“Servants’ quarters. And kitchens. My sister, Amani, is very active back home in improving the treatment of migrant workers. It’s a big problem, as I’m sure you already know, but not so much in Al-Ahradi, anymore. And that’s down to her. She works with our neighboring countries, doing what she can.”
Nadya found herself thinking that she was looking forward to meeting Amani, before she caught herself with a pang of regret.
“And that one?” she pointed at the last remaining side. She had to move on.
He smiled. “Elham, the second eldest,” he said. Music and entertainment. The piano is in there. And the listening room. It’s set up beautifully. I’ve got a recording studio, there for her. She uses it when she comes to visit.”
“And,” he said, leaning into her conspiratorially, “the movie theater is in there.”
“We should watch something,” she said. “I’d like to see it. From the inside.”
He nodded, but didn’t move to walk. “Of course. But after breakfast, I think. We never did have breakfast, did we?”
With those words, Nadya suddenly realized how hungry she was. All the excitement – the plans for escape and the realization that she was standing in the place of Salman’s dreams – it had served to suppress her appetite without her realizing.
“I could use some coffee, as well, if you’re offering.”
He asked a staff member to bring them a table and chairs, and they ate right there on the podium. She would have felt exposed up, Nadya thought, except that the courtyard itself, large though it was, still felt intimate. It was protected – their own private world. It had the same feeling of privacy that the inside of their hotel in the city had.
“Is it always like this with you?” Nadya asked, settling back into her chair, sipping her coffee. She felt full and satisfied enough to muse.
“Like what?”
“Like nothing else matters. Like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.”
She hadn’t meant it to sound romantic. She meant it as a comment on his style, and his choices. But the words out loud made her blush with their implications.
“I’m glad you feel that way.”
She began to formulate a response, to try and make him understand that she was commenting on the architecture of his home, and his choice of hotel suite. But instead she let it stand. If she was supposed to be his f
iancée, what was wrong with a little romance? She was pretending to be other Nadya, and other Nadya was supposed to fall in love with this man. If she let herself go a little bit down that road, what would be the harm?
With the thought of Other Nadya, though, she grew uncomfortable. She was sitting in the very same place as the woman would, in just a few days, form an unbreakable, lifelong union with Salman. This very spot, right here, was where their life together would begin.
“What’s wrong?” Salman asked, noticing her discomfort.
“Nothing,” she said. Looking at him, she meant it. His face had a way of banishing her worried from her mind. Whatever was going to happen in an hour, or two hours, or ten hours, she had him for the moment, and she may as well enjoy it. “I was just thinking the house looks bigger than what you had described. Inside it.”
He frowned. “Well, the rooms are quite large. Like back home, you know. Not like the tiny rooms they have here in America.”
She nodded, as though she knew what he meant.
“And there are some extra rooms. Guest rooms, and things like that. Nooks and crannies. I was just telling you the overall themes. There’s more to be discovered.”
She found herself excited at the prospect. She would wander around, discovering. Maybe it would take hours. Maybe it would take days.
Nadya’s heart sank again. She’d found herself imagining that this was all real, and forgetting that it wasn’t. She had to stop doing that, she thought. If only for her own sanity.
“And, of course, there’s the basement.” He said it with something sly in his voice, and winked at the end. Her curiosity was peaked.
“What’s in the basement?”
“If you’re done with your coffee, I’ll show you.”
She pitted her curiosity against her desire to stay there, sitting with him and sipping her coffee in the sunlight. The coffee and the warmth won. At least for the moment. They let the conversation between them lapse, quietly enjoying one another’s company.
“What’s that smell?” she asked, after a while.
“The coffee?” he asked, and she shot him an annoyed look.
“No, not that.”
“The food?” This time, the obviously incorrect answer was intentional. She could tell by his cheeky look.
“No, really. What is that?”
He concentrated, closing his eyes so he could focus. “Ah,” he said. “That. That’s Honeysuckle.”
“They have it in California,” she said, remembering again, for the second time in as many days, the time she’d spent there and how few her cares had been.
He was nodding. “They do,” he said.
“It’s beautiful.”
And she meant more than the honeysuckle. She meant everything. She meant the garden. She meant the house. She meant the entrance and the great grand door. She meant him. She didn’t specify, but she had a feeling he knew.