“That happens here too, son,” Samir said quietly. “But we are not ordinary folk. We have responsibilities that go beyond our own personal feelings.”
“But you and Mother knew each other before you were married. You practically grew up together.”
Samir smiled. “That’s true. But our marriage had been arranged while we were still children. Somehow we knew that and it brought us closer together.”
“Would you have married someone else if it had been arranged? Knowing how you felt about Mother?”
Samir thought for a moment, then he nodded. “Yes. I might not have liked it but I would have had no choice. One must do what one must do. It is the will of Allah.”
Baydr looked at his father, and sighed. The will of Allah. That covered it all. Man himself had very few options. “I would like to meet the girl,” he said.
“It is already arranged,” Samir replied. “Her family has been invited to spend the weekend with us in the mountains. They will arrive the day after tomorrow.”
A sudden thought crossed Baydr’s mind. “You have known about this for a long time?”
“Not long,” his father answered. “The Prince just told me of his decision last week.”
“Does Mother know?”
“Yes.”
“Did she approve?”
“Of the marriage? Yes.”
“You seem to hesitate,” Baydr said.
“Your mother had grand dreams of you becoming the Prince.” Samir laughed. “Women aren’t always very practical.”
“And you, Father, were you disappointed too?”
Samir looked into his son’s eyes. “No.” He thought back to the night his son was born. “You always were and always will be my prince.”
CHAPTER 9
Maryam Riad, like most Lebanese girls, was small, no more than five feet tall, with large dark eyes. Her black hair was worn high on her head in the latest Paris fashion to give an illusion of greater height. Her skin was pale olive and she had a tendency toward plumpness, which she continually fought by dieting, much to the despair of her parents, who preferred the roundness of the Arab woman. She spoke French fluently and English uncomfortably, hated going to the American Girls College and made a point of continually letting her parents know that she felt she should have gone to Swiss or French schools like the children of other well-to-do families.
To this complaint her father had one answer. Girls had no need of education because after they were married they had only to run a house and bear children. Bitterly, Maryam had watched her brothers go away to school while she herself remained at home without even being allowed the freedom that many of her friends who attended the school enjoyed. She had to be home immediately after classes, was never allowed dates and could not go out unless chaperoned under circumstances approved by her father.
In the limousine with her parents on the way to Baydr’s home, her father looked at her with satisfaction. “Now, my daughter,” he said in his heavy manner, “perhaps you understand why your parents looked after you the way we did. Perhaps now you will appreciate us more.”
She turned from the window. “Yes, Father,” she said obediently.
“Do you think you would have been chosen for this marriage by the Prince himself if you had been away in foreign schools?” he asked. “No,” he said, answering his own question. “What he wanted was a true Arab woman, not one who had been tainted by foreign influences.”
She glanced at her mother, who was silent. Her mother never spoke when her father was near. “Yes, Father,” she said again.
“Now I want you to remember your manners,” her father said. “Above all, be respectful and decorous. I want none of the frivolous ways that you learned from friends at the college.”
“Yes, Father,” she said wearily for the third time.
“This marriage will be the most important in the country,” he father said. “Everyone knows that your first son will become heir to the Prince.”
She glanced at her father out of the corner of her eyes. “But what if I have nothing but girls?”
Her father was shocked. “You will have sons!” he shouted, as if saying it would make it so. “Do you hear me? You will have sons!”
“If it pleases Allah,” she said with a secret smile.
“His will be done,” her mother said automatically.
“It is the will of Allah,” her father said with conviction. “Why else would He have arranged this marriage?”
***
Maryam was very impressed by what she saw as the car drove through the gates of the vast estate. She had known wealth, but nothing like this. Compared with Samir, her father, who was one of the richest men in Beirut, was just comfortable. Here there were endless servants and guards. It was like another world.
In honor of the occasion, the family wore traditional clothing but in their suitcases were the latest Paris clothes, into which they would change for the grand dinner that evening.
“Adjust your veil,” her mother said as the car came to a stop and a servant advanced to open the door.
Quickly, Maryam covered her face so that only her eyes were visible. Looking up the steps, she saw Dr. Al Fay descending toward them. A half-step behind him was Baydr. Her breath caught in her throat. They, too, wore traditional clothing and there was something in her fiancé’s bearing that bespoke of a desert heritage. Only a true sheik could look like that.
Her father got out of the car. Samir advanced toward him, arms outstretched. “Ahlan, Ahlan.”
“Ahlan fikum.” The two men embraced, kissing the other on each cheek.
Samir turned and introduced his son. Baydr made the gesture of obeisance and respect, bidding his future father-in-law welcome. Then he held out his hand, Western fashion.
They shook hands and turned back to the car. Mrs. Riad got out of the car and was greeted by Samir. A moment later Maryam descended. Her father held out his hand toward her and led her to the doctor. “You remember Dr. Al Fay?”
She glanced up for a moment, then averted her eyes as was proper. She nodded and made the gesture of obeisance.
Samir took her hand. “My child,” he said. “Welcome. May our home forever be your home.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “May it be the will of Allah.”
Samir gestured and Baydr came forward. Decorously, she kept her eyes down so that all she saw were the tips of his shoes under the flowing jellaba. “Maryam,” he said, “may I present my son, Baydr, your future husband?”
She made the gesture of obeisance before looking up, then she raised her head. For a moment, she was startled. No one had ever told her that his eyes were blue. Then her heart began to beat and she could feel the blush creeping up under her veil. There were so many things that no one had ever told her about him. He was so tall. And so handsome. Her eyes fell and she could hardly hear his words of welcome, the sound of her heart was pounding so strongly in her ears. For the first time in her life she was truly grateful that her parents had not sent her abroad to school. She was hopelessly in love.
***
Dinner was a formal affair. Samir had ordered the French chef to come from their house in Beirut to prepare it. Instead of the usual Lebanese mezzeh, the hors d’oeuvres were pâté de foie gras and grosgrain Iranian caviar. Rather than the customary mouloukhieh, rabbit and rice, the entrées were coq au vin and gigot, but the dessert was typical—baklava in more than twenty of its honey-sweet variations.
Champagne was served throughout the meal—the single exception to Muslim law. The women in their long Paris gowns and the men in dinner jackets carried on casual, polite conversation as the two families became acquainted.
As the meal drew to its close, Mr. Riad rose to his feet. “If I may be permitted,” he said in his most important manner, “I would like to propose a toast to our most gracious host, the good doctor Al Fay. May Allah shower His blessings upon him and his family.”
He raised his glass and took a sip of the cham
pagne. “And another toast,” he said quickly, still holding his glass. He smiled down the table at Baydr. “To my future son-in-law, whom I already think of as my son, and to my daughter. May Allah bless their union with many sons.”
Maryam felt herself blushing at the sound of the warm laughter. She did not dare look across the table at Baydr. Her father was speaking again.
“And though the question of dowry never arose between our families, I would not like to lose sight of this ancient and honored custom. For in what other manner can a man show his affection for his daughter and appreciation of her husband?”
Samir rose protestingly. “No, Mohammed, the gift of your daughter is riches enough.”
“My dear doctor.” The banker smiled, overriding him. “Would you deny me this simple pleasure?”
“Of course not.” Samir returned to his chair.
“My son,” Riad said, turning to Baydr. “On the day of your wedding, an account will be opened in your name at my bank in Beirut in the amount of one million pounds Lebanese. It will be yours to do with what you wish.”
Baydr glanced across the table at Maryam before he rose to thank his father-in-law. Her face was flushed and she did not look up from the table. He turned to the banker. “My honored father,” he said slowly, “may Allah be witness to your generosity and kindness. There is only one thing more that I ask and that is that you give me your guidance so that I may make wise use of your great gift.”
“You shall have it,” Mohammed said quickly. He was pleased. It was working as he had planned. He was sure that this account was only the beginning of the business his bank would be doing with the Al Fay family.
Samir rose to his feet. Dinner was over. He looked at Baydr. “It would be nice if you showed your fiancée the gardens,” he said, “while we go into the library to relax.”
Baydr nodded, went around the table and held Maryam’s chair as she rose. He smiled at her. “They seem to want to get rid of us.”
She nodded. He took her arm and they started for the garden doors.
As they went through the doors, Mrs. Riad turned to Nabila. “Don’t they make a beautiful couple?” she asked.
***
They had reached the pool at the far end of the garden before either of them said a word. Then they both began speaking almost at the same time.
Maryam stopped. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s my fault,” Baydr said quickly. “What was it you wanted to say?”
“Nothing important,” she said. “What was it you wanted to say?”
They laughed, each a little embarrassed for the other. He looked down at her. “I was wondering how you felt. I mean, about our getting married?”
Her eyes fell. She didn’t answer.
“You don’t have to answer that,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t fair of me. You don’t have much choice, do you?”
Her eyes came up. “Do you?”
It was his turn not to answer. He fished in his jacket pocket and came out with a package of cigarettes. He held them toward her. “Do you smoke?”
She shook her head.
He lit one and drew a deep breath. He let the smoke out slowly. “It’s kind of old-fashioned, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“In America I almost forgot how we do things.”
“I always wanted to go abroad,” she said. “But my father wouldn’t let me. Did you like it?”
“Yes,” he answered. “People are simpler there. Most of the time you know exactly what they are thinking.”
She hesitated. “Did you have a girl there?”
“Not one special girl. But we had lots of dates. And you?”
“My father is very strict. I wasn’t allowed out much. There was even a fight when I wanted to go to the college.”
They fell silent again. He looked at the glowing tip of his cigarette. This time it was she who spoke first. “You have blue eyes.”
“Yes,” he said. “My father says it goes all the way back to the holy wars. Ever since then blue eyes show up in the family now and then.”
She turned away and looked out to the sea. Her voice was very low. “I must be a great disappointment to you after all the Western girls you have known.”
“That’s not true,” he said quickly. “I could never take them seriously. They’re too empty-headed. Not like us.”
“Still, they’re very beautiful. They’re tall.”
“Maryam,” he said.
She turned toward him.
“You’ve very beautiful too.”
“I am?” she asked. “Do you really think so?”
“I think so.” He reached for her hand. “Would you still like to go abroad?”
“Yes.”
He smiled. “Then we’ll go to Europe on our honeymoon.”
And that is what they did. Married at the end of July, they spent the month of August traveling the Continent. When in September Baydr brought Maryam back to Beirut and left her to return to school in America, she was already pregnant.
CHAPTER 10
Dancing had resumed on the upper deck when the guests wandered back after dinner. As usual, Baydr had disappeared as soon as the food was served. It was his habit to hold his meetings while everyone was eating so that by the time they were finished he would come out again and join the party. In that fashion he would not be missed.
Jordana joined one of the tables and seated herself so that she could watch for Baydr’s reappearance in the salon. He was still strange to her, even after nine years of marriage. There was something about him she would never understand. At times it seemed as if he were completely unaware of her and then, suddenly, out of nowhere, he would bring her up short and she would realize that there was very little about her that he was not aware of.
Like tonight. She had seen the Van Cleef box on the pillow but for some perverse reason which even she did not fully understand, she had decided not to acknowledge it. Perhaps it was just that she could not excuse his comings and goings with another gift. Unlike American men she had known, she could not manipulate him with guilt. He was the way he was and there was nothing anyone could do about it. His reaction was direct and simple. The savage roared out of the darkness within him.
It was her own reaction that surprised her. There was something comforting in his violence. It was as if she had been a child provoking a parent into punishment so that she could be reassured of his love. Her own guilts were clarified and she began to think of ways to win back his pleasure.
No sooner had the door slammed behind him than she rose and looked in the mirror. His handprint was turning bright on her cheek. She pressed the button for her secretary and asked for an icepack, then sat in her room for over an hour holding the cold pack to her face until the swelling was gone.
It was then that she decided on her costume. She would be a Muslim wife if that was what he wanted. A wife, a houri, a slave. Wasn’t that what Allah promised when they entered the gates of paradise?
She raised a glass of champagne to her lips as she watched the salon doors. Baydr had not yet come out.
“Jordana, darling,” a voice gushed in her ear. “Your dance was so beautiful.”
She turned to the speaker, recognizing the voice. “Mara,” she said, holding up her cheek for the customary kiss. “You’re more than kind.”
“No, darling,” the Princess said quickly. “It’s true. It was the most erotique thing I have ever seen. Had I been a man I would have raped you then and there.” She laughed and added, “As a matter of fact I still might.”
Jordana laughed with her. “That’s the greatest compliment of all, Mara.”
The Princess bent her head closer to Jordana’s ear. “What you did was unbelievable. Did you notice the young man I brought with me? He went out of his mind. I thought he would burst his trousers.”
Jordana looked at her. It was not like Mara to be so effusive. “Really, darling?”
“Really,” Mara answered. “And he’s dying to
meet you. Do you have a moment?”
Over the Princess’ shoulder, Jordana saw Carriage coming out of the salon with Mr. Yasfir. “Not just now,” she answered. “Baydr should be coming out soon.”
Yasfir made his way directly to her. “Madame Al Fay.” He bowed.
“Mr. Yasfir,” she said formally.
“I wish to express my thanks for a gracious evening and present my apologies for leaving so soon but I have pressing affairs ashore.”
She held out her hand. “I’m sorry too.”
He kissed her hand.
“Perhaps next time we will have the opportunity to become better acquainted,” she said.
“I will look forward to that,” he said. “Bon soir, madame.”
As Yasfir made his way down the dock to the ladder that led to the speedboat which would take him back to shore, she saw Carriage go over to Youssef. Youssef and the American film director Michael Vincent followed Carriage into the salon and down the corridor leading to Baydr’s study.
“Another meeting?” Mara asked.
Jordana shrugged silently and raised her champagne. The Princess slipped into the chair beside her.
“One of my husbands was like that. I forgot which one. Always meetings. It was so boring, I divorced him.”
Jordana smiled at her. “Baydr may be many things but he is not boring.”
“I did not say he was. But some husbands do not realize there are other things in life besides business.”
Jordana did not answer. She sipped at her champagne. Suddenly she was down. Nothing seemed to work for them anymore.
“Come, darling,” the Princess urged. “Meet my young man. It will make him happy and may amuse you for a few minutes.”
“Where is he?”
“Over there. The tall blond one standing near the steps.”
Jordana glanced at him. “He seems young.”
The Princess laughed. “He is young, darling. Twenty-five and with the staying powers of an ox. I have not known a man like him since Rubi was in his prime.”
“Gigolo?” Jordana asked.
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