Sweet Revenge

brotherwould see their ridiculous dresses. When they left the harem, they would cloak themselves again, veil their faces, hide their hair. Outside the walls there was
aurat
, things that cannot be shown, to remember.
    What games they played! Phoebe thought wearily. With their henna and perfumes and glittering rings. Could they believe themselves happy when even she, who no longer cared, could see the boredom on their faces. She prayed to God that she would never see it on Adrianne’s.
    Even at the young age of five Adrianne had enough poise to see that her guests were entertained and comfortable. She was speaking Arabic now, smoothly, musically. Adrianne had never been able to tell her mother that the language came more easily to her than English. She thought in Arabic, even felt in Arabic, and both thoughts and emotions often had to be translated into English before she could communicate them to her mother.
    She was happy here, in this room filled with women’s voices, women’s scents. The world her mother told her of from time to time was nothing more than a fairy tale to her. Snow was just something that danced inside a little glass ball.
    “Duja.” Adrianne raced across the room to kiss her favorite cousin’s cheek. Duja was nearly ten and, to Adrianne’s envy and admiration, almost a woman.
    Duja returned the embrace. “Your dress is beautiful.”
    “I know.” But Adrianne couldn’t resist running a hand down the sleeve of her cousin’s.
    “It’s velvet,” Duja told her importantly. That the heavy fabric was unbearably hot was nothing compared to the reflection she had seen in her mirror. “My father bought it for me in Paris.” She turned full circle, a slim, dark girl with a fine-boned face and large eyes. “When he goes next, he has promised to take me with him.”
    “Truly?” Adrianne stifled the envy that welled within her. It was no secret that Duja was a favorite with her father, the brother of the king. “My mother has been there.”
    Because she had a kind heart, and was pleased with her velvet, Duja stroked Adrianne’s hair. “You will go also one day. Perhaps when we are grown, we will go together.”
    Adrianne felt a tug on her skirt. Glancing down, she saw her half brother, Fahid. She scooped him up to plant kissesover his face and make him squeal with laughter. “You are the most handsome baby in Jaquir.” He was heavy, although only two years her junior, so that she had to brace against his weight. Staggering a bit, she carried him to the table to find him a rich dessert.
    Other babies were being cooed over and coddled. Girls Adrianne’s age and younger were fussing over the boys, stroking them, spoiling them. From birth, females were taught to devote their time and energies to pleasing men. Adrianne knew only that she adored her little brother and wanted to make him smile.
    Phoebe couldn’t bear it. She watched as her daughter served the child of the woman who had taken her place in her husband’s bed and in his heart. What difference did it make if the law here said that a man could take four wives? It wasn’t her law, it wasn’t her world. She had lived in it for six years, and could live in it for sixty more, but it would never be her world. She hated the smells here, the thick, cloying smells that had to be tolerated day after listless day. Phoebe rubbed a hand over her temple where a headache was beginning to throb. The incense, the flowers, perfume layered over perfume.
    She hated the heat, the unrelenting heat.
    She wanted a drink, not the coffee or tea that was always served, but wine. Just one cool glass of wine. But there was no wine permitted in Jaquir. Rape was permitted, she thought as she touched a finger to her sore cheek. Rape, but no wine. Camel whippings and veils, prayer calls and polygamy, but not a drop of crisp Chablis or a dram of dry Sancerre.
    How could she have thought the country beautiful when she had first arrived as a bride? She had looked at the desert, at the sea, at the high white walls of the palace, and she had thought it the most mysterious, the most exotic spot in the world.
    She had been in love then. God help her, she was still in love.
    In those early days Abdu had made her see the beauty of his country and the richness of his culture. She had given up her own land and customs to try to be what he wanted. What he wanted, it turned out, was the woman he had seen on the screen, the symbol of sex and innocence she had learned to