“Cheesy?”
“Exactly. But it’s fun.” He stood up and reached for a lambswool cloak, very fine, a soft pure gray, reminiscent of the one she had worn to Sally’s party. “The desert gets cold at night.”
“Thank you,” she said.“And . . . I like that you call me Haya.”
He was right; the desert was freezing. She was amazed at how bitter it was. Ahmed got them chairs at the back, and they sat together, the cloak thrown over them, watching the eerie green light over the pyramids, the booming voice of the announcer.
The head of the Sphinx reared, massive, in the spotlight. Haya gasped.
“Do you like it?”
“Like—that’s not the word. I mean, I’ve seen pictures. But they are so inadequate.”
“This is your heritage,” he said. “Not a sports car, or a hamburger.”
“Amazing,” she said.
“Tomorrow we will go and see it, in the day. And maybe next week, we can go south.You must see the Valley of the Kings. But I won’t overwhelm you . . . the tourists try to see all Egypt in seven days, and as a result, see nothing. It blurs into one.”
“We’ll take our time,” Haya said. She looked up at him; his profile was strong, his jaw set against the red and green lights on the sand. He was handsome; he cared for her. And she did not want to go home.
Already, home seemed distant, and a little tawdry.
“
We
will?” Ahmed turned his face to her, his dark eyes above hers. And Haya wanted, longed for him to bend down and kiss her. Her lips moistened, parted....
“No,” he said, softly. “You did not sign the nikkah.”
“I did,” she said. “I did. . . .”
He lowered his mouth, close to her, not touching her.Teasing her cruelly.
“Then who are you?”
“Haya,” she said, and now her voice was thick with desire. “Haya . . . your wife . . .”
Still, he did not kiss her. And desire curled like smoke across her breasts and belly.
“Please, Ahmed,” she whispered.
He laughed softly, and pressed his lips on hers; his arm around her back, supporting her, he kissed her, hard this time, no teasing, his mouth almost crushing hers, his teeth on her lips, the hard muscles of his chest against her breasts.
Haya gasped; she felt lust flood through her.
Silently he rose and offered her his hand; Haya stumbled to her feet, blushing; it felt like everybody could see her wanting him. Ahmed flung the cloak around her shoulders and led her to the car, while the ghostly lights of the show danced over the ancient monuments behind them.
His home—their home, now, she supposed—was still, silent apart from the sounds of the birds and the fountains.Without the servants, it seemed very empty; and Haya felt Ahmed, his body, his strength, his nearness, now, exciting her and scaring her.
He turned to her in the garden. She opened her mouth to speak, but he put one finger across her lips, then scooped her up into his arms, as though she were light as silk, and carried her into the house, and up the stairs, and laid her down on the divan bed in their room, where the intricate shadows from the Moroccan lamp played across the walls.
“Ahmed.” Haya attempted a smile. “Carrying me across the threshold?”
He did not smile back.The look he was giving her bored into her eyes. He reached down and started to unbutton her dress, with one practiced hand.
“Be gentle,” she said, gasping as his fingers stroked the soft flesh at the top of her breasts.
Ahmed lowered his mouth and kissed her again, hard.
“At first,” he replied. “Only at first.”
“Tisbah ala-kheir,”
he said quietly to her, when the moon was starting its descent over the palm trees in the garden, and Haya lay drained, and sore, and deeply in love, in his arms. They were both sweaty, but she loved the scent of him, and did not want to let him go. “Good night.”
“Good night,” she said, copying his Arabic. “My darling.”
The next day, when she awoke after a deep sleep, Ahmed had ordered that breakfast be brought up to their room. He handed her an iced glass of juice, and watched her as she drank it, blushing, remembering what he’d done to her.
“Look at me,” he said.
Haya could hardly hold his eyes.
“Will you come home early?” she murmured, staring at the floor.
He put a callused finger under her soft chin and tilted up her head, forcing her to stare into his eyes.
“I said, look at me.”
Haya flushed; her breathing seemed to be coming raggedly. Ahmed put a hand to his wife, and she gasped.
“So eager,” he said, with a grin.“I’m not going to work today. It’s our honeymoon. And I want to show you what pleasure means.”
He led her into the shower later, and bathed with her, washing her, until she was so stimulated she had to reach for him again. Haya found her husband was exactingly patient, deliberate as a lover; he insisted on knowing every inch of her, and discovering what brought her to the boil.
Haya realized her world had been black and white. She could hardly cope with the feelings Ahmed induced. At times he was rough, and dominant; at other times gentle, erotic, slow with her. The day ticked by wonderfully slowly, and she lost herself to her body, and his body, and the ferocity of her newly awakened love.
Their first month together passed in a daze. Haya was beside herself; her emotions ran at fever pitch; love of Ahmed, and desire for him, consumed her, so much that she could scarcely concentrate. And yet there was anger, which started slowly and had simmered into rage, against her father. As happy as she was now, Haya had grown furious that this major change had been done
to
her—that she never had the chance to decide for herself. Baba had tricked her, and now she was in Egypt.
Every time she could not make herself understood in the marketplace, or one of the servants turned against her, pretending her accent was too strange, Haya felt out of her depth. As though only Ahmed could protect her. And that, she hated.
She could hardly stay away from her husband. Ahmed was a dominant lover, not gentle, not soft, and he excited her, made her ready and hot in a way the dull American boys never had. Her passion excited him; her naked desire, visible to him even when she was fully robed, made Ahmed want her more; he was on her, all the time, taking her by surprise in the shower, locking the doors of their study, coming home from work at lunchtime, burning for his wife, and wanting to have her again.
Haya was unused to the sensations that rocked through her at his touch. She had never thought of herself as particularly sexual; never mooned over posters of the latest hot actors, like the other girls at school; never really considered men. And now she was addicted.The more he came to her, the more she wanted him.
Desire made her sick, almost. Haya was so feverish for Ahmed that she could not concentrate, could not get herself together. Her days and nights centered around wanting him.The depths of her responsiveness scared her.
But as Haya stayed in the house, barely improving her Arabic, she got restless.
“I need to do something,” Haya said, after they had finished a sticky session of lovemaking one afternoon. “Ahmed, I’m going stir-crazy here. I was not made to sit still in a house . . . even a beautiful one . . . and I have no friends, nobody but you.” She missed her girlfriends, dreadfully. “Maybe we should go back . . . the two of us, to America. Visit my parents. Have it out with Baba,” she added, grimly.
“I can’t.” He leaned over and kissed her on her naked stomach; she drove him crazy, lean and young and hungry for him. “I can’t take time off work—I’ve already spent too much time away as it is. And you can’t go.”
“I can do whatever I want.”
“No way. I’m not letting you out of my sight. I want you far too much for that.”
She softened, smiled.
“But you are going crazy. Even the birds in the garden fly elsewhere over the city.” He thought about it. “Why don’t you come with me? Into work.”
“Your work?”
“Yes, why not? Come and see what I do. Do you object to wearing the
hijab
?”
“Not at all.”
“The women in our workshops are very traditional. It would save some questions. . . .” He grinned. “And anyway, your hair is so beautiful . . . I want it all to myself.”
“Fine by me.” Haya groaned and pushed his hand away. “Don’t . . . Ahmed.”
“And why not?”
“We just did . . .”
“I remember.” But he was ready again. “Come here.”
She rolled to him, eagerly.
Maybe it was better he take Haya to work, Ahmed thought. Since when she wasn’t there, he spent every waking moment looking for excuses to get out of the office. And he loved her, and did not want her to get bored, or restless. Until the children came along,
insh’Allah,
could it hurt? Why not? She was still a teenager, after all, even if she carried herself like a young woman.
Business would be a fascinating diversion. And it wouldn’t last too long. Once his wife got pregnant, that was it.
“And this is the workshop.”Ahmed bowed, greeted the women who were sitting there, weaving; they smiled and nodded at Haya. “They make some carpets here. Mostly, I deal with importers . . . or find goods myself. It is all in the eye. Come upstairs.”
She smiled at his workers and followed him up the wooden stairs; every inch of the place was hung with beautiful carpets, and the storeroom smelled a little fusty.
“Mothballs,” he said, in answer to her question. “Nothing works better . . . no technology, even today. Mothballs to keep the carpets from being eaten alive. And here we are . . . this is the showroom.”
“Amazing.”
It was. A long room, full of windows, but they had muslin drapes across them all. She understood: daylight would bleach out the precious fibers. Instead, even in the day, the room was gently lit with candles. Piles of gorgeous silk and woollen rugs lay on the floor; they hung from the walls; they were suspended from the ceiling. To counter the mothballs, he had placed scented oil burners in strategic places; there was a strong smell of frankincense.
“Do you want some tea . . . pastries?”
Haya was hungry; she nodded.
Pleased to be showing off his work, her husband nodded to an employee; the man disappeared into a side room, and returned with a silver tray containing a teapot, glasses, and a delicate selection of tiny cakes, placed on a lace napkin.
“We keep a kettle boiling for customers,” Ahmed explained. “I serve them mint tea. . . . It is a way of enticing them to stay, to take time, and then the beauty of the goods . . .” He shrugged. “They sell themselves.”
As though to underline his point, there was a commotion downstairs; Haya recognized the guttural accents of German, stabbing at English.
“Would you like to watch?”
She nodded.
Ahmed bent down and kissed her on the cheek. It was a modest gesture, but he allowed the tip of his tongue to graze her cheek; he licked her, just a little, where the others couldn’t see.
Desire rushed through her, electric, insistent. Haya struggled not to gasp; she forced a smile, and withdrew to the side of the room. She wanted to watch her husband in action; and she couldn’t let anybody else know she was turned on....
There was a cushioned bench toward the back. Haya took away her tray, and busied herself pouring out the mint tea.
“Welcome. Come in.” Ahmed was smiling at his customers, but it was a smile without warmth. “Would you care for some tea?”
“Thank you,” said the wife. She was rather fat and kept her sunglasses on, even in the darkened room. Haya instantly disliked her.
Ahmed signaled to another employee; more cakes and tea were brought.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“We’re not going to pay over the value,” the husband said, rudely.
“Of course not.” He glanced back at Haya and winked at her, quickly.“You will find we offer excellent value.What size of carpet or rug are you looking for . . . ?”
“Something medium. That one.” The husband jabbed at a large red Persian silk carpet. “Or something like that,” he added, pointing to a completely different Afghan kilim in bright blues and yellows.
“Ah, yes,” Ahmed said, with a sigh. “Two of the finest pieces in my collection. But you knew that, of course. Are you a dealer? We do special prices to the trade.”
“
Nein
. . . no . . .” The little man puffed out his cheeks, and his wife smirked. “But I know quality when I see it.”
“Those rugs are very expensive. Can I show you something a little more moderate?” Ahmed nodded, and two workers swiftly ran forward and unfolded a large, extraordinarily fine Persian rug in creams and blues. Haya’s eyes widened; she was no expert, but she saw it was antique, and worth many thousands . . . maybe ten thousand. Or possibly more. She’d seen one in a Fifth Avenue gallery just like it.
“No, thank you.” The clipped tones were full of disdain. “Don’t try to fob me off with that cheap stuff. It’s clearly inferior. How much for that one there—the yellow one?”
Ahmed shook his head, sadly. “That one is over eight thousand Marks.”
“Two thousand,” he barked. “Not a pfennig more.”
Haya grinned, and ate a pastry. Fat fool! Her husband was going to fleece this idiot. And he’d been so rude and aggressive . . . he deserved it.
She hated that sense of moral superiority they came in here with. As though they were instantly going to be cheated. Well, their insults had created that fact. And she was glad.
If she had watched Ahmed bow, and scrape, and allow himself to be talked down to . . . it would have changed them, her and him, forever. How could she feel as owned, as possessed by him as she did . . . surrender herself to him . . . if he had been weak with other people?
Instead, he was expertly slicing these obnoxious tourists up. Not boorishly, but deftly. And it was not theft . . . they were paying only what they wanted to.
She listened carefully. He did not lie, or tell them the kilim was a work of art. Instead he praised its general qualities. And why not? It was a perfectly workmanlike rug.