Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  Whatever Ali’s faults, he was generous, she had to admit. On their first anniversary, he had summoned her to the living room in the men’s section. Some of his kinsmen were there, as were two men in western suits whom Ali introduced as representatives of Harry Winston. The men opened a dozen cases in which diamonds blazed against black velvet.

  “Take your pick,” Ali told her expansively.

  It was in the aftermath of the oil embargo, and money was gushing into al Remal in unbelievable quantities, but Amira disliked some of the self indulgence that came with it. She pointed to a lovely little bracelet that would accentuate her hands nicely. In a world where faces, legs, and arms were kept hidden, hands were a major feature of a woman’s beauty, and Amira was rather vain of hers.

  Ali looked irritated. “Is that a set?” he asked, indicating a magnificent necklace, bracelet, and earrings.

  “Yes, Your Highness,” one of the Winston men said. “She’ll take that—and the little bracelet, too, of course.”

  Amira did not have to feign being overwhelmed. Like all Remali women, who in the event of divorce might be left with little but their jewelry, she had an expert knowledge of its value; the price of the diamonds her husband had chosen would approach a million American dollars.

  On Karim’s first birthday, Ali’s gift to the mother of his son was equally impressive: a magnificent emerald said to have belonged to a maharajah. This time, he made the presentation in private. Had one of his older brothers objected to the conspicuousness of the diamond showing? Amira took the chance to ask, “Why do you give me such wonderful gifts, my husband? Surely, I’m undeserving.”

  “My wife should have fine things,” he said, as if it were self-evident.

  “But … so much.” She trailed off. It was not her right to expect some word of love, she told herself. Ali was not that kind of man. Still, it hurt to be treated as if she were only a prized servant, richly and frequently rewarded but hardly loved. For a moment, she saw Philippe’s smiling eyes.

  As the months passed, Ali’s indifference gnawed at her. Everything in her family upbringing, everything in her society, told her that if a man did not love his wife, it was the wife’s fault. Perhaps she was being punished for her feelings for another man. Yet as sinful as that was, everyone knew of women who had such feelings—and more than feelings—whose husbands, nevertheless, worshiped them. No, it must be a deeper failing, some fundamental unattractiveness in her. “Good marriages are made by good wives”: was it Aunt Najla who was always reciting that old saying?

  She began to be obsessed with becoming pregnant again. Things had been so much better when she was carrying Karim, and just after his birth. Surely, Ali wanted more children; all men did. Yet, how was she to conceive? He came to her so rarely now, and when he did, the act often ended in his failure, accompanied by recriminations against her. Only cruelty seemed to sustain his desire, but even when little tortures of her helped him to a finish, it was usually in a way that was unnatural and painful, and that could never give her a child.

  But wasn’t that her fault, too—that he did not find her desirable enough to satisfy him in normal ways?

  Was he seeing other women, draining his passion with them? And if he were, again whose fault was that? A man had needs. If his wife were not enough for him, the common wisdom was clear as to who was to blame.

  Common wisdom had remedies to offer as well, and one night Amira found herself thinking about them. Charms. Potions. There were women—often Egyptians—who sold them. But that was out of the question. If a prince’s wife were seen at the door of such a woman, the story would be on every tongue in the palace within hours. She couldn’t send a servant, either; they all worked for the Rashads, and only incidentally for her. Perhaps she could go home for a while, ask Bahia or Um Salih.

  But was that necessary? Not every love spell was a deep secret. Jihan—an Egyptian, after all—had told her dozens of them. For instance, there was green wheat and pigeon meat cooked with nutmeg. A priapic, guaranteed to turn a man’s member as rigid as iron. And everyone knew that a few drops of a woman’s menstrual blood, mixed in the man’s food, would enslave him to her forever. Maybe combine the two? But how could anyone possibly induce Ali to eat green wheat and pigeon meat?

  Suddenly, alone in her room, Amira burst out laughing. Had it come to this? Amira Rashad, with all her education, with her pretensions to Parisian sophistication, Amira Rashad the would-be psychologist, scheming like a desert Bedouin to enchain her husband by superstition and witchcraft! She laughed until the tears came. If only there were someone to share the joke!

  There was no one, of course; certainly not her in-laws. To the royal family, a wife who produced only one child was no laughing matter. When Amira had borne Karim, Ali’s mother and sisters, previously so cool and standoffish, had almost overwhelmed her with their approval and solicitousness. The first few months of her son’s life brought the closest thing to happiness she had known in the palace. Then the respite was over. Soon, hardly a day went by without some seemingly casual remark about her next child. Then came the pointed questions and expressions of concern about her health. Finally, not long after Karim’s first birthday, Faiza announced that she had summoned the doctor to examine Amira.

  Protests were no good—Um Ahmad was in her most regal mood. Soon, Amira found herself wearing her veil and little else, being probed and questioned by the same doctor who had failed to help Jihan in her crisis. For once, she was grateful for the veil.

  “You are in very good health, Princess, praise God,” the man informed her when she was dressed. “I see no reason, God willing, that you should not have many children.”

  “You give me good news. God is indeed compassionate.”

  “Indeed.” The doctor toyed with his stethoscope. He looked uncomfortable. “Is there something else? Something wrong?”

  “Wrong? Nothing at all.” He tucked the stethoscope away. “Forgive me, Highness, but in order to be of most value to you, I need to ask some rather personal questions. In strictest confidence, of course.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I know that you have visited Europe several times, with your husband, of course, and I must ask—please don’t take offense—if you are taking one of the so-called birth control medications.”

  “No.”

  “I thought not. Forgive my asking. I would be remiss if I didn’t. It’s not unheard of, you know, especially among women who have gone abroad. God knows why.”

  “Of course.”

  The doctor nodded. “Only one more question, Highness. Again forgive me—you understand. But is everything … as it should be between you and your husband?”

  Beneath the veil Amira’s skin burned. She longed to tell someone, anyone— even this servile little man—that nothing was as it should be. But she couldn’t. The shame was too great. “Everything is fine,” she said. “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then.” The doctor brightened and picked up his bag. “It hasn’t really been that long, you know, Highness, although certainly I understand your eager- ness to have more children. As I said, you’re healthy. Be patient, and God willing, you will be rewarded.”

  After he left, Amira felt like breaking something against the wall. The examination had been humiliating, but her anger was about more than that. She was angry because she had lied. No, because she was in a position where she had to lie. But who was to blame for that? Only she. Nothing would change unless she changed it.

  That night she came up with an idea.

  “Ali, heart,” she said, using her best wheedling voice, absorbed from Jihan, “do you know that soon we will have been married two years?” “Of course, I know. You don’t think I’d forget, do you?” He was on his way out—to where?— impatient to be gone.

  “Do you know what I’d like for a present?” Ali shrugged. “Ask, and it’s yours.”

  “Only you, my husband. Your face has become a stranger’s to me. I know I’ve of
fended you.”

  “Nonsense.” He glanced toward the door.

  “As a gift, I would like for us to go away for a week or two, love. Just you and me and Karim. Someplace we have never been, where there’s not a single embassy party or exhibition opening to worry about. Can we do that?”

  For a moment, he looked at her so uncaringly that she was sure she had angered him. But then he smiled—the handsome, charming Ali. “Of course, we can,” he said. “And I know just the place.”

  O

  From the air, the Nile Delta was a spill of shocking green across a sand floor, the line between desert and verdure as sharp as if cut with a knife. Then in the distance, Amira saw another color, the deep blue of the Mediterranean. As the plane descended, she could make out tiny figures on a grayish beach.

  The airport was small and had a decidedly bedraggled look. As she stepped from the plane into bright sunlight, Amira braced for the blinding heat she had left in al-Remal, but felt only a cool breeze. The temperature could not have been much more than eighty.

  A Rolls-Royce waited on the runway. A customs inspector standing beside it merely saluted, welcomed them to Alexandria, and opened the door. Half an hour later, Amira was strolling the grounds of a seaside villa in a suburb that Ali called Roushdy. Red tiles topped a white-marble house—a small palace, really, and classically graceful. It looked as if it could have been a noble Roman’s summer home at Pompeii or Herculaneum in the days when Vesuvius was just a pretty mountain. Bougainvillea bloomed profusely, and a lush lawn flowed down a gentle slope to the beach. A long, narrow swimming pool fitted perfectly into the landscape. From one angle, a trick of design made its blue water appear to merge with the sea beyond. On both sides of the broad lawn, high walls lined with date palms stretched all the way to the sand.

  “You can wear a bathing suit in privacy,’’ Ali pointed out. “Just be sure the male servants are warned away first.”

  “Oh, Ali, it’s gorgeous! It must be the most beautiful place on Earth. My God, the rent must be a fortune, even for two weeks.”

  Ali raised an eyebrow. “Actually, I bought it. A good price, it belonged to a friend of my father’s in Abu Dhabi.” He glanced at his watch. “That reminds me. I have a few acquaintances I need to renew in town. I may as well do it this evening. I’ll probably be rather late getting back, but you’ll want to rest anyway, after the flight. We’ll see the sights tomorrow.” It wasn’t what Amira hoped to hear, but for a husband to tell his wife his plans at all was a token of consideration. Besides, she was too in love with this jewel of a place to be disappointed.

  Three days later, disappointment had set in with a vengeance. She still had not left the grounds. Ali went out each night and came in late, bleary and smelling of liquor, taking a quick swim in the pool before stumbling off to an oblivious sleep from which he did not rouse himself before noon. Whatever Amira had hoped for this holiday together, it was not happening.

  The beauty of her surroundings was consolation. She rose early and, after feeding Karim, breakfasted on her balcony overlooking the sea. Later, while her son napped, she took a book to read by the pool. In al-Remal, seri- ous sunbathing was unheard of, and the American and European compulsion to bake in the full sun was considered sure proof of an essential lunacy. But here, with nothing but a swimming suit between her and the caressing ocean air, the cool water, the sun’s warm kiss, Amira found a pleasure that bordered on the erotic.

  Still, three days was enough; the villa was becoming a prison. She hadn’t even been to the beach, fearing that, as liberal as Egypt might be, an unaccompanied woman might encounter trouble.

  That afternoon, she took her stand. “Ali, this city is famous for seafood, but all I’ve had since I’ve been here is lamb and chicken. I might as well be back home.” It was true; they had brought along a sous-chef from the royal kitchen as cook, but the man refused to exercise his skills on the unfamiliar catch of the local fishermen.

  “Perhaps tomorrow. I have an appointment tonight.” His face, still puffy from the previous evening’s drinking, was sullen, his eyes bloodshot.

  Amira persisted. “We can eat early. You’ll still have time to visit your acquaintances. If you wish.”

  In the end, perhaps because he was in too much pain to argue, Ali relented. The restaurant was on the Sharia Safia Zaghloul. The drive into town took them along the broad, curving Corniche, the harbor on one side, the lights of the city rising on the other.

  The driver, an Alexandrian, pointed proudly toward a long peninsula across the water. “There stood the lighthouse of Pharos, one of the seven wonders of the world.” But no wondrous lighthouse shone there now. There was only a massive, squat building that the driver identified as an old fort. That seemed to be the way with much of the city, as far as Amira could tell from the window of the Rolls.

  She knew that Alexandria once ranked among the world’s capitals, rivaling Rome and Constantinople. In modern times, it had remained an exotic destination—cosmopolitan, more European than Egyptian, and spiced with a reputation for decadence and sin. Now the town simply looked down on its luck.

  The restaurant accorded with this general impression. It reminded Amira vaguely of some of the lesser bistros she had seen in Paris, although less crowded. Only a few tables were occupied. The bouillabaisse she ordered was acceptable, nothing more. None of that mattered. She was wearing beautiful clothes, sitting unveiled beside her husband in a public place, and enjoying every minute. She even had a glass of wine.

  A middle-aged couple, obviously British, sat at the next table. The man had a vaguely military look; the woman was thin, elegant, handsome. As Amira studied them, she noticed a certain reserve in the waiter’s treatment of the couple and chilly glances from one or two patrons.

  “Those poor people,” Amira murmured. “They can’t be very comfortable.” “Ah, yes,” Ali said, “the lingering aftereffects of British colonialism. We have long memories in the Middle East. We don’t forget. And we rarely for- give. But since I have no grievance with the English, I see no reason why we shouldn’t be civil. And hospitable.” He beckoned the waiter over and ordered a bottle of red wine for the next table.

  When it arrived, the Englishman rose from his chair. “Thank you. Thank you very much indeed,” he said to Ali. “You’re very kind.”

  “Not at all. Perhaps you and your lovely wife would like to join us. My wife and I would enjoy the opportunity to practice our English.”

  “A pleasure,” he said, extending his hand. “My name is Charles Edwin. And this is my wife, Margaret.”

  “Ali Rashad. My wife, Amira. What brings you to Alexandria?”

  “Oh, we just came out for a few days to summon up the ghosts of our youth,” Margaret answered, her cool gray eyes warming in a genuine smile. “Ghosts?”

  Amira asked.

  “Charles was attached to the British embassy in Cairo,” Margaret explained. “It was a long time ago.”

  Amira wanted to ask what the Englishman did at the British embassy, but she felt that might be impolite. Perhaps he was a spy, she thought—a bluff, tweedy, balding James Bond.

  “And have you found any ghosts?” Ali asked.

  Sir Charles laughed. “Haven’t encountered many, I’m afraid. Old station’s not what it once was. Although, I saw a Greek or two on the street today, and even a Frenchman. Maybe they’ll let us all back in someday.” “And you?” said Margaret, addressing the question to both of them. “Let me guess—you’re on your honeymoon.”

  “No,” said Ali.

  “It’s our second anniversary,” Amira supplied. “Ah.”

  “I’ve bought a place in Roushdy,” Ali said. “It seemed a good time to put it to use.”

  “Roushdy,” said Sir Charles. “May I ask which place is yours?”

  Ali told him. The older man was clearly impressed. Soon, the two of them were discussing the real estate market in various locales in the Middle East. Margaret turned to Amira in the immemorial manner of wom
en excusing them- selves from men’s talk.

  “And are you enjoying Alex, my dear?”

  “Alex? Oh, Alexandria. Well, I’ve hardly seen it. I’ve—we’ve—spent most of our time at the house.”

  “Ah. Well, then, why not let me play tour guide? Charles has some sort of chore in Alamein tomorrow, and I’ll be at loose ends. I’d love to show you and your husband the old town, if you don’t mind a touch of nostalgia.”

  “Ali, could we?” “Could we what?”

  Amira repeated Margaret’s invitation.

  “I’m afraid I may have to do some business tomorrow. But you go, by all means.”

  “It’s all right?” “Of course.”

  At the end of the evening, they made arrangements. The Edwins were at the Hotel Cecil. “Not what it once was, of course,” said Sir Charles apologetically.

  “What is, my dear?” said Margaret.

  The Rolls was waiting. Ali gave the Edwins a lift to their hotel, then instructed the driver to take Amira home. “I’ll find a cab,” he told her. “Don’t wait up. You’ll need to be on your way early.”

  He was still asleep when she left in the morning.

  O

  “There are still some things worth seeing in Alex,” said Margaret Edwin, “but we shan’t see them all today. There’s an excellent museum, for instance, some real treasures in it, but it needs hours to appreciate it properly, hours and a working knowledge of the history of Macedonia and Rome—and Egypt, of course.”

  Amira admitted that her learning in those areas was not great.

  “Ah. I’ll give you some books. Perhaps we’ll take in the museum another day. I think we’ll skip the Kom El Shoqafa catacombs, as well. I’m afraid I’ve never developed much enthusiasm for catacombs.”