Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  Now Amira’s days were truly full, nursing Karim, bathing him, making sure he was comfortable and secure. There was an army of maids and nurses living in the palace, but Amira wanted to do as much as possible herself.

  Though Ali doted on his own son, he seemed to have little time for Amira, mumbling excuses about business, affairs of state, meetings with his father.

  And though he was less important to her than her baby, Ali’s indifference reproached her. Surely, she must be failing in some wifely duty, she thought. And so she tried to make herself more attractive and went out of her way to make certain the meals they shared were properly prepared. She put together little conversational tidbits to feed him with his grilled fish or roasted quail—and was rewarded with monosyllables and polite smiles.

  When the prescribed period of abstinence—forty days—passed, she felt shamed by Ali’s lack of ardor, his obvious disinterest. Was something wrong with her? Maybe it was because she’d been fat and ugly for so long. And how would she bear another child, another son, if he never touched her? These were troubling questions, but there was no one she could consult, no one to talk to.

  Certainly, not her mother-in-law, who believed that her Ali was not just a prince of al-Remal but of the entire universe. Nor fat Zeinab who delighted in telling anyone who’d listen that her husband would just not leave her alone. That he demanded sex at all hours of the day and night, even when she was asleep. That he’d gone so far as to caress her when she was in the throes of labor.

  As for Munira, though she was the most intelligent of all, she turned a sour face when there was any talk of men. She seemed to see them as conspirators in a plot to make her unhappy and had managed to persuade her doting father that each and every candidate he suggested was in some way unsuitable or unworthy. No, neither of her sisters-in-law would be of any help.

  How she longed for her mother. Though she remembered the time she’d seen Omar trying to force himself on Jihan, surely her marriage must have been happy once. Maybe she could have explained how desire could live for so many years in some marriages—and then flicker and die in others.

  And there was more. Her feelings for Philippe, the experience of child- birth, the ripening of her body, all these changes had wakened her sensuality. She wanted to be touched and caressed. Perhaps now she might even find pleasure in the things Ali did to her.

  Desperate to bring her doubts and fears to some conclusion, Amira pre- pared herself as carefully as she had for her wedding, removing every trace of hair from her body, scenting herself with L’Air du Temps. She put on her most provocative French lingerie, and when she heard Ali stirring in his study, she presented herself to him.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” He smiled but did not stop pouring his favorite single malt scotch.

  Was he teasing her? she wondered.

  She walked past him, around his chair, her movements becoming more provocative.

  He ignored her. He had no interest in what she offered after she had abased herself like a common courtesan. And the Badir pride flared. “As always, your words have been an enlightenment to your poor servant, my husband,” she said with sarcastic formality. “But I’ve interrupted your refreshment too long.”

  As she turned to walk away, he was suddenly on her like a madman, knocking her to the floor, ripping away the silk, taking her—raping her, really, for now she wanted no part of him. “Is that it? Is that what you want, sow?” he demanded, his voice hoarse with anger. And when he was finished, he pulled his robe around him and left her, as if she were a common whore.

  And suddenly, it came to her. Just like Omar, he must have someone he loved more than her. Someone he loved instead of her. He hates me, she thought. He must. That’s why he hates being with me. He wants to be with her.

  “Is this what happened to you, Mama?” she said aloud. “Is this how you felt?” Would she become like Jihan? Had it happened—so soon? Already? Amira gathered up the shreds of her little silken fantasy and went to bed.

  O

  The morning light softened the brutality of the night before, made it seem like a bad dream. Like a good Muslim wife, Amira found a way to blame herself: throwing herself at Ali that way when he clearly wasn’t in the mood, why wouldn’t he be repelled, angry?

  The idea that he might have someone else was only an irritating little splinter under the skin now, not the gashing certainty it had seemed in the night. Perhaps he had seen someone while she was pregnant. Men had been known to do that; they had their needs.

  But now Amira had given him a son, his first, and no other woman could ever do anything that important for him. Perhaps something was wrong between them sexually, but surely that could work out with time. Even if it didn’t, the world would not end. Her life would still be far better than that of most wives, certainly better than Jihan’s was (ridiculous to have imagined that she was turning into her mother, like one of those movie tricks where a flower blooms and dies in half a minute).

  Leave the bedroom out of it; look at the way Ali treated her everywhere else. He never complained when she buried herself in her books. He not only tolerated her work (the first time she thought of it as that), he encouraged her to do more!

  In fact, they complemented each other. As minister of culture, Ali had a certain image to maintain, especially among foreigners. So, it was a thing of great worth to him to have the best of both worlds—an obedient Arab wife, yet one who was accomplished, educated, who could converse about matters more substantial than the latest fashions or servant problems.

  And yet, and yet, even as she tried to catalog Ali’s virtues, she remembered Philippe Rochon and knew instinctively that he would never treat a woman as she had been treated, not even in a darkened room where no one else could see.

  From the nursery, she heard a beloved cry, and her breasts wept milk in response. Taking her baby to her, she consoled herself with the thought that even if there were nothing else, there would be Karim and her, and that would be enough.

  Philippe

  Paris

  Wrapping her white mohair spring coat around her, Amira stepped out of the George V. lobby. Shaking her head at the driver who sprang to attention when she appeared, she turned left and walked towards the Champs Elysees.

  This was the third time Amira had been to the city, and she had come to love it more than any of the other places to which Ali’s duties had taken them. She loved walking the broad boulevards and picturesque streets. She adored all the typical tourist pleasures, the glittering shops on the Avenue Montaigne, the fabled restaurant atop the Eiffel Tower, the bateau mouche on the Seine. But more than that, the sense of freedom, the pure pleasure in living—it was overpowering.

  The styles the women wore, and the style with which they wore them; the smell and taste of the food; the play of light along the river; and most of all, for Amira, the fireworks display of ideas she could witness in any one of a hundred cafes and bistros on the Left Bank around the Sorbonne.

  Here were young men and women scarcely older than herself laughing, shouting, whispering conspiratorially, arguing and expounding on every possible subject from communism to the Kama Sutra, from atheism to the Albigensian heresies, from black holes in space to the Black Panthers in California.

  This is paradise, Amira sometimes thought. I could stay here forever. She had to remind herself that she couldn’t.

  Since they’d arrived yesterday morning, the hours had flown by. A new haircut at Alexandre’s. A whirlwind shopping trip at Dior. Lunch at the Tour d’Argent. A party at the Remali embassy in Ali’s honor.

  Visiting Paris also meant a visit with Malik, who had established a base of operations here in addition to those in Marseilles, Piraeus, Rotterdam—name a city, it seemed, and her brother would mention a “deal” he was working on there. And there would be an opportunity to see Laila, nearly old enough for school now. It was easy to arrange—Ali had claimed an important meeting with someone he’d met at the embassy, but Amira knew he
had no interest in spending time with Malik.

  O

  The fifteen-room apartment on the Avenue Foch, still smelling of fresh paint, was magnificent. Soaring, elaborately plastered ceilings, fireplaces of the rarest marble, remarkable parquet floors burnished to a golden patina, marble fire- places—these were but a few of the features that had attracted Malik when he’d begun his search for a new home. The rest—the impeccable French antiques, the English silver, Aubusson tapestries, all the opulent furnishings—Malik had added himself.

  “Who decorated this place?” Amira asked as he walked her through the apartment, clearly trying to restrain his pride of ownership. “I know there’s a woman here. I see touches … those framed photographs on the piano, the antique lace in the guest bedrooms. Surely, you didn’t do all that?”

  “The ‘woman’ in question is a decorator,” he replied. “And she was very well paid for those ‘touches.’”

  “That’s it, then?” she teased. “Your private life consists of rendezvous with decorators?”

  Before he could answer, a little girl burst into the room shouting, “Papa! Papa!” Her nanny trailed behind.

  Malik scooped his daughter into his arms and held her close, his tender expression revealing the depth of his love. With her dark eyes and elfin face, Laila looked like a perfect Parisian gamine whom someone had kidnapped and dressed in the very finest clothes.

  Amira sat back and watched them. Her niece spoke perfect Parisian French— with an occasional astonishing Marseillaise obscenity tossed in, at which Malik laughed uproariously. As she told her father everything she and her nanny had done, it was clear that her Arabic, what few words of it she knew, was atrocious. When she finally turned her attention to Amira, she said in rapid succession, “Did you bring me a present today? I still have the pretty dress you brought last time. Do you have any little girls I can play with? Will you come to see Papa again?”

  Amira chose her answers cautiously, so as not to reveal her relationship to Malik. Though Laila knew Malik was her father—he could not bear for her not to know—she was boarded with her nanny, in a comfortable home a short distance away. It was not a satisfying situation, but Malik had hinted he might soon arrive at a solution.

  Soon, the child skipped off and began to bounce a ball in the apartment. The nanny made as if to stop her, but Malik shook his head. He watched indulgently as she played among valuable artworks and antiques, unconcerned about the material things, seeing only his daughter’s happiness.

  He’s been lonely, Amira thought to herself. He has so much love to give. He shouldn’t be alone.

  With a sister’s bluntness, she asked, “When are you going to settle down, Malik? Laila needs a mother. And if you found a woman to marry, you could find a way to live together openly. As a family.’’

  He paused, as if considering the wisdom of speaking frankly. Then he smiled, a shy melting smile that tugged at her heart. “I don’t want to say anything just yet … it’s too soon. But I have met someone. She’s had a hard life, Amira … and she reminds me of Laila. If things work out, then I’ll have some news for you.”

  She threw her arms around him. “I’m so happy, Malik. And I’ll ‘think positive.’ My psychology text says that positive thinking can accomplish a great deal.” He laughed. “Soon, I’ll have to be careful what I say in your presence. You’ll be analyzing all my secret thoughts.” Then he grew reflective again. “And you? Is marriage treating you well? Is Ali a good husband?”

  “He … I … yes. Everything is fine.”

  Suddenly, Malik was hard-eyed. “Is he mistreating you? Tell me the truth, Amira. If he is, I’ll put an end to it, I swear.”

  “What are you talking about? Everything’s fine. Ali treats me very well. Everyone says so. And he adores our son.”

  “Well, then. Good.” The moment passed. Much as she wished for harmony between Malik and Ali, they simply did not like one another. Part of it, she thought, was Malik’s natural older-brotherly protectiveness. Part, Amira had to admit, was a kind of envy on Ali’s part. Malik, younger than Ali, was making a name and a fortune more or less on his own. Ali, although richer by a considerable margin, had traded shamelessly on influence, inside information, and capital borrowed against his father’s inexhaustible resources.

  Though the bad feelings between Ali and her brother caused Amira some distress, they also gave her a great deal of freedom. All she had to do was say she was spending the day with Malik, and she was free to do as she pleased.

  O

  A few hours later, she was seated in a sidewalk cafe. The sky was blue, the sunlight was warm, the day seemed magical. “I wonder what any of us would be like,” she said, “without all this money.”

  “We would be poor, of course,” Philippe said with a smile, his hand closing over hers. “But speak for yourself. I’m only a country doctor who makes house calls, and who has to pay French taxes.”

  Amira smiled back. She knew very well that the “house calls” he mentioned often started with a jet flight to Riyadh or Muscat or Amman. But what she was thinking about was what it would be like if she were away from Ali and every- thing he represented, if she were just a woman on holiday in Paris, meeting a man she adored at a Left Bank sidewalk cafe.

  In the months since they’d first met, Amira had seen Philippe a half- dozen times, a few hours here and there in al-Remal and once at an embassy party in Paris. Yet, he’d been with her in dreams and fantasies. When her bed seemed lonely and cold, she imagined him as he was today, his blue Norman eyes twin- kling in the sunlight, the Parisian breeze pushing at his salt-and-pepper hair.

  Is this what it’s like to love a man? Is this what caused Laila to risk her life, and then to lose it?

  “What’s it like to be veiled?” Philippe asked, suddenly serious.

  “I hate it. I’ve always hated it. At one time, I had become used to it, I suppose, but now it seems worse than ever.”

  “I know you have no choice, but what’s the justification for the whole thing? I mean the religious reason.”

  “Well, the mullahs say it’s mandated by the Koran, but my sister-in- law pointed out that the Koran admonishes both men and women to be modest, nothing more. Apparently, veiling began as a voluntary practice among upper-class women—to set them apart from the lower classes. Munira says that male-dominated societies used it to keep women separate and powerless.” She smiled tentatively because she wasn’t sure she believed everything Munira said. Philippe listened as carefully as if she were a colleague describing some important advance in medical science. It was typical of him. She remembered the way he’d listened to her that first night in al-Remal. Not that he refused to assume a mentor’s role where circumstances warranted it: he advised her which of her biology and psychology books were outdated or mere popularizations and sent her better ones. Once, when she complained of how dull she found chemistry, he reminded her of Freud’s own prediction that “the future belongs to the chemicals.” But in matters where her knowledge or insight was greater than his, he listened as if she were the teacher.

  Now, in the burnished gold light of late afternoon, as Amira’s precious hours of freedom drifted away, they talked fitfully and in murmurs, trying to postpone parting. Philippe broke the mood. “I was in a store the other day,” he said with a smile, “and I saw a black silk scarf, very sheer. I picked it up and held it over my face and walked around—you could see through it well enough. The saleswoman was in a fine state of alarm. She certainly thought I was mad, and if I hadn’t bought the thing, she probably would have summoned the paramedics.” He shook his head and looked out at the boulevard, the slanting light accentuating the smile wrinkles around his eyes. “I wanted to see what it was like—the veil.”

  Amira leaned toward him, and suddenly they were kissing, a long, deep, deeply shared kiss that she wanted never to end.

  When he drew away, the look in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. “My apartment isn’t far from here,” he
said quietly. “Will you come with me?”

  Her body screamed yes, but she looked down and mutely shook her head, a little gesture that might mean almost anything.

  Against the dark screen of her closed eyelids, she saw Laila’s body twitching to the blows of countless stones.

  When she still said nothing, Philippe touched her hand. “It’s all right. I understand.”

  They had approached a threshold and drawn back, as if they’d opened a door, seen a beautiful but dangerous garden, and closed the door again.

  “We’re still friends,” Philippe said.

  “Always.” More than friends. Matched souls, Amira imagined, an inseparable pair broken apart long ago in some cosmic accident, perhaps in one of those black holes in space the Sorbonne astronomy students spoke of with the icy passion of their science.

  A Man in the Night

  When she first returned to al-Remal, Amira could not stop thinking about Paris and Philippe. Everything in her daily life—everything except her child—seemed stifling. But daily life weaves a strong web, and within a few weeks, it had entangled her; nothing she could do pre- vented the time with Philippe from losing its urgent reality, becoming a kind of keepsake, a photograph in the locket of her memory, something to be opened to view only once in a while, tenderly and secretly.

  Yet, she had changed; she could feel it. The small taste of love she had experienced was like the scent of food to someone starving. She wanted more—far more.

  It was a desire she tried to suppress. Time and again she told herself that even if her husband was almost a stranger to her, her life still was one that many women would envy. The women’s wing of the royal palace might be a cloister, but it was a luxurious one.

  On her walls were paintings that, as a girl, she had admired in Miss Vanderbeek’s books. True, most of them were abstract, since the royal family officially adhered to the belief that the Koran prohibited artistic representations of the human body or other natural scenes, but they were beautiful, and she could lose herself in them for hours. In a more capricious mood, she could express a desire to update her wardrobe, and the next day Pierre Cardin or Saint-Laurent or Givenchy would arrive with a string of models to stage a private fashion show.