The Rebel

Amina-5

“What?” she looks at me, shocked.

“If you ask me, it’s not by accident that he invited your brother to the next race,” I add with stress.

As we walk towards the tills to pay, she turns towards me.

“You’re talking nonsense, plus, you’re completely forgetting about Farid,” she says furrowing her brow.

Unfortunately, this is true. I’ve totally forgotten about Selina’s future groom, but I think she did too while analysing the young Ahmad sheikh’s attractive smile. I fully understand, after all, she hardly knows Farid. They have spoken to each other no more than twice, and thinking about Selina’s account, Farid wasn’t too keen when they met.

I pay for the randomly chosen clothes and locking our arms together we start for the cafe. To my amazement, now Selina speaks up, a little dejectedly. Looks like she is still concerned about the topic.

“If Ahmad al-Hosani was miraculously interested in me, it still wouldn’t matter. I’m engaged to Farid, and you know my father. He would never break his promise. For him, it’s a matter of honour.”

I know her father, I know how deeply religious he is, a conservative man, respected by the public. It really is a difficult issue…

“Hmm. I don’t know,” I look at her pensively. “Do you think he wouldn’t change his point of view if the Emir’s first cousin asked for your hand?”

She freezes for a second, closes her eyes, then shakes her head a little. She doesn’t respond loudly, but I suspect that feelings are storming inside her just as much as in me. She folds her arm tighter on mine, and with more strength, pulls me towards the café, where Rashid is now in conversation with Omar.

＊

Rashid sits next to Omar at the front, while Selina and I are on the back seat, leaning close to one another, whispering.

“You know that you were giving me the creeps when you stopped to eavesdrop on them.”

“Was it so obvious?” I ask with my eyebrows raised.

“It was, to Rashid and I. You were lucky that the sheikh couldn’t see you. But when he finally turned around, I thought I was going to collapse,” she says, fanning herself. Looking back, I actually was a bit reckless, but in the heat of the moment I didn’t think, only acted. “You were really low afterwards. What did you hear? Come on,” she sticks her elbow into my side. “Tell me.”

“I didn’t hear them quite clearly, but I think they were talking about the marriage contract,” I force the words out of myself. “They will sign it next week,” I add with a dying voice.

“Oh… it’s… I’m sorry,” she replies, and her voice is full of pity. And I can do with that.

“It seems like they have arranged everything. There is only a bit of fun that awaits him before the wedding,” I blurt out bitterly, making Selina turn to face me at once.

“Fun? What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s not going to be our fun, for sure,” I pull my face, and my eyes briefly meet with Rashid’s in the mirror. I quiet my voice even more, although I am certain that the buzz of the engine and the sound of the radio provide our conversation with privacy. “The sheikh is going to Cairo for recreation,” I whisper, with my hands, drawing quotation marks in the air.

Selina is quiet for a while; she is apparently brooding over the information. Slowly, she turns towards me, and asks with eyes open wide: “You mean—"

I mean it exactly like that, and she knows it.

“He is having fun with prostitutes, Selina, I will pledge my life. And after he’s had enough fun, he comes back to the Emirates to marry me.”

Omar turns off the highway and slows down as we approach Rashid’s villa. Selina leans back on her seat, and dimly stares in front of herself. A heavy silence sets between us, there is not much to stay after this.

＊

I’m so excited that my hands and feet are shaking as I walk up the stairs to my room, holding onto the ornamented iron gate. I needed all my strength to gather myself during the dinner with family and be able to get some food down my throat. Then, as fast as I could, using a stomach-ache as an excuse, I left the dining room so I could wait for Hamid in my room. Since he called me this afternoon to say he has some news, I can hardly help myself. He has news – but are they good or bad? I’m all nerves.

My brother’s call today has immediately yanked me out of the apathy that set inside me after our little outing two days ago. We still haven’t heard anything since, there was no consequence, we weren’t caught, and Rashid is also keeping his mouth shut. I cried all night after we met, and the next morning I came to the conclusion that despite my previous resolve, I still need to talk to my father. I know his approach to the issue, how adamant he is, yet, I felt that I had to talk to his heart one more time. After all, he is the one who could give my dreams, my life back.

After breakfast I pulled him aside, telling him that I wanted to talk to him, but he was tense, and before I could get into the topic, he waved me off. He informed me that if the topic was my approaching wedding with the sheikh, then the only thing he is willing to discuss about it is where I want to go on my honeymoon. Because he and Nasirah would like to pay for our journey. I was close to saying to his face that Cairo might be the most advantageous, that way Saud sheikh could visit his sluts while on our honeymoon, but I didn’t. I still had enough common sense to know that wouldn’t help me. If I’m not careful, they will shut me in my suite, and I won’t even see the sky until my wedding day. Once again, I am certain it is pointless for me to argue with him, I will never convince him to change his mind.

My father and I have grown far and far apart, and besides the forced marriage, this fills me with even more pain. There were times when I felt we shared a special bond, something more that I couldn’t give a name to at the time. Now I know it could have been because of my birth mother that he has always held me in a different regard from my other siblings. The sad thing is, even now I feel he is trying to fix the situation between us. In everything that is not related to my marriage with the sheikh, he is especially permissive, and more generous than usual. He tries to please me, sometimes even jokes with me, but his gestures don’t affect me. After he shook me off yesterday morning, I gave up for good to convince him to take back his word to the sheikh. I didn’t whine about it, I didn’t shout at him, only went into my room to be by myself. Then Hamid called to say he wanted to have a word with me, and I’m still on tenterhooks. He said he was coming for eight, so he can be here anytime.

I am taken aback and turn my head to the door when I hear the knocking and the doorhandle is pressed down. From the window I have seen Hamid’s car pull so I know he has arrived. At first, he must have gone to see my mother, then my father, but I know that the real reason of his visit is me. He enters, carefully closes the door behind him and turns towards me. he is wearing European clothes. Jeans, white shirt, simple and great. The air is stifling in the room as we stare at one another silently for a while. Something has happened, I sense it, but since he hasn’t said anything, I’m desperately trying to read his thoughts from the look on his face. He looks tense and worried. He is not smiling like he normally would, but why? Has he not found anything, or has he, but something really not pleasing to him? I can’t take it anymore, so I run up to him, and grab his arm.

“Don’t do this to me. Stop torturing me, Hamid! Any success? Have you found anything? Tell me!”

He heaves deep sighs and takes a few steps towards the window, then stops, turns around and speaks up with a colourless voice.

“I have looked through the safe in the office as you have asked. And…” he gulps, “you were right. Dad does keep the official papers there.” I think my heart is about to jump out of my throat. Wringing my hands, I wait for him to go on. He takes a step towards me, takes a folded sheet out of his back pocket, and hands it to me with a dark gaze. “This is what I’ve found,” he says while never averting his eyes from my face.

I take the paper from him, but my fingers are shaking so much that I can hardly unfold it. I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous in my whole life. Holding my breath, I skim through the page. It’s an A4 sized, average white sheet, and something has been xeroxed onto it. I look at Hamid inquisitively.

“Stop looking at me like this,” he says with a frown. “I couldn’t bring the original, so I xeroxed it, and put it back into the safe at once. But you see the same on this sheet as what your birth certificate says.

Heavens! The thing I’m holding in my hands, is a photocopy of my birth certificate. I walk over to my desk and collapse onto the chair. I take a few deep breaths and slowly start to read through the sheet.

“Child’s place of birth: Mombasa, Republic of Kenya, St Luke's Mission Hospital

Date of birth: ... 28 November.

Name of child: Amina bint Tariq bin Khalid al-Hosani - Stanley”

An involuntary scream breaks from my mouth when I see this foreign, English surname after my well-known, Arabic one. I cover my mouth with a hand and continue reading.

“Father’s name: Tariq bin Khalid bin Faisal al-Hosani

Place of birth: Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates”

I know what comes now, and my eyes are carefully progressing downwards on the sheet, millimetre by millimetre. I’m about to faint.

“Mother’s name: Lady Jacqueline Isabel Henrietta Stanley”

My chin drops, I even forget to breathe. My eyes scan the line again and again, but I always read the same. Lady Jacqueline Isabel Henrietta Stanley. Lady? Whatever could that mean? What kind of lady? My father has said a few random words about my mother’s snobbish, aristocratic family with whom he was not keeping in touch, but a lady? My vision goes blurred with tears, but I read on.

“Place of birth: Derbyshire, United Kingdom”

Good, this can’t be true! My mother is a lady who comes from Derbyshire in England, what’s more, in order for her to be lady Jacqueline, her father has to be a count. Sir Stanley, count of Derbyshire. My grandfather.

My hands drop into my lap, I slowly lift my eyes to Hamid. From the way he looks at me, I’m sure he knows what’s on the paper. My throat is bone dry; I can hardly squeeze the words out.

“Is this… true? What it says here…” I lift the paper.

“We have no reason to doubt the authenticity of the document,” he answers haltingly. “I had the original in my hands. A perfectly legal birth certificate. Why would our father keep a forged copy in the safe?”