Princess Sultana's Daughters

beautiful daughter
again, Fouad and Samia had come to the conclusion that they would
accept her marriage to someone beneath them in wealth and
status.
    Being of a suspicious nature, I thought
perhaps it was a trick to ensnare Jafer in a land where he had no
rights. Once in Saudi Arabia, he could be imprisoned on the
slightest pretense, if that was Fouad’s wish.
    Fayza’s parents did not confirm my
pessimism.
    That day, Fouad and his family flew to Greece
and met Jafer and Fayza in a golden land where men had been
civilized from an early age. Thoughts more bitter than death were
put to rest, and Jafer and Fayza at last found happiness in the
family unit that had once challenged the legitimacy of their
marriage.
    Special permission was obtained for Fayza to
wed a Muslim from another land, and a second, more festive wedding
was held in a hotel in Cairo, Egypt.
    Kareem and I traveled there with our two
daughters to join our son for the occasion.
    Jafer and Fayza insisted that male and female
guests come together for a reception at the Mena House Hotel. Their
great love even made a dour Kareem smile, although he was a prince
ashamed that his son had interfered in his friend’s private life.
Kareem’s tension was relieved when Fouad confessed that there could
have been no other ending, for long before Abdullah had rescued
Fayza, his daughter’s extreme misery had led him and his wife to
the knowledge that she must be rejoined with Jafer. Fayza’s grief
could not be ignored. Fouad assured my embarrassed husband that
they, themselves, had been on the brink of parental surrender the
day she had fled.
    Kareem and I watched as Fouad grasped Jafer
and Fayza as if they were one. From the look on Jafer’s shining
face as he watched his wife, it was clear that he loved her more
madly than ever.
    How pleased I was! A Saudi woman was happily
wed to one forbidden.
    I whispered in Kareem’s ear, “See, every
straight line can be forced into a curve!”
    A family tragedy was transformed into a scene
of great harmony.
    Later that evening, from the courtyard at our
Cairo villa,
    Kareem and I watched the loveliness of the
Egyptian sky.
    My husband surprised me with a heartfelt
apology. Hovering nebulously between shame and love, Kareem
promised that he would not prejudge me again, that Abdullah had
told him I was not privy to his plot to free Fayza. It had been
Kareem who had given our son the combination to our safe. In the
excitement of the moment Kareem had forgotten!
    Then, as though it were an afterthought,
Kareem reached into his pocket and brought out the largest diamond
I had ever seen. The stone was hung on a golden chain. My husband
tenderly fastened the necklace around my neck, and I felt his lips
as they brushed my shoulder.
    A few years ago, I had hated the bitter
emptiness of my married life. Just the month before I had hungrily
sought the meaning of life. The moment was a breeding ground for
all sorts of emotions—affection, regret, and, most of all,
confusion. Was Kareem that rare phenomenon, a Saudi husband who was
gentle, virile, practical, and intelligent? Had I been wrong in my
assessment of his character?
    How could a Saudi man be the answer to my
happiness when I had fought against Saudi men all my life?
    I had once heard that a miser is never
satisfied with his money, nor a wise man with his knowledge. Was I
a woman who would never know fulfillment? That possibility was
frightening.
    Another thought came to my mind, an Arab
proverb, “ lf your husband is made of honey, do not consume
him .”
    I looked at Kareem in a new light.
Remembering the numerous insults I had inflicted upon him, I prayed
that God would shorten my tongue and increase my powers of
reason.
    I smiled at my husband. Suddenly I felt many
wounds heal—injuries suffered because of Kareem’s conduct earlier
in our marriage.
    For some reason, my scars could scarcely be
detected.
     

 
Fatma
    Something was dead in each of us
    And what was dead was Hope.
    —OSCAR WILDE
    The following afternoon, Kareem and I were
sitting together with our children on the veranda at our villa in
Cairo. An immaculate flower garden encircled the large covered
porch, and the sweet scent of roses and honeysuckle permeated the
air, bringing to mind the wealthy British presence that had once
occupied the unwelcoming city. My husband and I were savoring the
coolness of the spacious and shaded area, for there was not a hint
of an afternoon breeze, and the concrete