Mirage

by Soheir Khashoggi

  She paced in her room. The palace was a prison. She couldn’t even walk in the garden, closed to women this morning, a ceremony of some kind. Malik. Philippe. Tabriz.

  She buzzed the chamberlain on the intercom. “Send a car for me.” “Yes, Highness.”

  Ten minutes later, Jabr was holding the door of a Silver Dawn. “Peace be with you.”

  “And with you, peace.”

  “Morning of goodness, Highness.” “Morning of light, Jabr.”

  It felt good to exchange the formal greetings. The world might be blowing away, but the old words were like small, tough roots that no wind could dislodge.

  “To where, Highness?”

  “My cousin’s,” said Amira, for the benefit of the listening doorman.

  Once behind the wheel, Jabr glanced in the mirror. “Which cousin, Highness?”

  “No cousin. Drive somewhere. The desert. I need to think.”

  His reflected eyes met hers, concerned. “The hills will be better for thinking, Highness. The desert begins to be hot.”

  “The hills, then.”

  The place was a shaded notch in a high ridge. A thousand feet below, the desert glared like an endless, motionless sea, but here the air was cool. In sheltered places, tiny flowers bloomed. How long had they waited, Amira wondered, for the rain to bring them from the dust? How long would they wait again?

  The silence was immense. She could hear the tiny pops and pings of the car’s engine cooling a hundred yards below and behind her. Jabr waited in the car. There, no matter who might see him, he was only a driver obeying orders. A few steps up the slope toward Amira and he might be accused as her lover.

  What would it be like to be loved by a man like Jabr—loved simply and completely, for the woman she was, nothing else? Amira tried to imagine it. She couldn’t. There had never been anyone like that for her. There might have been Philippe, there would always be Philippe, but that was different.

  Maybe someday there would be someone, after Tabriz …

  And there it was, the real question: What would happen after Tabriz? She had no idea—only vague impressions, hardly more than daydreams. Would Philippe hide her away in some chateau in the countryside of France? Would he ship her off to Tahiti, where Karim would grow up like a little native, running naked on the beach? Or maybe he had secretly bought a finca in—where did they have fincas? Argentina.

  But then there was Philippe’s idea that her disappearance must be total, that people would have to think she was dead. All the while that she was hiding, everyone she knew—everyone except Philippe and Karim—would think that something terrible had happened. She pictured Malik, her father, her aunts, even Bahia, all in mourning. How long before she could let someone know? Philippe had said a long time. How long? A year? Two?

  Suddenly, it all seemed like madness, an impossibility. Yet, she had to do it. If she stayed with Ali, she would be dead—not just in people’s minds, but really and truly. She could feel it as surely as she could feel the heat of the sun climbing above the ridge. Yes, she had to do it. Unless … unless Malik could think of something.

  If anyone could find a way out, a way that didn’t mean running and hiding, her brother could. The problem was that she couldn’t tell him the truth, not a word of it. He was too impetuous, as Philippe said. But what if she were to dis- guise the situation, weave a tale of some other royal wife who was in danger from a sadistic husband? She would have to be careful: if Malik even suspected that she was talking about Ali, it would be catastrophic.

  Perhaps it was the vast silence of the desert, perhaps it was the hope that her idea had given her, but she felt better, calmer. In any case, there was nothing to do about any of it until Malik arrived. Meanwhile, she had a favor to do. She returned to the waiting Rolls. “My cousin Farid’s,” she told Jabr.

  O

  The marriage of Omar Badir’s eldest son was a momentous event. Amira had never seen her father’s house so crowded, not even on the day Jihan died. Both the men’s and women’s sections buzzed with guests, and the air was rich with the smells of spiced coffee, roasting lamb, incense, and perfume. Omar had gone all out, once he made up his mind—inviting virtually every friend, associate, and casual acquaintance he had to celebrate Malik’s marriage.

  “In business,” Amira had heard him tell Farid, “when you are trapped in a bad deal, you must appear not only to welcome it, but to have planned it. It’s the same with this. God is all-knowing; it will all turn out for the best.”

  It had taken masterful persuasion to bring him to that point. Farid had carried it off brilliantly. The problem, he and Amira agreed, was not so much that Malik had married an infidel—although that was bad enough—but that he had done so without asking Omar’s permission and blessing. That was unforgivable. “There’s only one way that the unforgivable can ever be for- given,” said Farid, “and that’s if one admits right away that it was unforgivable. Such is human nature.”

  “Malik was wrong,” he told Omar, “completely and unremittingly wrong. You know it, I know it, and he knows it. He told me so himself when he called. No, no, Uncle, don’t say it: he should have called you, not me. But that’s the whole point—he’s too ashamed to speak with you.”

  Before it was over, Farid made it seem that Malik’s action, terribly misguided though it was, actually stemmed from his tremendous respect for his father. “He was so afraid of offending you, Uncle, that he committed a far worse offense. Do you remember the truck driver who swerved to avoid a donkey and crashed into Prince Mubarak’s Ferrari?”

  “Which are you likening me to, Nephew—a car or a donkey?” But Omar was smiling.

  “Forgive me, Uncle; I’m clumsy with words. So let me ask you straight out: Will you let me tell Malik that he has your permission to call and apologize?”

  Omar sighed. “Yes. Yes, of course, Nephew. But first, tell me what you know about this woman.”

  Farid was an artist, carefully choosing the colors, the areas to highlight and shadow, in his portrait of Genevieve. Amira, listening outside the door, found herself half convinced that a lapsed Catholic Parisian cabaret singer in her late twenties was actually a shy, virginal girl who might have become a nun had she not fallen in love with Malik and taken a deep interest in Islam. And so they were all here today, eagerly awaiting the groom and his bride, excusing the unconventionality of the occasion by agreeing that Malik lived in Europe now, and when in Rome …

  And as painstakingly as Farid and Amira had built it, just that quickly it all collapsed.

  As Amira learned later—when everyone was talking about it—it started with a remark by Ali’s cousin Abdul. “So now the Badirs have a celebrity in the family.”

  “What do you mean?” someone asked. Everyone said it was Omar’s old friend Fuad Muhassan who had overheard.

  “Why, the woman’s a movie actress,” said Abdul. “I thought everyone knew that.”

  “I would not call any man a liar,” said the older man sternly, “when I lack the facts myself. But I’ve known Omar Badir all my life, and he would never let his son marry a woman of that kind.”

  “As you say, you lack the facts,” Abdul replied flippantly. “Young man, you need to learn respect—”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Ali himself stepped in, ever the diplomat. “It’s all a misunderstanding, nothing more.” By now, others were listening. “My cousin is mistaken,” he continued. “The young lady was never in a movie.”

  Abdul looked betrayed. “Well, she had the chance to be in one. You told me so yourself.”

  “I told you that in confidence, Cousin,” said Ali reprovingly. “It’s true that she was offered a role because of her fame as a singer, but she turned it down.”

  Now half the room was listening, including Omar. “A singer! What’s this you’re saying, Ali?”

  “It’s nothing, my father-in-law, nothing at all,” said Ali apologetically. “You said a singer. What kind of singer?”

  Amira, noticing the br
eak in the rhythm of conversation, slipped in from the kitchen.

  “It’s nothing,” Ali repeated. “The kind of thing many young women do in Europe, while they’re waiting to find a husband.”

  “A singer!”

  “Please, Father-in-law, forget I mentioned it. It’s nothing.” “Where do you hear this?”

  Ali looked uncomfortable. “From friends in Paris. But it’s nothing, really. She sings only in the best places, none of these dirty little boites. My friends say she’s quite good, a regular songbird.” He smiled his famous smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard some of this from Malik. Personally, I congratulate you on your liberal outlook. I know from my own father that many men of your generation—”

  “Farid! Where is Farid? I want the truth about this!”

  “He went to the airport,” someone said, “to meet Malik and—They should be here any minute.”

  “Bah!” Omar was fuming. Everyone present understood his predicament: in front of all his friends, he would have to either reject his only son’s wife or allow a woman of loose morals—an infidel at that—into his home and his family.

  Amira knew her father well enough to have no doubt which way he would choose. Something had to be done.

  “Father,” she said, moving to his side, “you can see that there must be some mistake. It’s someone else, I’m sure of it.”

  “You contradict your own husband?” “No, I—”

  “This is none of your business, young woman. Go back to your place!” She retreated toward the kitchen, as did the other women who had filtered out to see what the trouble was. They never made it there, for just at that moment, Farid pushed open the front door and called for God’s blessings on Malik and his bride.

  Genevieve had tried, thought Amira, she had really tried. She wore an abeyya and veil and walked behind Malik like a good wife. But rather than being shapeless and concealing, the abeyya had too much of Paris about it, showing the curves of her body, and from beneath the edge of the veil a lock of dark blond hair had slipped, as brazen a provocation as a bare arm. If that were not enough, she had the terrible habit of European women, looking frankly and directly at the faces of the men in the room instead of demurely lowering her eyes. Given what had just been said, it was the worst thing she could do.

  Omar needed only an instant to make his decision. “What is this woman that you bring into my house?” he demanded.

  “Father, this is my wife,” answered Malik. Amira could tell that he already knew the situation was hopeless, though not why. Farid had gone ashen. Genevieve, who obviously did not understand Arabic, merely looked nonplussed. “Tell me the truth,” said Omar, his voice shaking. “Does your wife sing in front of men, in a place where men go to drink alcohol?”

  Malik glanced at Amira. What had gone wrong? She shook her head, unable to help.

  “Yes,” Malik told his father. “In France.”

  “Then let her be your wife in France. She is no one’s wife here—not in al-Remal, and not in this house.”

  Malik’s eyes swept the room—did they linger for a split second on Ali? “Someone has poisoned your thoughts, Father.” His voice was shaking, too. “Yes, and it is you. You have neglected a son’s duty, you have lied to me, you have dishonored me and all your family. Yet, you are my son, and so I give you a choice: Send that woman away and remain my son, or leave with her and never return.”

  There was not a drop of blood in either man’s face. Malik spoke with deadly quietness: “God is One, and my wife is my wife everywhere. If we are not welcome here, you need not order us to leave, or fear that we will ever return. Good-bye, Father.”

  With that, he turned and guided Genevieve out the door. Farid stared wildly around the room for a moment before following. Amira could not believe what was happening. “No!” she screamed, and although someone shouted behind her, she ran after her brother.

  They were already piling into the car. “Malik! I don’t know what happened!” “Me either, Little Sister. But do you see now? Do you remember what I’ve always told you?”

  She had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Don’t take a plane, not yet,” pleaded Farid. “Stay at my place. Let me talk with him.”

  “No,” said Malik. “Start the car.”

  Amira leaned in the window to keep them from pulling away.

  Genevieve, more blond hair tumbling around her face, pushed back her veil and, to Amira’s surprise, smiled.

  “You must be Amira,” she said in French. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you. But it seems”—she gestured toward the house—“I’ve come at a bad time.”

  “Oh, Genevieve, it’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. The story of my life. I make a terrific impression wherever I go.” She smiled again, more ruefully. The expression reminded Amira of Philippe. She liked this woman, she realized. Would she ever see her again?

  “Go back inside, Little Sister,” said Malik. “Don’t get caught up in my trouble. Drive, Cousin.”

  “Au ’voir, petite soeur,” said Genevieve. Then they were gone.

  Amira stared after the car until it disappeared. Guests were spilling out of the house as if fleeing a fire. She hardly saw them, hardly heard the women’s words of sympathy. Tabriz, she thought. Tabriz and Karim. They were all she had left.

  Escape

  Something was wrong in Iran. Amira felt it the minute she and Ali entered the Teheran airport. They were met by the Iranian minister of culture—a tall, rather urbane man—and a handful of other dignitaries, but the welcome seemed staged, the welcomers preoccupied.

  Perhaps it was because they were all but surrounded by a cohort of hard-looking men in trench coats and sunglasses—SAVAK, Amira knew, the shah’s secret police. One of the sunglassed men escorted her, Ali, and Karim to a line of large black American cars. A driver who made Jabr look like an oversized schoolboy held a door for them.

  The SAVAK man slid into the front seat, spoke in Farsi into a handheld radio, and gave the driver a curt order. The limo pulled out in convoy with the others.

  Teheran was as unprepossessing a large city as Amira had ever seen, an endless agglomeration of concrete structures softened by the backdrop of snow-capped mountains to the north. The air was a yellow haze, dimming the sparkle of the distant peaks.

  Amira’s eyes watered. “Is there a fire somewhere?” she asked.

  “Smog, Highness,” the driver replied in accented Arabic. “If you think this is bad, come back in the summer.” He translated for the SAVAK man, who gave a grunt of laughter.

  The city was as flat as a table until the northern suburbs began to rise gently toward the mountains. The line of cars turned in at a large, elaborate gate to grounds on which not just one but several large and not-so-large pal- aces were visible. The driver pointed out the shah’s nephew’s palace and the shah’s mother’s palace. There was no need for him to announce which was the ruler’s own palace: a huge statue of Reza Shah Pahlavi said it for him.

  With another flowery speech of welcome, the minister of culture turned them over to a factotum who led them to their rooms on the second floor.

  Though the palace was furnished with a richness that far surpassed anything she had seen in al-Remal, it was the artistry of the carpets—hand-woven in classic Persian designs of timeless beauty—that most impressed Amira.

  A maid reminded her of the hour of the formal reception that evening. Amira nodded. The reception was her excuse, if she should need one, for bringing along every carat of jewelry she owned. After the servant left, she took out the jewel case and poured the brilliant earrings and bracelets and necklaces on the bed. Karim played with them, making little piles and, from time to time, choosing a particular piece to call “pretty.”

  She was in Teheran. In forty-eight hours, she would be in Tabriz. Not long after that, Karim and the jewels might be all she had in the world.

  Or maybe nothing would happen in Tabriz. There had been on
ly the one letter from Philippe. Maybe it had all been only talk.

  Ah, well—it was in God’s hands. Wasn’t it?

  “Pretty,” said Karim, holding up the pigeon-blood ruby that had once belonged to Marie Antoinette.

  O

  “Caviar, Highness?” said the handsome man with graying temples. He was a minister of something-or-other that had to do with oil.

  “No, thank you,” said Amira. The great ceremonial hall on the palace’s ground floor was practically buried in caviar. She must have eaten a half pound already, and she didn’t even like the stuff.

  “It seems as if this is the only place in Iran where you can find good caviar these days,” said the man, “even though we’re famous for it. Almost all of it leaves the country. I bought a few tins in Toronto last week—a good price, too.” It was perhaps the fifth time that Amira had heard about the scarcity of Iranian caviar in the land of its origin—and at least the tenth that someone had alluded to a recent trip to Toronto or New York or London or Zurich. Wealthy Iranians seemed to be exceedingly diligent about maintaining contacts abroad. As always before an official trip, Amira had received a briefing on the host country. She knew that there was unrest in Iran, that much of it was being stirred up by fundamentalist mullahs. But these were not subjects she or Ali would dis- cuss with anyone they might meet. They, after all, were here on a cultural mission involving the restoration of a venerable mosque in Tabriz.

  Amira looked around the great hall. Were all these rich, powerful, smiling, laughing men and women—with the army, SAVAK, and even the Americans on their side—secretly terrified of a group of elderly clerics brandishing the Koran? Was that what the bank accounts in Switzerland and the luxury apartments in Manhattan were for, in case of the midnight alarm and the rush to catch the last plane out? Well, why not? She thought of the way the rulers of her own country—the royal family to which she herself belonged—walked on eggs around the fundamentalists.