Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  Amira’s heart leaped. The fiftieth anniversary of the king’s ascension to the throne was less than two months away. It would be a nationwide feast that lasted for six days.

  “It will be good to see you, doctor.” Their eyes locked.

  “Take care of yourself, Highness. Au revoir.”

  “Au revoir.”

  He left with a professional compliment to Rabia, who blushed fiercely.

  O

  “He’ll be our guest, of course,” said Ali. “It’s the least I can do. He saved your life, then left without giving me a chance to reward him properly.” “He might be more comfortable in one of the Western hotels,” Amira said, hardly knowing why she said it.

  He waved the objection aside. “Every hotel room in the city is taken. I could twist arms, but why?”

  He was right. Most of the dignitaries of the Middle East, and many from Europe and America, were coming for the semicentennial. Al-Remal had only a handful of first-class hotels. Hundreds of guests would necessarily rely on private hospitality. Why was she suddenly uneasy about the prospect of having Philippe as a house guest? In the hospital, she would have sacrificed ten years of life to keep him near her for another week. Was it something in Ali’s tone, some hint of hidden meaning?

  “In any case, it’s done,” said Ali. “I called him an hour ago, and he accepted the invitation.”

  Amira tried to look indifferent. Her husband stepped toward her. She suppressed a flinch, but he merely touched her forehead, as if testing for fever. Her skin crawled.

  “Are you sure you’re strong enough to see to setting up the house? I’ll do what I can, of course, but I’m afraid this is a busy time for me.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  The house was a large, beautiful place near a small and very ancient oasis just south of the city. Like many of the younger members of the royal family, Ali and Amira were temporarily vacating the palace to make room for favored semicentennial visitors. Amira’s bedroom, for example, would be occupied by the wife of the Vice-President of the United States.

  “I’ve told some of the servants to begin work this afternoon,” said Ali, sealing the arrangement. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be running back and forth all day. Let me know if there’s anything you need. The palace will know where to reach me.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t tire yourself.” “I won’t.”

  He left with a smile. What was its true meaning? she wondered.

  To all appearances, he had become the most considerate husband in al-Re- mal. It didn’t matter. Nothing he did mattered to her. A thousand angels testifying that he was a changed man would not induce her to trust him.

  The first weeks out of the hospital had been a time of respite. All that was expected of her was that she rest and heal, and in doing so, she was enclosed in an ever-present shell of women: cousins, friends, servants, mother-in-law, sisters-in-law, in-laws she barely knew.

  Everyone commented on the terrible “accident,” then never mentioned it again. If they had questions, they wanted to forget them. But she had no questions and had forgotten nothing: not the man in the Alexandrian night, not the beating, and most of all, not her terrible vision of Ali and Karim in a possible future. As her strength slowly returned, she wanted nothing further except a way out.

  With her recovery, the shielding veil of women gradually lifted. That was fine with Amira. She was ready for a little aloneness, a little privacy, and she was weary of the thing that hung in the air, unspoken but as pervasive as the stench of a snuffed candle, among her comforters: she was an object of pity to them.

  After all, she was now barren, a female without purpose or future, a has-been at twenty-two. In a way, in the view of the other women, a part of her had died that night, and they reacted as people do to death, with secret gratitude that it had struck someone else.

  Ali had not approached her sexually. She was not sure what she would do if he did. She might claim debility, or she might simply refuse and see how thick or thin was the veneer of kindness with which he had disguised him- self. But perhaps he would leave her alone for a long time, or even forever. Perhaps he sensed the revulsion his touch caused in her. Or perhaps he was himself repelled by her barrenness.

  A few days ago, she had overheard Faiza commenting that Ali would, of course, take another wife. And of course, he would. No one would blame him; in fact, many would fault him if he did not.

  Again, it didn’t matter. She was waiting for deliverance, nothing else, in whatever form it might take.

  She sent for a driver to take her to the new house. In minutes, a servant told her the car was ready. That was one of the positives about the allegedly new Ali: she had freedom to come and go almost as she pleased.

  In the few steps between the palace’s family entrance and the cocoon of the waiting Rolls, Amira felt the chill of the Remali winter. The temperature had dropped into the fifties; tonight, water might freeze. She hoped that the weather would moderate in time for Philippe’s arrival.

  The driver, a large, fierce-looking man with a pockmarked face, hurried to help her. Amira knew that, like all his colleagues at the palace, he was an expert in defensive combat and the use of small arms, a variety of which nested near at hand under the front seat.

  “God’s peace, Highness.” “God’s peace, Jabr.”

  “Shall I turn up the heater?” “No, it’s perfect.”

  As the luxurious car purred from the palace grounds into the unusually busy city streets, the big man suddenly asked with boyish excitement, “Has Your Highness seen the tents?”

  “What tents?”

  “Out toward the airport, Highness. The desert people have come in for the feast.”

  “Show me,” she said on a whim.

  Several times in her life, she had seen little encampments of Bedu, but never anything like this. Hundreds of black tents stretched to the distant low hills. The air was hazy with the smoke of cooking fires. More horses and camels than could be counted stood in little knots among the tents. Men turned to look at the car, then resumed their conversations.

  “My people,” Jabr said proudly. “I left them when I was twelve to serve His Majesty, by God’s will.”

  “So many!” was all Amira could say. The sight stirred her deeply. Until this moment, she had thought of the semicentennial as a palace party. Now she saw that it was much more than that; it was a celebration of the whole people. Many of these leathery men and black-clad women had crossed hundreds of miles of open desert to be here.

  “May God give their numbers increase,” said Jabr. “As long as there are Bedu, there will be an al-Remal.”

  It was true, Amira thought. The desert people, though they were now only a small fraction of the population, were the country’s soul.

  “It’s beautiful, Jabr. I’ll make you bring me here again.” She would. She would bring Faiza, too. She wanted to see the older woman’s reaction, in all her royal elegance, to the life from which she had sprung. Would Faiza’s fingers remember how to weave black-dyed goats’ hair and wool into a Bedu tent?

  Jabr took a last look at the vast camp and turned the Rolls south.

  At the new house, there was little for Amira to do. The servants knew their work and constantly urged her to rest. She did oversee one task personally—the hanging of a painting over the bed in what would be Philippe’s room. It was one of Henri Rousseau’s jungle fantasies. Amira had never seen a jungle. She wondered if the artist had. It looked like a very French idea of a jungle to her. She hoped that Philippe would like it enough to compliment her taste. Then Ali would feel compelled to give the painting to him.

  But probably Philippe would say nothing. He knew al-Remal better than any European had a right to know it.

  O

  “Highness, Prince Ali wishes for you to come and greet his guest.”

  It was about time. Ali had monopolized Philippe for nearly an hour. She followed the servant into the men’s quarters.

&
nbsp; There he was.

  He looked paler than the last time she had seen him. The European winter, she remembered. European skin.

  “Welcome, doctor, to these poor temporary lodgings. You’ve come to see if your patient survived?”

  “Hello, Highness. God willing, all my patients should survive so well. I’ll be as another Avicenna.”

  “Spoken like a Remali, doctor,” said Ali with a smile. And so it was, thought Amira, right down to the reference to the great Arab physician of antiquity; most Westerners would have mentioned Hippocrates.

  “But all is well, Highness?” Philippe asked seriously. “No problems?” His eyes cut deep.

  “Nothing to speak of, doctor.”

  “Please,” said Ali, smiling again. “Enough of these formalities. Aren’t we friends? First names from now on.”

  Philippe made a Gallic gesture of willing agreement. Amira said nothing, her assent to her husband’s wish taken for granted.

  “Philippe was telling me,” Ali continued, “about the shah’s big bash. He thinks ours will be better.”

  “You were there, Philippe?” He had never mentioned it to her. The shah of Iran’s 1971 extravaganza at Persepolis, celebrating the twenty-five-hundredth anniversary of the Persian Empire, had been the talk of the world.

  “Not as an invited guest,” said Philippe modestly. “I was merely part of the Pompidou entourage.”

  “Give us your impressions,” prodded Ali.

  Philippe shrugged. “It was de trop, of course. Actually, what reminded me of it was the Bedu camp I saw on the way here from the airport. That is the real thing. The shah set up tents, too: tents designed by Jansen. Two bedrooms—Porthault sheets. Marble baths. Of course, all of that was for the elite. Most of us were housed in Shiraz, forty miles away.”

  “My father was in one of those tents,” said Ali. “He agrees with you that it was de trop. Yet, many people, even today, speak of the thing as the last step to Paradise.”

  Philippe shrugged again. “Tastes differ. Certainly, it was a good show. The entire Iranian army costumed and coiffed like Persian soldiers of old. Every kind of entertainment, never a dull moment. One ate reasonably well, too: the shah brought in the full staff of Maxim’s.”

  “Let me ask you, my friend Philippe: Do you know what the shah spent on his little circus?”

  “I’ve heard the sum of three hundred million dollars tossed around.” “That is approximately correct. But in all the time you were there, did you ever hear a single sura of the Koran?”

  “Since I’m not of the faith, Highness—” “Ali.”

  “—Ali, I wasn’t paying much attention to such things. But no, I don’t believe I did.”

  “Neither did my father. And to this day, he says that the shah’s irreligion will be his undoing.”

  Philippe nodded. “It may be. As for me, I found it hard to enjoy the festivities for other reasons. I had just spent several weeks in the Sahel—the U.N. had asked a group of us to look into the medical situation there. There was little we could do. The drought was at its worst then, if you remember, and people—children especially—were dying like flies. After that, it was difficult to appreciate the offer- ings of Maxim’s.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Ali vaguely. Amira could tell that he saw no connection between the chronic problems of sub-Saharan Africa and a vast party hosted by the occupant of the Peacock Throne.

  In a gesture that was becoming habitual, Ali checked his watch. “A thou- sand apologies, my friend, but duty calls. I’m overdue at the palace. My brother Ahmad is late, too—he’s supposed to be here to help welcome you. I’m sure he’ll show up any minute. Meanwhile, my home is yours.”

  Amira looked at him in some confusion. It would be improper for her to entertain a male guest alone.

  Ali noticed her uncertainty. “It’s all right. As I said, Ahmad will be here any minute—and anyway, we can’t leave our guest unattended. Have someone show him his room, let him freshen up. I’ve talked the poor man to death.”

  With another smile, he was gone. Amira looked at Philippe and he at her. She wanted to rush to his arms but dared not; what if someone saw? “It’s good to have you here,” she said simply.

  He looked at her intently. “Do you still want to leave, Amira?” Her voice sounded tiny when she said yes.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I may have a way. But this is no time to talk about it.” “No.”

  A moment later, Ahmad strode in. If he thought anything about Amira’s presence in the room with Philippe, it didn’t show. He was as quiet and somber as Ali was effusive. Behind him came two of Ali’s cousins. In the crowd of men, Amira felt distinctly out of place, and she quickly excused herself.

  In the women’s world, she dealt mechanically with the servants. Philippe had a plan. What would it be?

  And whatever it was, could she really do it? Yes, she told herself. Yes, she could.

  Remali Police

  Determination was one thing. Opportunity was another. For three days, Amira never had a moment alone with Philippe. The festival swept along like a hurrying caravan, pausing only for prayer or sleep. The palace grounds were thrown open to the public, fire pits cut into the manicured lawns, and tents set up in which an army of cooks fed roasted lamb and seasoned rice to all comers until the small hours of the morning.

  The foreign embassies vied with one another in offering brunches, lunches, and formal dinners to invited guests. There were horse and camel races by day, fireworks by night, hospitality and conversation at all hours.

  At midweek fell a Great Majlis at which any Remali might raise a grievance before the king himself. On this occasion, most of the petitioners brought not complaints but congratulations, every village sheikh striving to put in a few words of praise and fidelity.

  Now and then, though, someone stepped forward to beg the king’s jus- tice. One old man quivering with awe announced that two of his goats had been killed by a truck and that, far from paying for the goats, the driver had demanded money for the damage to his vehicle. Two witnesses from the man’s far desert village supported his story.

  The king ordered that the driver pay not only for the goats, but also for the cost of the three men’s travels to the majlis. The trio, assured of fame in their homeplace for the rest of their lives, departed thanking God and the monarch. Like smaller jewels among the official events, countless private parties flared and sparkled, relatives and friends visiting and bearing gifts back and forth until nearly dawn. It reminded Amira of the week after Ramadan, only more frenetic.

  It was entirely possible to forget which party one was attending.

  Everywhere, except at some of the embassies and in the most liberal private homes, standard segregation of the sexes applied. Even in her own house, what with the comings and goings of guests and the scurrying of servants, Amira never had a chance to exchange more than a few perfunctory and very public words with Philippe.

  What little privacy there had been all but vanished when Ali’s sister, Zeinab, showed up with her luggage and her somewhat overwhelmed husband, com- plaining that the house to which they had been assigned was little better than a shepherd’s hut—impossible to remain there another minute.

  It was Ali who finally gave Amira her chance. “Our friend isn’t feeling well,’’ he told her on the fourth morning of the festival. “He says he’s just tired, but I’m not sure he’s in the best of health. At any rate, he plans to stay in and rest today.’’

  “I’ll tell the servants.”

  “Good. But we can’t leave a guest alone. I’d like for you to stay and keep him company—unless you can’t resist another embassy meal and speeches.” “To tell the truth, I’m a little worn out myself.” It was a fact; she still hadn’t fully regained her strength from the ordeal in the hospital. “But mightn’t there be talk? I mean, won’t there be anyone else here, besides the servants?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t
keep up with Zeinab—enough trouble figuring out my own schedule. But there’s nothing to worry about. It’s an unusual situation, after all, and you have my permission. Besides, as you said, the servants will be here.”

  “Well …” She didn’t want to seem eager. “I must go. Everything will be fine.”

  “As you command,” said Amira, like the good Muslim wife she had once tried so hard to be.

  That day after noon prayer, she sat down with Philippe to a light lunch of quail, fried rice balls, olives, dates, and fresh fruit. She ordered a bottle of white wine brought up from the supply Ali kept for foreign guests, a few lib- eral friends, and, of course, himself. Philippe seemed pleased by the gesture, although he objected mildly when Amira refused to take a glass for herself.

  “It’s strange,” he said. “To your people, drinking wine is a terrible sin or, at best, a kind of naughtiness. To mine, wine is a food. Most of us would never think of having a meal without it.”

  They were alone in the dining room. Zeinab had whirled in earlier and taken the children, including Karim, to some party or other.

  “Many things separate our people,” Amira said.

  “Only three, really. Language, religion, and the Mediterranean.” For a moment, he seemed lost in reflection. “When I was young, I thought nothing in the world did so much evil as religion. I still think that, but as I grow older, I also see the good that religion does.”

  “I’m sure that’s true. Let me refill your glass.” Amira was uncomfortable with the topic Philippe had chosen to discuss. Living in the palace, she had developed a sixth sense about when servants were eavesdropping. There was too much silence behind the doors to the kitchen. Most of the servants were tradition-minded. Their tongues would wag for days about Amira’s dining alone with an alcohol-drinking foreign male. Freethinking comments about religion would only make matters worse.

  “Well, Amira,” said Philippe decisively, “we need to talk.” Instantly, she lifted a finger to her lips.

  After only a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. “What I need to know,” he continued smoothly, “is whether you and Ali have any travel plans. I long to return your hospitality. Will you be in France anytime soon?” “France? Well, I’m sure we’ll be there sooner or later, but I don’t think there are any immediate plans. We’ll be touring the Emirates in a couple of weeks. Then, in the early spring, we’re scheduled for a visit to Iran—Teheran, with a side trip to Tabriz. There’s some talk of going to New York after that. I’ve never been to the United States.”