Princess Sultana's Daughters

down the streets of
Riyadh, enjoying an alcoholic drink.
    I asked Sara why Nada was leaving the
tempting life of an Al Sa’ud, for she had a dubious family
background, and it would be difficult for her to duplicate the
wealth enjoyed as a wife of Ali. It had been Nada’s great beauty,
not her family connections, that had won her a husband of immense
riches.
    Nura said that from what she could gather it
seemed that Nada and Ali’s divorce had come about over an evening
of love.
    Nada had tearfully confessed to my sisters
that she had been divorced on all three occasions over the issue of
sex, saying that Ali insisted she accommodate him at odd hours in
the night, often waking her from a heavy sleep. The week before,
Nada had refused her husband sex, and Ali had insisted, saying that
when a man calls his wife to intercourse, she must not resist him
even though she might be on a camel! When Nada still refused, Ali
had divorced her.
    Sara then told me that Nada had made a
surprising second declaration, saying that while she had some
affection for Ali’s other wives, she had grown increasingly weary
of the bastards that sprang from his infidelities, for our brother
was the father of seventeen legitimate children and twenty-three
illegitimate off- spring. The compound that Nada called home was
overrun with her husband’s concubines and their children.
    At the mention of all that sexual activity,
which had produced endless offspring, I could not avoid thoughts of
Ali’s Wonder Garment and laughed until tears streamed down my face,
refusing to divulge the source of my uncontrolled merriment to my
two sisters, who feared that the day’s events now threatened their
youngest sister’s sanity.
     

Epilogue
    O God, make the end of my life the best of my
life,
    And the best of my deeds, their
conclusion,
    And the best of my days, the day on which I
shall meet Thee.
    O God, make death the best of those things we
choose not,
    But which we await;
    And the grave the best dwelling in which we
shall dwell,
    And, than death, make best which follows
death.
    —A Pilgrim’s Prayer
    It had been a week since we left our families
in Monaco. In two days our husbands and children would return to
Saudi Arabia. On this night each of the ten female children of my
mother had gathered in the home of Nura. We were blessed that Reema
was among us, for that morning she had been dismissed from the
clinic and had come to stay in the home of her oldest sister until
her health was further improved.
    The occasion was bittersweet, for we had come
together on the twentieth anniversary of our dear mother’s death.
This was an annual ritual that we had never failed to commemorate,
for our mother was sorely missed, even after twenty years. On past
occasions we had celebrated our mother’s memory by calling to mind
our favorite childhood stories of her—telling of the wonderful
influence she had had on our lives. Tonight, because of our sadness
over Reema’s recent tragedy, our mood was subdued, and our woeful
spirits led us to themes more sorrowful than in the past.
    “Twenty years?” Sara mused. “It cannot be so
long since I looked upon my mother’s face.”
    Each of us agreed that the years had moved
more rapidly than we liked to think.
    I had a sudden realization that of ten
daughters, eight were now older than our mother had been at her
death. Sara and I were the two exceptions. When I gave voice to
this thought, there were many moans and frowns.
    Nura demanded, “Sultana! Say no more!
Please!”
    Nura now had grandchildren, and our eldest
sister’s age had become a forbidden topic in the past few
years.
    Reema asked us to hush, saying that she had a
small story about our mother she had never shared, for she had
thought I might take offense.
    My eyes flashed with interest and surprise,
and I agreed that nothing Reema might say would create
controversy.
    “You must promise, Sultana! And keep your
word, no matter your emotions!”
    I laughed and agreed, my curiosity
aroused.
    When I was only eight years of age, Reema was
called into our mother’s bedroom, and mother asked Reema to give
her a solemn promise. Shy Reema was awed at the thought of a
special secret that she alone would share with our mother. In great
anticipation, she gave her word that no one would know of their
conversation.
    Mother told her that she had made a
disturbing discovery about Sultana. Mother told Reema, “Sultana is
a thief!”
    My eyes popped in surprise,