“I did,” said Bashir.
“But you didn’t marry her,” his father said, “and I’m certain that I taught you to pay her well for her time. I was afraid that you’d have all these silly ideas of what it means to fall in love and that you’d choose a common woman who was only interested in your money.”
“Melinda is not like that,” Bashir said.
“Maybe, maybe not. Who knows?” the king said. “You love her, though. And that’s what I discovered when I first fell for Alya, even though I was betrothed to your mother: the heart wants what it wants.”
Was his father actually granting him his blessing to go ahead with Melinda? For a moment Bashir wondered if someone had spiked the tea with hashish or something. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked, instead. “Or am I hearing things?”
The king snorted. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’ll never be the king or in charge of the money from the family investments.”
Bashir grinned ruefully. “That’s all right. I’m a terrible investor, anyway.”
“What are you studying in Oxford, then?” the king asked. “I don’t remember what you told me.”
“That’s because you never asked,” Bashir said, and almost immediately he regretted it. He hadn’t meant to sound petty. His father had five children, and the year he started at Oxford, two of them were getting married and the pro-democracy advocates were rioting. His studies were trivial in comparison to the state of the realm, and he accepted that.
But that didn’t mean that some acknowledgment wasn’t appreciated. “I’m studying international law,” he said. “When I graduate I’ve got a few offers from multinationals and one from the UN.”
“The UN are a bunch of hypocritical bastards,” muttered the king.
“Maybe, but at least they pay well. And it’s a good position,” Bashir said, “mostly writing contracts and treaties. It’s interesting work, believe it or not.”
“You really are making your own way,” the king said, smiling. Bashir thought he saw a hint of pride in the way his father looked at him. Pride? No, that can’t be, he thought. His father, who’d only ever treated him like an afterthought, being proud of his last son?
And yet, as the king pulled himself to his feet, Bashir caught a subtle nod from his father. It was hard to be certain whether it was real or just an effect of the rapidly brightening sky. But in either case, he felt only ecstasy—his father would not interfere with Melinda.
Now it was just a matter of convincing her to go to England with him. And somehow, he had the feeling that this was going to be a lot harder.
***
He borrowed his father’s sedan for this trip to Melinda’s—a simple BMW, elegant but common. He didn’t have to make a statement this time. He didn’t want to play the rich guy with too much money and no common sense, but he was aware of the irony that he was rich enough to pick and choose a car to match his mood, much the same way most other people decided what to wear.
Well, why shouldn’t I? He’d always felt vaguely guilty about the money in his family, aware that it was all because Bahrain had billions of barrels of oil just offshore and not because his father or grandfather had been especially intelligent or insightful. In fact, until the 1960s, Bahrain was considered a backwater country, a country that nobody could wait to get out of. Then oil was discovered, and money came pouring in—just as his grandfather seized power. It was an incredible stroke of luck that had made his family rich and his life of privilege possible. It’d taken years of therapy and philosophical debates with his friends at Oxford to come to the conclusion that he couldn’t help being born rich, just as he couldn’t help those who’d been born poor—the only thing that was to be done was to use the money well, and part of that was enjoying his life.
He drove to her catering company this time, having gotten the information from the cook who’d hired Melinda. Her catering company was located on the outskirts of Manama, in a small, unassuming building that was shared with a laundromat. It didn’t look very impressive at all—the lettering on the sign was elegant enough, but the pictures of the dishes in the window were faded from the sun and there was no “open” sign on the door. When he stepped out of the car the air was an odd perfume of Ras-al-hanout and dryer sheets.
A bell announced his presence, but there was nobody to greet him. The inside of her company was just as strictly-business as she was. There was her desk, neat and spare, with her computer that was locked to her the desk, a cup with three pens, and a thick planner, filled with scribbled notes. The floor was thin, industrial carpet, in that dark gray that never seemed to match anything. The sofa and chairs her customers sat in were mismatched. Behind the desk was a wall, with a single door, through which he could hear her barking orders in her oddly-accented Arabic: stir this, chop that, I needed this done yesterday.
She came out suddenly—the door sighed a breath of moist air perfumed with spices and roasting meat—saying, “Sorry about that. We’ve been very—Bashir—I mean, your Highness—I mean—”
“Just call me Bashir,” he said.
“Bashir, then,” she said, switching to English. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to see you,” he said.
“I thought you were leaving for England today.”
“Tonight.”
“So I guess this is it, then.”
Her words stung, but when he looked at her eyes he saw that she was in just as much pain as he was. “I don’t want to leave without you,” he said.
“But I have a life here—my life is here. And anyway, it makes no sense—what are we doing? You’re a prince, I’m a caterer—we barely know each other—”
“But do you want to get to know me?” he asked.
She stopped, her eyes confused and hurt. “Of course,” she said. “But I’ve also worked incredibly hard for everything that I’ve built here. To give it up on a whim—”
“Would it hurt you to give this up?” he asked, tenderly.
She nodded. “I don’t even mind the thought of going back to England,” she said. “Not anymore. But leaving this—I know it doesn’t look like much, but it’s all I have and it’s my pride and joy—”
“Then I’ll stay,” he said.
He felt as surprised as she looked. Until that moment, he’d had no idea that he would stay, either. But now that the words had been spoken, he began to realize how easy it could be, and that the sacrifice wasn’t really a sacrifice: he loved living in London, sure, but he had no real attachment to the place. The busy streets, the smog, the tourists—it had its charm, to be sure, but it wasn’t home, and it would never be home, not in the way the desert was. For all that he complained about the heat, there was a part of his blood that was sand and sun, and after three days here he was already beginning to feel an ease which he hadn’t felt in quite some . His apartment was in a prime spot; he could rent it out. A furnished flat would bring in thousands a month, easily. As for his studies, there was nothing that couldn’t be done via Skype and a VPN key.
“Are you sure?” she was saying. “I mean, there’s a chance that all this could go belly-up in a heartbeat.”
“Well, that’s a chance we’ll have to take, isn’t it?” he asked. “I just want to have the chance to take a chance.” If he didn’t take this, he knew his father would eventually find a way to make him marry someone he chose. “And as for my studies, it won’t be too hard to arrange to do it abroad, although the odds are I’ll probably have to fly to London at least once a month to take care of things. But it could work.”
The look she gave him was one of relief. He was relieved that she was relieved: she, too, had been anxious about not being just another notch in his belt. She, too, had truly felt a connection, and the confirmation that the feelings were mutual brought a bigger wave or relief than he’d thought it would, for it had occurred to him that they were being hopelessly naive and romantic, declaring that they were in love after just a day and one date.
Yet there was something about her that he’d never felt for any of the many women he’d known, in any of the many ways that he’d known them. This attraction was intense, and as she reached up and kissed him, it pleased him to know that it was mutual. Her lips were hot against his—a promise of what could be his.
***
He spent the afternoon making phone calls to London; arranging to rent out his flat and talking with his thesis adviser. He sensed that Professor Parker wasn’t too keen on the idea of him staying in Bahrain, but then again his father was covering his tuition and then some, so he wouldn’t complain to the deans. And anyway, it wasn’t as if he was the first student to do his studies from abroad. The university policies were rather flexible with respect to “family matters”, and while Melinda wasn’t technically family he did hold out hope that she might one day join his.
“Aren’t we leaving?” asked Misha. His bodyguard had appeared at the door, of his room, both of their bags packed and ready to go.
“Not anymore,” Bashir said. The look of shock mingled with confusion that passed over Misha’s face was almost funny, mostly because Misha simply didn’t move his face most of the time.
“Sir,” Misha said, after he had a moment to process it. He made a short bow with his head and began to leave.
“No, wait,” Bashir said. “I need you to go to London for me and get our things. I’ve made arrangements with a realtor to rent the place furnished, but it’ll need to be cleaned and you can make the necessary arrangements—”
“Sir, I am your bodyguard,” Misha said. “I’d be remiss in my duties if I went to London and left you here.”
Bashir managed not to roll his eyes. He appreciated Misha’s devotion and sense of duty, but he couldn’t deny that it wasn’t tedious sometimes. “I’ll be fine here,” he said. “This is the royal palace, after all. There are guards all over the place. And it’s not as if I can leave until I’ve arranged for a place to live here, so you’ll definitely get back before I’ve moved out.”
“Does your father know about this?”
“He knows I’m in love.”
He could almost feel the exasperation rolling off Misha, but the man thought better of voicing it and merely said, “I’ll be going to London, then.” He left one of the bags at the entrance to Bashir’s suites.
It seemed that no sooner had Misha left than Miriam came to see him, though at least thirty minutes passed, because he’d managed to find a buyer for his car in London (a slick Audi R8 was an easy sell, especially in London). He was in the process of finalizing the deal when Miriam appeared at his door, saying, “What’s this I hear about you not going to London?”
He grinned at her. “I’ve got other plans.”
“But you’re just three months short of finishing your thesis,” she said, frowning. “You’ll be defending soon.”
“There’s not much that requires my presence in London,” he said, “and if I do have to go to London, then I can go.”
She shook her head, smiling ruefully at him. “Spoken like the spoiled little brother you are. So who is she?”
He was surprised that Miriam had caught on so soon. It must have shown on his face because Miriam laughed and said, “Come on, litte brother,” she said. “I’m three years older than you. I will always know more about you than you do. So tell me, who is this girl?”
For the first time since his date he felt embarrassed—not because he’d gone on a date, and had the audacity to call his feelings for this woman “love”, but because his sister had figured him out so easily. “The caterer from Papa’s wedding,” he said, after a long moment.
Her eyes went wide and she gasped in shock. “A commoner? And a Westerner? Papa will have a heart attack if he knew.”
Bashir shrugged, grinning. “That was the one question Papa didn’t ask me this morning,” he said. “I don’t think he wants to know.”
“Of course he doesn’t want to know!” she said. “Bashir—you can’t do this—”
“I’ll be staying in Bahrain,” he said, using his wheedling voice. Of all his siblings, she was the one who wanted him to stay in Bahrain the most.
She grew flustered, but still said, “I’m telling Papa—”
“He won’t care,” Bashir said. “He told me as much this morning.”
“Maybe not,” she retorted. “But he still ought to know.”
Bashir shrugged. He wasn’t worried about his father anymore. In fact, as he checked off “Tell Papa and Miriam” on his list, he felt cocky, as if for once everything was going his way.
***
“And that’s when everything went downhill,” he said.
He was sitting on the floor of Melinda’s apartment, recounting what had happened that he ended up disavowed, written off, and essentially abandoned at the bus stop closest to the palace. “If I’m not mistaken, my father is on the phone with his lawyers even now, telling them to cut me out of the trust.”
Melinda took a sharp breath, but it was from the shock of hearing the news, not from the loss of his money. “Then what are you going to do?” she asked.
He shrugged. “What any man must do—find a job.” Melinda nodded and curled against him, saying, “Of course you will.”
Of course I will? I don’t even know if I can. Then he shook his head, to clear away the doubts: he could, because he had to. There was no choice for him anymore. There never had been.
After Miriam had left him, he’d finally finished with the paperwork part of transferring his life from London back to Bahrain. The physical aspect of the move would take a few weeks, in his estimation, and he figured would take him another week to get everything settled between the Bahrani banks and the trust fund. He was thinking about how he’d have to go to London to settle with the bank there, when his father came into his room, a look of horror and shock on his face. “Tell me,” the king had said. “Is it true? Is the woman you are in love with a Westerner?”
“Yes,” Bashir had said.
The king took a deep breath, letting it out in one long hiss. “I am going to pretend that you made a mistake. Now tell me who she is.”
Bashir had glowered. “You said you wouldn’t interfere.”
“That’s when I still thought you had enough common sense not to want to marry a Westerner!” his father said. “They’re too different—the difference between royalty and a commoner is already vast—to add a Western girl to it—”
“I’ve lived in London for eight years,” Bashir said, evenly. “And she’s lived in Bahrain for at least six. I’d say we know a little about each other’s cultures already.”
“If you do this then I will disown you, and cut you out of the trust.”
He’d always known that losing the trust was going to be a risk, but now that his father had spoken the words aloud, his course of action was laid out for him. It didn’t even feel like a choice at that point. It was just what he had to do. The only words out of his mouth were, “How long will I have to settle my accounts in London?”
His father had not, apparently, expected him to accept the loss of his funds so easily. It would have been enjoyable watching his father’s expression morph from anger to disbelief—disbelief that he’d lost control of the conversation and of his son—had the conversation not been so serious. Finally the man managed to spit out, “You’re no son of mine!”
At first Bashir thought his father was merely angry—that he couldn’t possibly mean those words. But then his father turned and left his suites, calling for the guards. Bashir had been unable to believe his ears—his father was calling him an intruder, telling the guards to evict him and take him to the closest bus stop and leave him there. It was all Bashir could do to grab his laptop, phone, and the bag that Misha had packed for him, before the guards grabbed him and dragged him out and into the back of a Land Rover. They began to rattle over the dusty strip of asphalt.
Ordinarily Bashir had a casual relationship with the guards—they knew who he was, and that h
e didn’t like being saluted or groveled at. “If you need to tell me something, just tell me,” he’d frequently tell them. “I may be royal but I promise you, my ears won’t bleed if you tell me something terrible. Even if it is about my father.” That last sentence frequently left them in fits of laughter, and they’d spent whole afternoons griping about his father.
But how quickly this camaraderie vanished. The guards that left him at the bus stop—guards he’d frequently played cards with and chatted about girls with—were stone-faced and silent as they stopped, pulled him and his belongings out. They didn’t even look back or wave him good-bye. For some reason that hurt more than being kicked out of his home.
He’d sat at the bus stop—a little plexiglass shelter with a too-narrow-for-comfort stool in the literal middle of the desert three miles from anywhere. The bus took over an hour to arrive, but he never remembered how he’d spent that hour. His mind was a complete blank. Every time he tried to think of what to do next he’d fall into a stunned stupor again, so that when he finally saw the bus approaching it felt oddly like waking up. It was something to focus on, something more substantial than the nebulous dread that was clouding his mind, at any rate.
The coughing, wheezing bus that was spewing a noxious cloud of gas responsible for the deaths of at least five polar bears by global warming creaked to a stop thirty feet too late. Whatever optimism the sight of the bus had given him was quickly dispelled as he gathered together his things and approached the bus. The inside stank of piss and shit and was still stuffy from the heat of the day.
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