The Rebel

Amina-2

“And we want to eat in the inner garden, and as soon as possible.”

“Yes, princess,” the man says with a bow, sounding a little taken aback, and he is already on his way to the kitchen.

I have no idea how much he could memorize of what all we put together, but for a while we have definitely made the kitchen staff busy. As soon as we are left alone, I give Selina a big smile, whose previous self-confidence is now gone without a trace. She takes deep breaths pressing her hand on her heart.

“You were amazing. This idea with all the food is great! Now they’ll be busy for a while, we can be sure about that.”

I am about to run on, but she grabs my wrist and yanks me back. Her face is pale, her pupils are diluted.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“No, you are not,” I roll my eyes, and grab both of her shoulders. “We don’t have much time. The longer we hesitate, the more likely we will fail,” I say, and it seems to be working on her, because she gulps, and starts walking beside me with determination.

“This will be a good place. Don’t move from the corner, from here you have a good view of both directions. Keep your mobile ready for emergencies.”

“Emergencies?” she repeats, and begins to fan herself with her hands like beauty queens do on TV.

“Cut it out. There is not a soul around here.”

“And how long are you going to be in there?”

“No idea. Maybe a few minutes. I’ll be quick.”

“Be very careful!” she says. I nod, take a deep breath and start for the entrance of my father’s suite, at the end of the hall.

I am barefooted, so I can get to the door without making any noise. With my senses completely alert, the marble floor under my soles feels like cool silk. As I pause in front of the door, my heart suddenly misses a beat, because I remember there is something I didn’t take into consideration. What if the door is locked? I have never been here when he was out, so this possibility has never come to my mind. It doesn’t sound logical, after all, if he closed his door, the maids couldn’t do the cleaning, change the bedsheets, only when he is around, and this would probably not be to his liking.

I put my hand on the door handle and press it down while praying hard. As the door opens, a huge rock rolls of my heart. This is where my father likes to drink his karak tea, but now everything is tidy, I don’t see any leftover food or empty glasses, which means the maids were here in the morning.

I look around, my eyes drink in the familiar sight, although the Bedouin imitation-tent hanging from the ceiling now looks a bit different. As I glance under every piece of furniture and move every picture on the wall, I am wondering if dad and that English woman were genuinely in love. My father admitted that he had loved my mother in his own way. What that means in particular, I’m not really sure, but I suspect that it refers to a selfish, possessive, non-compromising kind of love. Since my father has admittedly been in love before, I find it hard to understand how he can have such a heart of stone, when it comes to marrying me off. His marriage with Nasirah must have been one arranged by the parents, but what he experienced with my mother, must have been free love, genuinely felt. He must know the difference between the two. It might sound naïve, yet I hope I also will one day experience that overwhelming, passionate love, it’s just not clear how if Saud sheikh marries me in a few weeks.

As I ponder about this, I’m already in dad’s bedroom, and when I look around, I suddenly feel very embarrassed. It’s not nice to enter someone’s private sphere this way, and normally I wouldn’t do it, but the situation is exceptional. Despite this morning’s cleaning, I can smell dad’s tobacco scent, as if he was present. I walk into his built-in wardrobe and run my hands along his clothes. On one side, the eastern-type thobes are hanging, on the other I see his western suits. Two opposite worlds which attract and repel each other. We long for the unknown, but are also afraid of it. We despise it, because its customs are different from ours, at the same time it attracts us to have a taste of it.

After my thorough survey I have to note that my dad keeping a safe in his suite is out of the question. I’ve looked everywhere, lifted everything that’s mobile, but the safe, if there is one, must be in his office, where I almost never go. I look around once more, to make sure I’m leaving no trace behind myself.

With mixed emotions, I leave the suite and start towards Selina, who, clutching her mobile, is tapping her feet like some insane pigeon laying an egg. She begins to question me with excitement, and as we progress to the inner garden, a new plan is being born in my head.

＊

No matter how much my palms were itching, I waited with the call until the evening, when I could be sure that Hamid wasn’t at the university. I call his number with excitement and count the rings, one, two, three… after an unusually long time he talks into it, out of breath in a strange, hoarse voice.

“Amina? Is that you?”

“Hi Hamid. I thought you would never pick up.” As a response, he clears his throat and I hear some strange noises. “Are you with dad? Am I disturbing?”

“No, ehm… I’m not with him,” he answers unwillingly, but I’m still not getting the picture.

“I didn’t want to call you at the university, that’s why I waited this long,” I continue, while I hear whispers in the phone. Female whispers.

I cover my mouth with my free hand as it begins to dawn on me in what I have interrupted. At the thought I blush immediately.

Hamid doesn’t have an assigned bride yet, although if he had one it still wouldn’t keep him from having fun *while he is still single. I have no idea whom he is with, but I can hardly imagine it’s a local girl. Maybe someone whom he pays for her services? That’s also hard for me to picture, because my brother is so handsome, smart and loveable, that I’d hardly imagine he has to pay just to be with someone. I’m also well aware of the fact that here in Ras al-Khaimah you can’t just date as my brother did back in London. He can’t be seeing with a girl in the street without getting the girl in trouble.

“Oh… I didn’t know…” I stutter. He interrupts me impatiently.

“It’s all right, Amina. Why are you calling? Has anything happen?” he asks, obviously trying to help me overcome my embarrassment.

It takes a few seconds until I can compose my thoughts and finally, I remember why I have called.

“I need to talk to you. Urgently.”

“We’re talking now,” he says awkwardly, making me roll my eyes.

“In person. I can’t say this over the phone.”

His voice is much livelier now.

“Is there a problem?”

A problem? Other than facing a forced marriage plus, as it turns out, my mother is not my real mother but an English woman gave birth to me, whose name I don’t even know? Oh, no. There is no problem at all – I say to myself ironically, but control myself, and keep my bitter thoughts to me.

“I simply want you to come over as soon as you can. Will you?” I flatter him, and the answer is a deep sigh.

“I’m leaving right away,” he says, and disconnects the line.

I adore my brother.

＊

“You’re out of your mind,” Hamid shakes his head, and walks up and down in front of me with such anger that the sight almost makes me dizzy.

Only half an hour after our conversation, freshly showered, scented, with his hair wet, he knocked on my door. I immediately began to discuss why I had called him there, and he actually reacted better to my questions than I had expected. Although he is upset, he’s still here, and hasn’t left slamming the door on me.

“So there is a safe in dad’s office.”

“Of course there is, I’ve already told you.”

“And what does he keep in it?”

With a frown, he stares at me, and I think he already knows what I’m hinting at.

“The kind of things people keep in a safe,” he shrugs. “Money, documents, important papers.”

“Important papers, like… contracts, passports, birth certificates,” I add cautiously.

Hamid pauses, he has obviously been stuck on the birth certificates too.

“Stop playing with me, Mina. Just say what you want.”

Now it’s my turn to frown, then I decide to stop beating about the bush, I will need his help anyway, I may as well get into it.

“Dad won’t tell me my mother’s real name, no matter how much I beg him. All I know is I was born in Kenya and she was a British citizen. There must be a birth certificate somewhere that contains my mother’s information.” Hamid presses his lips together and digs his fingers into his hair. I can see he doesn’t like this. “I must know who my mother was, and I have a feeling the papers are in that safe. I would never be able to get to them, but you work with dad, you have access to the safe.”

He looks at me as if I had asked him to defile a dozen of virgins, and this makes my stomach churn.

“Are you asking me to steal from father’s safe?”

He purposely stresses the word steal. I know how loyal my brothers are to my father, and that I’m practically encouraging him to deceive him, but the issue is not all that simple. I don’t want to take anything that is my father’s possession, I only need to get some information. And I do it in such a roundabout way because there is no straight path, but I’m trying to make it a bit simpler for Hamid.

“I am asking you to help me find out who my mother is. Don’t you think everyone has the right to know where they come from? If dad wasn’t so stubborn, I wouldn’t even need to ask you, but you know him.”

He shakes his head grumpily, and gives me an almost resentful look.

“Why is this thing so important to you?”

“How can you ask that? It’s really normal that one wants to know who their parents are, it’s a matter of instinct. If you were in my place, you would want to know who your mother was.”

He shakes his head and exhales with contempt.

“I wouldn’t want to meddle with the past. I’d be happy enough with the now,” he says, and I immediately get he is trying to tell me I should do the same.

“Nonsense, Hamid! For sure, you would do anything to find out the truth.”

He goes to the window and with both his hands running through his hair, he looks outside. He curses in English, which is a sure sign that he is really freaked out. Sometimes we talk in English, not in front of our parents, of course, only when we are alone. I have never heard my brother curse in Arabic. It’s like the mother tongue or the language of religion is too clean to be used for something like that.

“And if you find out her name, then what? What do you want to do then? Get in touch with her?” he sends me a dour look, then quickly looks away. It’s as if I can see some hurt, some pain in his eyes. “That woman,” he continues gloomily, “didn’t want you. She gave you up after your birth. If she was able to do something like that, I don’t know what you want from her.”