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He might, in the end, have to make two phone calls, but give no concrete instructions on what to buy or sell. His energy is focused on something else: that afternoon, at least two actresses--one famous and one unknown--will be walking down the red carpet wearing his dresses. Obviously, he has assistants who can take care of everything, but he likes to be personally involved, even if only to remind himself that every detail is important and that he hasn't lost touch with the basis on which he built his empire. Apart from that, he wants to spend the rest of his time in France trying to enjoy Ewa's company to the full, introducing her to interesting people, strolling on the beach, lunching together in some small restaurant in a nearby town, or walking along, hand-in-hand, through the vineyards he can see on the horizon.
He had always felt he was incapable of falling in love with anything other than his work, although the list of his conquests includes an enviable series of relationships with some even more enviable women. The moment Ewa appeared on the scene, though, he was a different man. They have been together for two years and his love is stronger and more intense than ever. In love. Him, Hamid Hussein, one of the most famous designers on the planet, the public face of a gigantic international conglomerate selling luxury and glamour. The man who had battled against everything and everyone, who had challenged all the West's preconceived ideas about people from the Middle East and their religion, the man who had used the ancestral knowledge of his tribe to survive, learn, and reach the top. Contrary to rumor, he was not from a rich oil family. His father had been a seller of cloth who, one day, had found favor with a sheikh simply because he refused to do as he was told.
Whenever Hamid had doubts about what decision to make, he liked to remember the example he had received in adolescence: Say no to powerful people, even when doing so means taking a great risk. It had almost always worked. And on the few occasions when it hadn't, the consequences were not as grave as he had imagined.
His father had not, alas, lived to see his son's success. When the sheikh started buying up all the available land in that part of the desert in order to build one of the most modern cities in the world, his father had had the courage to say to one of the sheikh's emissaries:
"I'm not selling. My family has been here for centuries. We buried our dead here. We learned to survive storms and invaders. We cannot sell the place that God charged us to take care of."
The emissaries increased their offer. When he still refused, they got angry and threatened to do whatever was necessary to remove him. The sheikh, too, began to grow impatient. He wanted to start his project straightaway because he had big plans. The price of oil had risen on the international market, and the money needed to be spent before the oil reserves ran out and any possibility of building an infrastructure to attract foreign investments vanished.
Still old Hussein refused to sell his property, whatever the price. Then the sheikh decided to go and speak to him directly.
"I can offer you anything you desire," he said.
"Then give my son a good education. He's sixteen now, and there are no prospects for him here."
"Only if you sell me your house."
There was a long silence, then his father, looking straight at the sheikh, said something the latter had never expected to hear.
"You, sir, have a duty to educate your subjects, and I cannot exchange my family's future for its past."
Hamid recalls the look of immense sadness in his father's eyes as he went on:
"But if you can at least give my son a chance in life, then I will accept your offer."
The sheikh left without saying another word. The following day, he asked Hamid's father to send his son to him so that they could talk. After walking down blocked roads, past gigantic cranes, laborers tirelessly working, and whole quarters in the process of being demolished, Hamid finally reached the palace that had been built beside the old port.
The sheikh came straight to the point.
"You know that I want to buy your father's house. There is very little oil left in our country, and we must wean ourselves off oil and find other paths before the oil wells run dry. We will prove to the world that we can sell not only oil, but our services too. Meanwhile, in order to take those first steps, we need to make some major reforms, like building a good airport, for example. We need land so that foreigners can build on it. My dream is a just one and my intentions are good. One thing we're going to need are more experts in the field of finance. Now, you heard the conversation between myself and your father..."
Hamid tried to disguise his fear, for there were more than a dozen people listening to their conversation. However, his heart had an answer ready for each question he was asked.
"...so tell me, what do you want to do?" asked the sheikh.
"I want to study haute couture."
The other people present looked at each other. They might not even have known what he meant.
"My father sells much of the cloth he buys to foreigners, who then turn his cloth into designer clothes and earn a hundred times more from it than he does. I'm sure we could do the same here. I'm convinced that fashion could be one way of breaking down the prejudices the rest of the world has about us. If they could be made to see that we don't dress like barbarians, they would find it easier to accept us."
This time, he heard murmurings in the court. Was he talking about clothes? That was something for Westerners, who were more concerned with how people looked on the outside than with what they were like inside.
"On the other hand, the price my father is paying is very high. I would prefer to keep our house. I will work with the cloth he has, and if Merciful God so desires it, I will realize my dream. I, like Your Majesty, know what I want."
The court listened in amazement to hear this boy not only challenging their region's great leader, but refusing to accept his own father's wishes. The sheikh, however, smiled.
"And where does one study haute couture?"
"In France or Italy, working with the great masters. There are universities where one can study, but there's no substitute for experience. It won't be easy, but if Merciful God so wishes, I will succeed."
The sheikh asked him to come back later that afternoon. Hamid strolled down to the port and visited the bazaar, where he marveled at the colors, the cloths, and the embroidery. He loved visiting the bazaar and it saddened him to think that it would soon be destroyed because a part of the past and part of tradition would be lost. Was it possible to stop progress? Would it be sensible to try and stop the development of a nation? He remembered the many nights he had sat up late drawing by candlelight, copying the clothes the Bedouin wore, afraid that tribal costumes would also one day be destroyed by the cranes and by foreign investment.
At the appointed hour, he returned to the palace. There were even more people with the sheikh now.
"I have made two decisions," said the sheikh. "First, I am going to pay your expenses for a year. We have enough boys interested in a career in the financial sector, but you are the first to express a wish to learn sewing. It seems utter madness, but then everyone tells me my dreams are mad too, and yet look where they've got me. I cannot go against my own example.
