Sweet Revenge (7 page)

Jealousy forgotten, Duja grinned. “Only one?”

“A special one. We are going to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower and to a place where they have thousands of paintings. And then—” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I am sick.”

“If you are sick, you will not go, so you will not be sick. Leiha is sulking.” She said it only in hopes to make Adrianne feel better. Servants had already taken the bags, so Duja put her arm around Adrianne’s shoulder to lead her out. “She wants to go, but the king takes only you and your mother. Leiha has to be content that she is pregnant again.”

“If I can buy presents for Fahid and my sisters, you will give them?”

“I will.” She kissed Adrianne’s cheek. “I will miss you.”

“We will be back soon.”

“But you have never gone away before.”

The harem was filled with women and the excitement of the journey only two would take. There were embraces to be exchanged, and laughter. Phoebe stood in her veil and
abaaya
, her hands knotted together at her waist, her face impassive. The scents, the dark, smoky scents of the harem weighed down on her until she thought she could almost see them. If there were a God, she would never see these people or this place again. For once she was grateful for the scarves and the veil. It meant she had to control only her eyes.

The wave of regret surprised her as she kissed her sisters-in-law, her mother-in-law, the cousins by marriage. All the women she had lived with for almost a decade.

“Adrianne must sit by the window,” Jiddah told Phoebe as she kissed and embraced them both. “So she can look down at Jaquir as the plane rises.” She smiled, pleased that her son was at last showing an interest in the child who was secretly her favorite. “Do not eat too much French cream, my sweet girl.”

Adrianne grinned and rose on her toes to kiss Jiddah one last time. “I will eat so much that I will get fat. You will not know me when I return.”

Jiddah laughed, patting Adrianne’s cheek with a hand lavishly decorated with henna. “I will always know you. Go, go now. Come back safe.
Inshallah.”

They walked out of the harem, through the garden and beyond the wall, where a car was waiting. Adrianne’s nerves were too tightly strung for her to notice her mother’s silence. She chattered about the plane ride, Paris, what they would see, what they would buy. She asked a question, then hurried on to another without expecting an answer.

By the time they reached the airport, Adrianne was sick with excitement. Phoebe was sick with fear.

Thus far, the coming of Western businessmen had only complicated airport procedure. Planes landed and departed more often, and ground transportation was limited to a smattering of cabs whose drivers spoke no English. The small terminal was already packed; women shuffled to one end, men to the other. Confused Americans and Europeans fought to guard their luggage from overenthusiastic porters while searching desperately for connections often delayed for days. Those czars of capitalism more often than not were stalled, victims of a culture gap that had widened to a chasm over the centuries.

The air roared with the noise of planes, the cacophony of voices in different languages that rose and fell often without understanding. Adrianne saw a woman sitting by a pile of baggage, her face wet with tears and pale with exhaustion. Another rode herd on three young children who stared and pointed at the Arabic women in their black cloaks and veils.

“There are so many of them,” Adrianne murmured as they were led through the crowd by their bodyguards. “Why do they come?”

“Money.” Phoebe shifted her eyes right and left. It was hot, so hot she feared she might faint. But her hands were like ice. “Hurry.”

Taking Adrianne’s hand, she pulled her outside again. Abdu’s gleaming new private plane, recently purchased with oil money, waited.

Adrianne’s mouth dried up at the sight of it. “It’s very small.”

“Don’t worry. I’m with you.”

Inside, the cabin was very plush despite its size. The seats were upholstered in a rich fabric the color of pewter; the carpet was bloodred. The tiny lights bolted near each seat had crystal shades. Wonderfully cool, the air smelted of sandalwood, the king’s preferred scent. Servants, bowing silently, waited to serve from the store of food and drink.

Abdu was already on board, bent with his secretary over a file of papers. His
throbe
had been discarded for a suit tailored in London, but he wore it with the headdress of the East. He never glanced up as they climbed in and took their
seats. Instead, he gave a careless signal to one of his men. Within moments the engine caught. Adrianne’s stomach did a quick flip when the nose rose into the air.

“Mama.”

“Well be over the clouds soon.” Phoebe kept her voice low, grateful that Abdu ignored them. “Just like birds, Addy. Watch.” She rested her cheek against Adrianne’s. “Jaquir is going away.”

Adrianne wanted to be sick, but was afraid to because her father was with them. Determined, she clenched her teeth, swallowed hard, and watched the world drop away. After a while the churning in her stomach eased. It was Phoebe’s turn to chatter. She did so in a low voice that ultimately lulled Adrianne to sleep. While her daughter dozed on her shoulder, Phoebe stared down at the blue waters of the Mediterranean and prayed.

Paris was a feast for the senses. Adrianne clung to her mother’s hand and stared at everything as they hurried through the airport. She had always believed that her mother’s stories about other places were no more than fairy tales. She had loved them as such, dreamed of them as such. Now she had stepped through a door into a world that had existed only in her imagination.

Even her mother was different. She had shed the
abaaya
and veil. Beneath she wore a trim Western suit the same shade as her eyes. Her hair was loose and free, gloriously red over her shoulders. She had even spoken to a man, a stranger, when they had passed through customs. Adrianne had glanced fearfully up at her father, waiting for punishment. But he had done nothing.

Women walked here, sometimes alone, sometimes arm in arm with men. They wore skirts and tight pants that showed their legs. They walked with their heads up, their hips swinging, but no one stared at them. To her astonishment, she saw a couple embrace and kiss while others elbowed around them. There were no
matawain
, with their camel whips and henna-tipped beards, to arrest them.

The sun was setting when they exited the terminal. Adrianne waited to hear the prayer call sound, but there was nothing. There was confusion here, but it was faster and
somehow more organized than the confusion at the airport in Jaquir. People bundled into cabs, men and women together without shame or secrecy. Phoebe had to pull her into the limo as she craned to see more.

To see Paris at sunset for the first time. Whenever Adrianne thought of the city again, she would remember the magic of that first view, when the light was caught between day and night. The old buildings rose, fussy, somehow feminine, glowing pink and gold and soft white in the dying sun. The big car swooped down the boulevard, driving fast into the heart of the city. But it wasn’t the speed that made her giddy and breathless.

She thought there would be music. In such a place there had to be music. But she didn’t risk asking permission to lower the window. Instead, she let it play inside her head, grandly, gloriously, as they cruised along the Seine.

There were couples walking, hand in hand, their hair and the little short skirts of the women fluttering in a breeze that smelted of water and flowers. That smelted of Paris. She saw cafes where people huddled around small round tables and drank from glasses that glinted red and gold like the sunlight.

If she had been told that the plane had taken them to another planet and another time, she would have believed it.

When the car stopped at the hotel, Adrianne waited until her father had stepped out. “Can we see more later?”

“Tomorrow.” Phoebe squeezed her hand so tightly she winced. “Tomorrow.” She fought not to shiver in the balmy evening air. The hotel looked like a palace, and she was through with palaces.

With the entourage of servants and bodyguards and secretaries, they took an entire floor of the Crillion. To Adrianne’s disappointment, she and her mother were ushered to their suite and left alone.

“Can’t we go and have dinner at this place called Maxim’s?”

“Not tonight, darling.” Phoebe peered out through the peephole in the door. A guard was already in place outside the door. There was to be a harem even in Paris. Her face was pale when she turned back, but she smiled and struggled to keep her voice light. “We’ll have something sent up. Anything you want.”

“Being here is no different from being in Jaquir.” She looked around the elegant suite. Like the women’s quarters, it was plush and secluded. Unlike them, there were windows open to the evening. She crossed the room and looked out at Paris. Lights had twinkled on, giving the city a festive, fairy-tale look. She was in Paris but was not permitted to be a part of it. It was as if she’d been given the most glorious jewel in the world and allowed to look at it for a few moments before it was snatched back and locked away in a vault.

“Addy, you must be patient.” Like her daughter, Phoebe was drawn to the window, to the lights, to the life in the streets. Her yearnings were only the stronger because she had once been free. “Tomorrow … tomorrow is going to be the most exciting day in your life.” She gathered Adrianne close to kiss her. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“I’m going to do what’s best for you, I swear it.” Her grip tightened, then abruptly she released Adrianne and laughed. “Now, you enjoy the view. I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just into the next room. I promise.” She smiled, hoping to reassure them both. “Look out the window, baby. Paris is beautiful this time of day.”

Phoebe closed the door between the parlor and her bedroom. It was risky to use the phone. For days she had tried to think of a better, of a safer way. Though she had needed relief, she hadn’t touched a tranquilizer or a drink since Abdu had announced the trip. Her mind was clearer than it had been in years. So clear it hurt. Still, she could think of no way except the phone. Her only hope was that Abdu wouldn’t suspect betrayal from a woman who had tolerated his abuse for so long.

She picked up the receiver. It felt foreign in her hand, like something from another century. She nearly laughed. She was a grown woman, living in the twentieth century, yet it had been almost a decade since she had touched a telephone. Her fingers shook as she dialed. The voice spoke in quick French.

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes, madame. May I help you?”

There was a God, she thought as she lowered herself to
sit on the bed. “I want to send a cablegram. An urgent one. To the United States. To New York.”

Adrianne stood at the windows, her hands pressed against the glass as if by will alone she could dissolve it and become a part of the world that hurried by outside. Something was wrong with her mother. Her deepest fear was that Phoebe was ill and they would both be sent back to Jaquir. She knew if they were taken back now, she would never see a place such as Paris again. She would not see the women with their bare legs and painted faces or the high buildings with their hundreds of lights. She thought her father would be glad, glad that she had seen but not touched, smelled but not tasted. It would be another way to punish her for being female and of mixed blood.

As if her thoughts had conjured him, he strode through the door and into the suite. Adrianne turned. She was small for her age, as delicate as a doll. Already there were hints of the dark, sultry beauty from her bedouin blood. Abdu saw only a thin girl with wide eyes and a stubborn mouth. As always, his eyes frosted over when he looked at her.

“Where is your mother?”

“She is through there.” When he started for the door, Adrianne took a quick step forward. “May we go out tonight?”

He spared her a brief, disinterested glance. “You will remain here.”

Because she was young, she persisted when others would have bowed away. “It is not late. The sun has only just set. Grandmother told me there was much to do in Paris at night.”

He stopped fully now. It was rare for her to dare to speak to him, rarer still for him to bother to listen. “You will remain inside. You are here only because I permitted it.”

“Why did you?”

That she had the temerity to ask had his eyes narrowing. “My reasons are of no concern to you. Be warned that if you remind me of your presence too often, I will rid myself of it.”

Adrianne’s eyes glistened with a combination of grief and anger she couldn’t understand. “I am blood of your blood,” she said softly. “What reason is there for you to hate me?”

“You are blood of her blood.” And he turned to open the
door. Phoebe stepped out quickly. Her color was high, her eyes round and wide, like a doe’s when she scents the hunter.

“Abdu. Did you want to see me? I needed to wash after the trip.”

He saw the nerves. He smelled the fear. It pleased him that she did not consider herself secure even outside the walls of the harem. “An interview has been arranged. We will have breakfast here at nine o’clock with the reporter. You will dress accordingly, and see that she is prepared.”

Phoebe glanced toward Adrianne. “Of course. After the interview I’d like to do some shopping, perhaps take Adrianne to a museum.”

“You will do what you wish between ten o’clock and four. Then I will require you.”

“Thank you. We’re grateful for the chance to visit Paris.”

“See that the girl holds her tongue, or she will see Paris only through that window.”

When he left, Phoebe let her shaking legs buckle. “Addy, please, don’t anger him.”

“I have only to
be
to anger him.”

When she saw the first tears, Phoebe opened her arms. “You’re so young,” she said as she rocked Adrianne in her lap. “Too young for all of this. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Over Adrianne’s head her eyes focused and hardened. “I swear I’ll make it all up to you.”