Princess Sultana's Daughters

arm and we return to
our chairs. Father and Ali continue to stand, both quite
speechless.
    Since the book’s publication, I have been
weakened by my fear. Now, for the first time in weeks, I feel
absolutely fierce, recognizing that the last thing the men want is
to turn me over to the authorities.
    The meeting continues much more calmly, with
serious talk of how to keep my identity a secret. We understand
that there will be much talk and speculation within the kingdom as
to the identity of the princess in the book. My family decides that
it will be impossible for the common men of Saudi to uncover the
truth, for they are outside our family circles. And there is no
real danger from male relatives within the extended Al Sa’ud
family, for females and their activities are carefully guarded from
male view. In Father’s mind, there is genuine concern regarding
close female relatives, since they sometimes participate in our
intimate gatherings.
    There is a moment of panic as Tahani
remembers that one old auntie who was closely involved in Sara’s
calamitous marriage and divorce is still living. Nura calms their
fears by revealing that our auntie, just a few days before, had
been diagnosed with a disabling brain disorder that affects the
elderly. Nura says that our auntie is rarely, if ever, coherent. If
by some remote chance she hears of the book, nothing she says or
does would be taken seriously by her family.
    Everyone breathes a sigh of relaxation.
    I, myself, have no fear of the old woman. She
was an anomaly in her time. I understand her frisky character
better than the others. My intimate knowledge has come from past
conversations when she whispered in my ear that she supported me in
my quest for small female freedoms. This auntie had bragged to me
that she was the world’s first feminist, long before the European
women thought of such matters. She said that on the night of her
marriage, she had insisted to her startled husband that she handle
the money from the sale of the sheep, since she could figure
numbers in her head and he had to use a stick in the sand. Not only
that, her husband had never even thought of taking another wife,
saying often that my auntie was too much woman for him.
    With a toothless laugh, my auntie had
confided in me that the secret to controlling a man was in a
woman’s ability to keep her husband’s “leather stick” rigid and
ready. I was a young girl at that time and had no idea what a
“leather stick” might be. Later, in my adult years, I often smiled,
thinking of the lusty activities that must have shaken their
tent.
    After her husband’s early death, my auntie
confessed that she missed his tender caresses and that it was his
memory that kept her from accepting another mate.
    Over the years I have jealously guarded her
happy secret, fearing that such a confession would nibble at my
auntie’s soul.
    For several hours my family pore over the
translated pages and satisfy themselves that no one else alive, or
traceable outside of our immediate family, is aware of the family
dramas and squabbles divulged in the book.
    I can see that my family feels a keen sense
of relief. In addition, I catch a trace of mild admiration that I
had so cleverly altered the pertinent information that would have
led the authorities directly to my door.
    The evening closes with Father and Ali
warning my sisters not to tell their husbands of the night’s
business. Who knows which husband might feel compelled to confide
in a sister or mother? My sisters are instructed to say that the
meeting involved nothing more than personal female matters not
worthy of their husbands’ attention.
    Father sternly ordered me not to “come out”
in public and announce my “crime.” The fact that the book is the
story of my life must remain a well-kept secret within our family.
My father reminds me that not only would I suffer dire
consequences, house arrest, or possibly imprisonment, but that the
men of the family, including my own son, Abdullah, would be scorned
and shut out by Saudi Arabia’s patriarchal society, which values
nothing more highly than a man’s ability to control his women.
    As a token of submission, I lower my eyes and
promise compliance. My heart is smiling, for on this night I have
made a brilliant discovery that the men of my family are locked to
me as if by a chain, that their dominance jails them as surely as
it imprisons me.
    As I say good night to my father and brother,
I think to