by Cat Shinier
“Will you call me?” I ask him. I want him to stay in touch, because I can feel that whatever it is that is bothering him is something monumental, something that makes me almost feel it.
He looks at me gravely and nods.
“Yes, I’ll call when I arrive in Dallas, that will be in about two hours.”
“How will you get to Dallas that fast?” Even if he takes the company jet, I think to myself, it would take longer to drum up a crew and get all the landing permissions.
“I have a helicopter over at West Houston Airport. I will use that to fly to Dallas.”
“Yourself?”
“Yes, sure. Why not.”
“Then you’re going to have to be doubly careful. You are all distracted.”
I sound like an old biddy. But at least it makes Shamar smile. He walks over and kisses me goodbye. And although his kiss is tender, it feels desperate.
“I love you, darling.” The giddy boyishness of this morning has vanished.
“I love you, too, Shamar.” I’m so worried my voice cracks.
If I only knew what was wrong with his dad. I would love to be able to help Shamar. He looks at me one last time before he disappears through the door. I remain standing at the window to see his Porsche drive by. He waves and I wave back, nervously, before disappearing inside again.
Annie is clearing the table. She glances up at me and gives me an empathetic smile.
“Annie, would you happen to know if something might be wrong with Shamar’s dad?” I ask, hoping that maybe she’ll tell me something. She has known Shamar’s family for years so that to me it seems quite probable that she can tell me something.
Annie shakes her head.
“No, unfortunately, I have no idea. Maybe my husband knows something. He was the one to take the call. He is upstairs busy with something, but he’ll be down in a minute or two.”
She goes back to the kitchen with our dishes, but I feel like remaining where Shamar and I last sat. Where we were happy. Maybe just sitting there at that dining room table will make me feel better. Matthew enters and I ask him if he has any idea of what could have happened.
He shakes his head, carefully, and says, “Ms. Buchholz I really don’t know. But maybe it has something to do with that article in the Houston Chronicle today.”
So there was an article in the paper? Of course, the charity event. The photographers must have taken hundreds of pictures.
“Do you still have the paper, Matthew?” I say a prayer and hope that I will be able to take a look at the paper to see if I can find anything.
Matthew nods.
“I will bring it up to you in a moment, Miss Buchholz.”
I walk up to our bedroom and lie down on our bed, where the sheets are all tangled and have the fragrance of sex. A few minutes later there is a knock on the door and Matthew walks in and hands me the paper. I put a few pillows behind my back and start turning the pages, slowly. Towards the back, I finally find something. It is a picture of Shamar and myself on our way to the charity event. We are standing in front of the building, and Shamar has his arm around me while I’m smiling up at him. The part of the picture that shows his hand on my hip has been enlarged, and the caption reads,
“Texas’s most eligible bachelor soon to be married?
Shamar Shalazar, the most eligible bachelor in Texas, attended a charity event last night with a blond bombshell. If bystanders are to be trusted, we can assume that the relationship is serious. An insider told us that the two love doves were inseparable all evening long and looked like they were in love.”
* * *
I have never been in a newspaper and the picture I was looking at showed us to be a very happy couple indeed, very much in love. I was overcome by all sorts of emotions and sensations.
On the one hand, it was clear that we would find our way into the yellow press, judging from all the pictures that were taken last night. That part does not worry me at all. But on the other hand I don’t know what I have gotten myself into here. Do I have to watch out when I’m out on my own that someone could recognize me and take a picture of me?
I put the paper aside and on impulse reach for my laptop. I open google to do a search by entering Shamar Shalazar. And immediately I get all sorts of pages and articles. I narrow my search down to Shamar and girl-friend and check pictures.
I’m stunned by what I see. I see Shamar with dozens and dozens of different women. And all of them have dark hair. I didn’t think that I was the first woman he ever went out with, also judging from his love making skills, but I certainly did not expect that he had had dealings with so many women. Every picture shows a blissfully happy couple – leaving a theater, leaving a restaurant, or an event, etc, etc. The list looks pretty long.
* * *
Slowly I realize that it might be a fact that I’m just one of many. I feel confused, and I suddenly start to get all sorts of ideas and thoughts. All of a sudden something that feels a lot like jealousy rears its ugly head, and jealousy is something I have not had any dealings with so far. Automatically I start envisaging Shamar with other women. How he kisses them, how he touches them, and the thought that they shared the same things I did with him. Now that is a thought that chills me to the bone. It is a thought that is so bad it actually hurts.
And all of a sudden I remember something Shirley Jenkins said. She had referred to “always dark-haired women,” and so I’m not the first woman Shirley Jenkins helped buy clothes.
I have to find an end for these thoughts. And I have to distract myself to get a clear head again. In the past exercise was always the best remedy for that. I shut down the computer with a few clicks and slip into my sports clothes and head over to the room downstairs. On my way there I run into Annie, who looks at me with a quizzical look on her face but does not say anything. She probably has her own thoughts on the matter.
I take a bottle of water from the refrigerator and continue heading downstairs. The treadmill is going to be my first stop, followed by the rowing machine. I work on both machines until I’m dripping with sweat and absolutely exhausted until I decide that I have calmed down sufficiently. I tell myself that I cannot seriously expect Shamar to have lived the life of a hermit before we met. He is rich, he is handsome and even women who don’t know him swoon when they see him. The experience he has gathered in bed drove me to unforeseeable climaxes, so he must have learned whatever he learned somewhere. In other words, I have had predecessors.
I simply had not wanted to face those thoughts before. I pretended to myself that I was not interested, but maybe it was denial. But, on the other hand, the denial felt perfectly okay. Why should I worry now? Now is now. Then is then. Perhaps the article had something to do with his father calling him. But he has to tell me about that himself and explain it to me. I cannot just dream up something to explain it to myself.
* * *
My cell phone rumbles. Shamar has texted me.
* * *
Have arrived in Dallas. I love you. S.
* * *
That is not a telephone call, as I had expected, but at least he has gotten in touch. We love each other. Isn’t that the most important thing in the world? What bad could happen if we love each other? That thought is like a balm for my soul that dissipates the anguish and calms my turbulent thoughts. I calm down considerably and go back upstairs to take a shower and put on more comfortable clothes to relax with my book, my cell phone and my laptop outside on the terrace. If I’m going to waste time until Shamar returns again, it might as well be fun. So I start reading, until at some point Annie comes out to the terrace to ask me if I’d like to have a bite to eat. However, I’m not hungry. All the excitement has made me lose my appetite.
Just when I’m about to start with the last chapter Annie appears. She looks strained. I ask her if there is anything I can do to help her.
“Miss Buchholz, there is a visitor for you.” She sounds nervous.
“A visitor?” How’s that? I do
n’t even know anyone here, and no one I’ve met so far would just appear here on the doorstep. “Who is it Annie? I’m not expecting anyone.”
Annie looks really embarrassed.
“It’s Miss Sabah Quidesh, Miss Buchholz.”
“I don’t know a Sabah Quidesh, Annie. Who could that be?” I ask her.
“Miss Buchholz, I really can’t explain that to you. I think Miss Quidesh has to do that herself.” Annie looks embarrassed. I put aside my book and get up from the chaise lounge and follow her out to the living room. A woman with long dark hair is standing next to the window. When I enter the room, she turns around and approaches me. Annie retreats immediately so that I’m alone with a stranger.
“Hello, my name is Sabah Quidesh. Please excuse me for coming to see you without announcing myself beforehand.”
She extends her hand to me for me to shake it, and I do so.
“Hello, Miss Quidesh, my name is Luna-Marie Buchholz. What can I do for you?” She smiles at me, but her smile fails to reach her eyes. I take a good look at her. She is dressed expensively and elegantly, has long dark curly hair, and her eyes are black, too. I cannot distinguish the irises from the pupils. Her lips are full and sensuous. She’s probably about my age, and she is absolutely drop dead gorgeous. Like Scheherazade. A princess. Her perfume is intense, Patchouli by L’Artisan. A fragrance that is as expensive as it is distinctive. The perfume is so over powering it almost makes me puke. She moves around in Shamar’s living room as if she knew the room well, and the way Annie reacted I can tell that she knows Sabah well.
“Just call me Sabah,” she says and smiles at me again.
“Sabah, you can call me Luna. Why don’t we take a seat? Can I offer you something to drink?”
The feeling I’m beginning to have is that of a rabbit that is being thrown to a snake to be eaten.
“Yes, please, I would like that very much, Luna,” she says and sits down on the sofa with an elegant movement. “I will have some ice tea. Annie knows how I like my ice tea.”
I can’t help but arch my eyebrows. What on earth is going on here? As neither Annie nor Matthew are anywhere to be seen, I excuse myself and walk over to the kitchen to ask Annie to bring Sabah some ice tea. When I enter the kitchen, I see that Annie and Matthew are whispering with each other. They both look up when I walk in.
“Annie, Matthew, what is going on here?” I need some information. Fast.
Matthew answers my question: “Miss Quidesh and Mister Shalazar are acquaintances. I cannot tell you anymore. Only Mr. Shalazar can do that.”
So at best I’m being confronted by an ex of Shamar’s. I need that like a hole in the head.
“Annie could you please make some ice tea for Miss Quidesh? She said you know how she likes to drink it. I’ll take one, too. Then I’ll know what she means. Thank you.” I don’t have any more time because I don’t want to leave Sabah alone in the living room for that amount of time. But Sabah looks completely at ease, sitting there on the couch. As if she’d come by to have a little chat with me.
“So you are from Denmark or Sweden? Your accent is so strange.” That must be her idea of easing into a conversation, I think to myself. With an insult.
“I’m from Germany. From Munich. And where are you from, Sabah?” I took an instant dislike to her the moment I first set eyes on her. Her friendliness is fake, and she is much too self-confident to only be an acquaintance of Shamar’s. The back of my neck starts to tickle as if there were invisible currents passing back and forth between us, warning me of an impending danger.
“I was born in Dubai but I came to the United States when I was a child and have spent my whole life here. My family is friends with Shamar’s family.” She is completely relaxed and at ease when Matthew steps into the living room and serves us our drinks. Then he retreats again. Sabah and I both take a sip, and I feel that she is about to drop the bomb.
“Luna, you probably are asking yourself who I am and why I have come here and what I want from you.”
She pauses for effect, making sure that she has my full attention.
I nod. The tension is becoming almost unbearable for me. What does this woman want from me?
“Well, I’ll make this brief. I’m Shamar’s fiancée. We are getting married next month.”
Chapter Twenty
I feel like someone has just punched me in the gut. It is so sudden and unexpected it takes my breath away. I also feel like a huge hole has opened up in front of me and is threatening to swallow me alive. My capacity to think dwindles immediately, but I somehow remember the newspaper article this morning. She must have read it and drawn her own conclusions.
“Why, I mean since when, I don’t understand…” I gasp.
Sabah smiles at me condescendingly and almost as if she forgives me. “Dear Luna, Shamar and I have been promised to one another for years. You know that Shamar has his roots in Saudi Arabia.”
I nod.
“Well, for various reasons that are neither here nor there, Shamar’s family is intent on establishing their roots and thus searching out the part of the family that lives in Saudi Arabia, which is to be accomplished by his entering into an arranged marriage. And that is why we were engaged when we were children. That is something that happens a lot where we are from.”
My thoughts are topsy-turvy. I cannot imagine a man like Shamar settling for an arranged marriage. But, on the other hand, if it really is true, then I now can understand why Shamar’s father and Shamar behaved the way they did this morning. Rage starts pooling in the pit of my stomach and slowly rises up my spine. So all the time we were together he had known that he would be marrying in a couple of months. So I was just a pastime for him before his marriage life begins. Great. I cannot believe what I’m being told. Rage and disbelief completely drive my emotions. So I have been deceived for all this time. And Shabah’s coming here to tell me this is like being slapped in the face. Like being hurled from a train that is going 250 miles an hour. I have been used and can be disposed of at any time.
“I can’t believe it. He did not tell me anything. In fact, he told me that he loves me. And I love him.” Actually my words sound trite and empty, even to me. Almost childish and naïve.
I take a sip of water while Sabah continues to talk. My hands are shaking, and I have to concentrate on the glass, so it does not crack against my teeth as I lift it to my lips.
I cannot seem to get a grip on the many thoughts and emotions that are spreading throughout my body and my being like an explosion. I cannot even describe them. I feel dizzy and sick to my stomach and like I’m about to throw up while Sabah is obviously enjoying the situation.
“Why should he tell you and minimize the fun he was having, Luna? Shamar is a man. And of course he likes his little pleasures. I will be able to live with that. The only thing that is important is that I will give him children and will thus secure our lineage. After that, I can lean back and give the child to a nanny. Shamar has enough money to fulfill all of my wishes. Well, and if he really loves you, he might marry you, too.”
Her voice is nasty and dripping with false pity. Actually she seems to be enjoying the situation. Why should Shamar marry several women if he wants to and if polygamy is legal where he comes from? But that is not my cup of tea. It is not the life I have envisaged for myself. I would never marry a man I’d have to share with other women.
I’m really beginning to get angry. And full of disbelief, I decide to challenge her.
“If he marries you, how could he marry another woman?”
Sabah leans back and looks at me pityingly. “Honey, you really don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you?” She leans back and takes a sip of her iced tea.
“Shamar is a devout Muslim and thus Islam allows him to have up to four wives. If he should really marry you, then you and I would probably have to share him with two more wives.”
I cannot believe that.
“I’m sure that it is illegal in this cou
ntry to have more than one wife. And I don’t really have the impression that Shamar is a devout Muslim.” I don’t really know anything about the laws here in the United States, but I would assume they are the same as in Germany in this matter. And in Germany you can only have one wife.
Apparently I’m really a source of wittiness for her. She laughs out loud again. Her expensive jewelry jangles every time she moves.
“Luna, what are you thinking of. Of course we will be moving. Shamar can work in the Arab Emirates. Of course he will be traveling to Houston a lot, but we will have our main residence in Saudi Arabia. And that would hold true for you, too. But I cannot imagine that you would be happy there. Of course, women are strictly segregated from men there, and they do not have as many liberties as here. Generally, Western women have a hard time subjugating themselves to this. You will really have to think this over carefully before taking a step like this.” She smiles at me condescendingly again.
I don’t think I want to be the second wife in Shamar’s harem. No way in hell. Sabah does not seem to be intimidated by the thought of sharing Shamar with other women, but for me it would be absolutely unacceptable. And if all this is really true, then this is just one more bittersweet lesson I have had to learn. But I will not be one woman among four for a husband. Women that Shamar keeps for his own pleasure and entertainment. But Sabah is not finished yet. She continues, while she leans back in a relaxed manner and stares at me.
“So if you doubt whether Shamar is a devout Muslim or not – have you ever seen him eat pork?” I shake my head. “No, I have not,” I remember the morning we arrived here. The ham that we ate that was made of beef and not pork. But I did not ask him why he did not eat pork, but I did assume it had to do with his religion. Shit, she’s right. I think to myself. Dear Lord.
