Sweet Revenge

impassive. The scents, the dark, smoky scents of the harem weighed down on her until she thought she could almost see them. If there were a God, she would never see these people or this place again. For once she was grateful for the scarves and the veil. It meant she had to control only her eyes.
    The wave of regret surprised her as she kissed her sisters-in-law, her mother-in-law, the cousins by marriage. All the women she had lived with for almost a decade.
    “Adrianne must sit by the window,” Jiddah told Phoebe as she kissed and embraced them both. “So she can look down at Jaquir as the plane rises.” She smiled, pleased that her son was at last showing an interest in the child who was secretly her favorite. “Do not eat too much French cream, my sweet girl.”
    Adrianne grinned and rose on her toes to kiss Jiddah one last time. “I will eat so much that I will get fat. You will not know me when I return.”
    Jiddah laughed, patting Adrianne’s cheek with a hand lavishly decorated with henna. “I will always know you. Go, go now. Come back safe.
Inshallah.”
    They walked out of the harem, through the garden and beyond the wall, where a car was waiting. Adrianne’s nerves were too tightly strung for her to notice her mother’s silence. She chattered about the plane ride, Paris, what they would see, what they would buy. She asked a question, then hurried on to another without expecting an answer.
    By the time they reached the airport, Adrianne was sick with excitement. Phoebe was sick with fear.
    Thus far, the coming of Western businessmen had only complicated airport procedure. Planes landed and departed more often, and ground transportation was limited to a smattering of cabs whose drivers spoke no English. The small terminal was already packed; women shuffled to one end, men to the other. Confused Americans and Europeans fought to guard their luggage from overenthusiastic porters while searching desperately for connections often delayed for days. Those czars of capitalism more often than not were stalled, victims of a culture gap that had widened to a chasm over the centuries.
    The air roared with the noise of planes, the cacophony of voices in different languages that rose and fell often without understanding. Adrianne saw a woman sitting by a pile of baggage, her face wet with tears and pale with exhaustion. Another rode herd on three young children who stared and pointed at the Arabic women in their black cloaks and veils.
    “There are so many of them,” Adrianne murmured as they were led through the crowd by their bodyguards. “Why do they come?”
    “Money.” Phoebe shifted her eyes right and left. It was hot, so hot she feared she might faint. But her hands were like ice. “Hurry.”
    Taking Adrianne’s hand, she pulled her outside again. Abdu’s gleaming new private plane, recently purchased with oil money, waited.
    Adrianne’s mouth dried up at the sight of it. “It’s very small.”
    “Don’t worry. I’m with you.”
    Inside, the cabin was very plush despite its size. The seats were upholstered in a rich fabric the color of pewter; the carpet was bloodred. The tiny lights bolted near each seat had crystal shades. Wonderfully cool, the air smelted of sandalwood, the king’s preferred scent. Servants, bowing silently, waited to serve from the store of food and drink.
    Abdu was already on board, bent with his secretary over a file of papers. His
throbe
had been discarded for a suit tailored in London, but he wore it with the headdress of the East. He never glanced up as they climbed in and took theirseats. Instead, he gave a careless signal to one of his men. Within moments the engine caught. Adrianne’s stomach did a quick flip when the nose rose into the air.
    “Mama.”
    “Well be over the clouds soon.” Phoebe kept her voice low, grateful that Abdu ignored them. “Just like birds, Addy. Watch.” She rested her cheek against Adrianne’s. “Jaquir is going away.”
    Adrianne wanted to be sick, but was afraid to because her father was with them. Determined, she clenched her teeth, swallowed hard, and watched the world drop away. After a while the churning in her stomach eased. It was Phoebe’s turn to chatter. She did so in a low voice that ultimately lulled Adrianne to sleep. While her daughter dozed on her shoulder, Phoebe stared down at the blue waters of the Mediterranean and prayed.
    Paris was a feast for the senses. Adrianne clung to her mother’s hand and stared