“Was the guru gargantuan?” Lina asked.
“Please,” Fatima replied. “God, when are we leaving?”
A lovely spring day, and nightingales sang in the bushes, and golden finches competed from trees. Gardenias tossed their scent into the air, and narcissi preened. And from her balcony the emir’s wife was shocked at the scene in the garden before her. Her twelve-year-old son lying on his stomach without a stitch of clothing, his white behind saluting the sky, his head nestled between his dark twin’s spread thighs. The dark one, naked and hairless, lying on his back, his head cradled in one hand and his other hand curled into the prophet’s golden strands as Shams licked his testicles, an effortless indulgence. The boys formed a calm, sinewy interlacing of alabaster and onyx. When Layl opened his eyes and noticed the emir’s wife aghast, a devilish grin appeared on his face.
Last Fatima story: Fast forward once more to March 1996. I was depressed; my mother had passed away two years earlier. Fatima took me on a vacation of sorts to lift my spirits.
Liquid heat rose off the asphalt in waves. It was springtime, but the temperature in Riyadh hovered in the hellish. Buildings shimmered and swayed as our car sped by. The tinted glass made them appear sickly and subdued, about to faint from fatigue. The air-conditioning slapped my face and made me shiver. Fatima began putting on her black abayeh, covering an obscene amount of flesh. She didn’t struggle, concealed her body with professional experience. Her head and face remained revealed.
“You’re fucked up,” I said.
“Blah, blather, blah. You’re here, so stop your complaining.” She took a compact from her purse, applied scarlet lipstick, and winked. “Can I help it if you still trust me?”
I floated in the back seat of the Mercedes, its black interior luxurious and gloomy. “You’re fucked up,” I said again.
“Mind your language.” She put away the compact, extricated a brush, and ran it through her hair. “He doesn’t speak English, but I’m sure he knows the word ‘fuck.’ ”
The driver was in full Saudi uniform — headdress and Gucci sunglasses. He intermittently glanced back in the rearview mirror, but we didn’t sustain his interest.
“Tell me you’re not getting married again,” I said. “Please.”
“Oh, no. Fuck that. Enough is enough.”
“Then why are you back here?”
“Diddling,” she said.
“And I’m here as your Sancho Panza.”
“Ta-da! You’re wising up.” She leaned over and impressed a moist kiss on my cheek. I moved my hand to wipe it away, but she held my wrist. “Don’t. Leave it.” She replaced everything in her handbag and zipped it. “Don’t be so petulant. Have I ever failed you? You’ve been sitting alone in that godforsaken joke of a country, grieving your losses and moping. I know it’s hard, but you’ve been at it for too long. I couldn’t cheer you up over there. I thought a real change in scenery would do you good. This is a great place to spend your vacation. It may look ever so dull on the outside, but the stories, darling — the hidden stories are fucking incredible. Watch, listen, and learn. Trust me.”
On cue, the car stopped at the entrance of a grand shopping mall. I grabbed the door handle, but she stopped me. She covered her head, and the veil dribbled over her face. A mysterious woman was birthed before my eyes. The driver opened the door, and I exited. Fatima slid over on the seat and held out her hand, the only skin exposed. Two emerald rings bewitched my eyes. She gently pulled on my hand, helped herself out of the car, and strolled ahead of me, a billowing, flapping black ghost. The clack of her high heels on the pavement, the head held aloft, made her seem like royalty traveling incognito.
A group of three veiled women turned their heads as she passed them. Two men ran to check the license plate of the car, and one of them dialed his cell phone. Fatima walked through the glass doors of the mall seemingly oblivious, but I knew better. I hurried in after her.
She didn’t slow her step inside, didn’t look right or left. The black abayeh was not as formless as it first appeared, its finely sewn lines and folds accentuating her buxom and indolent body. Shoppers whispered in hushed tones as she passed. Men looked utterly confused, their faces showing naked lust and fear. They had no means to approach her. Faltering and off-balance, they ogled. She got on the escalator.
“Am I just supposed to follow you?” I asked.
“Of course, dear, if it makes you happy, but you can walk alongside me, too. I do provide options.” She entered a record store, looked around, moseyed from section to section, and finally headed toward the Arabic compact-disc racks. “Come along.” She ran her graceful fingers through a stack of discs, some of traditional Arabic vocalists, others more contemporary.
“I didn’t know you liked that stuff,” I said.
“I certainly don’t. I’m here for you, dear. This is all for you.” She held up an Umm Kalthoum disc. “Look.” The top of the plastic wrap had been sliced delicately with an X-acto knife. She tore through the wrap with her impeccably manicured fingernails, extracted a handwritten note from the disc box, and read it to me. “ ‘If you like the music of Umm Kalthoum as much as I do, we probably have even more things in common. I’m a good man, twenty-four, gentle, educated, and very respectful of ladies. Let’s talk. Here’s my cell phone number.’ ”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I could only imagine her face as she looked at me, smug, bemused, probably laughing.
“There are others. Look. Kazem al-Saher. Three different discs have notes. These boys are so desperate. So many of them.” She took out another note, different boy, same request.
“That’s sad.”
“It is,” she replied quietly, and sighed. “Damn. Once upon a time, I thought it was amusing.” She chucked the discs onto the rack, crumpled the love notes, and turned around. “Let’s go.” She took out her phone. “I’m ready,” she told her driver.
I followed her down the escalator. “Whenever I feel blue,” she said, “which is not very often, I try to come to Riyadh. I feel so wanted.” She paused. “I’m inspired by the braves.” She marched toward the exit. The automatic doors burped in noxious heat. No fewer than twenty men, Saudis clad in expensive desert robes, waited in the scalding temperature. As soon as the identifying Mercedes reached the curb, they twittered; she was the bell to Pavlov’s dogs.
A tall, handsome man walked quickly toward her. He slipped between us, and his hand touched her ebony abayeh, leaving a small yellow Post-it note on her back, with a handwritten phone number. I squinted, trying to read it, but another man blocked my view as he stuck on another note. Only two braves.
The Post-it notes glimmered in the sun as she walked toward the open door of the Mercedes. Two lonely gold islands in a sea of oil black.
The emir’s wife had an ominous premonition that the prophet’s thirteenth-birthday celebration was going to be a disaster. It was not an unqualified premonition, for she had been witnessing the horrific changes in her son for the previous month. He had become moodier and crankier. His healing powers seemed to be fading, if not disappearing completely. His rebellious heart no longer cared. He would touch the supplicants and no change occurred. He could only pretend to heal for about ten minutes before giving up in a huff and returning to his room.
The emir’s wife could no longer lie to herself about what the twins were doing in that room. She had caught them frolicking in the garden on more than one occasion. And when she tried to reason with him, Shams told her to perform unnatural sexual acts upon herself.