Ironically, he now demanded her body nearly every night. That, too, had become a hell. Before, she had endured occasional cruelty; now there was out- right sadism. She knew the term from her psychology books, but it had never seemed quite real. How could anyone take sexual pleasure in the pain of others? Well, Ali did. Yet, even that was deteriorating. More and more often, like tonight, he could not become aroused no matter how much he abused and humiliated her.
Maybe he would just give up, go back to his boys. No. That wouldn’t hap- pen. The violence would grow until, sooner or later, he killed her. She was sure of it. Deep in his mind he wanted it. If for no other reason, wasn’t she the only witness to his crime?
What am I going to do? She was more alone than ever, cut off by the enormity of what Ali had done, was doing. If she told the truth, every syllable of it, who would believe her? No one in al-Remal, not even her father. Malik would believe, of course. But she couldn’t tell him. She knew how he would react, and she knew Ali’s power—the royal family’s power. To tell her brother would be to sentence him—as well as herself—to death.
It was the same with Philippe. He would believe her. But what could he do?
Nothing. Nothing that wouldn’t bring him to harm.
She went to the side chamber where Karim slept when Ali made his con- jugal visits. Incredibly, that was just what the child was doing—sleeping. Had he been awake earlier? Other times? What had he heard? What would he remember when he was older, whether he knew that he remembered it or not? She touched his brow, and he murmured in his sleep. It was not just a mother’s prejudice, she thought: he was beautiful. He would grow up to be a hand- some young man. Suddenly a thought came to her that she had never had, and it made her nearly sick with fear. Her husband’s predilections, the way he treated her: if she was gone, what might he do with Karim someday? No, surely not— not even Ali.
Oh, God, I’ve got to get us out of here. But how? There was no way. There must be a way. She couldn’t think of it tonight. She was too tired, too confused. Sleep. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would find a way. It was a promise she had made to herself every night since Alexandria. Hating the smell and feel of her bed, she fell exhausted on it. Everything was quiet. Maybe for once the liquor had won out over the black pills. She turned out the light and closed her eyes.
It was al-Masagin again, the crowd in the square, the figure tied to the stake. But the figure wasn’t Laila, it was the young man in the night at Alexandria. His eyes turned to Amira. Then, somehow, Ali was dragging Laila’s body down a beach, blood trailing. Amira ran behind, begging him to stop. The blindfold fell from Laila’s face. It wasn’t Laila. It was Amira. The Amira who was watching tried to touch the dead Amira but couldn’t. It was as if her arms had heavy weights on them. She looked down and saw two snarling black dogs clamping her wrists in their fangs.
Someone was tugging at her, there in the dark. Oh, God, it was Ali. She could smell the liquor.
“Ali, what are you doing?” “Teaching you a lesson.”
“Please, Ali!” She tried to push him away, but something held her hands.
Was she still dreaming? Oh, God, she was tied.
Ali switched on the light. The pupils of his eyes were mad pinpoints; the pills had won.
“Now, bitch,” he said. “Now.” He showed her a quirtlike whip, the kind camel drivers used.
“No, Ali!”
“Turn over unless you want it in the face.” “What have I done, Ali?”
The whip cut across her breasts. Amira cried out at the fiery pain and rolled onto her stomach.
“You’re a sow. Yet, you look down on me. I can read your devil’s eyes. You dare to look down on me. Your husband. A royal prince. Respect. I’ll teach you respect.”
Each sentence ended with a lash of the whip to her back, her legs, her buttocks. There was no escaping it. She screamed. Surely someone would come—a servant, anyone. No one did.
In his room, Karim howled. Somehow, Amira tore one hand free, then the other, skin peeling on the rope. She tried to rush past Ali, but he blocked her into a corner.
“Please, Ali. I can’t help it if I’m not a man. For God’s sake, just stop!”
He did stop. But only for a heartbeat—just long enough for Amira to realize that she should have endured the whipping. On her husband’s face, she saw cold, deadly rage. She saw murder.
She tried to shield her face as he came for her, but his fist smashed between her hands. She felt the cartilage in her nose snap. A blow to her cheek sent stars dancing through her brain. The room was very bright and distant. Something slammed into her abdomen, driving the breath from her, and she fell. A liquid warmth touched her thighs. I’ve wet myself, she thought with shame.
The last thing she saw was Ali’s foot floating toward her in dreamy slow motion, a child’s balloon on a string.
O
Cool pastel colors. A woman in white. A touch on the lips, rough, soft, cold. Ice in a cloth. It hurt, but the dampness was heaven. She was dying of thirst. “God be praised,” said the woman. “God be praised for saving Your Highness from such a terrible accident.”
Accident? Amira tried to say the word, but the sound that came out was unrecognizable. Her face felt like a melon rotted to bursting. Worse was the burning deep within her. Yet, somehow the pain seemed far away. Slowly, she under- stood. Hospital. Nurse. Drugs. She remembered why she was here. She slept.
When she woke, the pain was anything but far away. The nurse, a middle-aged Pakistani, brought a pill. Amira took it greedily.
“My son,” she said.
“Your what? Oh, your son. I’m sure he’ll be along soon enough, Highness. But we wouldn’t want him to see his mommy in her present mussed condition, would we?”
“No.”
“But your husband has been here so much that half the patients think he’s a doctor.”
The nurse gently inserted a thermometer beneath Amira’s tongue. “Such a charming man. In case you’re wondering, he’s not angry about your driving the car. Just look at all the flowers he’s brought.”
Half a dozen large bouquets crowded the room. Glancing at them, Amira realized that she was seeing with only her right eye. The left wouldn’t open. Driving the car.
“No, no, Highness. Mustn’t touch the dressings.” The nurse removed the thermometer, made a note on the chart, and rattled on in the maternal tone of her vocation. “You were a naughty girl, Highness—you could have died, God forbid. But the merciful God was on your side. It’s thanks to Him that Dr. Rochon showed up when he did.”
“Dr. Rochon? Philippe Rochon?”
“Exactly. He arrived the very day they brought you in, thank God, and Dr. Konyali asked him to perform the surgery. Not that Dr. Konyali couldn’t have done it himself, of course.”
The painkiller was taking effect. Amira wondered if she were hearing the woman correctly. “Dr. Rochon is here? And he did surgery on me? What surgery?”
The nurse became tight-lipped. “Best wait for the doctor to discuss that, Highness.”
“No. You tell me. I’m not superstitious. I won’t blame you for bad news. In fact, I’ll thank you. What surgery?”
There was pity in the nurse’s eyes. “You had internal injuries, Highness. You were hemorrhaging. They had to operate to save your life. They removed one of your kidneys. And your womb.”
How sad, thought Amira. Yet, it all seemed so distant, as if it concerned someone else. Thank God for the painkiller—morphine, whatever it was. Her womb. How sad.
“At least you have the son, Highness. And you are alive.” “Do you have children?”
“I’ve never married, Highness. It’s kind of you to ask.” The nurse adjusted the seating of an intravenous needle. “Rest now, Highness. I’ll be right here in case you need anything. And the doctors will be checking on you. My name is Rabia, by the way.”
Amira was floating out on a tranquil lake. The thought that Philippe would be there soon drifted by like a cloud in t
he sky. “Can you bring me a mirror?” she heard herself ask.
“A mirror? I—I’m afraid we don’t have one, Highness. Maybe I can find one for you later. Rest now.”
“Yes … Philippe.”
He was standing behind Dr. Konyali, concern in every line of his face. Dr. Konyali cleared his throat. “I’d forgotten you knew Dr. Rochon, Highness.” The little courtier would not have forgotten such a thing. He was merely glossing over Amira’s impropriety in addressing a man so informally.
She could not have cared less. The gaze of her one good eye had not left Philippe. She had never seen him in his medical garb. It made him look more boyish. Yet at the same time, he seemed older, frailer.
“Are you well, Philippe? What brings you here?”
His eyes crinkled in a smile. “Am I well? Who’s the patient here? How do you feel?”
She tried a smile herself. It hurt. “Never better.”
“You didn’t tell me this patient was suffering from a sense of humor, doctor,” said Philippe, glancing over Konyali’s shoulder at Amira’s chart. “As for what brings me here, His Majesty had a rather acute episode of his chronic trouble.
He asked me to fly down. When I arrived, he had learned of your accident and sent me directly to assist Dr. Konyali.”
The Turk fairly preened at the flattery, but Amira had caught Philippe’s slight emphasis on the word accident and his glance at her when he said it. A single thought cut through the fog of pain and medication: He knows!
“We don’t want to disturb your rest, Highness,” said Konyali. “It’s what you need most just now.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I gather that Rabia has told you about the various … procedures we performed.” “Yes.”
“It was absolutely necessary, Highness, I’m sorry to say.” “Not your fault. God’s will.”
Konyali inclined his head to acknowledge the profound truth in her remark. “Your husband is waiting to see you, Highness. I’ve told him that we can allow him only a few minutes.”
Did her fear show? Philippe was studying her intently. Yes, he knew. “I hope you won’t mind if I look in on your patient now and then, Dr. Konyali,” he said. “By all means, doctor. After all, she’s your patient as much as mine.” Philippe winked at her. “I’ll be nearby, Highness. Nurse Rabia can find me any time.”
He was gone before she could say good-bye. Konyali followed after giving brief instructions to Rabia. Then, suddenly, Ali was there. Rabia stood and moved toward the door.
“No, stay, Rabia, it’s all right.”
The nurse looked at her oddly. “I’ll be just down the hall, Highness. Please, Highness sir, only a few minutes. The doctor requests it.” “Of course.”
As the door closed behind Rabia, Ali stepped forward. Amira fought an impulse to scream. Then her husband did the most astonishing thing: he fell to his knees beside the bed and kissed her fingertips.
“Thank God! Thank God for delivering you! It’s my fault. I would never have forgiven myself. If I’d been a proper husband, you’d never have done such a crazy thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Why, the accident, of course. You should see the car.” Had he gone mad? Had she?
“No car.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t in a car.”
He patted her hand. “I shouldn’t have come so soon. Rest, my dear. I’ll be back tomorrow. I promise you, things will be different from now on. Very different.”
Was it some kind of extreme guilt reaction? Had he blanked out the truth? Did he simply lack courage to admit what he had done? Or was it something else?
He smiled at her from the door. And there—just there, behind his dark eyes—something flickered, glinting like other eyes entirely, the eyes of an animal in the night. Then it was gone. But she had seen it—and it had seen her.
She was too weak for more fear. None of it made sense, anyway. She was asleep within seconds of Rabia’s return.
O
For two days, Amira hardly moved. She was too weak and in too much pain. On the third morning, Rabia helped her sit up on the edge of the bed, and late that afternoon, she took a few steps, feeling like a very old woman or a very young child. That same day, Dr. Konyali removed most of the bandages from her face, and after considerable foot-dragging, Rabia finally produced a mirror.
Amira gasped when she saw her reflection. Her face, still swollen, was virtually a single bruise, which had turned a sickly yellowish purple. Adhesive tape still hid her nose. A black ladder of stitches crawled down her forehead from the hairline. Her left eye was almost fully open but grotesquely bloodshot.
“There will be a scar, not a bad one, here,” said Konyali, pointing to the stitches, “and your nose won’t have quite its old shape, but there’s no permanent damage.”
Philippe had come in and watched somberly while the bandages were cut away. Now he smiled and said, “If you’re not happy with your new nose, I can give you the name of a plastic surgeon. He can give you any nose you’d like.”
“Can he give me”—Amira struggled to think of a French movie star— “can he give me Catherine Deneuve’s nose?”
“Why not? He gave Catherine Deneuve hers.” “Would you like your veil, Highness?” asked Rabia.
“Because the bandages are gone? No, it’s pointless. These gentlemen know my face better than I do—which isn’t very well just now.”
“We’ll need to monitor the healing process, anyway, and of course, remove the stitches,” said Konyali. “No one can fault you for immodesty in these circumstances, Highness.”
“Thank you, doctor. How is His Highness, my father-in-law, Phili—Dr. Rochon?”
“Much better, I’m happy to say.”
“God be praised,” Konyali, Rabia, and Amira herself said.
“He really has no further need of me, so as soon as we have you on your feet again, I’m afraid I’ll be heading back to Paris.” Philippe said it casually, but his eyes were intense with unspoken communication.
“Well,” said Amira, “I hope we’ll have a chance to talk before you leave. I owe you—and Dr. Konyali—my life.”
“I’m sure we’ll have that chance, Highness.”
But the chance proved hard to find. Although Amira strengthened steadily over the following days, either Rabia or another nurse was always present; Ali had insisted on it. And often, Ali himself was there, so solicitous of Amira—and of Philippe when he appeared—that she wondered if it were possible that he really had changed, the way a person’s hair supposedly could turn white over- night after some terrifying experience. But no—no, it couldn’t be. There was that thing behind his eyes, watching her, almost laughing at her. No: she would be afraid of him forever.
The morning came when Dr. Konyali announced that she would be going home the next day. That afternoon, when Ali had left, Philippe came in to say good-bye. Oddly, at first, he seemed less interested in Amira than in chatting with Rabia.
“Dr. Konyali tells me you’re well traveled.”
“I, sir?” Rabia smiled with shy pride, “Well, Pakistan, of course, then Delhi, then England—Birmingham and London—then here.”
“How many languages do you speak?”
“Only my own, and a little English, and such Arabic as I am speaking now, sir.”
“Not French?”
“No, sir, not a word, I regret to admit.” She looked genuinely rueful at disappointing the famous physician.
“I know a little French,” said Amira, catching on, “but it’s been ages since I practiced it. Are you going to examine me, doctor? Ask your questions in French. Tell me where I go wrong.”
“Very well.”
“You don’t mind, Rabia?” “I mind, Highness?” “Bon”
Philippe took out his stethoscope and applied the receiver to her back.
“We can’t take long,” he said in French. “Answer when I ask. Breathe deep. Now exhale. He did it, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Again. Has he hurt you before?” “Not like this.”
“And again. I believe that you are in great danger.” “I saw him kill a man.”
“Once more. You’ve got to get away from him. I’ll help in any way I can.” “There’s nothing you can do.”
“Lie back. That’s it. Relax. I need to palpate.”
His touch was firm, gentle, expert. There was safety in his hands, protection. “Does that hurt?”
“No. If I leave, he’ll take my son.” “And if you took the boy with you?” “He’d hunt me down and kill me.”
“And here—any pain at all? Even in France?”
“A little. Like a bruise. Yes. Even there.” Was he asking her to leave Ali for him? God, if only it were possible!
“Cough, please. Good. And if the two of you were to vanish?” “I don’t understand.”
“Go far away. Become someone else. I have money.” “He’d hunt us down, I tell you. You have no idea.”
Philippe leaned close to examine the wound on her forehead, where the stitches had been. “Healing nicely. Just a little scarring.”
“I don’t think he’ll dare anything soon—not after this.”
“I hope not. But you’ve got to get out. I’ll try to come up with something.
You try, too.”
“Please. You can’t help. Don’t try.”
“I’m your doctor, Highness,” he said, smiling. “Your health is my concern.” “You don’t understand the danger.”
“Oh, but I do. Precisely.” He stepped back from the bed. “Our patient’s doing very well,” he told Rabia in Arabic, “and so is her French.” “God is merciful and compassionate.”
“Yes. Well, Highness, I leave you in the capable hands of Dr. Konyali. Follow his orders. I’ll be checking up on you the minute I’m back in al-Remal.”
“And when might that be, doctor?”
“Why, for the festivities, the semicentennial. His Majesty was so gracious as to invite me. Didn’t I mention it?”
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