Chapter 1 #2
‘The sly, secretive mother of the groom.’ Adnan planted a gentle kiss on the top of her shawl.
It was plum-coloured like the dress she wore—one he’d gifted her a few Eids ago.
It had been fitted well then, but was now ridiculously loose on her.
And, he feared, much too thin of a material to be warm enough in the vastness of his father’s palace.
‘You look beautiful, ummi. But do not think you got away with this. I will take you to task when we are back home.’
She waved her bony fingers dismissively. ‘I wish to meet the girl blessed to have captured the heart of my dear Adnan.’
It was not exactly true but he would not tell his mother that.
She needn’t fret over his heart with all her other worries.
Were this a slower, more traditionally timed wedding, Elham should have met and got better acquainted with her future daughter-in-law long before now.
Another regret for Adnan to add to his list.
Nawal waved Olive over and as she made her way to them his mother called her amar—the ultimate compliment for beauty in their vocabulary, to compare a person to the moon.
Maybe this was why he’d asked Olive in the first place, signed the contract to finalize it.
His mother was dying, so everything had to happen quickly.
Elham’s contentment was what he could gain from this marriage, short-lived as both may be.
Adnan could almost believe that, subconsciously, he’d asked for Olive’s hand because he wanted his mother’s happiness.
Marriage, love, family: those had always been his mother’s dreams for him.
And when Olive bent to greet Elham, clasping her hands as his mother cupped her cheek, Adnan watched and decided here was a moment he’d always treasure.
But as was sure to happen with their marriage, Olive quickly ruined it with the careless words that came out of that frustrating mouth of hers.
In her broken Arabic, she said, ‘It is my pleasure to meet the beloved nursemaid.’
‘She is my mother.’ Adnan spat the reprimand in English. When Olive flinched, he nearly regretted it, but really, what was she thinking, blurting whatever came to her mind? To a woman who was her mother-in-law and obviously ill as well.
‘That cannot be…’ Olive muddled, searching around, until her eyes landed on Ulfat Hanem. ‘Is that not your mother?’
Elise had come to stand by her friend and her husband. She gave Olive a quick shake of the head and explained, ‘That is the khedive’s wife, mother to Saleem and the sisters, not Adnan.’
Olive’s eyes widened. ‘I had not realized. I am very sorry.’
He wasn’t sure who she was addressing. Still her apology would have been fine, forgotten even, if she’d ended it there. Instead, Olive chuckled sheepishly and announced, ‘Prince Adnan does look very different than the rest of you.’
Adnan wasn’t sure what to make of her use of the word different.
Saleem interpreted it in his typically positive manner, instinctively attempting to cover for an offense another might have caused. ‘Adnan is the handsomest of us, yes.’
Nawal chimed in with a teasing ‘He’s also the darkest among us.’
And though Adnan was more tanned, with nearly black eyes, his sister was speaking of his disposition. Olive, however, did not know Nawal well.
‘I’d read about harems,’ Olive remarked. ‘Does it mean there are many more princes and princesses and mothers I’ve yet to meet?’
‘Enough.’ Adnan was grateful at least that his mother did not understand the conversation since it had been in English.
‘Foreigners may be unfamiliar with the concept, but we have a praxis you should familiarize yourself with as a woman in the harem—if one has nothing pleasant to say, then it is best to say nothing at all.’
Olive smarted, haughtily pressing her lips together. Why was she so doggedly intent on irking him even while seeming to heed his advice?
Nawal lightly added, ‘Clearly, you have not heard the harem’s gossips, brother.’
Saleem urged, ‘Happier moods should prevail at weddings,’ just as their father approached with his mother, Ulfat Hanem.
Beyond knowing that his mother was the daughter of workers in the khedival palace, Adnan never learned how his parents got together, married, then divorced.
He had never asked for the details. At first it was because he was too angry, and later it was because of his pride.
Nawal and Saleem spoke of their mother being hurt by it though she herself had had a father with multiple wives.
None of that was apparent now. Both his father and Ulfat Hanem civilly greeted Adnan’s mother as if she was, indeed, a beloved nurse. They congratulated her on his marriage. Ulfat Hanem put a gentle hand on his mother’s shoulder and the khedive asked, ‘How are you feeling, Elham?’
Adnan chafed at the use of his mother’s first name without any honorific.
‘I am well, Ahmed,’ she said, emphasizing the khedive’s name without his title.
Adnan wondered if it was her way of putting herself on par with the man she’d once been married to or if true affection for him lingered after they had gone their separate ways.
Again, it was a detail he wasn’t privy to.
His mother continued, ‘Congratulations on the marriage of your son too.’
She wasn’t referring to Saleem; she was talking about him.
And wasn’t that the epitome of Adnan’s position?
The two sides from which he was born were so utterly separated that he himself could not be a whole person.
The two parts of his identity were ever warring.
On one hand, he was the royal son of the khedive, comfortable in the palms of ostentatious luxury, but on the other hand, Adnan was the son of Elham, a divorced mother who’d raised him in one of the poorer Cairo neighborhoods.
He’d had no choice but to harden in the toughness of its streets, to become his own man.
‘Shall we enter the ballroom to greet our waiting guests?’ The khedive’s question was more a demand, one he followed with further direction: ‘Adnan, take Lady Whitmore’s arm and smile. There are diplomats gathered.’
Adnan relinquished the handles of his mother’s chair to Nawal and she wheeled her to one side whilst the familial procession to the ballroom doors lined up. First were his father and Ulfat Hanem, then Elise and Saleem, followed by his other sisters.
Adnan and Olive were last, presumably because they were the main attraction of the show—show being the right word.
He steeled himself with each step; it had never been easy for him to feign joy, to pretend he was pleased when he was not.
Adnan’s moods were written on his face so plainly that the best he could do to hide them was to neutralize the facial muscles.
The result made him seem reserved, withdrawn to others. Unapproachable. He liked that.
His new wife, however, had no issue with approaching him.
Olive pushed her arm through his and muttered, ‘Elise speaks of how noble Saleem is and I’ve decided you must be the same.
She says I must think of you as a friend firstly.
And since you did, after all, make a gallant offer of marriage when I most needed it, I am willing to ignore all else, Adnan.
I will graciously tolerate your irritability. ’
He couldn’t get in a sharp ‘thank you’ or any other word before she continued, ‘Perhaps this day throws into relief how attached we are to be and you have regrets. I assure you, however, as soon as I do what I came to Egypt to do, we can go our separate ways. You will get on with your life and I shall be out of your hair. No harm, no foul. Not even any need to not have fun today!’
She was already planning her escape then.
Yet for her to take divorce so casually…
? He’d already thought about it, so why did Olive admitting it bother Adnan?
Before he could answer his own question, the ballroom doors opened with a flourish and the zaffa began in earnest, drowning out everything but the music.
Nawal had hired a traditional band for the march.
As the family procession splintered to different sides of the ballroom, he and Olive were flanked by at least ten men.
Each man wore an ornately embroidered vest and loose sirwal trousers.
Each carried some manner of drum or tambourine instrument, all of which were being played at the same time.
A few of the men were singing, but it was hard to make out who while the guests clapped along and two women with great lungs let loose zargootas.
Before Adnan’s ears had adjusted to the noise, a middle-aged, turban- and galabaya-wearing man pushed his arms out and came to stand at the march’s centre.
He was a Hegalla dancer who wielded a large stick, swinging it above his head and twirling like an acrobat, kicking his legs in a dizzying manner.
Adnan had to laugh.
This was the kind of wedding zafaa that would happen on a side street of his Cairo neighbourhood home or Egypt’s countryside villages.
It wasn’t the kind fit for dignitary guests, many of whom were foreigners, nor was it at all suited to what was probably the most grandiose palace on this side of the African continent.
His father must be embarrassed!
How had Nawal got the khedive to agree? Likely, she’d used her daughter, Maysoon, their father’s favourite grandchild, as a distraction to hide her plans from him.
His sister had quite the sense of humour and Adnan was grateful for it.
He sought her out over the din and the head of the dancer and saw she’d brought his mother across to get her own unencumbered view. Nawal whispered something to Saleem about him and the two of them laughed and waved as he gave them a nod of acknowledgement.
They understood him.
With his siblings at least, he was fully Adnan.
But these festivities were not for him alone.
Beside him, Olive’s body began swaying to the band’s music.
He didn’t mind it—it was a natural reaction to the zaffa’s liveliness, even if it was surprising for an Englishwoman.
What Adnan did mind was how she was taking advantage of all this planning, his family’s optimism, their joy.
Him.
Only to have her fun.
He minded that once Olive did what she’d come to Egypt to do, she would leave without sparing a second thought for the trouble they’d all gone through today.