Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  “Tabriz,” said Philippe. “Why would you be going there?”

  “There’s a mosque there, apparently a great old one, that had fallen into disrepair, then was nearly ruined by the earthquake a year or two ago. Apparently, the shah wants al-Remal to lend its money and moral weight to repair- ing the building.”

  Philippe smiled. “The shah hopes to appease the fundamentalists nipping at his heels.” He mouthed the question, “Parle français?”

  Amira shook her head. It would seem suspect. Some of the servants might even know a little French.

  Philippe took a small notebook and a pen from the pocket of his tweed sports jacket. “I do worry about your health,” he said, writing as he spoke. “Are you sure you’re recovered from the accident enough for all this travel?” “Oh, I’m much better, thanks to you and Dr. Konyali.”

  “Good.” He showed the paper to her: Are you going to Egyptian Night tomorrow?

  She nodded.

  “And yet, I worry about my patient,” Philippe said, writing again. “It would be dangerous to exert yourself too much.”

  I’ll be in the garden when you return, the note said. I’ll wait. “I’ll be careful, doctor,” said Amira.

  “I promise.”

  O

  For the younger women of the Remali elite, Egyptian Night was a keenly anticipated feature of the semicentennial. It was an all-female party at which they could talk without restraint and wear the most outrageous fashions they owned, changing back to more modest clothes before going home. It was something new; it couldn’t have happened even ten years earlier in al-Remal.

  The venue was the ballroom of the Hilton, the activities being considered too Western for the palace. In her Givenchy gown, with its fitted sequined bodice and flared taffeta skirt, Amira arrived to find what looked like a very large European dinner party—except that there were no drinks and no men. Three or four hundred women milled and mingled, drinking sweet fruit drinks and munching hors d’oeuvres amid a cacophony of compliments, jokes, gossip, and laughter. Only a few had been too timid to abandon traditional dress, and even these were unveiled.

  As the evening went on, a feeling of camaraderie developed in the room. It was as if what they were doing was very daring and called for openness, one woman to another. Amira heard complaints about men, laws, and Remali society in general that would never have been voiced under other circumstances.

  At one point, she was confronted by a princess she hardly knew who demanded, “Amira, tell us the truth: Did you wreck a car or not?”

  She was saved from having to answer by a burst of recorded music and an announcement of the main event, a performance by the great beledi dancer, Sonia Murad. This was one reason why Egyptian Night was too risqué for the palace, and why so few older women attended: their generation had been taught that professional dancers were little better than prostitutes. Amira’s own knowledge of beledi was limited to the few moves she had learned from Jihan and practiced with Laila. She was about to learn a great deal more.

  Sonia Murad was an artist. There was no other word for it. From the moment she took the stage, it was obvious. She had the presence and beauty—not looks, but beauty—of one born to show others the way.

  When she began to dance, her personality filled the room like a powerful light. Amira had always thought of beledi as sensual at its heart, and perhaps that was true. But there was far more than sensuality in Sonia Murad’s dance. There was joy, pain, humor, even fear. Her dance was about being a woman and a human being.

  Sometimes the undulations of Sonia’s body were so rapid and so perfectly rhythmic as to seem impossible. Sometimes she struck a stillness so profound that it made one think of the stars or of God.

  The crowd was hers, clapping and shouting with the music, and when she gestured to one of them, the woman moved toward the stage, as if drawn by an invisible cord, and began a dance of her own. Soon, a dozen, then two dozen women were dancing at Sonia’s behest. It was amazing, thought Amira, how the different personalities were revealed. Then Sonia pointed at her, and suddenly everyone was urging her to dance.

  She did. She felt awkward for only a moment, then found herself enjoying a freedom of movement forgotten since the day her father caught her dancing to the radio. But suddenly, a sharp pain in her abdomen doubled her; the sliced muscles there had not mended enough for this exertion. A face appeared from the crowd around her: the little princess who had asked about the car wreck. “It’s all right, Amira. We know.” What did that mean?

  The floor shook with the rhythm of the dance. Amira thought of the pagan frenzies of ancient Egypt and Greece. The room was an oven, the air-conditioning overwhelmed. Women were soaked with sweat, makeup streaming down their faces. Someone had opened the sliding glass doors along one wall to let in the cooling night air.

  Suddenly, there was a disturbance on the edge of the crowd. Women shouting in outrage, men’s angry voices. Sonia Murad glanced toward the sound, tried to continue her dance, then stopped.

  “It’s the Remali police,” a woman near Amira said. What were the religious police doing here?

  “The music!” someone said. “They’re angry because they can hear the music outside.”

  “Females, cover yourselves,” a man shouted.

  There was near panic. Women pushed toward every exit. Amira, still in pain, moved with a mini stampede to the sliding doors. Then she was out under the cold winter stars.

  Around her, hundreds of women in the latest Western fashions fanned out into the Remali night. Some were in tears, others laughing; one young woman cursed the Remali police like a camel driver, a punishable offense in al-Remal. Foreigners coming into the Hilton stood and stared at the mass of jeweled refugees.

  Amira sat on a low concrete wall, unable to go any farther. A strong hand gripped her arm. Was she under arrest?

  “Come with me, Highness. The car is just over there.” It was Jabr, the driver. “There were rumors among the drivers,” Jabr told her. “I came early in case something happened.” “Thank you.”

  The big man shook his head angrily. “I love God as much as any man,” he declared. “But these religious police—what do they have to do with God? Forgive me, Highness.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, Jabr. Thank you again.”

  The house was quiet, only a single servant there to greet her. Princess Zeinab was upstairs asleep, the girl explained. Everyone else was still at the festivities.

  “And Dr. Rochon?” said Amira. “Is he at the festivities, as well?” Only at that moment had she remembered Philippe’s promise to meet her in the garden.

  “I don’t know, Highness. I haven’t seen him.”

  “Go draw me a bath—make sure that it’s hot—and lay out my night- clothes. Then make some tea.”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  As soon as the girl was gone, Amira slipped out into the garden. No one was there, only the cold moon close overhead, the details of its rocky face etched as if in crystal. Amira shivered, wondering how long she dared to wait. “Cinderella,” said a voice from the shadows, “home from the ball?”

  “Philippe! You nearly frightened me to death.”

  “Shh. Just stay where you are and act as if I’m not here. We’ll talk very quietly.”

  “All right.”

  “Amira, I believe that your life is in danger and that you must get away from Ali. Yet, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I have a plan, but it’s a drastic one. Surely, there must be a better way. Let me ask you this: What if I were to talk with the king, explain matters. Wouldn’t he grant you a divorce?” “He might. But he would never give up his grandson. Karim would be Ali’s. And I cannot allow that.”

  “And you’re certain that if you just walked away—took Karim and went to France, for example—Ali would pursue you.”

  “Yes. He’d take Karim and kill me, as well, if it were necessary. Which it would be.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”
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  “Then I can see only two possible solutions. One is to kill Ali. I can’t do that, and I don’t think you can, either.”

  “No.”

  “Then the only alternative is to kill you and Karim.” “What?”

  “You wouldn’t be dead, of course, but suppose that the whole world— Ali included—thought you were. Suppose that you and Karim could start a totally new life somewhere—America, for example. Would you do it?” “I—I don’t know. It’s too hard a question.”

  “You needn’t answer it now. But soon.”

  To leave everything she knew behind: friends, father, homeland, every- thing. “Would Malik know the truth?” she asked.

  “I don’t think he should. Not for a while, at any rate—perhaps a long while. Your brother is an impetuous man. He would never tell the secret, but his actions would give it away.”

  “He would have to think that I was dead?”

  “It’s cruel, I know, but it may be necessary. In any case, that can be decided later. What you must first decide is whether to take the course I suggest.”

  “And you, Philippe? Would I ever see you?” There was a silence in the shadow.

  “Ever is a long time,” he replied at last. “Who knows what will happen? Let’s get you safe first.”

  The night was turning very cold. Amira shivered in her Egyptian night gown. “I can’t decide now. I need to think.”

  “Of course. But the sooner the better. And there are some details to think about, too. Do you have any money?”

  “There is some money in my name, but I can’t take it out of the bank without Ali’s permission.”

  “Ah. And your jewelry?”

  “That I can take anywhere. But it’s all I have.”

  “And probably not salable for more than a third of what Ali paid for it,” commented Philippe. “Well, it’s something, anyway—plenty for a start. If you decide to go through with this, take all your jewelry when you and Ali go to Iran. And bring Western clothes for both you and Karim.”

  “Tell me what you have in mind.”

  “I don’t have it all worked out yet. But I know that it can’t be done here, or even in the Emirates. Certainly, not in New York or Paris or even Teheran. We need someplace out of the way, cut off a bit from the world. Of all the stops on your itinerary, Tabriz is the best choice.”

  “This sounds dangerous.”

  “It will be—a little. But not for Karim. Only for you and me.” “You? Why for you?”

  “I’ll be there, of course. But we’ve talked enough. Go now, my dear. I see you’re cold. Think it over. If you decide to do it, let me know by saying some- thing, anything, about Tabriz. Even if you can’t make up your mind before I leave, you can still use that signal—in a postcard or something.”

  “Oh, God. It’s just so hard to believe, Philippe. This life of mine.” “I’m sorry. You deserve better. Go, my dear. We have several days yet. Perhaps we can talk again. But the decision will still have to be made.” “I don’t know what I’ll do—it’s too much for me, just now. But I do know that I can’t thank you enough, Philippe.”

  “It’s not necessary to thank me at all. We have an understanding, do we not? A friendship. Good night, my dear.”

  Turning to the house, Amira took a last glance at the crystal moon. As she did, she caught a glimpse of movement at a second-floor window. A cur- tain closing? Perhaps it was just a reflection, or her imagination.

  “Good night,” she whispered back into the shadows of the garden. “Good night—my love.”

  Morning Visitors

  The festival was over, the Bedu vanishing back into the desert, the foreign guests crowding the airport, but Ali insisted that Philippe stay for another day or two.

  “Right here in this house,” he said. “I’m keeping it for a few days, so as not to put you to the trouble of moving to the palace or to a hotel. So you see, the plans are already made.”

  His enthusiasm seemed excessive to Amira—surely he had demonstrated his gratitude and hospitality to anyone’s satisfaction—but if he had an ulterior motive, she couldn’t imagine what it might be.

  Philippe seemed to resist the invitation, pointing out that he had a practice to maintain in France, but a call from the palace decided the issue: the nonstop feasting had caused yet another onslaught of the king’s gout; Dr. Rochon’s ser- vices were urgently desired.

  “You see that God is wise,” said Ali with his best smile. “Even my father’s affliction brings some good.”

  “Tomorrow is Saturday, in any case,” said Philippe. “I’d only be puttering around my apartment or loitering in some bistro, while here I’m in the best of company. But I absolutely must leave by midafternoon Sunday. Inshallah,” he added with a smile.

  “If it must be, it must be, my friend, although we’ll be sad to see you go.”

  Amira silently thanked God for the extension of Philippe’s stay. It would give her another chance to talk with him, she was sure. She needed his thoughts, his advice. She needed him, she realized, to make her decision for her.

  It didn’t work out that way. She spent most of Saturday helping Zeinab move out. There was a great outcry about a pair of earrings that Zeinab was sure she had left on her dresser. After an exhaustive search, they were found in her jewel box.

  Philippe was at the palace all day. He returned at dark looking worn, and went to his room to rest. Ali left for some appointment and later called to say that Amira and Philippe should dine without him. They sat together at table—again shocking the servants, Amira knew. Philippe had no appetite. He drank a glass of wine while she ate. They exchanged small talk. There was nothing left to say except the word Tabriz. It hung unspoken in the air. She couldn’t say it. Not yet. Karim was brought in from the nursery. He sat in Amira’s lap, then slid down and toddled around to be bounced on Uncle Philippe’s knee. In the middle of this activity, Ali arrived, buoyant and loud. Had he been drinking?

  “What a domestic picture!’’ he laughed. “I thought I had wandered by mis- take into the house of a rich European and his beautiful young wife and child.”

  “It might be,” said Philippe, “but where is the rich European?”

  Ali laughed again. “I have something for you, my friend,” he said. He left the room and came back with a gift-wrapped box. In it were a beautifully made thobe and ghutra, and a black agal with solid-gold fittings. “First there was Lawrence of Arabia,” Ali observed. “Now there can be Philippe of al-Remal.”

  Philippe brought out presents in return. For Ali, there was a leather flight jacket, an exact and expensive replica of those worn by American pilots in the Second World War. For “the house”—since it would be improper to give anything directly to Amira—there was a brace of miniature doves exquisitely carved in ivory.

  It was a pleasant moment on the surface, but the hypocrisy of it made Amira want to scream. Why couldn’t she just say what she wanted to say: “I’m leaving and I’m taking Karim.” Why couldn’t Philippe step up and add, “And don’t try to stop us, my friend.”

  Because of the consequences, of course, which would be terrible. But still, living a charade was maddening.

  The little celebration was brief by Remali standards. Philippe was clearly exhausted, and Ali announced that he himself would need to rise early for yet another appointment. “But certainly, I’ll be back in time to see you off, my friend.”

  Philippe, mumbling thanks and apologies, trudged off to bed. After a few minutes’ play with Karim, who was cranky with sleepiness himself, Ali, too, went upstairs.

  Amira was the only wakeful one. Long into the night, she stared into the darkness of her bedroom. She felt like a desert traveler when the stars are hidden. Movement was vital, but in what direction? It was nearly dawn when, repeating over and over that it was all in God’s hands, she lulled herself to sleep.

  O

  She woke with the vague sense that something was wrong. The house was very quiet, but that was logical: Ali und
oubtedly had gone out already. Philippe was probably still asleep. Zeinab and her tribe had departed.

  Karim slept peacefully. Yet, it was so quiet. She dressed quickly and went downstairs. Where were the servants? She called and got silence for an answer. She was about to call the servants’ quarters for an explanation when she saw the little chambermaid, Hanan, dressed in her best clothes, crossing the garden toward the side gate.

  “Hanan! Come here. Where is everybody?”

  “Why, I don’t know, Highness. Master sent some of us to the palace to prepare for your return. And some of us he gave the day off—because of our hard work during the festival. I’m one of those, and I was just on my way to visit my mother.”

  “But there’s no one left!”

  Hanan said nothing. Disputes between the master and his wife were none of her business.

  “When did he order all this?”

  “Why, just this morning, Highness, just before he left.” Hanan looked faintly guilty. “I could stay, ma’am, if I’m needed.”

  “No. No, go and enjoy your day off.”

  “Thank you, Highness.” The girl headed for the gate before Amira could change her mind, but she turned long enough to call, “I’m sure some of those at the palace will be back soon.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. Thank you, Hanan.”

  In the kitchen, Amira searched for coffee. Surely, Philippe would be awake soon. She found fruit and bread, and there were eggs in the refrigerator—should she try to make an omelet? It pleased her to think of preparing breakfast for Philippe and sitting down to it with him, just the two of them. Yet, she was irritated with Ali. Why would he send away all the servants with a guest in the house? It made no sense.