Princess Sultana's Circle (6 page)

I looked at Sara with a
questioning eye, and she shrugged. I had heard that one of our
female cousins had taken an Egyptian dancer as a lesbian lover, and
wondered if the financial gain that dancer had enjoyed had put
ideas into the heads of her associates.

Chanting female drummers,
dressed in colorful embroidered dresses, followed the dancers. I
recognized these women as Saudis from a tribe loyal to our
family.

Twelve tiny girls between
the ages of three and six followed the drummers. They were the
flower girls who were beautifully dressed in pink satin dresses
with matching hair bows and shoes. They scattered petals plucked
from purple orchids. From the fragrance that drifted toward me, I
knew these petals to be especially scented with a sweet-smelling
incense. These children were members of our royal family, and their
endearing childish mannerisms brought many smiles from the watching
crowd.

Once the dancers had
circled the throne-like platform, they proceeded to dance
themselves into a musical frenzy. This was the signal that the
bride was making her way through the hall. As a short woman, I
needed to stand on my toes to improve my view.

Munira walked slowly down
the lengthy hall. She was dressed in a soft peach lace wedding
dress. Her gloomy face was lightly covered by a sheer peach veil.
Rhinestones sewn into the fabric of the veil reflected back off the
room’s lighting, achieving a dramatic twinkling effect that her
eyes could not project. The heavy train of her dress was carried by
young teenage cousins, who ranged in age from thirteen to nineteen.
These girls were adorned in hideous orange satin costumes surely
not of their choosing.

Overwhelmed by the swirl of
misarranged colors of flowers and costumes, I thought this to be
the most unappealing wedding I had ever attended. Everything about
this occasion was as mismatched as Hadi and Munira, themselves, the
bride and groom.

Sara and I exchanged
incredulous looks. I knew that her thoughts were as
mine.

When Munira walked past, I
caught a glimpse of her pale face. Her eyes showed no expression,
she looked straight ahead, an empty moment in time that seemed to
last forever.

I felt wretched!

Once Munira was seated on
the dais, the moment I so dreaded had finally arrived. The time had
come for the arrival of the groom.

The loud voices in the room
soon diminished to loud whispers.

Hadi, escorted by one of
his brothers, walked toward the hapless Munira. Ali and a bearded
Mutawwa followed closely.

Munira was staring evenly
at Hadi. A terrible pain flashed across her face, but the moment
was fleeting. Knowing that she had been ensnared like an animal,
and that there was no hope of release, Munira appeared courageously
determined to maintain her dignity.

Hadi was not returning his
bride’s gaze, as would most grooms who are in view of the one they
are to wed. Instead, he was looking hungrily at the uncovered faces
of the female guests! Obviously the years had not changed him. He
appeared to relish the rare opportunity to steal a long licentious
look at unveiled women in an officially sanctioned setting. Had
adulthood only reinforced the man’s depraved nature?

Shocked at his salacious
stares, the women responded in a low murmur of scandalized
voices.

Sara clutched my arm so
tightly that her fingers grew white. I knew she was afraid that I
would pull from her grip, rush toward Hadi, and hit him with all
the force I could gather.

It was hard to believe that
things could get worse, but I had already made a quick decision
that should Hadi give me a flirtatious look, I would spit in his
face, then inform this crowd of royal ladies of all that I knew of
this man.

The assemblage was saved
from that exciting scene, for just as Hadi arrived at the place
where we were standing, he tore his eyes away from the crowd and
looked toward his neglected bride. A delighted smile crossed his
face. He was indeed a fortunate man.

Nothing surprised me more
than to observe that Hadi had barely aged from the time of our trip
to Egypt so many years before! Surely, one so evil should have
degenerated into an ugly, wizened man! I had anticipated a
corrupted appearance, but that was not the case. While Hadi had
grown more stout, his face was still youthful. Who would guess that
beneath Hadi’s smooth skin lay the heart of a brute?

A bitter thought passed
through my mind. Our young girls are forced to sacrifice their
youth so that men such as Hadi can feed on their beauty! It is by
devouring young girls that such men remain robust! I was forced to
hold back my tears.

Hadi joined Munira on the
wedding platform, much pleased with himself.

I watched Ali as he made
his way to the bridal pair’s side, but then turned away. I mentally
disassociated myself from him, my blood brother.

The official wedding
ceremony had been conducted earlier in the week with the immediate
families in attendance, although the bride and groom had not
appeared in the other’s presence. This occasion was for the purpose
of celebration only.

Nura tried to force Sara
and me to join our sisters in offering our good wishes to the bride
and groom, but that we refused to do. How could we mimic gladness
when one of the most immoral men we had ever known now claimed sole
ownership of a sweet and innocent young woman of our own flesh and
blood?

I smiled bitterly when I
heard female cousins admire Munira’s handsome and wealthy new
husband. A silent prayer lingered unspoken on my tongue. Oh God,
have mercy on Saudi women. And, quickly!

Chapter Three

My Secret

On the day following
Munira’s “sanctified bondage,” Kareem had to depart Saudi Arabia
for a three-week business trip to Japan. Abdullah accompanied his
father. The unhappy time had come for Abdullah to return to his
university schooling in the United States, and the plan was for him
to fly on to California after staying with Kareem for a few days in
Japan. Tears came to my eyes each time I remembered that I would
not see the handsome face of my beloved son for three long
months.

Other than the servants, my
daughters and I were alone in our palace in Riyadh. But these
daughters were little comfort to their mother since they, too, were
preparing for the coming school year. They preferred to spend the
remaining time with their friends.

I have always been restless
and easily bored, and I have to confess I am unceasingly
inquisitive as to my children’s activities. So I passed the empty
hours by pacing up and down lonely hallways on the second floor of
our home, pausing frequently at the doorways of my daughters’
rooms. When they were younger, my daughters had shared the same
wing. But now, because of Amani’s determined penchant to destroy
Maha’s glossy fashion magazines and musical tapes, Kareem and I had
moved Amani to a wing on the South side of the palace, while Maha
remained on the North wing. Therefore, the steps I made were
many.

My findings rarely varied.
The sound of persistent chanting and praying usually drifted from
within Amani’s suite; while loud laughter and even louder American
rock and roll music blared from behind Maha’s door.

Bored with spying on my
all-too-predictable daughters, I withdrew to my private quarters.
With Munira’s tragic plight exercising complete dominance over my
mind, I was not in the mood to attend the usual women’s afternoon
parties at the homes of friends or relatives.

Hadi had taken his young
bride to Morocco for a month-long honeymoon. Although I could
barely bring myself to think of Munira’s present agony, I did want
confirmation that the poor child was all right. So, I telephoned
Tammam to inquire if there were any news of the couple. I was
incredulous when Tammam confessed that she had been too timid to
ask Hadi for the telephone number of the hotel where the couple
would be staying. I slammed down the telephone rather than risk a
possible outburst at Tammam’s maddeningly insipid
behavior.

There was nothing to do but
to wait. To my dismay, I began to crave an alcoholic drink,
although I fought my sinful desire.

A few hours later, a
distraught Tammam called to report that Munira had surreptitiously
telephoned while Hadi was out of their hotel room, to tell her
mother that she detested and feared her new husband even more than
she had ever believed possible.

Upon hanging up the
telephone, sick with despair, I lay across the bed. A numbness
spread over my body. How powerless I felt! There was nothing that
I, or anyone else, could do to help Munira. She was legally wed to
Hadi, now.

Years before I had learned
that no authority in our country would interfere with a private
matter between a man and a woman. A thousand years would come and
go, and the bodies of Saudi women would still be owned by Saudi
men! How I hated our helplessness!

Tears flowed down my face.
My heart was fluttering dangerously. I quickly determined to turn
my mind to other matters. Yes, I would occupy myself with a task. I
had been negligent in keeping an account of our family’s stores of
alcohol. I would make a surprise inspection. Not that I had any
intention of having a drink, I promised myself, as I pulled a
dressing gown over my head—I simply wanted to ensure that no one
was pilfering these costly and scarce supplies. Since alcoholic
beverages are banned in Saudi Arabia, it is dauntingly expensive to
acquire a large supply on the black market. One bottle of liquor
costs from anywhere from 200 Saudi Riyals to 350 Saudi Riyals
($55-$95).

I walked through our palace
blind to the magnificence of our recently redecorated rooms that
were rich in paintings, tapestries, and antique European furniture.
The year before, Kareem and I had employed a Milanese decorator,
who had enthusiastically hired laborers to tear down walls, replace
ceilings and windows, and build domed and vaulted rooms with lofty
columns and concealed chambers. He had coordinated colors and
textures, Persian carpets, silk drapes, and marble floors and had
added some pieces of Italian and French antique furniture. The
combination of the arabesques and arches of Middle Eastern
tradition with modern Italian flamboyance had resulted in a
romantic informality that drew great envy and attention from my
royal cousins.

I walked past the large
sitting area into the cigar and wine athenaeum only to discover one
of the Filipino servants at work dusting the redwood liquor
cabinets. I abruptly told her to find another chore. When I was
certain that she had left the room, I began to count the bottles. I
was overjoyed to discover that Kareem had replenished our cache
magnificently. There were over two hundred bottles of spirits as
well as sixty bottles of assorted liqueurs.

With a light heart, I
proceeded into the walk-in wine room, a spacious oak structure
specially built to maintain proper temperature and humidity for our
wine collection. At two hundred bottles, I stopped
counting.

We were well-stocked,
indeed, I thought. My mind then drifted into a dangerous arena.
Surely Kareem would not notice the absence of a few bottles here
and there. As I considered the plentiful supplies on hand, I was
overcome with familiar cravings. My vow of abstinence was easily
dismissed. I tucked two bottles of Scotch whiskey under my loose
gown, and pledging that I would allow myself only a single drink, I
ascended the winding marble staircase to our private
quarters.

Once inside, I locked the
door and lovingly caressed the bottles I had seized. Then I began
to drink, in the earnest hope that I might obliterate the image in
my mind of Munira’s on-going torment.

Twenty-four hours later I
was jolted awake by the nearby sounds of hysterical voices. I
opened my eyes when someone began to slap my face. I heard my name
called out: “Sultana!”

Sara’s worried face hovered
close to mine. “Sultana! Can you hear me?”

I felt a pang of anxiety.
Judging from my physical discomfort, I feared that I had been in an
accident and was now awakening from a coma.

I heard Maha sobbing,
“Mother! Wake up!”

Sara comforted my daughter,
“Praise God, Maha! She is still with the living.”

Trying to shake off my
confusion, I blinked my eyes. I wanted to speak, but I was unable
to form words. I could hear the mingled languages of Filipino, Thai
and Arabic being shouted by excited female voices. I wondered
groggily why my bedroom was filled with so many chattering
women!

In a weak voice, I asked my
sister, “What has happened?”

With furrows of pain lining
her forehead, Sara seemed to search for words. “Sultana,” she
finally asked, “how do you feel?”

“
Not good,” I said, before
repeating once again, “what happened?”

The loud voice of Amani,
rising in volume with every word, rang out over the rest. “You have
committed a grave sin, Mother!”

Choking back sobs, Maha
shouted, “Shut up! I mean it!”

Amani’s words echoed
through the room. “I have the evidence, here!”

I turned my head and saw
that Amani was enthusiastically swinging an empty whiskey bottle in
each hand. “Mother has been drinking!” She shouted. “Surely, the
Holy Prophet will curse her for this sin!”