Princess of Dhagabad, The (40 page)

The palace plaza is flooded with people all
the way up to the al-Gulsulim mosque. A special platform has been
built in front of the palace balcony from where the princess chose
her suitor only a few weeks before. Steps lead to the platform from
the arched gateway of the palace. On this platform, in front of all
the people of Dhagabad, the sultan himself will perform the wedding
of his daughter and her chosen groom, Prince Amir of Veridue.

The inhabitants of the palace are standing in
groups at the base of the platform, separated from the crowd by a
double row of guards. The nearest group consists of the sages and
the members of the State Council; a little further back stands a
group of free servants; and all the way back, by the first step
leading to the platform, crowd the slaves. Not a single woman can
be found among them. All the slave women, nannies, wives and
daughters of the courtiers, and even the sultaness herself, have
stayed near the princess’s chambers since early morning. Many are
helping to dress the princess in her wedding gown; all of them, by
tradition, are bidding farewell to their ward and mistress. Even
though after the wedding she will not leave Dhagabad at once, she
will already be considered the property of Veridue and her husband.
When she walks out of the palace today, she will never return to it
the same.

Tired of the endless preparations, the
princess is standing in front of a huge mirror, watching her
nannies clothe her with more and more pieces of her magnificent
gown. She isn’t tortured by doubts anymore, and this absence of
doubt itself leaves a strange emptiness in her. Remembering the
last days before the wedding, she cannot find anything worth
thinking about: constant preparations and fittings; frequent talks
with Prince Amir under the watchful eyes of the nannies; the
inexhaustible eloquence of her future husband on the subjects of
weather, military tournaments and, naturally, the princess’s
numerous virtues—with no mention whatsoever of djinns or of their
disagreements; attempts to convince herself that all this is
exactly what she wants; and a complete failure to imagine what her
life will be like away from these walls, from the beloved faces,
among new people and new duties.

During these days she has not seen Hasan
alone and hasn’t exchanged more than a couple of words with him.
There is no place for a djinn in her new, splendid, and predestined
life. Feeling very fatigued, the princess automatically answers the
wives and daughters of the courtiers who are making polite
conversation all around her.

“Prince Amir is so handsome,” Alamid says
beside her with a feeling going slightly beyond regular politeness.
The princess gives her an absentminded smile.

“The princess is just afraid of getting
married, your majesty,” Nimeth whispers behind her. “Remember how
restless you were yourself.” Nimeth’s slim hand gently pats the
princess on the shoulder.

“All girls are sad before their wedding,” old
Nanny Zeinab agrees. “You just wait and see, your majesty. No later
than tomorrow our beauty will see there is nothing to fear and will
start singing like a sweet little bird again. Prince Amir is so
gentle, he would never hurt her.”

“It is very fortunate to have such a nice and
kind groom, your highness,” says the wife of the grand vizier, a
majestic woman in her forties with large features and a slight
moustache. “Prince Amir will treat you well.”

“Raise your arms, princess,” says Zulbagad,
the seamstress who has naturally designed and supervised the making
of the princess’s wedding outfit, and is now personally overseeing
the dressing of the princess.

A warm breath of the finest silk slides down
her skin and the golden threads woven into the cloth tickle her
shoulders. The princess glances at the mirror. Two slave girls are
carefully covering her long hair with a delicate shiny net, the
threads embellished with Veriduan pearls. This strange headgear
lies unusually heavily on her back, crumpling the airy silk of her
gown. Two other slave girls carry to the mirror a long translucent
shawl as Zulbagad carefully straightens out the tiniest folds of
the cloth.

“I think we can signal the beginning of the
ceremony, your majesty,” she says.

“Can I see Hasan, mother?” the princess
asks.

“Hasan is already waiting for you outside,
princess. As soon as you walk out of the palace, you will see
him.”

Sighing, the princess submits. Nothing can be
changed, anyway. While Zulbagad herself places the shawl over her
head, carefully tucking it under a shiny golden diadem, the slave
girls bring in the veil that will cover her face—to be removed
later by the hand of her new husband. The princess turns her
thoughts to the palace plaza.

Fanfare is heard on the plaza and the herald
announces:

“The great sultan Chamar Ali greets his
subjects!”

The crowd cheers: “May he live forever!” as
the sultan appears on the balcony, supported by the grand vizier on
his right, and the sage Haib al-Mutassim on his left. He steps over
the low banister onto the platform, taking his appointed place for
the ceremony. Two Ghullian slaves set a tall golden stand in front
of the sultan, and two elder sages of the State Council bring out
the Holy Book and pass it to the grand vizier. The vizier solemnly
bows to the sultan and sets the book on the golden stand. The sages
take their places behind him.

After the excitement of the sultan’s
appearance settles, fanfare sounds again.

“Prince Amir of Veridue, the chosen groom of
the princess of Dhagabad!”

Again the plaza bursts with cheers of
greeting while Prince Amir, surrounded by his suite, appears on the
balcony, easily steps over the banister onto the platform, bows to
the sultan, and after exchanging some words with him takes his
place to the right of the Holy Book.

Almost immediately, the sound of fanfare is
heard a third time, and the gates under the palace arch swing open
as the herald announces:

“The princess of Dhagabad!”

A dark-blue carpet with a golden pattern
unrolls, leading the way from the palace gate to the steps up to
the platform. Six slave girls, in time with the smooth rhythm of
their walk, are throwing white jasmine petals on the carpet,
spreading its sweet aroma all around.

Resembling a cloud in her white gown, the
princess emerges from under the palace arch with a long procession
of women following in her wake. All of the women’s faces are
covered, and even the sultaness walking beside the princess has a
light white scarf lowered over her face.

As the women approach the platform, the
slaves, standing at the first step leading up, bow their heads. The
princess sees Hasan among them.

Her breath catches in her throat. How could
they! How dare they put him down here when his place is at her
side, first in the suite of the princess of Dhagabad! But another
voice inside her softly whispers:
he is really a slave—where
else to put him if not among the slaves?
The princess slows
down; Hasan raises his head and gives her a gentle, encouraging
smile.

For the first time in days the princess feels
something come alive inside her. She wants to stop, to say just a
few words to him, but Hasan bows his head again and the sultaness
urges her forward with a firm hand.

The choice is made. The princess turns her
back to the slaves and sets her foot on the first step leading up
to the platform.

The cheers grow louder as the princess,
walking to the foot of the stairs, becomes visible to the whole
plaza. Seven steps separate her from the platform. The princess
invests all her thoughts and feelings into the solemn ascent. Blood
begins to pound in her temples to the torturing rhythm of her
walk.

Step…

Why are you going there? You cannot betray
these people: your mother and father, courtiers, slaves, citizens
of Dhagabad who have worshipped you all your life as their mistress
and prepared you for this day almost since your birth…

Step…

Time slows down as in a dream, her movements
are smooth and unreal, noises recede to the background giving way
to the pounding of the blood in her temples, to the waves of
thoughts behind the veil…

Step…

Even if you turned back now, it wouldn’t
work. He does not need you—a naïve, silly girl who doesn’t know a
thing about life. He needs a woman whose wisdom goes back countless
centuries, a woman like Zobeide or Shogat, exquisite in her
knowledge, capable of sharing her power with him. What can you
possibly give him…?

Step…

The folds of her white gown rise and fall in
a dream-like motion, soft against her skin.
You made this
decision long ago, you know what you must do and nothing can
possibly change that…

Step…

There, ahead, destiny awaits in shining
magnificence—Prince Amir, her chosen groom, her husband. She feels
an aching desire to finally entrust herself to his reliable hands,
to lay down her burden of doubt and choice. The decision is
made.

Step…

There, behind her among the slaves, stands
Hasan; and now, by taking just one step, she will lose him
forever.

The princess stops.

A whisper passes through the crowd. The
courtiers and the servants exchange glances as the sultaness
hisses, pushing the princess forward.

Turning to the crowd, the princess raises her
hand and tears the thin white veil from her face. Then, turning
back, she collects her fluffy white gown around her and runs back
down the wide stairs.

The terrified slaves bow low before the
princess. Only Hasan, held by her gaze, remains still.

“Hasan!” says the princess, and the ringing
sound of her voice easily spreads over the motionless crowd. “Give
me your bracelet!”

“I cannot take it off, princess,” Hasan says,
helplessly looking at his iron-clad wrists.

“You must do what I command, Hasan!”

The princess holds out her hand in an
imperial gesture.

A sharp
crack!
Echoes loudly in the
dead silence of the plaza. The band of iron on Hasan’s right wrist
splits open and the bracelet slips into his open palm. Feeling
lost, perhaps for the first time in a thousand years, Hasan gives
her his bracelet. The princess, climbing back onto the stairs above
the crowd, lifts up her hands.

“Listen, people of Dhagabad!” The motionless
crowd catches her every word. “I am not your princess anymore! My
name is Chamarat Gul’ Agdar!”

“I love my slave, Hasan, but I cannot free
him from his slavery. Therefore I am becoming a slave myself!”

Holding her hands high above her head she
slips the bracelet onto her wrist.

The palace, the mosque, the plaza, the crowd
that was motionless only moments ago and now seethes forward,
shouting and pressing against the chain of guards, fade and become
ghostly around you… You see endless dunes, red fiery sun; you wait
in terror for that moment when, pressed by the narrow walls of your
prison, you will be pierced by a blast of sandy wind… The horrible
pain, asleep inside you for such a long time, echoes in shivers
through your mighty, tortured body… But as you await your
torturous fate, you feel that something inside you has changed, or,
maybe it is the desert that has changed around you, and you will
never be able to submit to your destiny as before. The bonds of
your imprisonment have been shattered at the will of she who is
most dear to you and yet unattainable—she who, knowing nothing
about absolute power or eternity, with a holy recklessness wishes
to share your destiny, accepting upon herself your curse. And you,
forgetting the pain of the intolerable heat, the deadly sands, and
eternal imprisonment, are ready to face any curse, any torture to
save her—so beautiful and defenseless—from the same destiny. You
throw yourself toward the fiery beams, the merciless needles of
sand, and with all the force of your powerful blast, hit the
invisible wall.