Princess Sultana's Circle (19 page)

These thoughts were
interrupted when I heard Maysa, who in spite of all her efforts had
nodded off in her seat, cry out in her sleep. Knowing that the
unfortunate Maysa was at that moment witnessing our beloved Prophet
as a pig, I knew that her dreams were even more disturbing than my
own thoughts. I would not be in Maysa’s situation for all the
freedom in the world.

Chapter Ten

Stolen Angels

Our plane soon landed at
the La Guardia Airport in New York. Thankfully, we passed through
customs and immigration quickly since one of the Saudi officials
from our Consulate offices in New York was on hand to guide us
through that place and ensure VIP treatment.

Ten limousines stood ready
to transport us, and our luggage, to the New York Plaza Hotel. The
women were highly excited, so it took long moments for us to decide
who would ride with whom, in what car.

Exasperated, Kareem began
to shout, telling us that we reminded him of large black birds
flitting from one place to another. The other women calmed down and
quickly found a place to sit, but I stood aside, and stubbornly
refused to enter the limousine until Kareem apologized for his rude
remarks.

Kareem saw that I was
willing to take a firm stand, so he lifted his shoulders in
resignation and said, “I am sorry, Sultana. Now,
please
, get in the
car!”

Somewhat appeased, I sat
with Sara and Maysa. I watched as the limousine driver rolled his
eyes; obviously, he was unaccustomed to the histrionic displays of
female Saudi royalty. Despite the disruptions, we were soon on our
way to the Plaza Hotel.

Kareem had reserved an
entire wing of the grand old hotel that had long been our favorite
during our visits to New York City. Time and again, the staff at
the Plaza had proven their discretion in providing hospitality to
guests from wealthy Middle Eastern countries. Such thoughtful
service is not forgotten.

As we drove into the city,
I watched with delight as women drivers sped pass us. Such a sight
I never tire of when I visit other lands! Women are not allowed to
drive in Saudi Arabia, and since this restriction has no basis in
our religion, it has always angered me. Years ago, Kareem took me
for driving lessons in the desert. I learned to drive, but I have
never driven through the streets of my own country. To add insult
to injury, a woman of forty years is forbidden to drive in Saudi
Arabia, yet boys no more than eight or nine years old are
frequently seen at the wheel of a speeding automobile filled with
terrified women. Some Bedouin men in my country give their camels
better treatment than they do their wives. In Saudi Arabia, it is
not an uncommon sight to see baby camels riding in the passenger
seat of an air-conditioned truck while veiled women are riding in
the open truck base at the back!

Now, watching American
women drive confidently through the heavy city traffic lifted my
spirits. Surely, while visiting such a country as the United
States, I could finally forget about the misfortunes that plague so
many females. I could take immediate pleasure in the freedom for
women that I saw all around me.

Unfortunately, as happens
so frequently in my life, my wish was not to be granted.

The traffic was not heavy,
and our automobile ride from the airport to the hotel lasted no
more than thirty-five minutes. A second Consulate employee had
ensured special security arrangements upon our arrival at the
hotel, so we were all escorted directly to our rooms.

We women parted company in
the hotel corridor. In a high state of excitement, we agreed we
would not give in to jet-lag, but would dress as quickly as
possible, and then meet in Sara’s suite before setting off for our
long-awaited shopping spree.

Once Kareem and I had
inspected our suite and found it to our satisfaction, he turned to
me with a smile, and said, “Sultana, I must leave soon, but before
I leave, I want to give you a small gift.”

I stared at Kareem in
wonder. What now? My husband is a generous man who often showers me
with expensive gifts at the most unexpected times.

He then slipped a platinum
American Express credit card into my hand. “Sultana, you can use
this card to purchase anything you wish up to $500,000 in American
dollars.”

He smiled at the expression
on my face. “Darling, you have been under such a strain, lately.
You deserve to have a good time. But,” he added, “this card will
probably not be enough to cover jewelry. Should you find something
special you want, just ask the manager to hold it, and I will send
one of my bankers tomorrow to complete the purchase.”

I turned the card over in
my hands. This would be the first time I had ever been given one.
When I shop in Saudi Arabia, never do I pay for my own purchases.
In fact, I rarely know the price of the items I purchase. I always
leave the details regarding payment to one of our business
managers. I was accustomed to merely pointing out what I wanted,
knowing that the items would be paid for later. Today, though, I
felt pleased that we were not accompanied by one of our business
managers and that I would be responsible for charging my own
purchases.

Kareem then retrieved a
large bundle of American currency of various denominations out of
his briefcase and literally stuffed my handbag. Three times he
cautioned me not to let strangers see that money; he did not want
New York muggers smashing in my head.

Just then Asad knocked at
the door, and Kareem rushed out with his brother to attend a
business meeting.

I was left alone at last. I
telephoned Libby and asked her to come to my room and prepare my
bath. After the long plane ride, I needed to freshen up. Later, as
I soaked in my bath, I lazily decided that I would shop at Bergdorf
Goodman, a favorite department store for many Al Sa’ud
women.

Once I was dressed, I
joined the other women waiting in Sara’s suite. After lengthy
discussions, we decided that Sara and Maysa would accompany me to
Bergdorf Goodman. Libby, Betty, and Afaaf stood silently, waiting
for our instructions. Generally we would take our servants with us
when we go out shopping, but on this day our hearts were so sad for
Afaaf that Sara and I decided to surprise them with a cash bonus
and the day off. All three women smiled gratefully before leaving
to shop on Fifth Avenue.

The seventh woman in our
party, Cousin Huda, declined to join us. For her, shopping could
wait. Instead, she announced, she planned to remain in her suite
and indulge herself in fine food and drink. In fact, already she
had ordered three large tins of Beluga caviar, and was now looking
forward to an afternoon spent eating caviar, drinking champagne,
and watching American soap operas on television.

I stared in amazement at
Huda. Why would any woman choose to remain locked in a hotel suite
to eat instead of shopping in New York City? We Saudi women remain
secluded for so much of our lives that one would think such an
opportunity as this would not be missed.

I shrugged but said nothing
to convince Huda otherwise. She was not one of my favorite cousins,
nor did we have a particularly close relationship. I could not
understand her obsession with food, and every conversation with her
involved hearing about some special dish or another that she had
either prepared or eaten. One story that was repeated in our family
with great amusement was that Huda and her husband often flew to
France for a single meal!

Only Sara was kind enough
to endure her long conversations describing gourmet dishes. For
this reason, Huda had attached herself to Sara, and my gentle
sister was too kind to pull away. So, I was relieved that Huda was
staying behind.

Our walk to Bergdorf
Goodman took only minutes, but for me, it was an exhilarating walk,
for I never tire of such simple freedoms taken for granted by most
of the women of the world. Here I was, in broad daylight, dressed
in a form-fitting blue Armani jacket and skirt, walking down a city
street crowded with men. Here, women need not fear the sudden
appearance of the Mutawwa, the Saudi religious police, with their
sticks to strike any woman immoral enough to dress in such
provocative attire.

I felt a great gaiety, and
not a little vain. I have always been sad that I was not blessed
with long limbs, as are my sisters. Yet my legs, although short,
are shapely. Now I was well aware that my matching blue high-heeled
shoes displayed my legs to a good advantage. A breeze blew through
my long wavy hair, which I deliberately tossed as I chatted with
Sara and Maysa. I felt exuberant and happy to have the freedom to
show my face, display my lovely clothes, and walk the streets of a
large city—and all without a hovering male escort!

I thought that Western
women are indeed more fortunate than they realize. This thought led
me to Afaaf. I knew that she must be enjoying this sweet day of
freedom, even more than me.

I glanced at Maysa and
smiled. She had not taken particular care with her personal
appearance. Yet, an expensive black suit covers many flaws. Sara
was dressed more demurely than Maysa or me, in a modest dress of
crème silk with a high neck and long sleeves, but as always she
looked stunning.

I felt deliciously feminine
and pretty when I became aware of several men staring at us as we
walked down the street. While my flamboyance drew their initial
attention, I noticed that their eyes lingered longest on Sara, who,
of course completely failed to notice that we were the focus of so
many appreciative glances.

Once we entered the
department store, I followed my usual behavior when confronted with
such a dazzling display of merchandise: I purchased every item that
caught my eye! In a short time I had selected fifteen expensive
evening gowns to wear to parties and weddings. There is much
competition among us Al Sa’ud women, so I shopped for the newest
and most original styles. I did not take the time to try on these
dresses. My custom is to buy many, many clothes, and then give away
what does not fit or I do not like.

I was not totally selfish,
though; I also found many wonderful gifts for my children and
Kareem.

As soon as I informed a
clerk that I would take a dozen silk blouses in one style and
color, she quickly determined that we were members of the royal
family of Saudi Arabia, and called one of the store managers. After
that, we were accompanied by the manager as we examined Bergdorf
Goodman’s huge collection of designer wear.

Soon, more than ten
employees had been summoned to carry our heavy shopping bags. It
was evident in the faces around us that our spending spree at
Bergdorf Goodman’s was a most exciting event.

Although Sara and Maysa’s
purchases together filled no more than five shopping bags, I
required more than thirty bags for the items I had selected.
Surely, I thought, Kareem would need to replenish my special card
with additional funds; I was astonished when the manager said that
my total expenditure at Bergdorf Goodman’s amounted to only
$388,000.

Sara was not surprised when
I told her of Kareem’s gift, as most members of our family are
fabulously wealthy, and on our shopping trips we buy anything we
desire. Still, our purchases are trifling compared to the real
estate and business deals our husbands were conducting even as we
shopped.

Maysa had been born into a
Palestinian family of modest means, so her reaction was one of
disapproval at my extravagance. I overheard her when she murmured,
“Multiply your possessions, increase your burdens.” Maysa looked at
me and shook her head sadly. “If Allah chooses to bless me with an
additional hundred years of life, I will never adjust to the
reckless spending that goes on in this family. Really, Sultana,
surely by now even you are wearied of buying endless party dresses
and fine jewelry?”

I was not offended by her
words. Who could be angry with a woman who lived such an exemplary
life of selfless generosity? I knew that Maysa preferred to spend
her husband’s wealth on the poor. Once I heard that Naif and Maysa
supported over eighty Palestinian families living on the West Bank,
not only housing, feeding, and clothing them, but also paying for
the education of the children.

I hugged Maysa just to let
her know that she had not angered me. I did not bother to justify
my extravagant life style, however, for I felt comfortable in the
knowledge that Kareem and I give much more of our wealth to the
poor than is required by our faith. What more were we to
do?

After we returned from our
exhausting shopping adventure, I retired to my suite to rest before
dinner.

Kareem had not returned by
the late afternoon, and knowing that my sister and the other women
in our party were most likely still resting in their rooms, I
became restless. I decided to telephone several American women that
I had befriended many years before.

I was soon pleased to hear
the voice of a dear friend, Anne, who squealed upon hearing my
voice. “Thank God, you have called, Sultana!

I desperately wanted to
call you in Riyadh, but feared someone might overhear our
conversation.”

I smiled. Anne is convinced
that all telephone lines in my country are tapped.