The Rebel

Amina-1

Amina

The palace is as silent as a crypt, and this sends shivers down my spine. My mother has locked herself into her suite, and hasn’t shown her face since yesterday, even her food gets delivered. Rafa is also in her own room, but I haven’t sought her company. My father, exactly as I suspected, has not come home since our fight, and I have no idea how long he will stay away. Only my brother, Hamid has sent word that he was coming over this afternoon, and I can’t wait to see him. I have the feeling that he knows about the wedding plans it’s very likely father took his adult sons with him to the meeting to negotiate the marriage with the sheikh.

I really don’t know what to do with myself, even reading, my absolute refuge doesn’t help.

A single glance into the mirror convinces me that I need to wash my face and put on some makeup. I don’t want Hamid to see me knackered, I send word that I need a scented bath prepared. Safyja, my maid can work miracles with my hair. After I’ve bathed, she mixed a balm from egg yolk, honey, yoghurt and almond oil, and rubbed my hair with it. Finally, she rinsed it with freshly squeezed lemon juice, to make it shiny and glittery. I have come to the conclusion this girl has magic fingers, usually while she massages my scalp and brushes my hair, I almost fall asleep with the pleasure. At last, she braids pearls into my thick ponytail that matched my light blue abaya, and dropped it on my right shoulder. She has put a bit of blush, minimal eyeshadow and mascara on my face, and there the masterpiece is finished. Hamid will probably compliment on it, but he sees me as beautiful even when I’m not in top form, I’m sure about that. He looks at me with his heart, and that’s exactly what I love about him.

As soon as I’m told Hamid has arrived, I rush out of my room, down the stairs. I can already see him from afar, and call his name, which makes him halt for a second. He is dressed in a very relaxed, western way. He is wearing blue jeans and a white shirt, no shemagh on his head. This reminds me of the students of Epsom when we both went to school in London. As soon as he sees the excitement with which I am approaching him, he spreads his arms, and I throw myself in there as if I was still six years old. I don’t think I have ever needed the support of a man more than now. I have to feel that in this patriarchal community not every male is my enemy, I have some friends among them. Hamid probably knows why I feel so upset, because he is stroking my back in a fatherly way, and kisses into my hair. After a while he pushes me away, and begins to study my face with concern. Then he calms a little. He takes one a of my hands and spins me around as if we were dancing, then makes a smile.

“You’re beautiful, Mina. Don’t cry.”

I wipe my tears off and give him a little smile.

“You know about it, don’t you?”

He takes a deep breath and holds it in for a good while before exhaling it. He wears a restless expression, and that tells me that he is aware of the developments, what’s more, he does not approve of them.

“I do. Dad told me.” He sighs finally, and begins to pull me by the hand towards the steps. “Come on, let’s go to my room.”

We start up the stairs, and I keep glancing to the side in case his face will give away something, but he just stares ahead with a serious face. Not a good sign. Hamid likes to joke around with me, he has a very pleasant nature, so everybody likes him. He doesn’t hold his head up high like Kareem, and he has never been rude with me or Rafa. I often wonder how it’s possible that my two brothers are blood relatives. True, their features are similar, but that’s about where the parallels end between them. Hamid is not only handsome with his black, wavy hair and his almond-shaped dark brown eyes, but he is the best person I know. His voice is low and soothing. When I was little, if I couldn’t go to sleep in the evening, I sneak over to his room, and begged him to read me a story. The story wasn’t even the point, but the fact that I could hear his voice and feel relaxed. I am convinced that Hamid will one day make a woman very happy. He is soon 23, but says that he doesn’t want to get married yet. He goes to university, studies, helps our father and enjoys his independence.

“How long have you known?” I ask as we walk through the door.

“Not very long. Maybe two days. I didn’t know dad was negotiating with the sheikh or anybody at all about your future.”

I shiver at her wording. “Negotiating about my future.” As if this was just one item of his business agenda. But I don’t mention it, because I know that it’s not Hamid’s fault, and I’m also sure he didn’t mean to hurt me. I crouch onto a large cushion, and he goes to his desk to start his laptop.

“Do you know the sheikh?”

“That would be an exaggeration,” he shrugs. “We’ve met a few times at family functions and at the races. He regularly bets, and also runs animals.” Suddenly, he picks up his head and looks at me. “Did you know that he is our father’s cousin?”

I roll my eyes and lift my face to the ceiling.

“I’ve heard about it, and also that he is 43 and his wife has recently deceased.”

Hamid swallows and nods. He fixes his beautiful dark brown eyes on me with concern. He asks me quietly, chewing on the edge of his mouth:

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“How could I like him? I don’t know him. He is a complete stranger, plus, twice as old as me.”

I know I always say his age as a minus when I talk about Saud sheikh, but as a matter of fact, it’s not the number of his years that bothers me the most. I do believe the age gap cannot be an insurmountable obstacle between two people if otherwise everything works. If they love one another, if they are spiritually bound, if they can’t imagine their life without each other, then why not? But I stress that this everything else must be working. In my case, though, there is nothing like that going on. There is only an aging man who wants to appropriate a twenty-year-old girl, whom he has only seen in photos, and who – obviously – turns him on sexually.

“How did his wife die?” I ask carefully.

Hamid shrugs his shoulders with irritation.

“I’m not sure. Some female issue. You have to ask mum about that.”

His voice is tense, it’s quite obvious he doesn’t want to discuss the matter any longer, so I don’t pressure him. I walk up to him, stand behind his back and put my hand on his shoulder. He looks up, his face is stern, his eyes are almost angry, but I know I’m not the one he is angry with.

“Do you want me to search some photos on him online?”

My first reaction is that he should just leave me be with the issue, I’m not interested in the slightest, but I quickly change my mind. I have the feeling that if I start to check out photos and read news about him, I will make it all legit, but finally curiosity takes the better of me. I can’t use my voice, so I just signal with a nod that I’m ready to see some pictures.

He types away for a while, then all kinds of photos begin to drop. It feels bizarre to watch an unknown face on the screen while knowing that this person is soon going to be my husband. One by one, the pictures are displayed of a white thobe and shemagh clad man with a dour face. In almost every photo, he appears with greyhounds or camels, and winner’s cups. I lean closer, stare with eyes open wide, trying to identify the feeling he stirs in me. Despair and disgust are the closest to what tightens my throat, although I can’t even say that the sheikh’s facial features are absolutely appalling. He is a slightly pot-bellied man with an average look and a growing double-chin, apparently obsessed with animal races. In most photos he makes a serious face, I only detect one picture where his features are more relaxed. I wouldn’t exactly call it a smile; it may only be a kind of softness that I see on his face where a taller young man is standing next to him.

“Who’s that?” I point towards the pic.

“Ahmad, his son.”

His son? – I scream inside. Of course, it’s quite logical a man his age would have children, I just didn’t think about it.

“He has a child?”

“He studies at Denver University.”

“How old is he?” I sigh.

“About… twenty… I think,” Hamid murmurs with uncertainty and as he looks up at me, I can read from his face how grotesque he also considers the situation. Saud sheik’s son is as old as me. Anyway, what will he call me when we meet? Mum?”

I hear a noise from outside, and stepping over to the window, I stare outside listlessly at the brilliantly well-kept, fairy tale-like green garden. My father’s limousine rolls to the entrance, and Assim, the Iranian driver jumps out of the driver’s seat, and runs over to the other side to open the door of the car. My father gets out, he runs his eyes over the palace’s windows. I distinctly draw back, my stomach is crazily going up and down, invisible hands are tightening my throat, and yet, I need to ask the question:

“When you met… did he ask about me? Did he say he wanted to get to know me?”

My brother gets up, begins to walk around, while massaging his temples with worry. This gives me an idea about the answer. Why the heck would the sheikh want to get to know me better?

“Doesn’t he even want to meet in person before the wedding?” I whisper defeatedly, while Hamid shakes his head and stares at the floor. I think he feels ashamed for Saud sheikh.

Amina, wake up! The sheikh is not looking for a talking partner, he doesn’t give a damn about your thoughts. For what he needs, an immaculate body, a charming face and silky head of hair will perfectly suffice.

Hamid walks back to his writing desk, and closes down the laptop with a groan. Slowly, he rubs his face, gives me a look, lost for words. He wants to comfort me, but he himself is quite floored. Finally, the biggest possible nonsense comes out of his mouth that I can imagine.

“The sheikh is not a bad man, Mina.”

I look back at him with narrowed eyes. Rage is about to burst inside me, although I’m not really mad at him, yet, he is the one who gets the best of my anger. I shout with my arms theatrically stretched towards the sky:

“What sort of an explanation is that, Hamid? The Emirate is full of not bad people, but that should not be a reason I should marry any of them. This is simply not fair – I yell, getting closer and closer to hysterics. I begin to cry again, and this time, I cry the angry tears of vulnerability. Hamid steps up to me, and grabbing my shoulders, he tries to calm me down, and I start hitting his chest with my fists. Now my poor brother has to suffer for my devastating opinion on men in general, even though he is the one who definitely does not deserve the blows. My hands work at an unbelievable speed, I shout at him through my tears, but he is not saying anything.

Slowly, I calm down, my fists loosen up, I drop my arms dispiritedly beside me. I lift my face and look into his sad eyes dark as the night, but can’t endure his stare very long. I embrace his neck, and he draws me to him in a fatherly way.

“I can’t be the sheikh’s wife. It can’t happen, Hamid.”

He strokes my hair; his voice is full of melancholy when he finally speaks up:

“I will talk to dad.”

I nod in-between sniffs, and straightening my posture, I push myself away from him. It’s a noble offer, but we both know that it’s futile. He won’t change his determination only because his younger son disagrees with his plans. Tariq al-Hosani loves his sons, but if my father was to still listen to someone’s advice, that would be his eldest son, Kareem. And if I wait for Kareem to show mercy towards me, then I may as well start getting my wedding dress made, because he won’t stand by me, that’s sure as death.