Princess Sultana's Daughters

and I had made no effort. It was a weak scenario, but Kareem
shied away from female problems and would more than likely grumble
but make no move to stop me.
    As it turned out, I was not forced to tell
such a wild tale, for Abdullah said that his father had received a
telephone call while I was speaking with Fatma. Kareem had asked
Abdullah to tell me that he was going to join one of his royal
cousins in a Cairo casino and would not be home until later that
evening. I knew my husband wanted to put time and distance between
himself and his son’s earlier request to donate millions of dollars
to a failing Lebanese economy, and I had a sense that his excuse to
leave our home was as dishonest as the lie I had been prepared to
tell. Kareem shares a common trait with most Arabs. My husband
cannot say no, but would rather speak a small lie and disappear
from the sight of the one who requires an answer.
    “Good!” I muttered under my breath. Kareem’s
discomfort at being around his son had come at an opportune
time.
    After advising me of his father’s message,
Abdullah turned his attention back to the television set, and I saw
that he was mesmerized, watching an Egyptian soap opera that was
greatly favored by Arabs from many lands. I noticed that Amani’s
lips had formed a disapproving pout. My daughter was not pleased at
her brother’s selection, for that particular show was not allowed
in Saudi Arabia because of its many scenes that hinted of sexual
impropriety.
    “Abdullah, I need you to drive me to the home
of Fatma’s daughter. Can you come?”
    My son looked for any opportunity to drive
the new white Mercedes Kareem had purchased and shipped into the
country for our Cairo home. I knew from past experience that Kareem
would have taken the older Mercedes into the busy district of
downtown Cairo, since he greatly feared the taxi drivers in that
teeming city.
    Abdullah flicked the remote button shutting
off the television set and gallantly leapt to his feet. “I will get
the car.”
    The Cairo streets were crowded with vehicles
of every description, and the traffic was almost at a standstill.
Pedestrians threaded in and out of the traffic. People hung onto
the sides of buses already packed with humanity; they clung
precariously to the doorways or windows as if it were the most
natural way in the world to travel.
    As our car inched through the city streets, I
gazed in amazement at the mass of people who had descended on the
city of the Pharaohs and shuddered, for it was easy to see that
Cairo could not continue to exist as it was.
    Abdullah interrupted my thoughts, asking me
the point of our errand.
    I swore him to secrecy. When I told him of
Fatma’s source of sorrow, a flash of anger swept over my son’s
face.
    Abdullah said that he had heard of such
things but had thought such tales were exaggerated. “Is it really
true?” he asked. “Are such things done to young girls?”
    I thought to tell him about his Auntie Nura
but reconsidered, for it was such a private matter, and I knew my
sister would be keenly ashamed if my son knew of her mutilation.
Instead, I told him the history of female circumcision.
    While my son was pleased that the custom was
ending in our own land, he felt sickened that so many women still
suffered unnecessary pain.
    We were silent the rest of the trip, each of
us awash in our own thoughts of the evening’s business.
    Fatma’s daughter lived in a small alley that
branched off from a main shopping road in the city of Cairo.
Abdullah paid a shop owner for the privilege of parking our car on
the sidewalk in front of his clothing shop and promised the happy
man a generous bonus if he would ensure that no damage occurred
while we were away.
    Abdullah guided Fatma and me, hands on our
backs, as we weaved through the pedestrian traffic and entered the
alleyway that led to our destination. The alley was too small for
automobiles, so we walked down the middle of the stone-paved
street. Strong cooking odors drifted around us as we passed a
number of cafés specializing in Arabic dishes.
    Abdullah and I exchanged many glances, for we
had never visited the poorer sections of Cairo. The close living
quarters and the poverty of the inhabitants were a shock to us
both.
    Fatma’s daughter lived in a three-story
building at the center of the alleyway. The building faced the
neighborhood mosque, which looked worn and was in urgent need of
repair. The bottom floor housed a bakery, while the two top