The words ring with bitterness. I look away, unable to meet his gaze anymore.
“What is it?” I ask, as he unfolds the fabric.
“A military sash. It was my mother’s.”
Pain cuts through me. I stand silent and still as he slips it over my head, careful not to dislodge the style or the crown, draping the sash across one shoulder and letting it land on my hip. His touch is light and impersonal, but that doesn’t matter. It’s enough to send scatters of awareness through my body, supercharging my blood.
He steps back, staring at me, his eyes moving from the crown on my head to the necklace at my throat, to the sash, and lower, to the golden tip of my shoes, before returning to my eyes. I’m breathless and dizzy from the inspection.
“Well?”
His smile is curt. “You look like my Emira.” He lifts his arm, a question inherent in the gesture. I stare at him, skittled by this. I have to touch him. Of course I do. We’re a married couple and the attendees of this dinner will expect us to behave like one. Tentatively, as though I’ve never touched him before in my life, I lift my hand, slowly inching towards him until my hand is over his. His eyes meet mine and I feel an arc of electricity pass between us, setting me on fire.
“Let’s get this over with.”
The same man who brought the sash moves to the doors, knocking on them three times, loudly. A moment later, they’re drawn inwards, and a room is revealed that is more grandiose than any I could have imagined. Golden walls filled with life sized paintings that must be centuries old, two long tables down the centre each dressed in white cloths and filled with tabletop chandeliers and elegant floral arrangements, fine china and crystal glasses. There must be at least a hundred people assembled, all dressed in the most elegant, formal clothes, all looking at us.
This is what he brought me here for.
Flashes go off, our photos are taken. I paste a smile to my face, hoping that the lens doesn’t capture the sadness of my heart.
Naturally we sit beside one another, at the head of the room, but we are not alone. The Prime Minister of a neighbouring country sits to Zahir’s other side and the prime minister’s wife to mine, so I can plausibly ignore my husband for much of the night by engaging her in conversation. Fortunately, she is easy to talk to and clearly thrilled with my attention. I can’t entirely ignore Zahir though. I am conscious of him at all times. I hear his voice as he speaks to the Prime Minister, and I listen to the tones, if not the words, allowing them to reach inside of me and placate something that has been broken by our time apart. Beneath the table, when he shifts, his leg occasionally brushes mine, jolting me out of my own conversation, rushing me with an awareness that is purely sensual, and absolutely urgent. Memories flood through me. His weight on mine, his legs pinning me to the bed, his strength and power. By the end of the dinner, I’m completely frazzled. There are speeches throughout the evening but Aliya was wrong – I don’t find them boring, so much as necessary. They give me time to come to terms with this – being here beside him, to rationalise away my desire, to remind myself that we’ve been lovers and now we’re not, so it’s normal to still feel attracted to him. That’s all this is. Lust. Nothing more than chemistry, just like he said so early on. That’s all our marriage ever had going for it, he just called it better than I could.
At the conclusion of the formal part of the night, Zahir stands and the room follows. Again he lifts his arm, silently inviting me to take it, and I brace for the same assault on my senses as earlier. Only I could never adequately prepare for this. It’s as though the exposure to him all night has heightened my need for him, so the second I curve my fingers over his I am jolted out of time and space. I am jolted through the entire record of our experiences together, flashes of us in the desert, of us in his room, my room, together, apart, it all clarifies in my mind and my eyes flare to his, loaded, I have no doubt, with the intensity of my feelings.
We return to the banquet room, but it has been filled now with a band and the lights are dim.
“Dance with me.”
It sounds like a command but I know Zahir now. There’s a question there too. If I shake my head, he’ll accept my response. He’s waiting, watching. Desire pulls on me. Need, too. After tonight, I will go back to the apartment in the city and resume my solitary existence. I will go back to the bedroom there, alone, destined to lie and stare at the ceiling, remembering a time when I thought I was falling in love and that perhaps that love wasn’t impossible.
Loneliness is buffering me, on all sides, waiting for me to sink back into it, but first, there is this and there is him. Selfishly, I nod. Selfish, because I know the impossibility of being with him and yet I’ll take what I can get – this one illicit dance, a memory to add to my collection, a closeness that will restore some life to my soul.
“One dance,” I underscore, my voice husky, my eyes holding a warning.
He presses his hand to the small of my back, drawing me to the dance floor. The room is packed with the dinner guests, but they do not move to the dance floor. It’s just Zahir and me. I’m not nervous though. Awareness of him is the only thing I’m conscious of.
In the middle of the room, he pulls me close. The band begins to play, a slow song, traditional Qabidi music with flute and strings, beautiful and stirring. Zahir’s body is rigid, strong, broad, powerful. I wonder if we should be dancing like this – so close and intimate – at a state event. Surely there’s a more appropriate hold than clinging to one another as though our lives depend on it? But I have already decided to be selfish.
A flash goes off and I realise the photographers are here too.
Realisation splits through the moment.
This is a perfect opportunity to show the world how unified we are – how truly happy. What a joke. Zahir has stage-managed this for his own political ends, just as everything about our marriage was stage-managed. And fake.
Foolish tears threaten. I am glad for our closeness now, glad he can’t see my face, the shock and hurt here. He holds me close and we continue to dance. More people join us, filling the floor in a trickle and then a wave, so we are fully surrounded. The song ends and I pull away, still within the circle of his arms but far enough to look up at him.
“Is that all you need?”
A frown flickers on his face, like he doesn’t understand.
“May I leave now?”
Impatience is obvious in his eyes.
“You’ve got what you wanted, right? A show of unity? Photos for the press? Can I go home now?”
“This is your home.”