Then suddenly, it did. Amira stood stock-still. No, she told herself; no, not even Ali would try that. It would be like a bad joke. She almost smiled, but the smile never came. Of course, Ali would try it, and it would be nothing at all like a joke.
Under Sharia law, a woman accusing a man of rape needed the directly corroborating testimony of four witnesses. But a man accusing his wife of adultery had only to demonstrate a pattern of incriminating behavior. To be alone in the house with Philippe was damning in itself. Amira had also dined with him in her husband’s absence—and someone, she remembered, had seen them in the garden late at night.
There was no time to waste. She needed to act—now. Her first instinct was to warn Philippe, but she stopped in her tracks even as she turned for the stairs. The last place on Earth she needed to be was in Philippe’s bedroom. Even to go upstairs would be sheer folly.
She could leave, she told herself—just walk out. But how would that look?
How could she explain it?
The phone. She could call the palace, order some of the servants back. But would they come? How soon? What if one or more of them were in on it? They wouldn’t even have to be in on it—the truth would be damaging enough. She pictured little Hanan testifying before a qadi in a Sharia court: “I offered to stay, Excellency, but she ordered me to go.”
Think, Amira.
She went to the telephone and dialed her father’s number, praying that someone other than Omar would answer.
“The peace of God.” It was the ancient manservant, Habib.
“The peace of God, Habib. It’s Amira. Please don’t disturb my father. I need to speak with Bahia.”
“Yes, miss—I mean Your Highness.”
Hours seemed to pass before Bahia came on the line.
“Bahia, don’t ask questions. Just get your daughter and any other woman servant you can find and come here now, immediately—don’t waste a minute. If anyone asks what you’re doing, say that Karim and I are ill, and all of our servants are on holiday.”
“I’m coming,” Bahia said simply and hung up.
Amira paced in the kitchen. If Philippe came downstairs, she would send him out of the house instantly. Someone—one of Ali’s relatives, for instance— might walk in at any time. Someone might be on the way at this very moment, for the exact purpose of finding her alone with the foreign male guest.
She returned to the phone and tried Farid. He wasn’t in. Several more calls failed to locate him. There was nothing further to do but wait. Why didn’t Philippe come down? Or was it better if he didn’t?
There was a rattle at the servant’s gate. Amira let in Bahia and her daughter. “I couldn’t find anyone else on such short notice,” Bahia apologized.
“Don’t worry. You’re both angels from Paradise. Come in, come in. What I need right now is for you to look busy. Make coffee, start putting breakfast together, do whatever else needs doing. I want it to look as if you’ve been here all morning.”
As they set to work, she explained about the illustrious house guest, Dr. Rochon, the mysterious decampment of the servants, and her natural concern under the circumstances. She left out only her fear that Ali was behind it all.
Bahia asked nothing, but gave her a long look. “Nothing will come of it, God willing,” she said. “But you did well to send for someone. Where is Karim?”
“Asleep upstairs.”
“Maryam, go and fetch him.”
“The third door on the right,” said Amira.
When Maryam returned with the sleepy little boy, Bahia had coffee ready. “Go out on the patio, Highness,” she said, using the honorific for the first time, “and we will serve you in style.”
She had hardly said it when they heard male voices from the front of the house and someone cried out, “Woman, veil yourself.”
Bahia and Amira exchanged a glance. Both had noticed the use of “woman,” not “women.”
Ali’s cousin Abdul burst into the kitchen. Three other men followed. Two of them Amira had never seen; the third seemed familiar, although she couldn’t quite place him.
“Amira, what’s going on?” Abdul seemed surprised to see Bahia and Maryam.
“What do you mean, Abdul?”
“We come to visit your husband, and the front door is open.” “Naturally, we feared something might be wrong,” said the man Amira couldn’t quite recognize.
“Yes, we thought something was wrong,” echoed Abdul. “The door was open? You mean ajar?”
“Yes.”
“Ali must have left it open on his way out.”
“Your husband isn’t here, then?” The familiar-looking man had hot, hard, inquisitorial eyes.
“He had an appointment early this morning. But I’m sure he’ll be back soon. Please make yourselves at home. I’ll have Bahia bring you coffee. Have you eaten?”
“And your houseguest?” asked Abdul. Amira had never liked him, and even the familiar-looking man looked pained at his lack of subtlety.
“Dr. Rochon? What about him?”
“Where is he?”
“Why, asleep, I suppose. I haven’t seen him this morning.” “Is that so?”
“Yes, it’s so. Abdul, what are all these questions? Is something the matter?” “Who are these women? They aren’t your regular servants.”
“My husband saw fit to dismiss the regular servants for the day. Bahia and Maryam have been servants of my family all my life, and I asked them for help.”
“Loyal servants, who will do anything for you, are a blessing from God,” said the familiar-looking man.
“When did they arrive here?” Abdul pressed. “They’ve been here almost all morning.” “Almost all morning,” said the angry-eyed man.
Amira had had enough. “Gentlemen, I’m only a woman, but I must remind you that I am the wife of a royal prince, and this is his house. Abdul, you should appreciate that as much as anyone. You say you came to see my husband. I suggest that you save your questions for him.”
“What questions? What’s going on here?” It was Ali. He stood in the doorway, face flushed as if with excitement.
“That’s what we were wondering, Cousin,” said Abdul. “We came to see you and found the front door ajar. When we entered, we discovered your wife alone—or, rather, alone except for these women, who are not the regular servants.”
Ali glanced at Bahia and Maryam. Was there a trace of anger in his expression? “Well, I know them,” he muttered.
“We asked about your distinguished guest,” Abdul blundered on. “Your wife claims that she hasn’t seen him all morning.”
“Dr. Rochon is, as you say, my guest. I dislike insinuations against him.”
It was a slip, thought Amira. No one had insinuated anything against Philippe. The whole business had the feeling of a play in which Bahia and Maryam’s presence had disrupted the actor’s lines, forcing them to ad lib.
“She says that he is asleep,” prompted the angry-eyed man. The other two men had said nothing. They were simply witnesses, Amira realized.
“It’s late for anyone to sleep, even a foreigner,” said Ali. “I’ll check on him myself.”
He was gone for longer than it should have taken. In the kitchen, no one spoke. The familiar-looking man glared at Amira. Suddenly, she knew who he was. She hadn’t recognized him without the green turban. He was the man who had approached when she was leaning on Jabr’s arm during the Egyptian Night catastrophe.
Ali returned. “He isn’t there,” he said. “Where is he, Amira?” “I don’t know, my husband. I haven’t seen him at all.” “Perhaps he left a note or—or something,” said Abdul.
“I looked,” said Ali irritably. “There was nothing.” “Nothing? I could help you search.”
Even the man appeared nonplussed by this exchange.
“Bonjour, my friends. A lovely morning. Am I intruding?” Philippe stood smiling in the doorway. He wore the typical walking clothes of the European tourist, and his pale skin showed a
faint touch of sunburn.
“We—we were just looking for you,” said Ali lamely.
“Ah! I’ve been out. I slept poorly, woke early, and saw that it was a beautiful day, so I went for a walk. In fact, I left just behind Your Highness. I thought to call out to you, but you seemed to be in a hurry.”
“You’ve been out all morning?” asked Abdul obtusely.
“As I said.” Philippe shrugged. “I had a pleasant walk, then took an out- door table at a coffeehouse and watched the world go by.”
“What coffeehouse did you visit?” inquired the man casually. “We have so many.”
“I didn’t notice the name.” “Ah.”
“But if you really want to know, you could ask my host’s brother, Ahmad. He and his entourage passed in the street. He was kind enough to spend an hour with me.”
How much did Philippe understand of what was going on? Amira couldn’t tell, but the fact that he could call on Ali’s brother to account for his whereabouts ended the little inquisition in her kitchen. Ali made some remark about the mystery being solved and herded his visitors toward the men’s quarters.
“Have Bahia bring us coffee,’’ he told Amira. “I hope we haven’t disturbed your reunion.” His smile was so disarming that Amira wondered if the only danger had been in her imagination. Or was the smile that of a duelist who has lost the first touch but knows that he will win the duel?
That afternoon, they drove Philippe to the airport. In the crowded con- course, the two men embraced like brothers. Listening to them exchange thanks, compliments, and cordial promises of future hospitality, Amira again wondered if she hadn’t been paranoid about the empty house.
The farewell was interrupted by the public-address system paging Prince Ali Rashad.
“Always something,” said Ali. “I’ll be right back.”
Philippe watched him go. “We have only a minute,” he told Amira. “I’m the one who had him paged, I called from the house before we left. Amira, do you know what was happening this morning?”
“I think so. I didn’t know if you did.”
“It was a stage piece—what the Americans call a ‘frame-up.’ Just as I said, I woke early and decided to take a walk. While I was dressing, I dropped some coins. One rolled under the bed. When I reached for it, I found a bottle of whiskey, half empty. It wasn’t mine—someone had to have put it there. I became worried and searched the room. What do you suppose I found tucked into a corner of the bed, under the sheet? A piece of lingerie—very attractive, I might add. Provocative. I don’t know, but I imagine it would have fit you perfectly.”
“Oh, my God.” She had been afraid that morning, but only now did she understand how great the danger had been. In al-Remal, evidence like that could send a woman to her death.
“I hid the bottle and the lingerie in my pocket—and then threw them away as soon as I got far enough from the house.”
“Thank you for that. But what—”
“Amira, you can’t wait too long to decide. If it’s to be Tabriz, I’ll need time to make plans, set things in motion. If not … well, I fear for you, my dear. You must get away from this somehow—before it’s too late. I’ll help in any way I can.”
Before she could reply, Ali rejoined them with a joke about confusion in the paging system: “Too many princes named Ali.” At that moment, Philippe’s flight was called.
They walked him to the gate. Passengers were boarding in a line. Philippe said good-bye.
This might be my last minute with him, Amira realized. The words were out before she could think about them: “I almost forgot to ask, Philippe, but haven’t you been to Tabriz?”
“Tabriz? Did you say Tabriz?”
“Yes, Tabriz. Ali and I are going there. We’ve never been. I thought a traveler like you might have been there—to Tabriz.”
“Yes, I’ve been there,” he said, and in his eyes, she saw his promise reaffirmed. “They say that Tabriz is the unfriendliest city in the Middle East, but I’ve found good people there, very helpful. I’m sure your visit will turn out well.”
Then he was gone.
Prodigal Return
Spring was coming. The nights were cold but the days pleasantly warm. One afternoon half an inch of rain fell in half an hour. Women as well as men ran into the streets to savor the sweetness of it. To the younger children, who had never seen water fall from the sky, it was a miracle.
Karim splashed in a muddy puddle, his face raised to heaven, blinking and giggling with delight as rain-drops hit his eyes. When the brief storm ended, he pulled at Amira’s abeyya.
“Make it more, Mommy, make it more.” Faster than she could believe, he was changing from a baby into a little boy.
Ali missed the cloudburst: he was in America for two weeks, training in some new fighter plane. He came home moody and withdrawn, as he usually did from places where morality was freer than in al-Remal. Amira no longer cared why this might be.
Just over a month remained before Tabriz, but she felt no particular fear or even anticipation. In fact, she was having trouble making the whole thing seem real. She had no information. What was Philippe doing, what was he planning?
He had written only once, the letter addressed, of course, to Ali, who passed it on to Amira as a matter of minor interest. It expressed conventional thanks for their hospitality, mentioned bits of personal news and international gossip, and then, almost as an afterthought, gave the names of several acquaintances of Philippe’s they might want to look up on their visit to Tabriz.
In her room, Amira memorized the names, then pored over the letter word by word in search of any hidden message. She found nothing. It was maddening. She was angry with Philippe. She didn’t expect details, but couldn’t he have slipped in some tiny reference that only she would understand, some reassuring little code word? Didn’t he realize that her life was at stake?
Or maybe nothing was happening. Maybe the plans had all fallen apart. Maybe there had never been any plans.
The next morning, a servant brought her a telephone as she sipped her coffee. “It’s long distance, Highness. France.”
Amira forced herself to reach languidly for the receiver, as if she were utterly weary of calls from France.
“Bonjour.”
“Is this Paris?” said a man’s voice in heavily accented French. “This is al-Remal.”
“Peace be with you,” said the man in Arabic. “Please hold for Paris.” There was silence, then a dial tone.
“Good God!” She almost threw the receiver at the wall. Billions of dollars in oil money, and the phone system was a joke. Two companies, one Belgian, the other French, had built it. Rumor said that Malik had helped broker the French contract and had harvested a none-too-small fortune in commissions. If so, Amira could, at this moment, happily have broken his neck.
The phone rang again. “Operator, I was cut off—” “Little Sister? Is that you?”
“Malik, I was just damning you to hell, God forbid.” “What? Speak up, can you?”
“I said—never mind. How are you? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No, not at all. I have news for you—good news. And a favor to ask.” “Tell me.”
“Little Sister, I’m married!”
“What! My God! When? Who is she?”
“She’s a wonderful woman. French. Just a few days ago. Four days. I can’t wait for you to meet her. She’ll be a wonderful mother for—for the children we hope to have.”
She understood his caution about mentioning Laila. Anyone—the opera- tor, a servant, even Ali or Faiza—might be listening on the line.
“I don’t know what to say, Brother. My God! It’s wonderful news. God’s blessings on you both. It’s just such a surprise. You’ve told Father, of course.” There was a brief silence. “Well, Little Sister, that brings me to the favor.
No, I haven’t spoken with him. I know, I know: it’s not right. But to tell you the truth, I was afraid he might try to forbid it. For one thing,
she’s Christian.” “Ah.” That might indeed be a problem—but not nearly as bad as presenting Omar with his only son’s marriage as a fait accompli.
“Don’t worry, I’ll call him. I’ll call him today. He’ll erupt, of course, but that’s all right. What I need is for you to help Farid calm him down before we actually arrive.”
“And when will that be?” “This weekend, God willing.’’ “This weekend?’’
“I know it’s not much time, but the sooner the better, don’t you think? I’m calling Farid the minute we hang up. You know how he can twist Father—like a goldsmith braiding wire. He’ll take care of it, don’t worry. All you need to do is back him up—you know, the tactful remark at the right time. He’s like anyone else in al-Remal—the opinion of someone in the royal family carries weight, even if it’s his own daughter.’’
Amira sighed. “I’ll do what I can, Brother, as God allows.”
“Thanks, little Sister. I … it hasn’t been easy, you know … for me to find someone.”
“I know. Tell me about her.” “Her name is Genevieve.”
“A beautiful name.”
“Not as beautiful as she is,” Malik said, with a tenderness that convinced Amira her brother was truly in love.
“Naturally. It goes without saying that you would marry a beautiful woman.”
“It’s not like that, Amira. It’s not just the way she looks. She’s been good for me. She makes me believe that life is good. And she makes me laugh. It’s been such a long time …”
“I know.”
“And she’s said she would consider converting to Islam … after she learns more about it, of course.”
“And what does she do, this perfect woman?” Amira teased.
There was a brief hesitation. “She’s a singer. A nightclub singer.”
“Ah.” “You may as well know it all. She’s a bit older than I am. Not much. Just a few years.”
Some of this, they agreed, could be passed along more or less unabridged to Omar. Some—Genevieve’s age, for example—need not be reported with perfect accuracy. Some, such as her religious views, could be cast in a positive light. And some—her profession, especially—ought not to be mentioned at all. When Amira hung up, she was as nervous as a bird. She couldn’t seem to focus on any single thought. Malik was coming this weekend. Malik and Genevieve. Tabriz was a month away. Philippe. Malik. Omar. Ali.
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