I look at him, my nerve endings still firing from our earlier conversation, his certainty that we must have children.
“What is it?”
“A wedding present.”
“Seriously?” My lips tug downwards. “You didn’t have to do that.” He hands me a gift, small in shape. I pull at the tissue paper, golden in colour and almost translucent, drawing it outwards slowly to reveal some
thing remarkable. Inside is the most delicate and perfect egg – porcelain and incredibly fine, so that even held within the palm of my hand I fear breaking it. The shell is covered in an ornate pattern, links of turquoise and yellow scrawl across it, enchanting me with the detail.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, my eyes lifting to his. Emotions stir deep in my chest. “It’s so strange. My mom used to have something similar to this.” I hold it up to the light, the shell shimmering at this angle. “Hers was less delicate, a little larger.”
His brow knits together. “You really do not know our culture, do you?”
The words sting more than they should. I stare at him blankly. “What do you mean?”
“It is a Qabidi tradition that a groom will give his bride an egg on their wedding night. It used to be a real egg, but over time, these became more popular, and ceramic is now the standard.”
“An egg?” I repeat, not sure this makes any sense.
He carefully takes the gift from my hands. “It symbolises new life – the life we are to start together, two people becoming one.” He reaches for my finger, running it around the diameter slowly. “This is the journey we are to take – all marriages are a circle. A beginning, and an end, but much experienced in between.” I feel as though something sharp is pressing to my side. Pain lances me. I understand it intrinsically. It’s the pain of knowing these words mean nothing to him; the gift is hollow, meaningless. A tradition someone on his staff thought he should abide by. They would have organised the egg, not him.
“An egg is beautiful and full of promise, but it is also fragile. In Qabid, we believe marriages must be nurtured, cared for, our partners respected, or cracks will develop and the marriage will break.”
An egg as a metaphor for marriage shouldn’t be romantic and mystical yet hearing this description from Zahir stirs something deep in my soul.
I ignore it as best as I can. “Well, thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.” I smile tightly and turn away, not sure I want to see the egg again – it’s just a reminder of what our marriage isn’t, rather than a lesson in what we should aspire to. Our marriage is already cracked beyond repair – it’s better to be realistic from the beginning.
Zahir
Asleep, she is so different to the woman I’ve seen these past two days. In sleep, there is no hardness or defensiveness about her, no anger or impatience. In sleep, she is gentle and soft, her breathing almost silent, everything about her rhythmic and peaceful. I watch her with a scowl on my face, a crystal glass in my hand filled with a generous measure of Kathani, a drink made in Qabid that best compares to scotch.
Her eyelashes form two perfect fans against her creamy cheeks, her blonde hair is a halo against the bright pillow. It’s a warm night and a few minutes ago, she pushed the coverings off her body. She’s wearing shorts and a singlet top. Nothing particularly seductive or glamorous, but the hint of her cleavage, the gentle curve of her breasts and hips, the smoothness of her legs, makes me ache to reach for her, to touch her, to hear her moan softly as she did when I kissed her after our wedding.
Her body’s response galvanised something within me. I’d had to fight every instinct I possessed not to throw her over my shoulder and drag her to my bedroom right then, to make love to her hard and fast, then slowly, oh so slowly, taking all night to pleasure her, to find the parts of her body she most liked having touched and kissed and torment her with her sensuality.
If I went to her now and kissed her, I know she’d stir with sensual need, her arms lifting and wrapping around my neck. No matter how she wants to fight with me, there is something between us, a chemistry or spark, that renders our hatred obsolete. Temporarily, but emphatically.
I want – things I can’t have.
It isn’t right to use her body’s desires against her.
She might be the daughter of a man I hate with all my soul, but that doesn’t mean I can treat her with less respect than I would any other woman.
She shifts, turning onto her back, lifting one arm above her head so her singlet separates a little, revealing an inch of tanned, flat midriff. My eyes roam her flesh then I stand abruptly, moving to the opening of the tent and stepping through it.
There are many things I love about the desert. The ancient sands beneath my feet, worn down over millennia to form this landscape, the stark heat that demands a type of strength our people are renowned for. I love the night sky viewed from this vantage point, the blackness of the backdrop to stars that shimmer as though hyper-charged with electricity. They are ancient too, like these sands, and in the midst of this I feel as though my life is a small reverberation in the cosmic fabric of time. Whatever worries I carry seem more manageable here, the burdens of leadership ebbing away as I am reminded, vigorously, of much greater forces and questions. Or perhaps I am reminded, here in the desert, of all the Sheikhs who’ve come before me, who’ve travelled to this oasis and sought counsel from its serenity. I walk to its edges now, bending down to run my fingers through the water. It is cool to the touch.
Without second guessing myself, I strip down and, naked, walk across the shore and into the lagoon, moving deeper, until the water brushes my hips.
She defends her father as though he is the epitome of honour and at the same time, hands me evidence that he is not. The emails she casually referred to him sending should have been impossible – our government agencies have sought to prevent any communication between him and his troublemaking followers. That he managed to circumvent those efforts is further proof of his ongoing intent to stir trouble.
Is it possible my plan here will backfire? No. Not so long as I have Amy as collateral.
My lips are grim, her instinct to speak highly of her father understandable, given their relationship. Before she travelled here, I was convinced she would know everything. I thought her father might have told her of his intentions, of the plot to have me murdered so that he could assume my place, and of his part in the death of my own father. I thought her father might have brought her in on that plot, or at least poisoned her mind with a hatred of me.
She does hate me, but only for the wrong she perceives I’ve done her father.
If she knew there was incontrovertible proof that I had, in fact, given him a kindness he never intended to give me? I could have had him put to death for his treason, but I didn’t, and now I realise how much Amy was a part of my consideration. For Malik Hassan had a young daughter at the time his plan was discovered and to rob a child of a parent was something I couldn’t do. I knew the distinct, pervasive pain of that; I’d felt the absence of my parents for many long years. I would never inflict that on another person.