Princess (20 page)

Kareem and his father left the villa to return to the king’s palace. The drivers were sent in search of Muneer. I nursed my swollen jaw and plotted a new plan of revenge on Noorah. I could hear her cries of grief; I gathered myself and walked down the circular staircase, sniffing the air for her sobs. I, a woman far removed from sainthood, wanted to see and feel the full pleasure of her distress. I followed her cries to the sitting room. I would have smiled but for my painful jaw. Noorah was crumpled in a comer of the sitting room, crying out for Allah to save her beloved Muneer from the wrath of the king and the men of religion.

Noorah saw me and instantly quieted. After long moments of silence, she looked at me with contempt and said, “Kareem has promised me he will divorce you. He agrees that ‘Who grows up on a habit will die with it’ (Arab proverb), and you have grown up wild. There is no place for such a one as you in this family.” Noorah, expecting tears and pleas, which are common from those deemed helpless, searched my face closely when I replied that I myself was going to demand a divorce from her son. I declared that Marci was at that very moment packing my bags; I would leave her oppressive home within the hour. As an added insult, I called over my shoulder that I was going to influence my father into calling for Muneer to be made an example for those who so disdain the laws of our faith. Her precious son would more than likely be flogged or jailed, or both. I left Noorah with her jaw hanging in fear.

The tables had turned. My voice rang with a confidence I did not feel. Noorah had no way of knowing if I possessed the behind-the-scenes power that could accomplish my threats. She would celebrate if her son divorced me; she would be mortified if I were the one to seek a divorce. It is difficult, but not impossible, for a woman in Arabia to divorce her husband. Since my father was a prince closer in blood to our first king than Kareem’s father, Noorah had a moment of fear that I could be successful in my claim to call for Muneer’s punishment. She had no knowledge that my father would more than likely turn me out of our home for my imprudence, and that I would have nowhere to turn.

Appropriate actions to follow my bold threats were required. When Marci and I appeared at the door loaded with traveling cases, the household broke open like an explosion. By coincidence, Muneer, located at the home of a friend and ordered home, had just arrived with one of the drivers. Unaware of the seriousness of his predicament, he swore when I informed him that his mother had brought about the pending divorce of her eldest son.

A wave of perverse optimism swept through my body as Noorah, incited into action by the possibility of my vociferous wrath, insisted I not leave the house. The double crisis had impaired Noorah’s resolve; she emerged thoroughly weakened in our bitter feud. After much pleading on her part, I reluctantly remained.

I was sleeping when Kareem returned, exhausted from an evening of mortification. I overheard his appeal to Muneer to consider the name of their father before committing acts that were forbidden. I did not have to strain to hear Muneer’s insolent response, accusing Kareem of helping to oil the mammoth machine of hypocrisy that was the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

King Faisal was revered by most Saudis for his dedicated and devout style of life. Within the family itself, he was held in deep respect by the elder princes. He had led our country from the dark days of King Sa’ud’s rule into a position of regard and even admiration from some quarters. But there was a deep divergence between the elder princes and the younger princes within the family.

Devoured by desire for unearned wealth, these young men of the family hated the king, who cut their allowances, prohibited their entry into illegal businesses, and chided them when they strayed from the path of honor, There was not even a flicker of compromise between the two camps and trouble continuously brewed. That night, Kareem slept a great distance from me in our large bed. I heard him through the night as he tossed and turned. I knew he was plunged in dark thoughts. I had a rare touch of guilt as I pondered the severity of his troubles. I decided that if my marriage survived that day’s grievous wounds, I would temper my attitude.

The next morning, a new Kareem emerged. He failed to speak or acknowledge my presence. My good intentions of the previous night vanished into the pale morning light. I told him in a loud voice that I thought a divorce best. In my heart I longed for him to appeal for peace.

He looked at me and replied in a dry, frightening voice, “Whatever you think, but we will settle our differences when this family crisis is behind us.” Kareem continued to shave, as if I had said nothing out of the ordinary.

This new foe, indifference, quieted me and I sat, humming a tune, as one unconcerned, while Kareem finished his dressing. He opened the bedroom door and left me with this parting thought: "Sultana, you know, you deceived me with your warrior’s spirit, hidden behind the smile of a woman.”

After he departed, I lay in the bed and sobbed until I was exhausted.

Noorah coaxed me to the table of peace and we settled our differences with gestures of love. She sent one of her drivers to the jewelry souq to purchase a diamond necklace for me. I hurriedly traveled to the gold souq and purchased the most expensive gold breast-plate necklace I could find. I spent more than SR 300,000 ($80,000) and cared little what Kareem would say. Now I saw the possibility of peace with a woman who could cause me endless grief should my marriage be saved.

Weeks passed before Muneer’s fate was decided. Once again, the family saw no benefit in publicizing the misadventures of the royal sons. The wrath of the king was somewhat tempered by the efforts of my father and various princes who sought to downplay the incident as one of a foolish young man recently influenced by the evils of the West.

Noorah, thinking that I had somehow influenced my father, was grateful and responded by exclamations of the joy in her heart for having such a one as I as her daughter-in-law. The truth was never revealed: that I spoke not a word to my father. His interest stemmed from the very real fact that I was married into the family and he did not desire association with Kareem’s brother should a scandal arise. His concern was for himself and Ali. Even so, I was thoroughly pleased at the outcome and was a heroine, admittedly undeservedly, in my mother-in-law’s eyes.

Once again, the mutawas were quieted by the king’s efforts. King Faisal was held in such high esteem by the Religious Council that his appeals were heard and heeded.

Muneer was brought into his father’s business and sent to Jeddah to manage the new offices. To buy off his discontent, he was awarded large government contracts. Within a few months, he told his father he wanted to wed, and a suitable cousin was found and his happiness increased. Within months he began to gain weight and joined the ranks of the royal princes who live for the deal of making more and more money until their bank accounts overflow and produce enough income from the interest to rival the budgets of small countries.

Kareem had moved into a separate bedroom the day of our conversation. Nothing his mother or father could say or do persuaded him to reconsider our decision to divorce.

Much to my horror, one week after our estrangement, I discovered I was pregnant. After much soul-searching, I decided I had no option but to abort my pregnancy. I knew that Kareem would never agree to a divorce if he discovered I was with child. But one such as I had no use for a husband under duress.

I was in a dilemma, for abortions are not common in my land—many children are desired by most—and I did not have the slightest clue where to go and whom to see.

My investigation was delicate. Finally, I entrusted my secret to a royal cousin who informed me that her younger sister had become pregnant the year before while vacationing in Nice. She had been unaware of her condition and returned to Riyadh. Her fear of her father finding out was such that she had attempted suicide. The mother had shielded the daughter’s secret and had located an Indian physician who, for excessive fees, performed abortions for Saudi women. I carefully planned my escape from the palace to the offices of the abortionist. Marci was my confidante.

I was waiting, despondent, in the physician’s office when a red-faced Kareem burst through the door. I was a veiled woman among other veiled women, but he recognized me by my unusual silk abaaya and my red ltalian-made shoes. He pulled and pushed me through the door, screaming to the receptionist that the office had best be closed immediately for he, Kareem, was going to see the doctor in prison.

I was smiling beneath my veil and in the best of tempers as Kareem alternately professed his love for me and cursed me. He glittered and he glared! He cast away my fears of losing him as he vowed that he had never considered divorce; his stance was merely a combination of pride and anger.

Kareem had discovered my plan when Marci divulged the secret to another maid in the house. This maid had gone directly to Noorah, and my mother-in-law had frantically located Kareem in the office of a client and hysterically reported that I was going to kill her unborn grandchild.

Our child was saved by mere moments. I would have to reward Marci.

Kareem herded me into the house with curses. In our room he covered me with kisses and we wept and made our peace. It had taken a series of mishaps to lead us to our peak of happiness. Miraculously, all had ended well.

Chapter Fourteen: Birth

The most complete and powerful expression of life is birth. The acts of conceiving and birthing are more profound and beautiful than any miracle of art. This I learned as I waited for our first child with such great joy and happiness.

Kareem and I had meticulously planned the birth. No detail was too small to take into account. We made reservations to travel to Europe four months before the expected date of arrival. I would give birth at Guy’s Hospital in London.

As with so many carefully laid plans, minor occurrences prevented our departure. Kareem’s mother, blinded by a new veil made of thicker fabric than usual, sprained her ankle when she stumbled over an old bedouin woman sitting in the souq; a close cousin on the verge of signing an important contract requested that Kareem postpone his departure; and my sister Nura frightened the family with what the doctor thought was an appendicitis attack. Once we were past these crises, false labor pains began. My physician forbade me to travel. Kareem and I accepted the inevitable and set about making arrangements for our child to be born in Riyadh.

Unfortunately, the King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Centre that would offer us royals the latest medical care had yet to open. I would give birth at a smaller institution in the city, best known for harboring germs and for its lackadaisical staff.

Since we were of the Royal Family, we had options not available to other Saudis. Kareem arranged for three rooms in the maternity ward to be converted into a royal suite. He hired local carpenters and painters. Interior decorators from London were flown in, tape measures and fabric samples in hand.

My sisters and I were guided through the unit by the proud hospital administrator. The suite glowed a heavenly blue with silk bed covers and drapes. An elaborate baby bed with matching silk coverlets was fastened with heavy bolts to the floor, in the event that a member of the negligent staff might carelessly tip the bed and toss our precious child to the floor! Nura bent double with laughter when told of the precaution and warned me that Kareem would drive the family insane with his schemes to protect our child.

I sat speechless when Kareem advised me that a staff of six would soon arrive from London to assist me in the birth. A well-known London obstetrician, along with five highly skilled nurses, had been paid an enormous fee to travel to Riyadh three weeks prior to the estimated delivery date.

Since I was a motherless child, Sara moved into the palace toward the end of my pregnancy. She watched me as I watched her. I observed her carefully, absorbing the sad changes in my dear sister. I told Kareem I feared she would never recover from her abhorrent marriage; her quiet moods were now a permanent component of what had once been a thoroughly cheerful and joyous character.

How unfair life could be! I, by my very aggressiveness, could have better dealt with an abusive husband, for bullies tend to be less forceful in the face of someone who will stand up to them. Sara, with her peaceful soul and gentle spirit, had been an easy target for the arrogance of her untamed husband.

But I was thankful for her smooth presence. As my body swelled, I became jittery and unpredictable. Kareem, in his excitement over fatherhood, had lost all his good sense.

Due to the presence of Kareem’s brother Asad and various cousins who came and went at will, Sara had been careful to veil when she left our apartments on the second floor. The single men of the family were housed in another wing, but they roamed the palace at all hours. After Sara’s third day in our home, Noorah sent word through Kareem that there was no need for her to veil when she entered the main living areas of the villa or the gardens. I was pleased for any loosening of the tight restraints on women that so encumbered our lives. Sara was apprehensive in the beginning, but soon shed the excess covering of black with ease.

One late evening Sara and I were reclining in wicker lounges, enjoying the cool night air of the common garden. (There are women’s gardens and common, or family, gardens on most Saudi palace grounds.) Unexpectedly, Asad and four acquaintances returned from a late-night appointment.