Princess Sultana's Circle Read online

  Maha was arrayed in a lovely burgundy silk dress that draped loosely off her broad shoulders. A diamond and pearl necklace shaped in the form of simple teardrops covered the smooth flesh of her neckline. While selecting her jewelry, Maha had whispered that she thought it appropriate that even her jewels appeared to weep for her dear cousin.

  Amani was fitted out in a dark blue gown with a matching jacket. In keeping with her strict religious beliefs, she had chosen a garment most severe in style covered up to the neck.

  Since our faith regards the love of jewelry and ornaments as natural and becoming for a woman, if they are not used to attract men and arouse their sexual desires, Amani could hardly object to my wishes that she wear beautiful jewels that night. I had reminded my pious daughter of what she already knew—other than Hadi, his attendant, her Uncle Ali, and a man of religion, no men would be present at our gathering. Once she agreed that her faith did permit her to wear precious stones free of guilt, Amani selected a charming ruby and diamond necklace which had been cleverly fashioned to resemble a cluster of sparkling flowers.

  Admittedly, both my daughters were lovely, and on any other occasion, I would have been proud to display them.

  When Maha and Amani gathered with female cousins near their own age, I left them and wandered alone into the vast hall.

  The music was so loud and the singer so shrill that I could only liken the sound to shrieks of terror! Or was this just my imagination?

  I winced. A pillar of light shone overhead. Such an overabundance of lighting had created a blinding effect. At Ali’s behest, special decorators flown in from Egypt had covered the entire surface of the ceiling with brightly colored lights. Looking around the room, I was astonished at the gaudiness of the decorations. The room overflowed with lights, while garish vessels overflowed with gold-foiled wrapped candy. Velvet swags with no obvious purpose hung from the ceiling.

  Great cascades of floral arrangements were suspended from gold painted columns, set atop tables, and even attached to the walls. But the flowers were arranged haphazardly with no particular design or color theme. Red roses were bunched with yellow daises, while lilac orchids were linked with blue carnations. The garishly decorated platform where Hadi and Munira would view, and be viewed by the wedding guests was covered with blinking green and red lights!

  I was so absorbed in this expensive but tasteless display that I did not see Sara come forward from the swarming throng. A gentle arm went around my waist. “Sultana.” “Sara,” I smiled, “Thanks be to God you found me.”

  With a disapproving look, Sara nodded at the scene around us. “On this night I am embarrassed to be my brother’s sister.”

  “For more reasons than the décor, I too am ashamed,” I agreed.

  “I wish I had helped you hide Munira,” Sara admitted.

  “Truly?” I gasped.

  “Yes. Our two hearts are as one on this issue.”

  I embraced my sister and tried comfort her as she comforted me.

  “You were right not to encourage me, Sara. Ali would have sifted the very sands of the desert to find his daughter and hand her over to Hadi.”

  I sighed in sad resignation. “There can be no escape for the daughter of such a man.”

  Hand in hand, Sara and I began making our way through the room, greeting many aunts and cousins while we looked for our sisters.

  Before the time arrived for Munira to make her appearance, all ten daughters of our beloved Mother, Fadeela, had assembled in a circle.

  But there was no joy among us. Each sister was greatly saddened by the reason for our reunion. Following Mother’s death, Nura, the eldest daughter, had with our consent assumed the rank of leader of the sisters. She was the steadfast figure who often guided her younger sisters’ paths by pointing out the reality of our lives. Stoic and strong, it would seem that Nura, of all the sisters, had attained mastery over her emotions. But on this evening, even Nura was subdued with sorrow. She had accompanied us to Egypt when Hadi’s true character had become known by our family. Unlike many gathered there, she knew the corruption of the soul of the man who would soon possess Munira.

  “This is a sad, sad night,” Nura muttered with her eyes fixed on the wedding dais.

  Sara shuddered at the night she knew that lay ahead of Munira. She sighed, “If only the dear girl did not fear men so.”

  “Whether she fears men, or loves men, this will be a cruel night,” Tahani said wearily.

  I looked behind Tahani and saw that dear Reema, the fifth child of our mother, was discreetly manipulating the medical device that captured her body’s waste. The device was well-hidden under her dress, but the anxious Reema had formed the habit of compulsively checking and rechecking the appliance. After her husband Saleem’s brutal assault, Reema had needed a colostomy, and would never regain control over all her bodily functions.

  Angry at that memory of still another woman’s suffering at the hands of a man, I asked hotly, “How is it that we accept all this?”

  “Shhh,” my sisters joined in unison to stop me from drawing the attention of the women standing close to us.

  “It is my belief,” I said through clenched teeth, “that we should be throwing stones at the King’s palace, rather than attending this shameful event.”

  “Sultana,” Nura warned, “do not create a scene.”

  I even surprised myself with my impertinence, “It is you who should be causing a scene with me, beloved sister.”

  Nura did not reply, but she gave me a warning look.

  “Every woman in Saudi Arabia should gather as many stones as she can carry,” I repeated, “and throw them at our men.”

  Eight of my nine sisters, Nura, Reema, Tahani, Baher, Dunia, Nayam, Haifa and Soha, gasped as one. Only Sara remained silent.

  I watched them as they exchanged fretful expressions.

  Seeing the disappointment etched on my face, and knowing that I was longing for a single brave act from all of them, Sara stepped forward and took my hand.

  High-pitched trills suddenly erupted from behind closed doors. My sisters were saved from further trauma from me as the wedding procession began.

  Trembling with anger and sorrow, I watched six beautiful dancers advance dramatically through the open doors. The women were trained dancers from Egypt, and were fitted out in elaborate costumes that displayed their voluptuous bodies. When the dancers passed our way, I was startled by their inviting winks.

  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 surel
y 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 piece
s 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.