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I un-pause the conference call and resume our conversation, but my mind continues to unravel the problem of my wife. She is stubborn and argumentative, and I can feel her animosity towards me often enough to know it’s not going anywhere – and probably never will. Does that matter? Do I need her to like me?
No.
I need her by my side – a visible presence in Qabidi society, someone who can mollify the small crowd of violent, unruly supporters of the Hassan claim. I need them to see her happy with me, for them to realise a Hassan is on the throne, albeit not the one they wanted. My hope is that they will choose acceptance and peace over more trouble-making – and the harsh penalties I have been hesitating to impose.
No longer. My country is at a turning point and Amy is a part of that. If she wants to play games and deny how she feels about me physically, then that’s her prerogative. I can wait.
Amy
My plan backfired, in that I got exactly what I thought I wanted. Zahir’s polite message in response to my own – that I’m too sick to move to his rooms – was not what I’d expected. I thought he’d fight me. Bang the door down to my room and carry me to his own, anger sparking between us meaning that when we made love there’d be no tenderness, no emotions other than dislike and enmity. And then would it have been acceptable?
Would that have meant I was betraying my family to a lesser degree?
I huff as I push my elbow into the pillow, trying to get comfortable and failing miserably. There is nothing wrong with the luxuriously soft duck down pillow, nor the hand-crafted mattress. My body is on fire and there is nothing in this room capable of extinguishing these flames.
Thoughts of the old adage about ‘being careful what you wish for’ fire through my mind. Was I stupid to fight him on this point? I don’t know. My head says ‘no’. After all, it’s important that I hold my ground, that I show him sex doesn’t mean I’ll submit to him completely. It doesn’t make us friends, or anything more complex. And it’s no reason to change the current arrangement. I can have my own room, without being drawn completely into his orbit. I know I need some time and space away from his magnetic presence, time in which to make myself remember that I should hate him, even when deep down I know I don’t.
With a groan, I give up on sleep, pushing the lightweight, beautifully crafted covers from my body and moving towards the balcony. The early morning is cool – the sand dunes beyond the palace coloured by moonlight, turning them silver, just as they had been in the desert on that magical-seeming night. My throat goes thick as unwanted emotions – and doubts – flood my body.
I stare out at the desert for a long time, consoling myself that through the course of history, millions of women must have chased this landscape with their eyes, looking for answers in the wise counsel of the particles of sand and grit. I’m simply another one of them, inconsequential in the scheme of things, my worries soothed by the perspective of history’s long view.
“Your highness!”
I must have dozed off at some point, because I’ve just woken up to find Zahir in front of my chair, his nostrils flaring as his eyes bore into me. I sit upright, looking around, disorientated for a few minutes before remembering my troubled night’s sleep – his easy acceptance of my excuse, the fact I’d regretted my decision every single second of the long, lonely night, the way my body had craved his to the point of insanity. The way it was craving him now, so that even the sight of him like this, dressed in white robes with his dark hair curling a little at the nape, makes me ache for him on an urgent, primal level.
My voice is groggy – sleep and surprise coating the syllables in a heavy confusion.
“How do you feel?” Before I can answer, his hand sweeps across my brow, apparently checking for my temperature, but I sit straighter, wishing his hand would brush other parts of my body. It’s as though something has been flicked on inside of me and I have no clue how to flick it off again.
“I’m –,” I clear my throat. “Okay. Thank you,” I tack on belatedly.
“I’m glad.” His nod shows approval, and for a moment I imagine something else.
“You are?”
“Yes.” He strides deeper into my apartment, moving to the kitchen. With a frown I stand and follow, energised by his appearance, anxious on a soul-deep level to not lose sight of him for even a moment. Ignoring how pathetic that makes me, I drink him in as he reaches into the pantry and lifts out a small, shiny pot.
“What is that?”
“An Alabaya,” he says, frowning. “Surely you’ve seen one?”
I shake my head.
“Your father doesn’t drink coffee?”
“Coffee, yes,” I smile unconsciously. “He’s as addicted to the stuff as I am.”
Zahir’s frown deepens. “Then what does he make it with?”
“Um, a filter and grounds.”
His lips compress in an obvious line of disapproval and I laugh, because of all the things he disapproves of my father for, how he takes his coffee seems rather absurd.
“That is not the Qabidi way.”
My smile slips a little. “I suppose he didn’t have one of those things with him he came to America. Perhaps it’s hidden away in a cupboard in his home, here.”
The accusation sparks between us, the air around us changing in quality, growing thick and impossible to navigate, so I stand where I am as he works. In less than a minute, the kitchen is filled with an aroma that makes my tummy swirl with hunger. Coffee, yes, but spices too. I ignore an instinct to comment on the smell. I’ve been too sharply reminded of what my father lost – and coffee is barely the beginning of it.
