A Family Affair (2 page)

On the fourth day, precisely at noon, Malik was escorted into Trisha Holiday’s room to be formally introduced to the patient by her physician. For the first time in his life he was tongue-tied as he stood at the side of the bed and offered his hand. Her clasp was weak and dry, but she smiled.

“The doctor told me you are the one who brought me here. Thank you. How can I repay you?”

“No payment is necessary, Miss Holiday. I’m glad to see that you are feeling better. Are you eating? Is there anything I can get for you?”

“I’m not very hungry, but thank you very much. Are you really a prince?”

Malik laughed. “I am. Is that okay with you?”

“I’ve never met a prince before. What do princes do? Here in America, that is.”

“They go to school, and in their spare time, they save damsels in distress.” He laughed again, showing off what Trisha thought were the most beautiful teeth she’d ever seen. The rest of him was pretty much okay, too. Then she remembered being carried by a handsome man.

“Are you the person who carried me here? I remember that. I thought you were the handsomest man I’d ever seen.” She blushed a bright pink at her words.

“Obviously, you were delirious, young lady,” Amir said, smiling broadly. “This rascal does not need to have his ego inflated.”

She thinks I’m handsome.
He grinned, once again showing his pearly whites. “You look tired, Miss Holiday. I’ll come back and visit later. I think I’m going to try my luck with the slot machines downstairs. Would you like me to play for you?”

“That’s not allowed. Employees cannot gamble. We have to sign contracts,” Trisha said before her eyes closed, and she was asleep again.

“It’s cold out, Malik. Wear a warm coat. I don’t want to treat you, too, because unlike Miss Holiday, you are a terrible patient.”

Malik flipped the physician the bird and whistled for Rashid, who was on his cell phone. “I’ll be staying here in the casino, Amir, so I don’t need a coat.”

Malik turned to motion to Rashid. “Come on, Rashid. Let’s go spend some of my father’s money. I am feeling lucky today.”

“It’s your sister on the phone, and she’s complaining again about your being here while she’s stuck in the palace with nothing to do.”

Malik waved his hand at his old friend, dismissing his sister’s complaints, and waltzed out of the suite, knowing full well Rashid would cut the call short and follow him.

“Your sister is a pain in the neck. Why don’t you marry her off and be done with it?” Rashid grumbled when he caught up to Malik.

“Because no one will have her. Even my father knows that. She’s destined to be what here in America they call an old maid. She’s too bossy and outspoken, and all she does is shop and spend my father’s money. Her thinking is too modern, and that’s why my father keeps her close to the palace. He never knows what she’ll do next. But you already know this, so why am I wasting my time telling you yet again?”

“Sounds kind of like you, Malik,” Rashid taunted in a good-natured way.

“I have kept a strict accounting of my personal expenditures since coming to America. As you know, I have never defied my father, like Soraya does day after day.”

Rashid made a funny noise in his throat. “What do you call what you are doing now, what I am aiding and abetting you with?”

Malik laughed, a sound of genuine mirth. “Helping a damsel in distress. Even my coldhearted father would never turn his back on someone who needed help.”

The elevator door opened, and both men stepped out to the melody of the chiming and buzzing slot machines. Across the room, a roar went up when a little round grandmother with rosy cheeks shouted for the world to hear that she had just won two hundred dollars. Malik laughed out loud, as did Rashid.

“What will it be, Rashid? Poker, roulette, or the slots?”

Rashid pretended to think. Malik knew that Rashid would choose the slots, while he himself would hit the poker table, to play the game he’d learned during his first year of college.

The two separated, but Rashid was always positioned so that he could see Malik from his location at the slot machine. They both played intensely, winning some and losing some. They stopped for lunch, after which they went back into the casino. They were about to separate again when Rashid’s cell phone rang. Malik was about to walk over to the poker table when he turned around to see his friend and bodyguard gingerly lower himself onto one of the seats by a slot machine. He was listening, not talking. Malik knew that something was wrong. His first thought was that something bad had happened to Trisha Holiday. He hadn’t had a second thought when Rashid handed the cell phone to him. It could only be his pesky sister, railing yet again. He rolled his eyes at Rashid but reached for the phone.

“You need to give it up already, sister. If you call again today, I will order your hair to be cut and leave you bald. What do you mean, I should shut up? Don’t you ever dare tell me to shut up.”

Rashid was making such strange faces that Malik blinked and bellowed, “What?” so loud, playing customers stood up to see who was affecting their concentration at the gaming tables. Malik lowered his voice. “All right, I’m listening. Talk to me.”

Rashid’s movements were those of an old man when he got up from his seat at the slot machine. Gently, he guided Malik to the chair and pushed him down. He stepped back, never taking his eyes off his friend as he waited for Malik to end the call with his sister.

Their world as they had known it in America for the past seven and a half years had come to an end. In a matter of hours, that life would be nothing more than a memory.

Malik ended the call and looked up at his friend. “Arrange for our departure, Rashid. Such a tragic accident. My father was a young, vital man, an experienced equestrian. To be thrown from his horse and to die instantly is something I cannot comprehend.”

“Do not torture yourself, Malik. You need to tell me now, what is my position? With you taking over for your father, you will require more security than I can give you. Come. We must tell the others, calls have to be made, and things have to be put into place.”

Rashid held out his hand to pull Malik to his feet. “I know you were not, are not, prepared for your new role, but life has just . . . How do you say it here in America? Ah, yes, thrown you the biggest curveball of your life. You are up to it, Malik.”

“You will be my closest adviser, my second in command. Your education now is the same as mine. We will run our country together to make my father proud. Can you see yourself as my second in command? If you say no, I will kill you, Rashid.”

It was clearly meant as a joke, and both men knew it. Rashid simply nodded, his eyes wet as he threw his arm around Malik’s shoulders.

On the twenty-first floor, the commotion was that of a beehive in motion. Aides, guards, secretaries were scurrying about, packing, gathering up belongings. Both men stood just inside the doorway and waited.

Casmir, one of the aides, bowed low, the commotion stopped, and the suite grew silent. “The plane will be ready in two hours.”

As one, the entourage expressed their sympathy. Malik accepted his people’s condolences, smiled weakly, and retreated to his room. He needed to
think.
He wanted to cry, to wail, when he saw the white
kandura
, his official robe, draped on his king-size bed, along with the
ghutra
and the
agal,
or black band. Nestled next to the headdress and robe was a pair of new sandals. He looked down at his blue jeans, his Golden Bears T-shirt, and the Dodgers baseball cap clutched in his hand. The jeans and T-shirt were his favorites, washed a thousand times so that they fit him like a second skin. His Nikes were worn and battered. He kicked them off.

Sheik Malik bin Al Mohammed sat down on the edge of the bed. He dropped his head into his hands and cried. Not for the loss of his father—because he had never been close to his father—but for the loss of the life he’d come to love there in America. When he left that hotel in Las Vegas, he would be wearing his traditional garb. He would no longer be Malik, the student with his three American advanced degrees. He had to step into his father’s sandals.

Malik’s thoughts whirled and twirled as he recalled one of his professors, an older man, one he truly liked and respected, telling him that one’s life was whatever one made of it. Everyone in life had choices, he’d gone on to say. He wished that he had carried that particular conversation further. He wished he had explained to the professor about his life in Dubai and what was expected of him.

How was he supposed to make those choices when, from birth, he’d known exactly what his future held? And he had accepted it, but in his thinking, he was certain that his father would live to be a very old man, and he wouldn’t have to take his place until he himself was advanced in age.

He thought about Trisha Holiday, who was only one door away. He felt his heart start to flutter in his chest.

Malik’s thoughts turned back in time to when he and Rashid were small boys in the palace, playing games, laughing and hollering as they chased each other the way children do. And then his school years, Rashid always at his side into his teen years, his shy glances at young ladies. He thought of his sister, Soraya, who was even more of a prisoner than he had been. He was starting to understand how she felt, why she rebelled against the law and order of their father. He made a mental promise to himself to be kind and compassionate to his sister when he returned home.

Malik’s hand reached out to touch the long white robe and the head scarf. How he dreaded putting them on. As children, he and Rashid had sneaked into his father’s room to try on the robes and play in them when his father was away. Back then, it was all a great game. In their naive world, they’d waved scepters about and beheaded their less-than-royal subjects. How stupid they had been. Like he would ever behead anyone. Even barbarians didn’t behead anyone these days.

Malik sat on the edge of the bed until he lost all track of time. The knock on the door startled him.

“Enter.”

Rashid, dressed in his own white robe, stepped into the room. “It’s time, Your Highness.”

Malik looked down at the gold watch on his wrist. “So it is. Give me a few minutes, Rashid.”

“Will you be saying good-bye to our guest?”

“Of course.”

Rashid backed out of the room and closed the door behind him.

In the blink of an eye, Malik stripped down and donned the
kandura,
then the
ghutra
. When he had the
ghutra
settled firmly on his dark head, he slipped the black
agal
around to hold the scarf in place. He looked down at his feet; the
kandura
was longer than Rashid’s, a sign of his importance. How strange that he didn’t feel important. He slipped into the new sandals, not liking the way they felt on his feet. Seven years of wearing sneakers and Brooks Brothers tasseled loafers had not prepared him for the feeling.

Malik looked around the room for his duffel bag. He spotted it on the chair by the writing desk. He gathered up his jeans, his T-shirt, and his Nikes. His hands, when he touched his American clothes, were almost reverent. Maybe one day, he and Rashid would play a game in the palace and wear
these
clothes. A dream. He wondered if dreams ever came true. No, those dreams were gone forever.

Malik squared his shoulders, looked at himself in the mirror, and winced. With long, purposeful strides, he crossed the room and opened the door. Waiting for him in the main sitting area was his full entourage. They bowed, as did he.

“Come, Rashid. I must say good-bye to our guest, and then we can be on our way. I trust everything has been taken care of.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Rashid said solemnly as he led the way to Trisha Holiday’s room.

He knocked and waited at the door until one of the nurses opened it. He stepped aside, and Malik strode past him and crossed the room to stand at the side of the bed. Rashid motioned for the two nurses to follow him to the sitting area so that Malik could have a private moment with the patient.

Trish was propped up in a nest of pillows, freshly bathed, powdered, and weary to the point where she was dozing off. Her eyes snapped open when she felt Malik’s presence.

“Prince! Good afternoon. It is afternoon, isn’t it?”

Malik didn’t bother to correct her. “Yes, it is afternoon. I trust you are feeling better.”

“I am, Prince, just a little weak. Thanks to you and your people. I feel almost like royalty with all the care I’m getting. If I were home in my apartment, I would be heating up canned chicken soup and sleeping on the sofa, watching some awful television.”

Malik smiled. “I came to say good-bye and to tell you that there is a . . . family affair I must see to. You can stay here as long as you like. Everything has been paid for. Instructions have been given. Your job will still be waiting for you when you have fully recovered. I also wanted to tell you I am sorry we met under such circumstances. I would have liked to have had that drink with you after the show.”

“I’m sorry, too. Perhaps we’ll meet again someday, if you return and I’m still dancing. Hopefully, I will still be dancing, unless my legs give out.” Trisha was babbling and didn’t know why. Suddenly, she felt as if she had just lost her oldest and dearest friend. Her eyes burned. She felt her hand in his, and then she felt his lips on her hand. He let it go and stepped back.

“Good-bye, Miss Holiday.”

“Good-bye sounds so formal, Prince. See, just my luck, I meet a prince, then . . .”

“He turned into a frog?” Malik laughed.

Trisha smiled. “In a manner of speaking,” she said, pointing to his clothing. “Ya know, a plaid belt or maybe one studded with rhinestones would dress up that outfit. You should think about it.”

Malik laughed again, the sound booming throughout the room. He turned, waved, and was gone.

Tears rolled down Trisha’s face with the sound of the closing door.

“What’s so funny?” Rashid asked in the elevator.