Daughter of Hassan

by Penny Jordan

  'The Emir is the head of our family and our country,' Saud confided with a shy smile. 'I am the son of his second cousin and thus of minor importance within the family. Indeed it was only through the good offices of Sheikh Hassan, my uncle, that I obtained my position with the oil company.'

  'But you have a university degree,' Danielle persisted, remembering what her stepfather had told her about this personable young man. 'You could have obtained a job elsewhere . . .'

  I should not have wanted to. Qu'Har is my home and the home of my fathers before me. Sheikh Hassan paid for my education, as he has alone for many of us, and it is only fitting that I repay him by using my skills for the benefit of my country.'

  It was said so simply, so without pretension and priggishness, that Danielle felt tears prick her eyes. This was the other side of the fierce desert warrior, this almost childlike simplicity and determined loyalty.

  'Sheikh Hassan is a generous and wise man,' Saud added seriously. 'Many within our family have reason to be grateful to him.' 'Especially Jourdan,' Danielle added, thinking of how her stepfather had rescued and brought up the small child.

  'Ah, Jourdan,' Saud said warmly, so warmly that Danielle glanced at him, surprised to see a look almost approaching worship in the liquid eyes. 'My father says that he is the natural successor to Sheikh Hassan and that without him our country would be torn to shreds and thrown to the winds. He is what in our family we call "The gift of the Prophet".'

  Danielle thought he was referring to a discreet way of describing Jourdan's illegitimacy until he saw the look of solemn reverence on his face.

  ' " The Gift of the Prophet?" What is that?' she asked, curious, in spite of her aversion for the man who would have married her without thought or compunction.

  'Quite simply the birth of one with the powers the knowledge and the skill to hold our people together,' Saud told her seriously. 'Always such a one is born to our ruling house in times of conflict and need. Sheikh Hassan himself was thought to be such a gift by his father until it was realised that he could not father children. You must know that in a family such as ours with many brothers and sons there is always fierce rivalry. Sometimes that rivalry breaks out in warfare as rival factions battle for control.

  'We are only a small country, but very rich in oil. Unfortunately our people sometimes lack the education to use wealth wisely. It is important that we plan now for the future when we may no longer have our oil, and that is what Sheikh Hassan is trying to do. Many schemes have been launched, many of our brighter young men educated abroad, and much money spent in technological equipment and learning, but all this will be wasted if there is no one to continue Sheikh Hassan's work when he is gone. It must be a man strong enough to quell opposition, fierce as the hawk and wily as the snake. Jourdan is such a man . . .'

  He sounded very unpleasant, Danielle thought distastefully. 'Fierce as the hawk.' That no doubt meant domineering and aggressive. 'Wily as the

  make .' She conjured up a picture of a Machiavellian mind capable of all manner of intrigue. She already knew how much the Muslim mind appreciated subtlety and how necessary it was to have this gift in full measure if one were to succeed in the Arab business world. The Arab would not respect a man he could cheat, and re-spect was all-important.

  'You obviously admire him,' Danielle said in a neutral voice, wondering if Saud was aware of the marriage her stepfather had planned for her. In view of Jourdan's importance it was strange that a full-blooded Arab girl from within the Royal family had not been chosen for him, and she realised for the first time that her stepfather had been trying to confer a great favour (in the eyes of his family at least) upon her by this marriage.

  'I do,' Saud agreed. 'Although it is thought by some that his adherence to the religion of his mother is foolish. However, the Koran acknowledges the worth of other religions, and Jourdan accepts the precepts of the Koran and abides by them far more strictly than many of our race.'

  'He sounds quite a paragon,' Danielle said dryly, her dislike of the unknown Jourdan growing by the minute. 'What a shame that I shall not meet him . . .'

  She was too busy studying the scenery beyond the window to see the swift, startled sideways glance Saud gave her. They were driving up to an archway set in a high white wall, the white paint glittering so brightly in the brilliant sunshine that Danielle had to close her eyes against the glare.

  When she opened them again the huge car had come to rest in front of a long, low building, its

  windows all shuttered like so many closed eyes, the delicate mosaic work adorning the gateway making her gasp with pleasure.

  'I must leave you here,' Saud announced, climbing out of the car. 'The driver will take you round to the women's quarters where you will be received by the Sheikha.'

  'Will I see you again?'

  All at once he had become an important link with home and all things familiar. Saud flushed and seemed to glance hesitantly at the driver as though reluctant for him to overhear their conversation.

  'It may be permitted. I shall ask my father,' he muttered in a low voice, and then the car was sweeping away through another archway decor-ated with a continuous frieze of arabesques and into a courtyard enclosed on all four sides.

  A door in one wall opened inwards, and feeling rather Alice in Wonderlandish, Danielle realised that she was supposed to get out of the car and enter the building.

  She did so like someone in a dream, aware of activity behind her as another door in the adjacent wall opened and the car boot was opened and her luggage removed.

  As she stepped through the open door, the scent of jasmine immediately enveloped her, together with a welcome coolness which she realised was stimulated by the powerful air-conditioning whose hum she could just faintly hear.

  'If the Sitt will follow me.'

  The girl was draped from head to foot in black, her voice low and melodious, and Danielle could just catch the faint chime of ankle bracelets as she swayed down the corridor in front of her. At the bottom she opened a door and indicated that Danielle was to follow. She found herself in a small square room with a low divan under one window and a small sunken pool just beyond it. 'If the Sitt will permit.'

  Gently but inexorably Danielle was pushed down on to the divan, her high-heeled sandals removed. She was glad that she was not wearing tights when the girl promptly proceeded to wash her hands and feet with water from the pool, again scented with some elusive perfume which drifted past her nostrils and refused to be properly identified.

  The girl's movement were deft and sure, her hands delicately hennaed and her eyes modestly downcast all the time. She must be a maid, Danielle reflected when she walked across to the other side of the room and returned with a pair of soft embroidered slippers.

  'It is necessary to wear these in the presence of the Sheikha,' the girl explained. 'It is the custom to kneel and approach, and then to leave the room backwards, but in your case it is necessary only to kneel. For you the Sheikha has waived the normal formalities . . .'

  The girl's English was perfect, so perfect that Danielle felt ashamed of her own lack of Arabic. She had learned it from her father, she explained when Danielle questioned her, and had been fortunate enough to get her position in the Sheikha's household because of it, because the Sheikha wanted all her daughters and granddaughters to speak it.

  'It is necessary when they go to school in

  England ,' she added. 'The Sheikha wishes the women of her family to have the benefit of a good education. She says it is important that the women of our race do not cause our menfolk to have a contempt of them because of their ignorance. I shall take you to her now, if you will please follow me.'

  The room they were in was an ante-room leading into a huge chamber with a vaulted, carved and painted ceiling, the intricacy of the arabesques and stylised carvings on the ceiling taking away Danielle's breath; and the colours! Never had she seen such a multitude of rich, jewel-bright colours all in one room before, and yet as he
r eyes became accustomed to the richness she realized that they were carefully and subtly arranged so that turquoise ran into lilac and rich purple into crimson, into royal blue and back to turquoise,

  the skilful blending shown to its best advantage on the plain off-white divans placed around the room and covered with multi-coloured silk cushions.

  At one end of the room was a raised dais with a single divan on it, and behind the divan was a delicately carved and scrolled screen that reminded Danielle of photographs she had seen of Russian iconostases, although of course these were not of a religious nature, nor did they depict the human form, relying entirely on colour for their beauty. Semi-precious stones studded into the screen glittered in the sunlight pouring in through the narrow slits left by the closed shut­ters, and as Danielle collected herself she realised that her companion had quietly left the room and that she was all alone.

  A door in the screen started to open and re­membering the maid's whispered instructions Danielle knelt hastily on the small mat placed strategically in front of her on the beautifully tiled floor.

  She heard a soft chiming sound, and the rustle of heavy silk but dared not lift her head, and then a pleasant voice commanded softly,

  'Come here, child, and let us see this daughter of whom my brother Hassan is so proud.'

  Danielle stood up and walked hesitantly to­wards the dais. The woman seated on it was tiny, the rich silk of her caftan burnished by the thin light, the jewels on her fingers and round her plump throat making Danielle gasp in awe.

  'She has hair the colour of the desert after rain,' the Sheikha commented to one of the women clustered behind her. Danielle had been" oblivious to their presence until the Sheikha spoke, having eyes only for the diminutive woman on the divan.

  'Such hair colour is an indication of a swift temper in England ,' one of the women replied softly, but not so softly that Danielle couldn't hear her.

  The Sheikha smiled, and indicated that Danielle was to mount the dais.

  'How fortunate then are English men,' she said dryly, 'for unlike our men who must judge by repute alone, one look indicates whether they have a wife of spirit, as temperamental as an Arab mare, or one with the docility of a courtyard dove. Which do you think a man would prefer?' she demanded, looking at Danielle with shrewd brown eyes.

  Thrown off guard, all Danielle could say was, 'I don't know. I suppose men like women have different needs. Some prefer placid women and some spirited.'

  'She speaks wisely,' the Sheikha said to her women, 'And Hassan has not lied, her beauty is that of the waterlily which flowers in our pools, pale and delicate, curling in on itself when threat­ened. While you remain in Qu'Har you will live amongst my household,' the Sheikha told Danielle. 'As Hassan has no doubt told you, it is not permitted for our women to walk unescorted in the streets, nor to go unveiled in the presence of men other than their fathers and husbands. Naturally as a European you would not be expected to observe these rules, but as the daugh­ter of our brother you would reflect upon his standing were you to be seen flouting them. The choice is yours, Danielle. Should you wish to adopt our customs while you live among us Zoe will provide you with a chadrah and instruct you in the laws of our country, but should you prefer to retain the customs of the West this we shall quite understand.'

  Choice? What choice? Danielle wondered with a certain amount of grim bitterness as she ac­knowledged the shy smile of the girl the Sheikha had indicated. Were she to insist on wearing her own clothes she would be branded as selfish and uncaring of her stepfather's reputation, but were she to dress and behave as an Arab girl it would be tantamount to denying her own personality.

  Everyone was waiting for her to speak. She remembered all the generosity and love her step­father had given her, and acknowledged that there was only one thing she could say.

  'I shall wear the chadrah she said bleakly, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of presience so strong that she immediately wanted to recall the words. It was as though she had committed herself to an alien uncharted course; as though her life would never be the same again simply by the speaking of that one sentence. Don't be so silly, she chided herself. All she was doing was ensuring that none of Hassan's family would ever again have cause to criticise his choice of second wife!

  The Sheikha smiled.

  'So be it. Go with Zoe. We shall talk again, you and I. It is many years since I have seen Hassan and you will tell me all about England which I have not visited since I was a girl.'

  Remembering that she was supposed to back out of the room, Danielle moved slowly away from the dais, earning an approving smile from

  Zoe who was at her side.

  Once outside the audience chamber, as Zoe told her the room was called, she led Danielle back down a long corridor.

  'A suite of rooms has been prepared for you . . .'

  They went up a flight of spiral stairs which seemed to go on for ever, Zoe pausing on the landing for Danielle to catch up with her before opening a door.

  A suite, she had called it! Danielle stared round at her palatial surroundings in mingled bemusement and awe, following Zoe like a sleepwalker as she led her from the exquisite salon to a sumptuous bedroom, the low bed draped in silk coverings

  which closed over it very much in the fashion of a fourposter, but far more delicate and gilded with what Danielle recognised to her astonishment was gold leaf. Beyond the bedroom was a small dress­ing room lined with mirror-fronted wardrobes, an obviously modern innovation, and beyond that a bathroom with sunken bath, shower and other sanitary fitments, all in a delicate pale pink marble to match the colour scheme in the bedroom.

  'The maid will bring you some caftans to choose from,' Zoe announced when the tour was finished. 'And then tomorrow the dressmaker will call and you will be able to choose exactly what you want . . .'

  'I shall only be here for three weeks,' Danielle protested weakly. 'It really isn't necessary, Zoe.'

  'To refuse the Sheikha's gift is to insult her,' Zoe said seriously.

  'Oh, well, in that case . . .'

  Zoe spent half an hour with her going through a few basic do's and don'ts, her smile kind when Danielle stopped her, protesting that she would never remember everything she had been told.

  'It is not as hard as you imagine,' Zoe com­forted her. 'And one of us will be with you always to help you ... I shall see you again at the even­ing meal,' she added, rising lithely from the divan. 'You remember the way?'

  Assuring her that that at least was something she would not forget, Danielle watched the door closing behind her, feeling rather forlorn. Despite the disparity in their cultures and upbringing she liked Zoe, with her gentle eyes and soft voice. She was the Sheikha's niece, she had explained to Danielle, and had been chosen to be one of the

  Sheikha's attendants, much to her family's delight, for it was a very great honour, and if the Sheikha was pleased with her at the end of her year's service she would reward her by adding handsomely to her dowry and helping her parents to find her a good husband.

  Danielle had been aghast by these revelations, but Zoe seemed to find nothing to question in them, happily accepting her father's right to find and choose her marriage partner. Nothing had been said about her proposed marriage to Jourdan, and Danielle wisely kept silent, surmis­ing that it was not generally known.

  When Zoe had gone Danielle examined the contents of the wardrobe Zoe had discreetly pointed out to her. Half a dozen jewelled silk caf­tans wafted gently in the draught from the open­ing doors, their colours ranging from palest pink to deepest jade green. She lifted one out and held it against her, surprised to discover how the Oriental robe transformed her from a neat European into a sultry Easterner. It must surely have been a trick of the light which gave her lips that sultry pout, she decided, hastily replacing the caftan with the others. There was a gentle knock on the door and when Danielle went to answer it a young girl stood there, eyes modestly downcast.

  'The Sheikha has sent me to attend
the Sitt,' the girl said, stepping into the room. 'She has also sent you this chadrah so that you will be able to conceal yourself as you walk about the palace.'

  Danielle took the thick, black, enveloping cloak with thinly concealed distaste, shrinking away from the thought of wearing a garment whose sole purpose was in such direct opposition to her own

  principles , but she was here in many ways as her stepfather's emissary, she reminded herself, and rather than cause offence she would wear the tent-like garment. She was only grateful that the fast­ing month of Ramadan was past, she was just thinking, when the high, thin sound of the muezzin broke the silence, startling her to such an extent that she dropped the cloak.

  The maid prostrated herself immediately, re­maining prone for several seconds before rising calmly with lithe grace and walking over to Danielle.

  'You will want to bathe before the evening meal, and I shall attend you. The Sheikha has sent some perfumed oil for you made from the roses of her own garden. You are greatly honoured.'

  Danielle wanted to protest uncomfortably that she did not need any help, but the girl was already walking through into the sumptuous bathroom, running the water and pouring something from a small vial into the marble depths, which im­mediately turned the water milky.

  'I can manage by myself,' Danielle began, but the girl's expression was so puzzled and hurt that Danielle found herself relenting when she asked if Danielle meant to send her away.

  'European girls are not used to having a per­sonal maid,' Danielle tried to explain, asking the girl her name.

  'Zanaide,' she replied shyly. 'The Sheikha will think I have offended you in some way if the Sitt sends me away . . .'

  The huge brown eyes looked so mournful that Danielle hadn't the heart to insist, but her British

  heritage told her there was something vaguely sybaritic about lying full length in the deliciously scented water while Zanaide's small hennaed hands gently sponged her body, but by the time she was ready to step out of the bath and into the towel Zanaide was holding for her, Danielle was beginning to feel her inhibitions completely slipping away, until Zanaide commented admir­ingly on the colour and texture of her skin.