by Holly Rayner
***
The two of them sat through their breakfast in comfort, Amie firing questions at Malik about his childhood in the Middle East, including the weather, what it was like growing up there, as well as the schooling he had received. She asked as many questions as she could, hoping to avoid being at a loss, as she had been so many times the previous evening.
He was so patient; never once did he seem annoyed or puzzled, and eventually he began to reciprocate question for question. When she asked him about his friends growing up, he asked her about her high school days in Indiana. When she asked him why he put up with her annoying questions he simply shrugged, and with no small amount of charm said, “We’re supposed to be married soon. We should probably get to know one another.”
With that said Amie was under no delusion that her research was helping. After all, she was playing a role, not herself. Her middle-class high school experience was probably nothing compared to the character Amie Shaw’s life, growing up in prep-schools, with a multi-millionaire father. Fake Amie probably never had to work at a chicken restaurant, didn’t get dumped the day before junior prom, and had never had braces. Fake Amie was perfect; the dream girl next door, perfectly suitable for meeting the parents.
So that’s who she would be.
After breakfast, Malik began the tour of the house. They moved from the kitchen into the massive living area. It had three large antique sofas centered around a coffee table. A grand, marble fireplace sat in front of the set-up, only overshadowed by the ornately-carved ceiling. While Amie wasn’t exactly well-versed in home decor, she knew that marble meant money.
A sleek piano sat near the seating area and Amie asked Malik if he knew how to play. He laughed at that, saying he’d had a tutor for 16 years and couldn’t remember so much as a chord—he’d never liked sitting still as a child.
Nobody likes a show-off, Amie. Her mother’s words rang in her ear, but still, she couldn’t help slide onto the piano bench and begin playing a classical piece. “I took piano lessons on the internet.”
“Very impressive,” he said and came to sit next to her on the bench. “Did you have a tutor?”
“Nope, I just watched free videos online. Whatever I could get my hands on. I have a small keyboard at my apartment.” She shrugged. “Not as snazzy as what you’ve got going on here, but it does the job.”
“Well look at you, Amie,” he said, sounding impressed.
She raised her eyebrow and shrugged.
They dabbled at the piano for a while until realizing the only music they were making together was noise. Laughing, they exited the living room and headed toward the dining area. The room was massive, with a huge table over by the bay windows. A giant chandelier hung dangerously close to the tabletop, adding an extra air of class to the room.
Amie stared and marveled at the craftsmanship in the walls and furniture that surrounded her. Everything was so authentic. It was like being in a museum, only this time she didn’t have to stay behind a velvet rope.
She dusted her finger along the extended dining table and glanced at Malik, “Fourteen chairs for your fourteen friends?”
“Stop…” he said bashfully.
“Seriously, this is ridiculous! You actually have this many people over at once?!”
“Of course not,” he laughed softly, pausing briefly before continuing, “Okay, maybe a few times. It would be poor form to run out of chairs when entertaining.”
“Entertaining who?” she teased, referring to his female callers.
He raised his brows and clapped his hands together. “Moving on,” he said quickly.
They continued the tour of the house, each room more grandiose than the last, to the point that it made Amie want to laugh. She wasn’t jealous, really. Well, maybe a little. This was more wealth than she’d ever fathomed, and to Malik it was just a talking point. This marble came from here; these walls were designed by so-and-so… Of course, she ate it all up like the happy tourist she was, but she was continually surprised by how unimpressed Malik was with his own success.
The house contained many rooms worthy of excitement; a theater, a vast library, and her favorite: the swimming pool. At the entrance was a faux poolside; complete with lounge chairs and other upscale patio furniture. The roof peaked into an oversized skylight that let the sun’s rays in. Tiled stairs led into the L-shaped pool; the water so clear you could see the multi-colored tiles floored beneath it, as if there were nothing in the way.
Amie leaned over and dipped a toe into the water, heavenly and warm, before lazily spinning around one of the stone pillars lining the poolside.
“Okay, so instead of saying ‘we’re going on a tour’, you definitely should have said ‘we’re going swimming, like, right now.’”
“‘Like’ isn’t a big word in my vocabulary,” he teased. He watched her reaction for a moment before asking, “You really want to go swimming?”
“Is that even a question?”
He smiled. “Fair enough.”
The two went their separate ways—Malik having to remind Amie exactly how she could get back to her bedroom—and changed into bathing attire before convening back at the pool.
While Amie bashfully tiptoed down the tile stairs into the water, Malik simply splashed in at the side, racing over to drag her into the water.
“You’re one of those!” she scorned as she tried to run away from him, the water slowing her down.
Eventually, he caught up to her, grabbing her waist and spinning her around in the water, mocking as though he were going to dunk her under. The two laughed and began walking the length of the pool together.
“You sure you wouldn’t rather be in the hot tub?” he asked, pointing across the room.
“I’m pretty sure I’d rather be right here.”
He nodded and began leading her to a smaller staircase by the pool. He walked her up and opened a door at the top. The entrance led to a sprawling garden and a connected pool outside. Tall trees were planted in front of the entrance and gave way to endless greenery.
Amie beamed, taking in the stunning flora and fauna, until Malik came up behind her, picked her up, and carried back into the outdoor section of the pool. The water was perfect, and her new boss wasn’t so bad himself.
With that, she wriggled away from him and splashed water his way. “You are a man of many mysteries,” she said. “Let’s talk.”
“Let’s talk,” he repeated.
“We’re in the Middle East now,” she said factually. “So, aside from pretending to be affianced, I should probably also know, you know, how not to offend people… with my American-ness.”
“You’re trusting stereotypes and American propaganda?” he asked, only partially joking. “You’re not seriously concerned are you?”
“No,” she shrugged, dancing around the pool. “In fact, I’ve always wanted to come; I just want to make sure I know what I’m doing.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. He made his way to the poolside and held onto the edge as the floor dropped to a deeper area. “Ask away.”
“Tell me more about the culture here,” she said simply. “Is it… strict? Do people hate Americans?”
“Oh, come on!” he laughed. “No, not at all. My father has been the ruling monarch for as long as I can remember, and he’s always been fairly progressive.” He paused, as if wondering what else there was to tell. “Rabayat isn’t so strict about tradition; you’ll find things are a little more relaxed here than in some other areas in the region.”
“So… do I have to cover my face?”
He thought for a moment. “Not if you don’t want to; especially not here, or out in the markets. If we approach any spiritual grounds or temples, you might want to cover yourself—just out of respect.”
She nodded at this, taking a mental note as he continued.
“Saying that, you may want to cover yourself, anyway—if only to avoid the sun. Temperatures are usually in the mid-to-high 90s here.”
>
“Yeah,” Amie said, splashing some water on herself. “I’ve noticed. And what about my clothes; can I show my ankles?”
“Ha-ha,” he mocked. “People here tend to dress modestly, but ankles are definitely in the clear.”
“Okay, and what about being touchy-feely in public?”
“Well,” he mused, “Obviously people should know we’re a couple, just follow your common sense, and be polite. Easy, right?”
She smiled. “Okay, and what if someone flirts with me?”
“If anyone is flirting with you, don’t worry about kicking up a fuss,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “He’ll leave you alone. However, you’ll be with me…” he laughed, “Pretty much all the time, so I doubt anyone would hit on you with me standing right there. Our culture generally isn’t like that.”
“So, wait…” She paused. “All the time?”
He laughed. “Mostly. So you’d better start liking me soon!”
When it came to cultural differences, there were so many stereotypes Amie had never given a second thought to; what one person thought of as oppressive, others found respectful. When speaking of his mother and the experience of Rabayat women, Malik explained that a husband is to protect his wife as he would protect himself, because she is the guardian of his honor. When asked if women were oppressed in Rabayat, he scoffed playfully and told her that the women here were strong, proud, educated professionals. He spoke of his mother and sister with the utmost respect, telling Amie how these strong figures were the main influences in his early life.
However, he said, when he arrived in America, the notion of female friends seemed preposterous when a woman could be a lover. The respect he spoke of his mother with, and the blithe attitude he held regarding his playboy ways back in Chicago made Amie wonder how these two opinions could be held by the same person.
Re-focusing on the conversation at hand, Amie began, “I read that in the Middle East the husband gets the final say, and if he puts his foot down on an issue,” she paused for dramatic effect, “well, the wife had better listen!”
Malik frowned; his lips then softening to a gentle grin. “Sure… in theory, that’s true. But to be honest, Middle-Eastern men like peace in the home as much as Western ones do. Happy wife, happy life.”
She laughed. “Okay, what about sex? You’ve said you’re not supposed to be affectionate in public, so how does anyone have sex, you know, outside of marriage?”
He shrugged. “We sneak around as much as Americans—we just don’t get caught.” He laughed. “Though when a man is ready to marry, he usually sends his mother out to find him a suitable wife.”
“Yikes,” Amie said, her eyes widening. “Isn’t your mother going to be mad that you brought me here, then? Will she be mad because I’m not from here?”
“Given the circumstances?” He splashed about in the water. “She’s thrilled, trust me. She’ll show you a thing or two about women from Rabayat. They are certainly not passive, secondary citizens.” He laughed. “Trust me, when you meet my mother, you’ll know.”
“When will that be?”
He laughed once more. “This weekend, actually. It is the festival of the Nine Nights. It commemorates the liberation of slaves in Rabayat. The Great Liberation took place centuries ago, but it is still enthusiastically celebrated today—my people love a party.”
Amie’s eyes nearly lit up with sparkles. Sure, she’d met Malik’s father and sister already, but his mother was the person she’d really need to prove herself to. It was going to be the performance of a lifetime, and there was an awful lot hanging in the balance.
