Bonds of passion

Episode 2

The sheikh’s men invaded our home in the midst of my eighteenth birthday celebration. Two lawyers and two bodyguards — uninvited guests. The sheikh didn’t deign to grace us with his presence, but his cold breath seemed to linger in the air.

We were just about to cut the cake when my father opened the door. The unwelcome visitors entered silently, as if it were perfectly normal. My mother’s teacups slipped from trembling hands, shattering into large fragments — it seemed like thousands to me.

— I won’t give you, — she whispered, watching the intruders clear the table of the remaining tea set and place a thick contract in its place — a transfer of rights agreement, as if I were just an object.

— You have no right! You can’t!

Her voice trembled, but I knew that even screaming wouldn’t change anything. In the world of sheikhs, the rules of the game are simple: either you agree, or you face difficulties that will force you to yield. Or leave the country.

— Camellia, — my father pleaded, his gaze sliding over my mother and settling guiltily on me. — This is the price…

My mother breathed heavily, her eyes flashing with anger at my father and the visitors.

— Leave!

These people had probably witnessed such scenes many times before. We weren’t the first family they had come to take daughters from.

— Your signature, — one of the lawyers said, opening the last page of the contract where my father’s signature stood.

The cozy world full of laughter, joy, Sunday walks, and future plans crumbled in an instant. Everything vanished like a dream.

— Pack your things, — the second lawyer addressed me.

One of the bodyguards stood by the door, the other followed me. I returned to the kitchen with my bag, seeing my mother sitting at the table with her face in her hands, and my father — a grey shadow in the corner, twisted with guilt.

— Don’t forget your pills, — one of the lawyers reminded me, aware of my health issues.

I took the package from the shelf and froze for a moment next to my mother. She hugged me forcefully, pressing me close, then grabbed my face in her hands, her pain-twisted gaze filled with despair.

— Remember what I told you. Remember! Vasilisa…

I burst into tears, into hysterics. They forcibly tore me away from her and led me out into the hallway. The front door slammed shut with a deafening bang, leaving my past life behind, while a new one opened up ahead — one where I would never be myself again.

After the flight, I found myself in the sheikh’s house. It wasn’t just a house, but a palace complex with multi-level security, an extensive park, a menagerie, and a sports club. And to my horror, they took me to the women’s quarters. Only there did I realize that I didn’t know what rights I had here. Obviously, a marriage had been concluded, but which one?

Nikah, misyar, mut’a — which one?

The average age of the concubines ranged from seventeen to thirty. All of them were born real beauties, stepping out of the pages of oriental fairy tales. They inhabited the women’s quarters of the palace, receiving chambers depending on their status and marriage. I was given the farthest room. So small that sometimes they mistook me for a servant and didn’t take me seriously. Many wondered why I was there. From their point of view, I wasn’t beautiful and wasn’t interesting to their master. It seemed he had already forgotten about me, and I was only glad of that. If he suddenly had a memory lapse, I would probably call it a gift from heaven. True, there were so many beauties and faces around him that he could easily forget about me.

From the very beginning, I felt lost amidst those opulent walls. The palace was a foreign world to me, filled with strange traditions and rituals. One day, I found one of the concubines in my room. She was unceremoniously rummaging through my shelves, examining my books and touching my clothes. My heart clenched with fear — I didn’t know what to expect.

— I’m Leila, — she introduced herself, giving me a look full of disdain.

She looked to be at least thirty. To her, I seemed like a child. My breasts had barely begun to develop, and, as my mother used to say, I was all angles. I hoped I wasn’t stupid. Compared to her, I felt like a scruffy barbecue stool next to a magnificent Baroque palace chair. They all seemed so confident and mature that it was intimidating in itself.

— Oh, you’re such a coward, — she laughed, watching me fidget on the spot, not knowing where to put my hands or what to say. Her laughter cut through my heart, making me feel even more alone and helpless.

She picked up the bottle of pills and examined it questioningly.

— Are you sick?

— Heart problems, — I barely held back tears, wishing she would just put the bottle back and leave. Everything inside me was trembling.

She pursed her lips and shook her head disapprovingly.

— The first time I’ve seen them bring a cripple here. And a mut’a at that.

— I’m not crippled, — my voice trembled as I tried to appear strong, but despair was growing inside me. Thoughts raced through my head like a hurricane: mut’a? She said mut’a? How did she know? The word I had only heard in whispers now sounded like a thunderclap in the clear sky. Mut’a was a temporary marriage, something that could give me freedom if only…

On the other hand, there had been no wedding, just a contract. The fact struck my consciousness like a ray of hope. Perhaps this was all just a temporary measure, and the nightmare would soon end. I tried to cling to this unprovable thought like a lifeline in a stormy sea of uncertainty.

A glimmer of hope was born deep inside me that I could leave this place where every day brought only melancholy. Perhaps the contract could be annulled, I could return to my previous life or start a new one, free from this oppression.

I understood that for now I had to be careful, not reveal my true feelings, and not attract attention. In this palace full of secrets and intrigues of locked-up young women, any mistake could be costly. The thought of possible freedom gave me wings, providing the strength to endure whatever fate had in store.

— Let’s hope it doesn’t come to disabled people, — Leila grumbled, put the bottle back, and left.

I exhaled with relief. Later, I learned that Leila was considered a big loser among the girls. She had been living in the palace for three years, but the sheikh had never summoned her. I heard other girls mocking her, saying that if she spent too much time in the gym, she would soon look like another maftool al-adlāt — an overly muscular Arab.

In the two months I spent in the palace, it became clear that the sheikh rarely visited his home. The space filled with luxury concealed many unspoken stories and imperceptible movements of fate. The sheikh remained a shadowy figure, and his absence added more mysteries. Every day I lived in fear that he would one day notice me, and then my life would change forever. But no one but him could give me answers to the questions that troubled me.

The sheikh took selected girls with him, leaving the rest in anticipation. Probably, fewer “status items” — and we were exactly that to them — were easier to guard. This created an atmosphere of intense rivalry among us. I desperately wanted to understand what was so great about him that the girls were ready to fight each other for his attention. Everyone tried to outdo one another in a parade of vanity.

The palace lived in two states: with and without the sheikh. When he arrived, the walls came alive with staff bustling about, tense anticipation, and social evenings with visiting guests. Grand shows and fireworks were arranged for them. During the day, the palace buzzed with the sheikh’s meetings with other powerful figures, and at night, it groaned under the efforts of servants restoring its perfect cleanliness and the secret and open passions of the concubines. The days passed in empty idleness, and forgotten by everyone, I initially languished in suffocating boredom.

The palace grounds were a labyrinth of opulence: multi-level security, an expansive park, a menagerie, and a sports club. Each day brought new realizations about the complex hierarchy of this closed world. The concubines, ranging from 17 to 30 years old, were all born to be princesses from the pages of Arabian fairy tales. They occupied chambers according to their status, while I was relegated to the farthest, smallest room, often mistaken for a servant.

The atmosphere of constant rivalry hung heavy in the air. The girls vied for the sheikh’s attention, each trying to outshine the other in a never-ending parade of vanity. I watched from the sidelines, trying to remain invisible, to understand the unwritten rules of this gilded cage.

Every day brought new discoveries about the intricacies of palace life. The servants moved silently, the concubines practiced their skills in music and dance, and the air was thick with unspoken tensions and hidden agendas. I found myself caught in a web of intrigue, where every smile could hide a dagger and every kind word might be a trap.

The sheikh’s absence was as oppressive as his presence. Rumors and whispers filled the void, painting pictures of his power and wealth, his countless conquests and unimaginable influence. And yet, in this world of luxury and excess, I felt more alone than ever, a stranger in a foreign land, waiting for a fate that remained unknown.