women in their black cloaks and veils.
“There are so many of them,” Adrianne murmured as they were led through the crowd by their bodyguards. “Why do they come?”
“Money.” Phoebe shifted her eyes right and left. It was hot, so hot she feared she might faint. But her hands were like ice. “Hurry.”
Taking Adrianne’s hand, she pulled her outside again. Abdu’s gleaming new private plane, recently purchased with oil money, waited.
Adrianne’s mouth dried up at the sight of it. “It’s very small.”
“Don’t worry. I’m with you.”
Inside, the cabin was very plush despite its size. The seats were upholstered in a rich fabric the color of pewter; the carpet was bloodred. The tiny lights bolted near each seat had crystal shades. Wonderfully cool, the air smelted of sandalwood, the king’s preferred scent. Servants, bowing silently, waited to serve from the store of food and drink.
Abdu was already on board, bent with his secretary over a file of papers. His
throbe
had been discarded for a suit tailored in London, but he wore it with the headdress of the East. He never glanced up as they climbed in and took theirseats. Instead, he gave a careless signal to one of his men. Within moments the engine caught. Adrianne’s stomach did a quick flip when the nose rose into the air.
“Mama.”
“Well be over the clouds soon.” Phoebe kept her voice low, grateful that Abdu ignored them. “Just like birds, Addy. Watch.” She rested her cheek against Adrianne’s. “Jaquir is going away.”
Adrianne wanted to be sick, but was afraid to because her father was with them. Determined, she clenched her teeth, swallowed hard, and watched the world drop away. After a while the churning in her stomach eased. It was Phoebe’s turn to chatter. She did so in a low voice that ultimately lulled Adrianne to sleep. While her daughter dozed on her shoulder, Phoebe stared down at the blue waters of the Mediterranean and prayed.
Paris was a feast for the senses. Adrianne clung to her mother’s hand and stared at everything as they hurried through the airport. She had always believed that her mother’s stories about other places were no more than fairy tales. She had loved them as such, dreamed of them as such. Now she had stepped through a door into a world that had existed only in her imagination.
Even her mother was different. She had shed the
abaaya
and veil. Beneath she wore a trim Western suit the same shade as her eyes. Her hair was loose and free, gloriously red over her shoulders. She had even spoken to a man, a stranger, when they had passed through customs. Adrianne had glanced fearfully up at her father, waiting for punishment. But he had done nothing.
Women walked here, sometimes alone, sometimes arm in arm with men. They wore skirts and tight pants that showed their legs. They walked with their heads up, their hips swinging, but no one stared at them. To her astonishment, she saw a couple embrace and kiss while others elbowed around them. There were no
matawain
, with their camel whips and henna-tipped beards, to arrest them.
The sun was setting when they exited the terminal. Adrianne waited to hear the prayer call sound, but there was nothing. There was confusion here, but it was faster andsomehow more organized than the confusion at the airport in Jaquir. People bundled into cabs, men and women together without shame or secrecy. Phoebe had to pull her into the limo as she craned to see more.
To see Paris at sunset for the first time. Whenever Adrianne thought of the city again, she would remember the magic of that first view, when the light was caught between day and night. The old buildings rose, fussy, somehow feminine, glowing pink and gold and soft white in the dying sun. The big car swooped down the boulevard, driving fast into the heart of the city. But it wasn’t the speed that made her giddy and breathless.
She thought there would be music. In such a place there had to be music. But she
“There are so many of them,” Adrianne murmured as they were led through the crowd by their bodyguards. “Why do they come?”
“Money.” Phoebe shifted her eyes right and left. It was hot, so hot she feared she might faint. But her hands were like ice. “Hurry.”
Taking Adrianne’s hand, she pulled her outside again. Abdu’s gleaming new private plane, recently purchased with oil money, waited.
Adrianne’s mouth dried up at the sight of it. “It’s very small.”
“Don’t worry. I’m with you.”
Inside, the cabin was very plush despite its size. The seats were upholstered in a rich fabric the color of pewter; the carpet was bloodred. The tiny lights bolted near each seat had crystal shades. Wonderfully cool, the air smelted of sandalwood, the king’s preferred scent. Servants, bowing silently, waited to serve from the store of food and drink.
Abdu was already on board, bent with his secretary over a file of papers. His
throbe
had been discarded for a suit tailored in London, but he wore it with the headdress of the East. He never glanced up as they climbed in and took theirseats. Instead, he gave a careless signal to one of his men. Within moments the engine caught. Adrianne’s stomach did a quick flip when the nose rose into the air.
“Mama.”
“Well be over the clouds soon.” Phoebe kept her voice low, grateful that Abdu ignored them. “Just like birds, Addy. Watch.” She rested her cheek against Adrianne’s. “Jaquir is going away.”
Adrianne wanted to be sick, but was afraid to because her father was with them. Determined, she clenched her teeth, swallowed hard, and watched the world drop away. After a while the churning in her stomach eased. It was Phoebe’s turn to chatter. She did so in a low voice that ultimately lulled Adrianne to sleep. While her daughter dozed on her shoulder, Phoebe stared down at the blue waters of the Mediterranean and prayed.
Paris was a feast for the senses. Adrianne clung to her mother’s hand and stared at everything as they hurried through the airport. She had always believed that her mother’s stories about other places were no more than fairy tales. She had loved them as such, dreamed of them as such. Now she had stepped through a door into a world that had existed only in her imagination.
Even her mother was different. She had shed the
abaaya
and veil. Beneath she wore a trim Western suit the same shade as her eyes. Her hair was loose and free, gloriously red over her shoulders. She had even spoken to a man, a stranger, when they had passed through customs. Adrianne had glanced fearfully up at her father, waiting for punishment. But he had done nothing.
Women walked here, sometimes alone, sometimes arm in arm with men. They wore skirts and tight pants that showed their legs. They walked with their heads up, their hips swinging, but no one stared at them. To her astonishment, she saw a couple embrace and kiss while others elbowed around them. There were no
matawain
, with their camel whips and henna-tipped beards, to arrest them.
The sun was setting when they exited the terminal. Adrianne waited to hear the prayer call sound, but there was nothing. There was confusion here, but it was faster andsomehow more organized than the confusion at the airport in Jaquir. People bundled into cabs, men and women together without shame or secrecy. Phoebe had to pull her into the limo as she craned to see more.
To see Paris at sunset for the first time. Whenever Adrianne thought of the city again, she would remember the magic of that first view, when the light was caught between day and night. The old buildings rose, fussy, somehow feminine, glowing pink and gold and soft white in the dying sun. The big car swooped down the boulevard, driving fast into the heart of the city. But it wasn’t the speed that made her giddy and breathless.
She thought there would be music. In such a place there had to be music. But she
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