Princess: A True Story of Life Behind the Veil in Saudi Arabia

and
muttered that life was indeed strange, then wrapped his arms around
my belly. Sleep came easily to us, for our lives were fixed on a
carefully charted course, and neither of us expected unknowns. The
following morning I left Kareem to his shaving and moved heavily
down the staircase. I heard Noorah before I saw her. She, as was
her favorite pastime, was quoting a proverb. I cursed under my
breath but listened quietly at the doorway.
    “ ‘The man who marries a woman for her beauty
will be deceived; he who marries a woman for good sense can truly
say he is married.’ ”
    I had no feeling left to fight so I thought
to cough to announce my presence. When Noorah began to speak again
I changed my mind. I held my breath and strained my ears to hear
her words.
    “Asad, the girl has been married before. She
was quickly divorced. Who knows the reason? Reconsider, my son, you
can wed whom you wish. You will be wise to start with a woman that
is fresh, not one that is wilted from use! Besides, my son, you see
the ball of fire that is Sultana. Can her sister be of a different
substance?”
    I followed my stomach into the room, my heart
aflutter. She was cautioning Asad against Sara. Not only that, the
leopard had not changed its spots; in secret Noorah still hated me.
I was a bitter potion for her to swallow.
    Aware of Asad’s carefree character, I had not
been in favor of his and Sara’s love. Now I would be a resolute
supporter of their wishes. Relieved, I could easily see by Asad’s
expression that nothing would alter his plans. He was a man
possessed.
    The conversation folded when they saw my
face, for I have difficulty in clothing anger; I was furious that
Noorah assumed that grief would arise from her son’s union with my
sister. Surely, I could not argue against my own rebellious nature.
I had assumed the role at an early age and had no inclination to
alter. But for Sara to be labeled with my reputation was
maddening!
    In my youth, I had heard many old women say:
“If you stand near a blacksmith, you will get covered in soot, but
if you stand near a perfume seller, you will carry an aroma of
scent with you.” I realized that as far as Noorah was concerned,
Sara was carrying the soot of her younger sister. My feeling was
now bottomless rage at my mother-in-law.
    Sara’s beauty had sparked jealousy in many of
our sex. I knew that her appearance closed the possibility of any
consideration given to her gentle character and blazing intellect.
Poor Sara! Asad stood up and nodded slightly in my direction. He
excused himself from our company. Noorah looked like someone
suffering from a dagger wound when he turned back to her and said,
“The decision is made. If I am acceptable to her and her family, no
one can delay me.”
    Noorah yelled at his back about the insolence
of youth and tried to layer him with guilt when she exclaimed that
she was not long for the world; her heart was weakening by the day.
When Asad ignored her obvious ploy, she shook her head in sorrow.
Brows knitted, she thoughtfully sipped at a cup of coffee. No doubt
she was plotting against Sara as she had against the Lebanese
woman.
    In a state of high emotion, I rang the bell
for the cook and ordered yogurt and fruit for breakfast. Marci came
into the room and relieved the pain of my swollen feet with her
skilled fingers. Noorah attempted conversation, but I was too angry
to respond. As I began to nibble fresh strawberries—flown in daily
from Europe—a labor pain took me to the floor. I was frightened and
screamed in agony, for this crushing pain was too soon, and far too
severe. I knew the pain should begin as a twinge, as the false
labor that had nudged me in the past.
    Chaos erupted as Noorah called out in one
breath for Kareem, for Sara, for the special nurses, and for the
servants. In moments, Kareem lifted me in his arms and bundled me
into the back of an extra-long limousine, which had been especially
converted for this event. The seats had been ripped out and a bed
built in on one side. Three small seats had been made ready to
accommodate Kareem, Sara, and a nurse. The physician from London
and the other four nurses had been alerted and were following in a
separate limousine.
    I clutched my back while the nurse tried in
vain to monitor my heartbeat. Kareem yelled at the driver to go
faster; then he reversed his orders and screamed for him to go
slower, declaring in a loud voice that his reckless driving would
kill us all. He thumped