Princess Sultana's Daughters

greets me warmly except my only brother, Ali, and I
catch a glimpse of his sly eyes following me.
    Within moments of our arrival, Father enters
the room. His ten daughters rise respectfully to their feet, and
each of us expresses her greetings to the man who has given her
life without love.
    I have not seen my father in some months, and
I think to myself that he looks exhausted and prematurely old. When
I lean to kiss his cheek, he impatiently turns away, failing to
return my greeting. Giving my fears full range, I know at that
moment that I have been naïve, thinking that the Al Sa’uds are too
busy accumulating wealth to care much for books. My trepidation
mounts.
    In a stern voice Father asks us to sit,
saying that he has some disturbing news to relay.
    Lured by a stare, I see that Ali, with his
morbid interest in the suffering of others, is gloating, regarding
me with a pitiless stare. There is little doubt in my mind that Ali
is privy to the evening’s business.
    Father reaches into his large, black
briefcase and retrieves a book none of us can read. It is written
in a foreign language. My mind in conflict, I think that I have
made a mistake with my earlier fears, wondering what this
particular book has to do with our family.
    In a voice filled with undisguised rage,
Father says that Ali recently purchased the book from Germany, and
that the book tells about the life of a princess, a stupid and
foolish woman who is not aware of the royal obligations that
accompany the privileges of royalty. Circling the room, he holds
the book in his hands. The picture on the cover is plainly that of
a Muslim woman, for she is veiled and is standing against a
backdrop of Turkish minarets. I have a wild thought that an aging,
exiled princess from Egypt or Turkey has written a revealing book,
but quickly realize that such a tale would hold no interest in our
land.
    When Father steps closer, I read the title: Ich, Prinzessin aus dem Hause Al Saud .
    It is my story!
    As I had not been in touch with the book’s
author since learning of its sale to William Morrow, a large and
respected American publishing house, I was unaware that the book,
Princess, was a huge success and had sold to numerous countries.
The one before me is quite obviously the German edition.
    I have a short moment of elation followed by
sheer terror. I feel the blood rush to my face. I am numb and can
barely hear my father’s voice. He explains that Ali had been
curious when he saw the book in the Frankfurt airport and had gone
to a great deal of trouble and expense to have the book translated
because he saw that our family name was written on the cover.
    At the time, Ali had an irritating thought
that some obscure, disgruntled princess within the Al Sa’ud family
had divulged the gossipy secrets of her life. Once Ali had read the
book and clearly recognized himself from our childhood dramas, the
truth was revealed. He canceled the remainder of his holiday and
hastily returned to Riyadh in a fury.
    Father has had copies of the translated
version made for the meeting.
    He nods at Ali, giving a small signal with
his hand. My brother grapples with a bulky pile of paper at his
side and proceeds to hand each person a bundle secured with a large
rubber band.
    Confused, Kareem nudges me, raising his
eyebrows and rolling his eyes.
    Until the last possible second, I express my
denial, returning an expression of bewilderment. Shrugging my
shoulders, I stare, unblinking and unseeing, at the papers in my
hand.
    In a soaring voice Father shouts out my name,
“Sultana!”
    I feel my body jump into the air.
    Father begins to speak rapidly, spitting out
words as I imagine a machine gun expels bullets. “Sultana, do you
recall the marriage and divorce of your sister Sara? The wickedness
of your childhood friends? The death of your mother? Your trip to
Egypt? Your marriage to Kareem? The birth of your son?
Sultana?”
    I have stopped breathing.
    Relentless, my father continues to accuse.
“Sultana, if you have difficulty in recalling these momentous
events, then I suggest that you read this book!”
    Father throws the book at my feet.
    Unable to move, I stare, mute, at the book on
the floor.
    My father orders, “Sultana, pick it up!”
Kareem grabs the book and stares at the cover. He gasps—a deep,
ragged breath—and then turns to me. “What is this, Sultana?”
    I am paralyzed with fear. My heart stops
beating. I sit and listen, longing for the life-giving thump.
    Quite