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It took a mere ten minutes to cross the covered bridge connecting the staff’s dormitory to Al Sahna, the palace’s newest indoor extension. The Rami words translated to The Plaza in English, and the entertainment complex’s interior drew much inspiration from the sprawling, colorful antique soukhs of Marrakech, with its maze-like pathways of richly patterned tiles and wooden, intricately carved boats sailing under the stone canals that arched over the shimmering waters of a manmade lake.
A domed blanket of digitally produced northern lights shone in brilliant hues over the palace’s private marketplace, which consisted mostly of tented merchant stalls, shisha cafes, and quaint eateries that specialized in Middle Eastern cuisine: one booth boasted of freshly skewered meat for kebab and shawarma while yet another proudly claimed to offer the most savory and scrumptious slices of baklava.
Although one could never run out of things to do (or eat) in Al Sahna, the marketplace tended to quiet down in the late hours of the evening, and a quick look around showed Anisah that tonight wasn’t any different. The streets were completely empty, with its serenely quiet ambience enhanced by the faint notes of Arabian folk music playing out of the complex’s hidden speakers.
It was exactly the kind of peace she craved, Anisah thought with contented bliss, after her most stressful encounter yet with Tarif Al-Atassi.
Hyacinth stopped short of entering the bookstore when she realized her sister had yet to catch up. “Nis? Are you coming?”
“Will you be a while?” Anisah asked.
“Probably. I have a list of magazines to check out, and – oh.” Hyacinth finally noticed where her sister had stopped, and she pretended to pout. “Hmph. You’re choosing your sweet tooth over me again, aren’t you?”
Anisah pretended not to hear her sister’s words, asking, “Do you want me to order anything for you in advance?”
Hyacinth laughed. It was just so typical of Anisah not to admit to anything that might constitute a weakness, and for her too-responsible older sister, even something as ordinary as an addiction to sugary concoctions was just that.
It was a rather cute trait, but it could also get slightly frustrating whenever Anisah’s stubborn tough-cookie side prevented her from sharing her burdens with anyone. And if her guess was right, Hyacinth thought reflectively, more weight had been added to her sister’s already heavily burdened shoulders.
“Come on, Cin. Make up your mind. Do you want me to order anything for you or not?” Anisah’s impatient tone drew Hyacinth’s attention back to her sister, and she had to swallow back a laugh at the way Anisah was shifting restlessly on her feet. Anisah only tended to be this jittery when she thought she was being denied her daily quota of sugar.
Hyacinth shook her head, saying finally, “I’m not that hungry, but maybe I’ll change my mind later. Anyway, I’ll join you as soon as I’m done, ‘kay?”
“Take your time,” Anisah assured her younger sister.
“I definitely will, knowing how you tend to make love to your ice cream.”
“I do not!”
“Yes, you do.” And then Hyacinth dashed inside the bookstore to ensure she had the last word.
Brat. But even so, an affectionate smile tugged at the corner of Anisah’s lips as she entered the bakdash or ice cream parlor. Her sister had always been a brat, to be honest, but the lovable kind, and she was not being biased about that.
“Marhava, anisdi,” the night-shift waitress greeted her with a smile.
“Marhava, Minnie,” Anisah greeted as she made her way to her favorite booth, which was right next to the windows and just a few steps away from the jukebox.
In keeping with its fifties’ diner theme, the ice cream parlor had all the usual staples: checkered flooring, oldies music, and even staff on skates. But because it also came with a Moroccan twist, polychromatic square tiles made up the bar’s countertop, its stools came with quilted cushions, and the glass cabinet at the corner showcased a wide range of hookahs for rent.
Whipping her pen and pad out of her breast pocket as she reached Anisah’s table, the waitress asked, “The usual for you?”
Anisah’s lips twitched. “You know me so well, Minnie.”
“It’s those bags under your eyes,” the other woman half-joked. “They make a reliable point of reference for how much ice cream you need in your system.”
“Oh, Min.” Anisah shook her head with a sigh. “You don’t know how right you are.”
“Then you’ve come to the right place.” Minnie skated away, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll get your order out as soon as I can.”
The older woman was good as her word, returning just ten minutes later with Anisah’s beloved dessert: a medium-sized wooden goblet filled with mouthwatering rose-flavored booza covered with a gooey, saccharine layer of pistachio.
“Shukrahn.” Anisah bowed her head in thanks, and as Minnie skated back to the counter, Anisah closed her eyes and clasped her hands in prayer.
Heavenly One above, thank you for your grace.
The sheikh’s image flashed in her mind, disturbingly vivid, and she squeezed her eyes shut more tightly in an effort to chase it away.
I pray for the spirit of chastity to remain in me.
