some philosophy. But I feel as if I’m still shopping. That’s what it’s like, in a way—like being in some wonderful store where there’s so much to buy that you can’t make up your mind.”
Philippe smiled warmly, his blue eyes crinkling as they looked directly at her. “What a marvelous attitude, Amira. I hope you always feel that way. And as far as a specialty, well, there’s plenty of time.”
Amira basked in the glow of his approval. No one had ever taken her so seriously before. She liked his assumption that she would be continuing her education, even finding a particular specialty.
Over dessert—an Arab-style crepe stuffed with cream and drizzled with rosewater syrup—Ali spoke of Philippe’s well-known diagnostic skills. “I’ve heard you described as a medical Sherlock Holmes.”
Philippe smiled. “I take that as a great compliment, Ali, one I try always to live up to. For example, I recently had a fascinating case in Paris. The gentleman was suffering from a near-total paralysis of his left arm, from the elbow down- ward. Of course, the first fear is a stroke, but there were no signs of that. The next likely possibility was what we called a ‘dropped wrist,’ something like Bell’s palsy, but not in the face. It results from trauma to a nerve—injury in some cases, though a virus can do it, too.
“Sometimes it’s called ‘crutch arm’ because people who use crutches can damage the radial nerve where it runs along the inside of the upper arm. But this man didn’t use crutches. What’s more, he swore he’d done nothing whatever to put unusual stress on his arm. I’ll tell you, I was frankly at a dead end, running test after test and learning nothing. Was it psychosomatic? I just didn’t know.
“Then one afternoon, for no good reason, I canceled a nonurgent appointment and went to see my patient at his office. He was surprised to see me—worried, too, I imagine. His office furniture was old-fashioned—massive wooden desk and high-backed chair. I hadn’t been there a minute when he had a phone call. As soon as he picked up the receiver with his right hand, he flung his left arm—crippled forearm and all—over the back of that chair and almost hung there, half his weight on it. Obviously, an unconscious habit. When he hung up, I asked how much time he spent on the phone every day. ‘Oh, hours.’ Then he saw me looking at his arm over the back of the chair. We both started to laugh. He recovered full use of his arm in about two months.”
Amira started to laugh. “That’s marvelous,” she said, brimming with admiration. “I wish I could do what you do.”
“You could,” he said, his expression mirroring hers. “So could many people. I’m just a mechanic, really,” he added, turning pensive. “But the real magic is in healing the driver. If I had it to do over again—if I were as young as you, Amira—I believe that I would specialize in psychology.” It was a moment Amira would remember in the years to come, a moment when she glimpsed the future. She was enjoying herself so much, she wanted the evening to go on and on.
But after a second cup of coffee, Philippe said, with obvious regret, that he would have to leave. “An early flight, alas. But please allow me to return your hospitality. I would be honored if you would visit me in Paris.” Bending over Amira’s hand, he kissed it lightly, his breath like a caress.
Scarcely noticing Ali’s searching look, she went to bed reliving that moment, Philippe’s touch, his voice, his elegant manner, that special glance from his eyes.
O
In the quiet time before dawn, while she was still fast asleep, Amira felt a hand on her breast, fingers trailing so delicately on her skin that she moaned with pleasure. But suddenly, the fingers were no longer gentle. They squeezed and pinched and hurt. She cried out in pain and pushed the hand away. A sting- ing slap jolted her awake. Ali was beside her, his face mottled red with anger. “Listen carefully, woman,” he said between clenched teeth, “and listen yet again. I decide, do you understand? I decide what happens in this bed and outside it, and that’s how it will be until the day you die.” Amira listened, eyes wide, scarcely breathing. Why was he so angry? What had she done? Could he possibly know that she had slept with thoughts of another man? That her body had responded to his touch? She searched Ali’s face for answers, but found none. Without another word, he got up from the bed and left.
Later that day, she found a sura from the Koran, written on parchment and nailed to the wall of her bedroom: “If you fear that they (your wives) will reject you, admonish them and remove them to another bed; firmly beat them. If they obey you, then worry no more. God is high and great.”
And for the first time in her marriage, Amira feared her husband.
Motherhood
“Are you certain, Amira? Absolutely certain?” “The doctor confirmed it today.”
Ali fell to his knees and began kissing her hand. “This is the greatest gift of all, Amira, not only to me but to my father. Now you are truly my queen.” “The king’s pleasure and yours
are as my own,” she said, meaning every word. Now the pressure to conceive was over; now her husband, her mother-in-law—and everyone else—knew she was not deficient in any way.
As she placed a hand on her belly, trying to sense the life inside, she felt an unexpected rush of sorrow, as fresh as it had been years ago. Laila. Poor Laila. How wretchedly unlucky she had been. She had prayed for a boy because she had learned all too well how wretched a woman’s life could be. Amira, too, hoped for a boy—because she knew that every man wanted a son—but all that was really expected of her was to deliver a healthy child. And until that day came, she would take good care of herself and fill the hours as she chose.
She chose to immerse herself in studies.
Inspired by her conversation with Philippe Rochon—and the glimmer of hope he’d given that her life might somehow reach beyond the production of children—she added a course in basic psychology to her correspondence curriculum from Cairo University. Her textbooks were like an “Open Sesame” to a world she’d never imagined, showing her the pathways to the human brain, explaining how humans responded to stimulation.
As she studied Freud’s teachings on dreams, she half expected to find some- thing like the elaborate, rather baroque interpretations she’d heard growing up. But to her surprise, the analyst seemed to believe that almost every sleeping image—and many waking thoughts—related to sex. Was he right? she wondered. She had never thought of herself as overly interested in sex. Yet it seemed that these days, every time she opened the psychology text, she thought of Philippe, remembered the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d kissed her hand.
And even as she daydreamed about another man, she was very much aware that Ali’s sexual demands—erratic at best—had stopped altogether. He didn’t want to hurt the baby, he said, though the doctor said there was no risk until her last month. She didn’t miss the kind of sex she and Ali had shared, but she did miss the warmth of being held and petted. She tried to content herself with daily lanolin massages, which Zeinab had recommended to prevent stretch marks.
Yet even as he distanced himself physically, Ali pampered Amira in every- thing else. To encourage her in her studies, he had her bedroom fitted out with bookcases, a handsome desk, and a chair that was custom-made to support her back. He installed a midwife in the palace, and had a London specialist flown in every two weeks. “You must have the best of everything,” he said. “Anything you need, Amira, anything at all, just ask.”
At times, she searched her mind for something to ask for, simply because he expected it. All she had to do was mention that it might be pleasant to have a glass of juice, a piece of melon, or a sugar cookie, and someone ran to fetch it. In spite of modern medicine, it was still believed that if a pregnant woman craved something and did not have it at once, her child would be marked.
Noting Ali’s overprotectiveness, the queen remarked acidly that he was turning into a woman himself. Ali seemed not to care.
Yet in spite of the excellent care she received, Amira couldn’t help but fear the moment when her child would arrive. How could she not, when the memory of Laila’s delivery was still etched in her mind?
She knew there were drugs to ease the pain, but comparing the luxury with which she was surrounded to the filth and squalor of Laila’s prison cell, she was too ashamed to mention them to her doctor. When he asked whether she preferred “natural childbirth,” she answered simply, “Whatever God wills.”
O
“Wake up, Ali, please wake up,” Amira pleaded. She had been wakened moments ago by a mild cramping sensation—and a rush of warm fluid that soaked her nightgown and sheets. It had begun.
Quickly, she went to Ali’s bed and shook his shoulders. “It’s time?” he asked as his eyes flew open.
“Yes.”
Moving with a speed she had never seen, he bundled Amira into a palace limousine and summoned the midwife. Soon, they were speeding towards the new al-Remal hospital. As Ali had previously ordered, a suite of rooms had been set aside for Amira. A staff obstetrician was in attendance, and the Lon- don specialist—who’d been lodged at the Intercontinental Hotel for the past few weeks—was on his way.
Yet in the end, it was far less difficult than she’d imagined. A few hours of discomfort, an hour or so of real pain. A final push, and she heard his cry. Her son had been born.
Cafe-au-lait skin, a shock of black hair, enormous liquid eyes of deepest lapis. “Beautiful,” she whispered when the nurse placed him in her arms. “I love you, my son, more than my own life.” And when he gave her another lusty cry, she was sure he had heard and understood.
O
How did I ever live without him, Amira asked herself as she suckled her baby. She would never tire of looking at her Karim, of touching his silken skin, inhaling his sweet baby fragrance. She wanted so much to take him home, to rock him in her arms, to sing him to sleep, and to wake with his beautiful face near hers. But Ali insisted that they both stay in the hospital for a week. “The doctor tells me that the first few days of an infant’s life are the most fragile,” he explained, “and the most likely period for complications. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him. Or to you,” he added hastily.
To ease the boredom of her hospital stay, Ali brought in a big-screen tele- vision and a collection of videotapes, along with all her textbooks. He filled the room with flowers the morning after Karim’s birth. And on the following day, he presented Amira with a small velvet box inscribed with the name of a well- known London jeweler. Inside, against a cushion of white silk, was an antique pendant, an enormous pigeon-blood ruby. Amira had never seen a stone of such size, such richness of color.
“It once belonged to Marie Antoinette,” Ali said. “A queen of France.” But such an unhappy one, she recalled—and then quickly banished the thought. The pendant was a magnificent gift, and she thanked her husband graciously.
“It’s scarcely worthy of you. You’ve given me my first son. Nothing, no one, can compare with that.”
The ruby was but the first of a shower of gifts. Visitors laden with beautifully wrapped boxes trooped in and out of Amira’s room all day long, and she was soon glad of the opportunity to rest. Munira brought an antique engraved cup of heavy English silver and a handful of turquoise beads, to hang on the baby’s cradle and his clothes, as protection from the evil eye.
Malik flew in from Paris with an entire carload of handmade toys. He was sleeker, more poised, better dressed—and Amira couldn’t resist teasing him. “You’re looking very prosperous, Brother. Have you really become the hardworking and brilliant businessman Father imagines you to be?”
“I am prosperous, nushkorallah, thanks be to God. And I do work hard. But as for brilliance, well, my old friend, Onassis, insists that making money takes no particular talent. When I told him I was striking out on my own, he said, ‘My young friend, I have just one piece of advice for you. To be successful, you must always have a tan and you must always pay your hotel bills.’ I have tried to follow this advice—though my tan, of course, is permanent.”
“Silly,” she said, pushing him playfully. Then she lowered her voice.
“Tell me … how is Laila?”
The sophistication fell away, and he was a boy again, his eyes sparkling with love, his voice rich with tenderness. “She’s wonderful, Amira. She learns some- thing new every day. She hears a new word once, and immediately she knows what it means. Her French is quite amazing now. Her nanny says she has a great facility with language.”
Amira’s eyes went to her own son, lying in his elaborately decorated cradle just a few feet away.
“They grow faster than you can imagine, Amira,” Malik said softly. “And soon, you cannot imagine a life without them.”
Amira’s final visitor arrived on the day she was to return home. Dr. Philippe Rochon. “I’ve been attending the king this week,” he explained, “so I thought I’d look in on you and the baby.”
Did Ali know? she wondered, but dared n
ot ask. She was surrounded by hospital staff, and Philippe sat in a chair a full three feet from her bed, yet there was an intimacy to his presence that she had not experienced before.
“The baby is healthy,” he went on, “as I’m sure you know. And you, Amira, you …”
“Yes?” she asked, holding her breath.
“You’re lovelier than ever. If that were possible.”
She exhaled slowly. He had crossed a line. A personal compliment. And her husband not present.
“Tell me about your studies,” he said, breaking the tension. “Ali tells me you’ve been very diligent throughout your confinement.”
“It isn’t diligence. Though I’m often frustrated because there’s no one to answer my questions, I love learning new things, or trying to.”
“Ah, Amira,” he said sadly, “someone like you, a natural student, you belong …”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m studying psychology, as you suggested. Just a beginning course, but still…”
Philippe’s blue eyes crinkled with pleasure. “And? What do you think?”
“It’s like learning a new language, a new way of thinking and seeing. I don’t pretend to understand it yet, but I will, I know I will.”
“I wish I could see it all with you, Amira, through your eyes.”
Amira was quiet. Too much had already been said. Philippe got up to go, waiting perhaps for a moment to see if she would stop him. She did not. But when he left, the room seemed so very empty. And cold.
O
For a long time after Karim’s birth, Amira was so involved with him she scarcely noticed that Ali still had not returned to their marriage bed. First, Karim was circumcised by the mutaharati, one of the handful of old men who specialized in the simple procedure. Then followed a week-long feast, almost as lavish as her wedding. Food was distributed to the poor; gold pieces were handed out to all who came to pay their respects.
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